miércoles, 3 de junio de 2020

Ferguson

7

Anthropology and Its Evil Twin:
‘‘Development’’ in the Constitution

of a Discipline
James Ferguson

Development Knowledge and the
Disciplines: A Research Agenda
[ . . . ] It seems more and more that our thinking
about an object, development, that once seemed
familiar (with its recognizable political economic

logic, its manifest ideological motivations, its wor-
risome deleterious effects) must now take the form

less of a set of convictions or conclusions than of a
series of unanswered, but answerable, questions.

Where did this bulwark of mid- to late-twentieth-
century common sense come from? How did it end

up taking the form that it did? What are the dy-
namics through which it is changing, and what

political strategies might be effective in opposing,
disrupting, or reforming it?
[...]
A familiar academic conceit would have it that
key ideas are developed and tested by ‘‘theorists’’ in
academia before gradually diffusing outward into
various ‘‘real world’’ applications. Development
practitioners, in contrast, appear more likely to
believe that important development ideas tend to
be hammered out in practice, and that academic
theory is largely irrelevant to what they do. The

actual situation, however, may be more compli-
cated than either of these folk models would allow.

A historical view reveals that models and theor-
ies developed within academic settings have been

far from irrelevant to ‘‘real world’’ development

practice, although they have not always been ap-
plied and used in the way that their academic

originators might have wished. At the same time,
though, it is clear that relations between different

academic and nonacademic sites for the produc-
tion of both knowledge and theory have been

complex and multidirectional. In anthropology,
for instance, no one could deny that academic

theories of ‘‘functioning systems’’ and ‘‘social equi-
librium’’ guided both the practice of applied an-
thropologists in colonial Africa, and the

formulation of certain official ideas and policies
pertaining to ‘‘colonial development.’’ At the same
time, however, one would be obliged to recognize
that the applied research initiatives taken up in the

1940s and 1950s by the Rhodes-Livingstone Insti-
tute, for instance, helped in turn to shape the

theoretical agenda of British academic anthropol-
ogy. [ . . . ]

What is more, it seems clear that the nature of
such relations between academic forms of theory
and knowledge and those used in development

settings varies both over time and across discip-
lines. [ . . . ] As I will show, the idea that develop-
ment is an applied issue and not a theoretical one is

a fairly recent addition to the stock of anthropo-
logical common sense. In other disciplines, mean-
while, the issue appears to be posed quite

differently. For political science and sociology,
for instance, development appears to be an issue
not so much for applied researchers as for ‘‘area

studies’’ or ‘‘international’’ specialists – a distinc-
tion that has little force in anthropology, where

everyone is an area studies specialist.
The kinds of relations that link the academic
disciplines to the production and circulation of

development knowledge and theory therefore re-
quire to be studied with some specificity, taking

into account the distinctive configurations of the
different disciplines, as well as changing relations

Edelman/The Anthropology of Development and Globalization Final Proof 12.10.2004 6:54pm page 140

over time. Such a project might be important not
only as a way of furthering our understanding of
the world of development and how it works, but
also as a way of understanding our own positions
as academics who seek to have some effect on that
world. How, for instance, are we to understand

the real importance and efficacy of academic cri-
tique in the politics of development? Considering

how central the project of critique is to many
academics who work on development we have
remarkably little understanding of what it actually

accomplishes. Clearly critique is not as all-power-
ful a force as we might like to believe. (Consider

only how little difference the academic-theoretical
destruction of ‘‘modernization theory’’ seems to
have had on the practices of many development
agencies, where practitioners assure us it remains
alive and well.) Yet it is equally clear that what
happens in the domain of academic critique is not
wholly cut off from the wider world, either. What
kinds of flows exist, linking academic theories and
knowledges to the world of agencies, policies, and
practical politics? What does this mean for the
tactics of a critical intellectual activity that seeks

to participate in the crucial political struggles sur-
rounding the governing and managing of what has

come to be called ‘‘the Third World’’?

This paper does not seek to answer these ques-
tions, but to begin work on one small part of a

larger research agenda that might do so. By
looking at some of these issues in the context of
one discipline, it contributes to a larger project
that would systematically investigate the relations
between the ideas and practices of development
and the disciplinarily configured knowledges of
the social sciences.
For the case of anthropology, I will argue, the
disciplinary relation to development has been both
especially difficult and especially central, thanks to
anthropology’s historical role as the science of ‘‘less
developed’’ peoples. While the underpinnings of
such a conception in social evolutionist theory

were largely eroded during the course of the twen-
tieth century, the place of anthropology in the

academic division of labor (and thus its academic-
political need for distinctiveness vis-a`-vis soci-
ology, history, political science, etc.) has continued

to give ‘‘the anthropological’’ a special relation to
the ‘‘less developed.’’ In particular, I will try to

show that the marked antipathy of much main-
stream anthropology for development, as well as

the sharp separation of an applied development
anthropology from a theoretical academic sort,
may be taken as signs not of anthropology’s critical

distance from development but of its uncomfort-
able intimacy with it. I will suggest that insofar as

the idea of a distinctively anthropological domain
of study remains linked (if only implicitly) to ideas
of development and its lack, a truly critical stance
toward development will require a willingness to
question the disciplinary identity of anthropology
itself.
The Concept of ‘‘Development’’ and the
Theoretical Foundations of Anthropology
[W]e owe our present condition, with its
multiplied means of safety and of happiness,
to the struggles, the sufferings, the heroic

exertions and the patient toil of our barbar-
ous, and more remotely, of our savage an-
cestors. Their labors, their trials and their

successes were a part of the plan of the
Supreme Intelligence to develop a barbarian
out of a savage, and a civilized man out of
this barbarian.
Lewis Henry Morgan, closing lines
of Ancient Society (1877:554)
The origins of anthropology as a discipline are

conventionally traced to the late nineteenth cen-
tury, and to such ‘‘founding father’’ figures as

Lewis Henry Morgan in the United States and
E. B. Tylor in Britain. The dominant conception
that such thinkers elaborated, and the key idea
that gave to anthropology its early conceptual
coherence as a discipline, was the idea of social
evolution. [ . . . ] The social evolutionists insisted
that what they called ‘‘savages’’ and ‘‘civilized

men’’ were fundamentally the same type of crea-
ture, and that if ‘‘higher’’ forms existed, it was

because they had managed to evolve out of the

‘‘lower ones’’ (rather than vice-versa, as degener-
ation theory had it).

