# The difficult art of sustaining alternative governance: the case of the EZLN

Luca Venga

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Luca Venga. The difficult art of sustaining alternative governance: the case of the EZLN. Territory, Politics, Governance, 2025, pp.1-16. 10.1080/21622671.2025.2583055. hal-05392821

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# The difficult art of sustaining alternative governance: the case of the EZLN

Luca Venga

**To cite this article:** Luca Venga (01 Dec 2025): The difficult art of sustaining alternative governance: the case of the EZLN, Territory, Politics, Governance, DOI: 10.1080/21622671.2025.2583055

**To link to this article:** https://doi.org/10.1080/21622671.2025.2583055

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# The difficult art of sustaining alternative governance: the case of the EZLN

Luca Venga ID*

Latin American Centre, School of Global and Area Studies, University of Oxford, Oxford, UK

## ABSTRACT

This article uses the concept of a 'brown area' (O'Donnell, G., 1993) to explore the current situation in the Mexican state of Chiapas, examining how the rebel group known as the Zapatistas have created an alternative, innovative form of authority to that of the state and have coexisted with the latter for long periods of time. The present work, however, also makes the claim that sustaining such an endeavour is a complex task, and that new challengers can emerge inside the brown area to wrestle control of it, reshaping the power-map of the region in the process.

## ARTICLE HISTORY

Received 14 July 2025
Accepted 23 October 2025

## KEYWORDS

Public authority; Zapatistas;
rebel governance; criminal
governance

## 1. Introduction

On the 1st January 1994, Mexico awoke to the news of a revolution. Armed men donning black balaclavas, mostly of indigenous descent, briefly took over a number of cities and villages in the southern state of Chiapas, sparking fears of a second 'Noche Triste', and waging a brief guerrilla war against the Mexican army. These mysterious rebels were part of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation, or EZLN (Ejercito Zapatista de Liberación Nacional), and sought to resist the liberalisation of the Mexican economy and redistribute access to land, inspired by Marxist theories and by the indigenous struggle. Throughout the early 2000s, the EZLN consolidated its grasp over large swathes of Chiapas after signing a peace deal with the Mexican government – the San Andrés Accords, in 1997 (Los Acuerdos de San Andrés, 1997) – which granted it the power to administer its territories with little interference. From then on, the EZLN created territorial units that became known as 'Rebel Zapatista Autonomous Municipalities', or MAREZ (Municipios Autónomos Rebeldes Zapatistas; later transformed into 'caracoles'), governed by a Council of Good Governance (Junta de Buen Gobierno), which existed in a legal umbral zone but were de facto self-ruling. In more recent years, however, the caracoles and the MAREZ have come under attack from a variety of other actors, who have encroached on their land and their livelihoods, prompting a shift in the power dynamics of the region and leading many to reconsider their allegiances.

In this article, I seek to build upon the foundations provided by the existing body of literature on the Zapatistas and their power (notable examples include Burguete Cal y Mayor, 2003; Inclan, 2007, 2018; Oikonomakis, 2019; and Tello Díaz, 2013) in order to address new developments and apply the concept of 'public authority', (Kirk & Allen, 2022; outlined further in this paper) to the case of Chiapas. In so doing, I aim to contribute to deepening our understanding of the 'brown areas' (O'Donnell, 1993) of the state, presenting parts of Chiapas as one such territory and focusing on the waxing and waning of authority of the EZLN and affiliated organisations, and their trajectory up to the present through rigorous qualitative work. This will allow me to substantiate my claim that the Zapatistas 'invented' a novel form of governance, one unique to their situation but with relevance for all those scholars working on forms of power and authority that are not those strictly typical of the Weberian state.

That the political project embodied by the MAREZ and by other Zapatista offshoots coexisted for more than 20 years alongside the municipalities officially recognised by the Mexican government but is now

## CONTACT

Luca Venga luca.venga@sciencespo.fr

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*Currently PhD researcher at the Centre for European Studies and Comparative Politics (CEE), Paris, France (2024 to present).

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Supplemental data for this article can be accessed online at https://doi.org/10.1080/21622671.2025.2583055

© 2025 The Author(s). Published by Informa UK Limited, trading as Taylor & Francis Group

This is an Open Access article distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives License (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/), which permits non-commercial re-use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original work is properly cited, and is not altered, transformed, or built upon in any way. The terms on which this article has been published allow the posting of the Accepted Manuscript in a repository by the author(s) or with their consent.
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facing a decline is, in fact, an interesting issue, one which sparks a host of questions that resonate with many
debates on the changing nature and shape of authority. How can two such different models live side by side,
and is such a cohabitation viable – and if so, for how long? And how has this situation developed in the
rapidly changing Mexican context, with new actors threatening the status quo at every turn? These ques-
tions are the driving forces behind this work, which will elucidate how competing sources of power interact
in a brown area over time. At its core, my paper advances two arguments:

- Firstly, that different forms of authority can emerge and coexist in a brown area on account of the relative weakness of the state.