The project for the new field of anthropology

was to trace the different stages of this progres-
sion, and to use observations of ‘‘savage’’ and

‘‘barbarian’’ peoples as evidence that would fill in
what the earlier stages of human history had been.
Thus did nonwestern peoples end up construed as

living fossils whose history and experience ‘‘repre-
sent, more or less nearly, the history and experi-
ence of our own remote ancestors when in

corresponding conditions’’ (Morgan 1877: vii).
On the one hand, [...] this was a vision of a
kind of human unity. But on the other, of course,

it was a device of differentiating and ranking dif-
ferent contemporary societies according to their

level of evolutionary development, since (in spite

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ANTHROPOLOGY AND ITS EVIL TWIN 141

of the best laid plans of the Supreme Intelligence)
‘‘other tribes and nations have been left behind in
the race of progress’’ (1877: vi).

The idea of ‘‘development’’ was, of course, cen-
tral to this conception – indeed, Tylor was able to

refer to the social evolutionist position simply as
‘‘the development theory’’ (Tylor 1884: 90–91).
Development was the active principle according
to which new and higher stages of human society
might emerge out of older and more simple ones:
the driving motive force in human history. The

circular logical move from a perceived direction-
ality in history (e.g., a perception that complex

civilizations arose from simpler ones) to the im-
putation of a teleological force that had caused it

(i.e., the idea that such ‘‘advances’’ are caused or
explained by a universal principle or ‘‘law’’ of
social evolution) cast doubt upon the scheme’s
explanatory power, as anti-evolutionist critics

quickly pointed out. But the idea that human his-
tory was animated by a single great principle of

directional movement – evolutionary ‘‘develop-
ment’’ – provided an extraordinarily powerful nar-
rative device for those who would tell a single,

unified, and meaningful story of ‘‘Mankind.’’ The
metaphor of ‘‘development’’ invited, too, a fusing

of the idea of evolutionary advance with the de-
velopmental maturation of an organism or person,

thus facilitating the persistent slippage between
the contrasts primitive/civilized and child/adult
that played a key role in ideologies of colonialism.
[ . . . ] There are three key principles embedded
in nineteenth-century social evolutionism [ . . . ].

First, there is the central idea that different soci-
eties are to be understood as discrete individuals,

with each society making its way through the

evolutionary process at its own pace, independ-
ently of the others. Second is the insistence that

although each society is in some sense on its own,
all societies are ultimately heading toward the
same destination; in this sense, human history is

one story, not many. Finally, the social evolution-
ary schemes posited that differences between

human societies were to be interpreted as differ-
ences in their level of development. If other

peoples differed from the western standard, it

was only because, ‘‘left behind in the race of pro-
gress,’’ they remained at one of the prior develop-
mental levels through which the West had already

passed. Taken together, these three principles
frame a formidable and durable vision of human
history and human difference, ‘‘a vast, entrenched
political cosmology’’ (Fabian 1983: 159) that has

been of enormous consequence both in anthropol-
ogy and in the wider world.

Within anthropology, the evolutionary schemes
of nineteenth-century theorists like Morgan and
Tylor are generally taken to have been definitively
refuted in the early twentieth century, most of
all by the work of the American relativist and
culture historian Franz Boas and his students. In
the wake of their devastating criticisms of the

empirical adequacy of the nineteenth-century evo-
lutionary schemes, the emphasis on sorting soci-
eties according to their level of evolutionary

development largely dropped out of anthropology
in the first half of the twentieth century. Both
in the United States and in Britain,1 though in

different ways, a critique of speculative evolution-
ism was followed by moves to relativize ideas of

progress and development. From whose point of
view could one society be seen as ‘‘higher’’ than
another, after all? Evolutionism came to be seen
not only as empirically flawed, but as ethnocentric
as well. The task, instead, came to be seen as
one of understanding each unique society ‘‘in its
own terms,’’ as one of many possible ways of
meeting human social and psychological needs
(Malinowski), or as one ‘‘pattern of culture’’
(Benedict), one ‘‘design for living’’ (Kluckhohn)
among others.
At one level, such shifts did mark a clear break

with evolutionist ideas of development: nonwes-
tern cultures, in the new view, were no longer to be

understood as ‘‘living fossils’’ trapped in evolu-
tionary stages through which the West itself had

already passed. Different societies now really were
different, not just the same society at a different

stage of development. Yet the break with evolu-
tionism was less complete than it is often made to

appear. It is significant, for instance, that mid-
twentieth-century relativist approaches (whether

Boasian/American or functionalist/British) pre-
served the old evolutionist idea that different soci-
eties were to be conceived as individuals.2 Even

more striking, perhaps, is the way that postevolu-
tionist approaches preserved the grand binary dis-
tinction between primitive and modern societies,

and accepted that anthropologists’ primary spe-
cialization would remain the study of primitive

societies. No longer would different primitive so-
cieties be placed on a ladder and ranked against

each other; all were now equally valid, forming
whole culture patterns (US) or functioning systems
(UK) worth studying in their own right. But they
were still seen as a distinctive class set apart from,
and in some sense prior to, ‘‘modern,’’ ‘‘western,’’
‘‘civilized’’ society. [...]
[ . . . ] The idea of an evolutionarily primitive

state, prior to the contaminations of ‘‘develop-
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142 JAMES FERGUSON

ment,’’ remains remarkably central to a certain
idea of both what anthropologists study, and to
whom they owe their political loyalties. Insofar as
an explicitly nonevolutionist anthropology
through most of the twentieth century continued
to be construed as the study of (as Levi-Strauss
would still have it) ‘‘small populations’’ who
‘‘remain faithful to their traditional way of life,’’
the anthropological object continued to be defined
within the terms of a plainly evolutionary dualism
that insistently distinguished between a developed,
modern ‘‘us’’ and a not-yet-developed, primitive
‘‘them.’’3

‘‘Development’’ Becomes ‘‘Applied’’
‘‘They are too modern. They probably all
wear pants.’’
A senior British Africanist, ca. 1969, to Sally
Falk Moore, explaining why a study of the
‘‘modernizing’’ Chagga of Tanzania would

be of merely applied, rather than theoret-
ical, interest.

Anthropologists had, of course, long recognized
the existence of a set of issues surrounding the
interactions of ‘‘primitive’’ peoples with a modern
industrial world that encroached upon them.
Some early twentieth-century diffusionists had
emphasized such connections (Vincent 1990:
119–25), and even the most ahistorical sorts of
‘‘salvage anthropology’’ were obliged to recognize

the impact of such things as capitalism and colo-
nialism, if only so that their distorting effects

could be filtered out in the reconstruction of hypo-
thetical ‘‘pre-contact’’ social and cultural forms

(Tomas 1991, Stocking 1991). It was also recog-
nized early that anthropology might claim a place

for itself in the world of practical affairs (and, not

incidentally, a share of the funding pie) by provid-
ing scientific advice on the nature of such pro-
cesses. [ ...] Malinowski call[ed] for a ‘‘Practical

Anthropology,’’ which would be an ‘‘anthropol-
ogy of the changing Native’’ and ‘‘would obvi-
ously be of the highest importance to the

practical man in the colonies’’ (1929: 36). As

Stocking has noted, such appeals to practical ap-
plication were key to the establishment of British

anthropology in the 1930s, especially through the
securing of Rockefeller Foundation funding

(Stocking 1992: 193–207, 255–75; see also Kuk-
lick 1991). In the United States, meanwhile, ap-
plied work on change and acculturation flourished

in the 1930s and 1940s, as the discipline’s em-
phasis turned away from ‘‘salvage anthropology’’

and toward domestic social problems, poverty,
and the war effort (Vincent 1990: 152–222,
Stocking 1992: 163–68; see Gupta and Ferguson,
1997).
There are two observations that might be made
about such work. First, although the connection

may appear self-evident to the late-twentieth-cen-
tury reader, the idea of development does not

seem, in this period, to have been considered espe-
cially central to the question of the impact of

western expansion on peripheral or colonized
peoples. The operative concepts, instead, were
‘‘acculturation’’ and ‘‘assimilation’’ (especially in
the United States) and ‘‘culture contact’’ and
(later) ‘‘social change’’ (mostly in Britain). The
old idea of evolutionary development, after all,
had referred to an internal and immanent societal

process, analogous to the autonomous develop-
ment of an organism; the question of the impact

one society might have on another was of quite
another order. And such evolutionist theories
of society were in any case out of favor at
this time, on both sides of the Atlantic. In this
context, the theoretical concept of development
seems to have had very little to do with discussions

of social change, acculturation, and applied an-
thropology.

Second, it is important to note that although
studies of culture contact and culture change
enjoyed some significant visibility in the field
during the 1930s and 1940s, they failed to achieve
dominance, or even full legitimacy, within the
discipline. [...] There does not seem to be any
intrinsic reason why social change and culture

contact should not themselves have been con-
sidered theoretical topics. How did such issues

come to be seen as primarily applied concerns in
the first place?

As I have argued elsewhere (Gupta and Fergu-
son, 1997), the ascendancy of a distinctively local-
izing, ‘‘peoples and cultures’’ style in anthropology

was tied to the rise of fieldwork as a hegemonic
and disciplinarily distinctive method. With the

Malinowskian revolution in fieldwork method-
ology (which was really only consolidated in the

1930s) came a newly strengthened expectation
that a scientific anthropological study would be a
comprehensive account of ‘‘a people,’’ ‘‘a society,’’
‘‘a culture’’ – in short, an ethno-graphy, an account

of a whole social or cultural entity, ethnically de-
fined. Within such an optic, the central theoretical

agenda concerned the description and compari-
son of ‘‘whole societies’’ characterized by their

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ANTHROPOLOGY AND ITS EVIL TWIN 143

distinctive ‘‘social systems’’ (UK) or ‘‘cultural con-
figurations’’ (US). When societies left this state of

wholeness through processes of change imposed
from without, they also threatened to leave the
domain of anthropology, in a process that was

generally considered to be of great practical im-
portance, but limited theoretical interest.4 [...]

Development, decolonization,
modernization

A major geopolitical restructuring, and with it a
new burst of social engineering, reconfigured the
political and institutional landscape of the social
sciences in the years following World War II. [ ...]
Cooper (1997) has recently begun to excavate the
origins of a global project of ‘‘development’’ from
within the postwar planning of the colonial
empires (see also Cooper 1996). One important
early finding of this work is that, in the process of
decolonization, a strategically vague story about

development came to provide an ambiguous char-
ter both for retreating colonial bureaucrats and for

ascendant nationalist rulers [ . . . ]. This charter, a
broad vision that came to be shared by a wide set of
transnational elites, framed the ‘‘problems’’ of the
‘‘new nations’’ in the terms of a familiar (at least to

those schooled in nineteenth-century anthropol-
ogy) developmentalist story about nations (con-
ceived, again, as individuals) moving along a pre-
determined track, out of ‘‘backwardness’’ and into

‘‘modernity.’’5
It was within the terms of this narrative, of
course, that a host of ‘‘development agencies,’’
programs of ‘‘development aid,’’ and so on, were
conceived and put into place in the years following
World War II (Escobar 1995). One of a number of
consequences of this development was that

funding and institutional positions became in-
creasingly available for those with the sorts of

expertise considered necessary to bring about the
great transformation. The world of academic

knowledge could hardly have remained un-
affected. Not surprisingly, the first discipline to

feel the effects of the new order was economics,

and a recognized subfield of ‘‘development eco-
nomics’’ appeared swiftly in response to the post-
war initiatives (Hirschman 1981, Seers 1979). But

how did this historical conjuncture affect the prac-
tices of anthropologists?