- Secondly, that sustaining these alternatives over long periods of time is extremely challenging, and crises can lead to their downfall and the emergence of others.

In line with this twofold argument, I claim that the Zapatista experiment had been successful for a num-
ber of years, and that the movement had found a *modus vivendi* of sorts in Chiapas, as the first section of this
work will demonstrate. This, however, has changed in recent years, with the arrival of new power brokers
(the cartels) in the wake of a profoundly devastating event (the COVID pandemic) which have led to the
rupture of the existing equilibrium, and forced the EZLN to take on a more marginal role in the public
life of the state – as evidenced by the second section of the present paper. I conclude by discussing the
idea that power configurations in brown areas are likely to be highly unstable, and that new actors can
quickly upend the status quo in these territories, thus offering an empirically-backed contribution that
nuances O’Donnell’s (1993) theory.

## 2. Theoretical foundations: brown areas

Much classical political science takes for granted the Weberian assumption that the state is – and ought to be – the sole wielder of legitimate force (Weber, 2004/1919) and the only provider of certain services. Making sense of the complex situation of Chiapas, however, requires moving beyond this: as such, O’Donnell’s (1993) work is of special importance, as he coined the term ‘brown’ area to delineate those parts of the national territory where authority is contested, and state capacity is low. Brown areas might present the outward trappings of a state while being subject to vastly different dynamics, which can be personalistic orcli-entelist in nature, and might take place outside of the realm of codified governing arrangements (O’Donnell, 1993). Importantly, singling out a zone as a ‘brown area’ does not imply that it is a lawless land reverting to a ‘state of nature’ where no rules apply: instead, it is a place where states and parts of their apparatus contend with others, and where people might have the opportunity to ‘choose’ between different configurations of public life.

When the services provided by the government fail to meet the demands and expectations of the people
due to low state capacity, in fact, these might decide to ‘exit’ from the sphere of the state, and enter into
other governing arrangements (Hirschman, 1972). In some cases, Scott argues, this choice is more than
a simple acknowledgement of the weakness of the state: it is a conscious, reasoned repudiation of the
state-centric model in its entirety (2009). Parts of a population, therefore, might choose to carve spheres
of autonomy that are sustained by different modes of interrelation, becoming ‘ungovernable’ entities that
exist on the margins of the brown areas of weak states (Scott, 2009). In these liminal spaces there is
space for experimentation and for alternative forms of living and governing, leading to a ‘fragmentation’
of sovereignty that sees different actors overlap and vie for control of resources (Kalyvas, 2006).

Indeed, the groups that contest state sovereignty and its monopolies need not be necessarily anarchic in
nature – most will have their own political, economic and even bureaucratic structures that enable ‘self-gov-
ernance’ and regulate behaviours (Scott, 2009) – they will create their own ‘social orders’ (North et al.,
2009). Official governments might choose to coexist and settle with these forces, whether because their
capacity is so low as to make a violent solution impossible, or because they might prefer to do so for
other reasons. The resulting diversity of arrangements (both formal and informal), which can be observed
around the world, has been surveyed, among others, by Staniland (2012) in the context of civil conflicts in
Asia. His account has proven instrumental in this paper, as it clearly highlights some of the rationales which
might push violent actors to enter into mutually beneficial agreements with the state, but the present work
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expands it beyond a strictly civil-war situation to encompass a broader set of circumstances – namely, those of the simmering tensions in Chiapas.

A rich regional literature centred on Latin America exists on these themes, showcasing the unique traits of the region and its challenges (see for instance Arias, 2017; Centeno et al., 2017; Yashar, 1999; Yashar, 2007). Notable examples include David Nugent's work on APRA (the 'American Popular Revolutionary Alliance') in Peru; or the research on hybrid governing structures in Kingston, Jamaica, carried out by Rivke Jaffe (Jaffe, 2013). Jaffe's piece, in particular, touches on the relationship between violence and public authority, something which constitutes a thread through many of these works, and connects back to Weberian theories of the state and its attributes. Arias is another example of a scholar working on this connection, flagging the ways in which politicians and gang leaders in the shantytowns of Rio de Janeiro work in tandem to create clientelistic networks and exchange votes for resources (Arias, 2006). This 'intreccio' (Denyer Willis, 2018) links bureaucrats and criminals well beyond Rio, constituting a near-omnipresent features of Latin America's 'brown areas' (O'Donnell, 1993) and their 'ungovernability' (Scott, 2009) – as I will explore through my original empirical contributions shortly.