As experts on ‘‘backward peoples,’’ anthropolo-
gists were clearly well positioned to play a role in

any project for their advancement. In the past,
anthropologists had often been openly hostile
toward social and cultural change, seeing it as a

destructive force that might wipe out fragile cul-
tures before they could be properly recorded and

studied by ethnographers. Yet development in the
postwar era was linked to a much more optimistic
mood, and to a universalizing political project of
democratization and decolonization (see Cooper,
1996). The new notion of progress was linked not
simply to western expansion or emulation, as in

the nineteenth century, but to a specifically inter-
national conception in which formerly ‘‘primitive’’

peoples might proudly ‘‘emerge’’ into the modern
world and take their seat at the table of the ‘‘family

of nations’’ (Malkki 1994). Where anthropo-
logical liberalism had once been most comfortable

arguing that nonmodern ‘‘others’’ had function-
ing, well-adapted social and cultural orders of

their own, the times more and more called for a
different argument: that ‘‘natives’’ could just as
well, given a little time (and perhaps a little
help), participate in the modern world on equal
terms (see Wilson and Wilson 1945; Mead 1956).
Such impulses are particularly well illustrated in
the work of the Rhodes-Livingstone Institute in
(then) Northern Rhodesia. Set up as an applied
research institute to provide useful information
to government and industry, it is often cited as an
early example of anthropological engagement
with problems of industrialization, migrant
labor, and other ‘‘modern’’ issues (Werbner 1984,

Brown 1973). Animating such work was an opti-
mistic conception of an emerging modern Africa,

and a commitment to showing that Africans were

successfully adapting to urban, industrial condi-
tions. Against conservative and racist arguments

that Africans did not belong in ‘‘white’’ towns on a

permanent basis, and would always remain primi-
tive villagers at heart, anthropologists sought to

show that African migrants were settling more
permanently in town (Wilson 1941–1942), that
they were developing new modes of urban social
interaction there (Mitchell 1956), and arriving at
new political structures suited to their new needs
(Epstein 1958). Such accounts retained some
traces of the old anthropological suspicion that
economic and cultural assimilation to western
ways was not necessarily a welcome development,

and they emphasized the ethnographically particu-
lar details of a process that resisted being neatly

fitted into a simplistic, universal developmental
narrative. But however messy it might be, they
left no doubt that what they called ‘‘the industrial
revolution in Africa’’ was an epochal, historically

progressive force that would ultimately bring Af-
ricans into the modern world. Portraying with

sympathy and approval the emerging new class

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144 JAMES FERGUSON

of ‘‘modern,’’ westernized, urban Africans (as

Magubane [1971] has charged), the Rhodes-Liv-
ingstone Institute anthropologists positioned

themselves not, in the traditional anthropological
style, as the chroniclers of the vanishing old ways,
but as the defenders of the right of Africans to
enjoy the modern new one.6 (See Ferguson 1990.)
As decolonization proceeded, the social sciences

became more and more concerned with the prob-
lems of the development of new nations. In the

process, the anthropological concern with social
and cultural change became increasingly linked
with the idea of development, and (especially in
the United States) with modernization theory as
elaborated in other disciplines (notably Political
Science and Sociology). ‘‘Social change’’ was now

to be understood as ‘‘development,’’ the evolution-
ist connotations of the old nineteenth-century

term being newly appropriate to the mood of the
times. Indeed, ideas of linear stages that would
have been quite familiar to Morgan began to

reappear in surprisingly explicit ways in modern-
ization theory (see Hymes 1972: 28–30). Theoret-
ically, ideas of social evolution began to become

respectable again in American anthropology

(starting with Leslie White in the 1940s, and con-
tinuing through the 1950s and 1960s, with figures

like Service, Sahlins, and Harris). But even anthro-
pologists with no explicit allegiance to neo-evolu-
tionist theory began to bend their work in the

direction of modernization.7 Indeed, it is striking
how many American anthropologists trained in a
cultural relativist tradition that explicitly rejected
evolutionist schemes of stage-wise progressions
were by the early 1960s signing on uncritically
to such dubious modernization schemes as Walt
Rostow’s The Stages of Growth (1960), offering
as a distinctive anthropological contribution the

locating of cultural obstacles to economic ‘‘take-
off’’ (for a sophisticated example, see Geertz

1963a, 1963b).

If the earlier anthropological shift from evolu-
tionism to relativism had resulted in the issue of

developmentalist progressions being turned ‘‘from
an explicit concern into an implicit theoretical
assumption’’ (Fabian 1983: 39), the postwar era
begins to see a shift back to explicit concern. [...]

Increasingly, the question becomes, how do ‘‘trad-
itional societies’’ become modern? And how can

they be helped (or made) to make this transition?
But, significantly, this question has become linked

less to abstract theoretical speculation than to ex-
plicit programs of directed social change. The

grand project that Morgan (in the passage quoted
at the opening of this essay) saw as reserved for

‘‘the Supreme Intelligence’’ – ‘‘to develop ...a civ-
ilized man out of this barbarian’’ – was now under-
stood to be a job for the merely mortal intelligence

of anthropologists.
For Morgan, of course, the question of how
societies developed from one evolutionary level
to the next was nothing if not a theoretical one:
his typology of developmental stages aimed at
nothing less than the explanation of both human

history and human diversity. Even for evolution-
ism’s relativist and functionalist critics, as I have

argued, the distinction between ‘‘primitive’’ and
‘‘modern’’ societies was a theoretically motivated

one. But with the new project of official modern-
ization, issues of development came increasingly

to belong (as had the earlier issues of ‘‘accultur-
ation’’ and ‘‘social change’’) less to the academic

world of theory (which remained largely devoted
to comparing and generalizing about ‘‘primitive

societies’’) than to a domain of practical, policy-
oriented work on problems of contemporary eco-
nomic transitions. ‘‘Development’’ had become

‘‘applied.’’
Academic anthropology in the 1950s and 1960s
mostly kept its distance from such applied issues of
development. The ‘‘theoretical’’ work that earned
high status in the academic world was largely
centered on comparing and generalizing about
societies and cultures conceived as separate and
autonomous individuals, whether the subject
matter was kinship, social structure, or culture
and personality. In this larger context, the
change-oriented work of the Rhodes-Livingstone
Institute was indeed exceptional. Yet, even in this
case, it is noteworthy that the Rhodes-Livingstone
anthropologists who had the greatest impact
on academic anthropology were not those
working on urbanization and industrialization
(e.g., Clyde Mitchell, who came to be appreciated
more by sociologists than by anthropologists, or
Godfrey Wilson, whose Essay on the Economics
of Detribalization in Northern Rhodesia was not
widely appreciated until much later). The greatest

academic influence, instead, was exerted by fig-
ures like Max Gluckman and Victor Turner, whose

best-known works on the Lozi and Ndembu re-
spectively remained in the classical anthropo-
logical mold of the ahistorical, rural, ‘‘tribe’’

study. Studying ‘‘modernizing’’ peoples might

well be of considerable applied or policy signifi-
cance, as the senior Africanist quoted at the top of

this section conceded. But a study of people
(men?) who ‘‘probably all wear pants’’ could
hardly be central to the more prestigious arena of
anthropological theory, built as it was upon the

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ANTHROPOLOGY AND ITS EVIL TWIN 145

description and comparison of societies as little
contaminated by development as possible.
Neo-Marxist critique

A major disruption of the received anthropo-
logical wisdom regarding development and mod-
ernization came with the rise of dependency

theory and a set of neo-Marxist critiques of both

modernization theory and traditional anthropol-
ogy. The nature of these critiques is well known.

[...]
The context for the neo-Marxist critique was
significantly shaped by the social and political
upheavals of the 1960s. Developments in the
wider world (especially the rising tide of Third

World nationalism and anti-colonial wars of liber-
ation) combined with political upheavals on west-
ern university campuses to impress upon

anthropologists the need to give more attention
to questions of social change, domination, and
colonialism. [ . . . ] By the 1970s, both disciplinary
and national borders seemed to have softened:

French structural Marxism (as elaborated by phil-
osophers such as Louis Althusser, as well as by

anthropologists such as Claude Meillassoux and
Pierre-Philippe Rey), as well as Latin American
dependency theory and Wallersteinian world
system theory, began to make their way into
the Anglo-American anthropological mainstream.
The old functionalist orthodoxy began to splinter,
as history, political economy, and colonialism

began to gain new legitimacy as bonafide anthro-
pological topics.

For anthropology’s relation to development, the
most significant aspect of the turn to Marxism and
political economy in the 1970s was its profound

challenge to two key pillars of anthropology’s in-
herited developmentalist cosmology. First, and

perhaps most profoundly, the new critical anthro-
pology rejected the picture of the world as an array

of individual societies, each moving through his-
tory independently of the others. This, as I sug-
gested above, was a vision that was largely shared

by the nineteenth-century evolutionists and their
twentieth-century critics, who disagreed about
whether the different tracks all headed in the
same direction, but accepted the idea of different
and separate tracks.8 In place of this conception,
anthropologists influenced by dependency theory,
neo-Marxist modes of production theory, and

world system theory, began to insist that differ-
ences between societies had to be related to a

common history of conquest, imperialism, and
economic exploitation that systematically linked

them. Supposedly traditional practices and insti-
tutions, rather than being relics of a pre-capitalist

past, might instead be interpreted as products of,
or reactions to, processes of capitalist penetration,

the articulation of modes of production, or world-
system incorporation. And poverty, rather than an

original condition, might be a result of such pro-
cesses. Instead of being simply ‘‘undeveloped’’ (an

original state), the Third World now appeared as
actively ‘‘underdeveloped’’ by a first world that
had ‘‘underdeveloped’’ it (thus Walter Rodney’s
influential title: How Europe Underdeveloped
Africa).

This brings us to the second pillar of develop-
mentalist thought that was brought into question

in this period: the assumed identity of develop-
ment with a process of moral and economic pro-
gress. Neo-Marxists insisted that what was called

‘‘development’’ was really a process of capitalist

development: the global expansion of the capital-
ist mode of production at the expense of existing

pre-capitalist ones. And the outcome of such a
process might not be ‘‘real development,’’ in the
sense of a better life for people in the Third World,

at all. Development (really, capitalist develop-
ment), then, might not be ‘‘Progress’’ in any simple

way; indeed, for poor peasants, it was likely to
make life much worse. The benign moral teleology
of the development story (a central feature of
nineteenth-century anthropology and 1960s
‘‘modernization theory’’ alike) was radically called
into question.

These two breaks with anthropology’s develop-
mentalist heritage were of fundamental import-
ance. Indeed, they provide an invaluable point of

departure for those who would restructure anthro-
pology’s disciplinary relation to development.

However, as with the relativists’ rejection of nine-
teenth-century social evolutionism, it is important

to recognize not only what the critics were
rejecting of the development story, but what they
were willing to retain of it as well. It is evident, for
instance, that for neo-Marxism, world history still
had the character of an evolution, with the march
of the capitalist mode of production leading in a
linear, teleological progression toward a future
that would culminate (if only after a long process
of struggle) in socialism. There remained, too, a
tenacious attachment to the idea of what was again
and again spoken of as ‘‘real development’’ (in the
name of which ‘‘mal-’’ or ‘‘under-’’ development
could be denounced). And if capitalism could not

deliver the ‘‘real development’’ goods, neo-Marx-
ism was prepared to promise that socialism could –

and even, all too often, to endorse the exploitation

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146 JAMES FERGUSON

of peasant producers by radical Third World states
in the name of ‘‘socialist development.’’
‘‘Development Anthropology’’

It is ironic, but probably true; that the very popu-
larity within anthropology of the radical, neo-
Marxist critiques of orthodox development and

modernization theory in some ways set the stage

for a new era of closer collaboration between an-
thropologists and the organizations and institu-
tions charged with implementing capitalist

development policy. If nothing else, the radical

critiques made it more legitimate, and more intel-
lectually exciting, to study issues of development in

the context of an increasingly radicalized and

politicized discipline. At a time when university-
based scholarship was under pressure to demon-
strate its relevance, and when anthropology was

particularly challenged to show that it had some-
thing to say about change, not just stasis, and about

the modern world, not just the ‘‘tribal’’ one, a pol-
itically engaged and theoretically challenging ap-
proach to development had considerable appeal.

For anthropologists in graduate school during the

1970s, ‘‘underdevelopment’’ became an increas-
ingly hot topic.

At the same time, the wider institutional context
was changing quite dramatically. Driven by an

awareness of the failures of conventional develop-
ment interventions, and perhaps also motivated by

the apparent successes of communist insurgencies
in mobilizing poor peasants (especially in Asia and

Latin America), mainstream development agen-
cies began to place a new emphasis on the ‘‘basic

needs’’ of the poor, and on the distinction between
mere economic growth and ‘‘real development,’’
understood in terms of such measures of human
welfare as infant mortality rates, nutrition, and
literacy. The World Bank, under the leadership of
Robert McNamara [ . . . ], and later the United
States Agency for International Development

(USAID), under a congressional mandate to chan-
nel aid to the poor, began to direct more attention

to the ‘‘soft,’’ ‘‘social’’ side of development policy,
and to turn more readily to social sciences other

than economics. This conjunctural moment, fit-
ting nicely with an employment crisis in academic

anthropology, gave rise to a burst of anthropo-
logical interest in development, and a new, recog-
nized subfield of anthropology, ‘‘development

anthropology.’’ (See Hoben 1982, Escobar 1991
for reviews of the period).

Many anthropologists thus came to develop-
ment with a strong sense of theoretical and polit-
ical purpose, determined to bring anthropological

knowledge to bear on the great problems of
poverty, exploitation, and global inequality. As

Escobar (1991) has argued, however, work in de-
velopment anthropology gradually came to be

more and more adjusted to the bureaucratic
demands of development agencies, at the expense

of its intellectual rigor and critical self-conscious-
ness. In spite of anthropology’s long-standing

claims of sensitivity to local perceptions, and its
principled rejection of ethnocentrism, Escobar’s
review concludes that development anthropology
has for the most part ‘‘done no more than recycle,
and dress in more localized fabrics, the discourses
of modernization and development’’ (Escobar
1991: 677). Significantly, as this adjustment of
anthropologists to the demands of development
agencies was proceeding, the strong links with

theory that had characterized a more radical an-
thropology of development in the 1970s gradually

weakened. The theoretical engagement with struc-
tural Marxism and radical underdevelopment

theory – which had once linked such mundane

empirical concerns as the dynamics of rural Afri-
can household structure with the most abstract

sorts of theoretical debates (e.g., the Althusserian
critique of empiricist epistemology) – slowly
slipped from view almost entirely, and with it the
idea of a theoretically ambitious anthropology of

development. Within academic anthropology, de-
velopment anthropology came to be seen as a low-
prestige, ‘‘applied’’ subfield – recognizably anthro-
pological in its grass-roots focus and vaguely

populist commitments, but commonly understood

to have little to do with mainstream anthropo-
logical theory.

Within development agencies, meanwhile, de-
velopment anthropology was not faring much

better. The distinctive disciplinary emphasis on
the particularity and specificity of local conditions

made it easy enough for the development anthro-
pologist to serve up post-hoc criticism of failed

projects (which quickly became a kind of anthro-
pological specialty). But given the institutional

needs of development bureaucracies, the anthro-
pological talent for demonstrating the complexity

of development problems (and for disclaiming cer-
tainty in offering prescriptions) could hardly com-
pete with the universalistic, context-independent

projections and prescriptions so confidently dis-
pensed by the economist or the agronomist. Like

the challenges to neoclassical orthodoxy generated

from within economics [ . . . ], anthropological cri-
tiques have made little headway in the policy

sphere – not because they lack policy implications,

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ANTHROPOLOGY AND ITS EVIL TWIN 147

but because those implications are complex, con-
text-dependent, and entail uncertainty. In spite of

on-and-off rhetorical commitments to such appar-
ently anthropological principles as ‘‘indigenous

knowledge,’’ ‘‘popular participation,’’ and ‘‘local
decision-making,’’ development agencies have

mostly allowed anthropologists only a very mar-
ginal position, with little influence on policy for-
mation (Hoben 1982, Chambers 1987, Escobar

1991, Gow 1993).
Anthropology and Its Evil Twin, or, Why
‘‘Development’’ Is Not Welcome in the
House of Anthropology, and Why It Just

Won’t Leave

Anthropologists, for the most part, have
taken post–World War II ‘‘development’’
for granted; they have accepted it as the

normal state of affairs and have thus con-
tributed to its naturalization. How unan-
thropological, one might say, to accept an

entire historically produced cultural field
without probing its depths.
Arturo Escobar, ‘‘Anthropology
and the Development Encounter’’
For many anthropologists, there are few

things more alarming than applied anthro-
pology.

Glynn Cochrane,
Development Anthropology
Well, which is it? Has anthropology been guilty of

an uncritical acceptance of development, as Esco-
bar would have it? Or has anthropology spontan-
eously rejected development, fleeing in alarm at

the very idea, as Cochrane insists? The answer,
curiously, is that it has done both at the same
time. On the one hand, Escobar is surely right:
development anthropology has plodded along as
a subfield in a way that even its own practitioners

insist is characterized by a striking lack of self-
consciousness or critical awareness (Chambers

1987, Gow 1993, Redclift 1985). Largely oblivi-
ous to current theory and historically grounded

criticism alike, development anthropology seems
hardly to care if its most central assumptions are

regarded as untenable or worse in the wider dis-
cipline. Indeed, as one practitioner has recently

noted, development anthropologists ‘‘have studi-
ously avoided defining the principal objectives of

development’’ (Gow 1993: 382), and have been

conspicuously uninterested in the larger theoret-
ical and historical issues that development inter-
ventions raise. In the absence of attention to such

issues, Gow points out,

the anthropologist can easily become a practi-
tioner of the ‘‘quick fix’’ approach, engaged in

relieving the more visible symptoms of ‘‘under-
development’’, but in the process inadvertently

running the risk of strengthening the very forces
responsible for the conditions it seeks to alleviate
(1993: 382).
Yet Cochrane, in the second of the quotations
paired above, also has a point: academic

anthropology has indeed looked upon develop-
ment anthropology and other applied sub-fields

with disdain and discomfort, leading one com-
mentator to suggest that ‘‘the meaning of applied

anthropology is to be found in its rejection by
those in the mainstream of the subject’’ (Grillo

1985: 9). Development anthropologists com-
monly report being treated by academics ‘‘with a

certain aloofness, if not passive contempt’’ (Gow
1993: 381). Nor is this reaction a particularly

recent one. An academic skepticism of anthropo-
logical participation in ‘‘development’’ goes back

at least to Evans-Pritchard (1946; see also Firth
1938), and the eminent academic anthropologist,
Edmund Leach, was only echoing a widespread
sentiment within the discipline when he remarked

(in an introductory textbook), ‘‘I consider ‘devel-
opment anthropology’ a kind of neo-colonialism’’

(1982: 50).
Development anthropologists are, of course,
acutely aware of the way that such attitudes
leave them ‘‘isolated from those programs and

individuals generally regarded as leaders in con-
structing and teaching anthropological theory’’

(Little and Painter 1995: 603). Indeed, some de-
velopment anthropologists report feeling ‘‘doubly

damned’’ – by the prejudices of academic anthro-
pologists, who see them as second-rate anthro-
pologists at best, cynical hacks at worst; and by

those of development professionals, who see them

as the local representatives of a romantic, soft-
headed, and obstructionist discipline (Gow

1993). But development anthropologists, of

course, have their own disdain for academic an-
thropology, which they see as irresponsibly de-
tached from the practical problems and struggles

of real people, and sometimes so preoccupied with
‘‘theoretical’’ issues of ‘‘texts,’’ ‘‘discourses,’’ and
‘‘cultural construction’’ as to be unreadable by
most Third World colleagues, with little to say

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148 JAMES FERGUSON

about real-world solutions to global tragedies like
poverty and violence (Little and Painter 1995:
605).

The result, then, is a field that is divided be-
tween those who retain a characteristically an-
thropological antagonism toward ‘‘development’’

(based chiefly in the academy) and those who have
embraced the development world, only to find
themselves marginalized and sometimes scorned
in the anthropological field at large. What are we
to make of this stark opposition, even antagonism,
between an applied, development anthropology,
and an academic, theoretical sort? And why, as
Grillo (1985: 9) has asked, ‘‘does anthropology,
more than any other social science, appear to
make such heavy weather of this distinction?’’

To answer this question, we must begin by ob-
serving that academic anthropology itself con-
tinues to be defined in disciplinary terms that are

in some ways continuous with its nineteenth-cen-
tury roots as the science of the less developed.

Indeed, in this sense, development (or its absence),

far from defining a mere subfield within the dis-
cipline, continues to be at the heart of the consti-
tution of anthropology itself.

Evolutionist ideas have been surprisingly
durable in anthropology, as authors such as
Fabian (1983) and Thomas (1989) have pointed

out. Indeed, it is difficult to read the annual pro-
gram of the American Anthropological Associ-
ation meetings (littered as it still is with

allochronic papers on this or that ‘‘traditional so-
ciety’’) without suspecting that Tylor may have

been right that aspects of a culture may persist as
‘‘survivals’’ long after they have ceased to fulfill
any real function. But surely the anthropological
romance of the primitive is an anachronism? In the
wake of at least two decades of vigorous internal
critique – first along the lines of political economy,

later via a critique of representation – anthropol-
ogy can surely not still be in the thrall of its old

developmentalist metanarratives?

To some extent, to be sure, anthropology’s dis-
ciplinary object has indeed been transformed, and

anthropologists now are routinely concerned with
questions of history and transformation, with the
way local communities are linked to a wider

world, and with a host of nontraditional substan-
tive questions. The extent to which such a restruc-
turing has taken place, however, has been limited

by a number of factors. Perhaps the most import-
ant of these is the way that what anthropologists

do, and what will be taken to be ‘‘anthropo-
logical,’’ is determined by the conventional div-
ision of academic labor between the social

scientific disciplines. What distinguishes anthro-
pology from sociology, political science, and

other fields continues, in practice, to be largely a
matter of the kinds of societies or settings that they
study.9 Anthropologists, in practice (at least those

who are trained and hired by ‘‘leading depart-
ments’’), continue to work mostly in the Third

World, and to specialize disproportionately in the

study of small, rural, isolated, or marginal com-
munities. Indeed, graduate students who wish to

work in less traditionally anthropological sites

report encountering significant difficulties in find-
ing acceptance and legitimacy for their work, both

within their graduate training programs, and in
the arena of academic hiring once they complete
their degrees (‘‘All very interesting, but what’s the
anthropological angle?’’). Anthropologists today
are expected, it is true, to address questions of
the transformation of local communities, and of
linkages with wider regional and global processes;
but it remains the case that it is a particular kind of
people we are interested in seeing change, and a
particular kind of local community that we seek to
show is linked to that wider world.
The idea of ‘‘the local,’’ in fact, has come

to assume a remarkably prominent place in anthro-
pology’s disciplinary self-definitions. Where once

anthropology studied ‘‘the savage,’’ ‘‘the primi-
tive,’’ ‘‘the tribal,’’ ‘‘the native,’’ or ‘‘the trad-
itional,’’ today we are more likely to say that

anthropologists study ‘‘the local.’’ More and
more, anthropology seems to be defined as a kind
of attentiveness to ‘‘local knowledge’’ (Geertz
1983), or a field that specializes in the study of
‘‘local people’’ in ‘‘local communities’’ (thus, not
incidentally, a sort of study that must be carried out

‘‘in the field’’). Such a definition does make it pos-
sible to study a wider range of phenomena than did

the older conception of ‘‘primitive’’ or ‘‘trad-
itional’’ societies. But the difference may be easily

overstated. After all, even if it is true that all social
processes are in some sense local, it is also clear
that, in normal anthropological practice, some
problems, some research settings, even some
people, are more local than others. A California
real estate office, for instance, could surely serve as
a site for anthropological, participant-observation
research; but would this sort of local site be as local
(and thus as anthropological) as, say, a New
Guinea village? Certainly, all would politely agree
that the anthropologist studying the real estate
office was still doing anthropology, but would
such work provide the foundation for a successful
academic career? Disciplinary hiring practices –
which (as I have suggested elsewhere [Gupta and

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ANTHROPOLOGY AND ITS EVIL TWIN 149

Ferguson, 1997]) rely heavily on authenticating
experience in ‘‘the field’’ (archetypically not only
‘‘local,’’ but muddy, tropical, disease-infested, and
so on) – make such an outcome unlikely.
Insofar as a certain opposition of ‘‘us’’ and
‘‘them,’’ ‘‘the West’’ and ‘‘the rest,’’ continues to

inform the constitution of anthropology as an aca-
demic discipline, the concept of development must

retain a special salience, sitting as it does astride
this venerable binary opposition. For the kind of
societies and settings that anthropologists typically

study and the kind they do not are separated pre-
cisely by development (those that have not experi-
enced development are most anthropological;

those that are ‘‘developed’’ are least; and those in
between, ‘‘developing,’’ are in the middle of the
spectrum of anthropological-ness). Indeed, it is
clear not only that anthropologists have mostly
studied in ‘‘less developed countries,’’ but also
that they have tended to study ‘‘less developed’’

categories of people within those countries (indi-
genous native peoples in Brazil, ‘‘tribal’’ and ‘‘hill

people’’ in Southeast Asia, foragers in southern
Africa, and so on). Likewise, when anthropologists
work in the ‘‘developed world,’’ they tend to study
the poor, the marginalized, the ‘‘ethnic’’ – in short,
the Third World within. Indeed, anthropologists in
the West usually work in settings that might also

make good sites for ‘‘community development pro-
grams.’’ In all these cases, too, those who lack

‘‘development’’ are those who putatively possess
such things as authenticity, tradition, culture: all

the things that development (as so many anthro-
pologists have over the years agreed) places in

peril.

We are left, then, with a curious dual organiza-
tion binding anthropology to its evil twin: the field

that fetishizes the local, the autonomous, the trad-
itional, locked in a strange, agonistic dance with

the field that, through the magic of development,
would destroy locality, autonomy, and tradition in
the name of becoming modern. Anthropology is
left with a distinct resentment of its evil twin,
Development; but also with a certain intimacy,
and an uneasy recognition of a disturbing,
inverted resemblance. How often have western
anthropologists ‘‘in the field’’ felt the unsettling
need to distinguish themselves, in their forays
among the ‘‘less developed,’’ from those other
white folks one is likely to meet out in ‘‘the bush’’
– the ‘‘development people’’ who (like those other
alter egos, the missionaries), are ‘‘others’’ who
resemble a little too closely the anthropological

self (indeed, for whom one might oneself be mis-
taken)? [...]

Like an unwanted ghost, or an uninvited rela-
tive, development thus continues to haunt the

house of anthropology. Fundamentally disliked
by a discipline that at heart loves all those things

that development intends to destroy, anthropol-
ogy’s evil twin remains too close a relative to be

simply kicked out; ‘‘after all,’’ anthropology says
to itself, ‘‘these issues, even if theoretically suspect,
are of great practical importance.’’ Thus we end up

with an ‘‘applied’’ subfield (‘‘development anthro-
pology’’) that conflicts with the most basic theor-
etical and political commitments of its own

discipline (hence its ‘‘evil’’); yet which is logically

entailed in the very constitution of that field’s dis-
tinctive specialization (hence its status as ‘‘twin’’ to

a field that is always concerned with the ‘‘less,’’ the
‘‘under,’’ the ‘‘not-yet’’ . . . developed). A twin that
can seemingly never be embraced, accepted, or
liked; but which just won’t leave.
To move beyond this impasse will require a
recognition that the extraordinarily tenacious
vision of a world divided into the more and less

‘‘developed’’ has been, and in many ways con-
tinues to be, constitutive of the anthropological

domain of study. Critiques of development, how-
ever necessary they may be, and however effect-
ively they may be articulated,10 will not be

sufficient to solve the Jekyll-and-Hyde-like con-
flict between development and anthropology, or

applied and academic types of anthropological
knowledge (as if an academically based critique
of development could simply overturn it, and thus
do away with the division). On the contrary, so
intimately intertwined is the idea of development
(and its lack) with the idea of anthropology itself,
that to be critical of the concept of development
requires, at the same time, a critical reevaluation

of the constitution of the discipline of anthropol-
ogy itself. Anthropology cannot throw the evil

twin out of the house, because the twin remains a

part of itself, if only in a repressed and ill-acknow-
ledged way.

Conclusion

The larger question of the relations linking devel-
opment knowledge to the academic disciplines of

the social sciences, with which I began, cannot be

answered in any general way; a better understand-
ing will await a good deal of quite detailed and

specific work on the subject. But if the case of
anthropology suggests anything of importance

for this larger project, it is that the shape of devel-
opment knowledge is not unrelated to the shape of

disciplinary knowledges. Insofar as this is true, it

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150 JAMES FERGUSON

may be suggested that in order to truly transform

the kinds of knowledge that participate in ques-
tions of global politics and policy, it may be neces-
sary to start by transforming the shapes of our

disciplinary knowledges. If so, some immediate
intellectual tasks may be closer to hand, and less
utopian, than railing, from within our academic

disciplines, against the development monster out-
side (as we patiently explain, yet again, to an

audience of the already-converted, why structural

adjustment hurts Africa’s poor. . . ). A real recon-
figuration of the epistemic terrain that makes most

academic work so irrelevant and powerless in its
encounter with development may require, at least

as a beginning, that we engage in some founda-
tional work on our own disciplinary houses.

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