### 3. Data, methodologies and analytical approach

The data that constitutes the backbone of this piece was gathered during the summer of 2023 through ethnographic methods and over forty interviews of varying length (typically between thirty minutes to two hours) with a variety of stakeholders across different towns in Chiapas – San Cristobal de las Casas, Ocosingo, Palenque, San Andres Larrainzar and a caracol (this latter site cannot be named for the security of those involved). My aim, through the combination of participant observation across an array of settings and through the extensive interviews I conducted, was to arrive at a comprehensive and up to date picture of the daily lives of the inhabitants of various towns around the state who are connected to the Zapatistas. I created this ethnographic backdrop in accordance with the suggestions of Wedeen (2010), and expanded on my observations through a series of semi-structured interviews (Rubin & Rubin, 2011) that were conducted in informal, safe settings and in the interviewee's language. The interviewees themselves, who were selected through purposive sampling, were: those who hold some position in the Mexican state apparatus (bureaucrats, elected officials at the local level, members of the executive branch of government); the Zapatistas and those who sympathise with them; and the people who navigate daily this world of competing sources of authority (such as business owners, civil society organisers, campaigners, journalists, clergymen and more).

All the interviews were conducted following the strictest ethical guidelines available, and they were later anonymised for security reasons, as some of the themes I touched upon had the potential of being or becoming sensitive. The data thus collected – in the form of a series of observations and impressions, and transcripts from the interviews – was analysed (after the anonymisation process) to reveal trends and salient insights on the topic of brown areas and on the connections between different forms of authority in a given territory. In order to make sense of these empirical findings, I chose to adopt a specific analytical lens which would underpin my outlook and allow me to consider the phenomena of interest in their entirety. Thus, I chose to make use of the framework of 'public authority'. The phrase 'public authority' was developed by Africanist scholars to reference and encapsulate in a flexible theoretical lens all the various forms of authority with which people interact in the conduit of their lives (Kirk & Allen, 2022). It is an outlook that allows the observer to encompass all the centres of power that shape and regulate public life, retaining the ability to coerce, punish and to reward wherever the state is not the sole player (Kirk & Allen, 2022).

These centres of authority, however, must be distinguished from strictly private actors: to be visible to the public authority lens, they must take on at least some of the functions of governments, such as the provision of public goods and services (including security) and operate somewhere in the hybrid, liminal space between 'family life and the public domain of formal governance' (Kirk & Allen, 2022, p. 57). In this sense, Kirk and Allen's (2022) work is related to the field of governance. The latter, in fact, has also emphasised the different institutions and 'modes' of authority that characterise certain situations that stray from the pure, rational Weberian model. Studies on governance, however, tend to be explicitly urban in their scope (see Le Galès & Vitale, 2015 for a general programme of study in this field, and Lund, 2018 or Davis, 1994 for detailed, empirical examples in two different urban settings), and thus the public authority lens was preferred insofar as it has a less restrictive scope – given that the Zapatistas inhabit both rural, peri-
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urban and urban areas. Both ‘governance’ and ‘public authority’ maintain, however, the ability to observe and analyse non-Weberian forms of power, be it through traditional, criminal, ecclesiastical or other structures, and in this way they connect my research to that of all those scholars working on ‘alternatives’ to the rational, bureaucratic states of some Global North countries.

This approach was thus also chosen to grasp and recount as accurately as possible the responses of my interviewees; to avoid being constrained, in my retelling and analysis of the answers I received, by having to label and fit the concepts I encountered into pre-existing ontological categories. I sought to make use of emic¹ concepts, relying on the public authority framework to help me frame my interactions with the participants in terms that would reflect the circumstances on the ground. This was especially useful in the brown areas of Chiapas: the Zapatistas, part of a complex ecosystem, exist in a legal grey area, and they have been able to create self-ruling communities which maintain sharply distinct practices from government-held areas, in line with Scott’s arguments on ‘ungovernability’ (Scott, 2009), and that are hard to neatly classify with categories drawn from ‘classic’ political science. A public authority outlook can thus help elucidate how this new, political project of an alternative source of authority has evolved, allowing me to put side by side traditional, bureaucratic and other unique forms of power that are relevant to this case in the words of the people directly involved in these experiments.

## 4. The crafting of the Zapatista model and its successes

As briefly mentioned, by 1997 the Zapatistas were in control of large parts of the state of Chiapas and, after signing the San Andres Accords with the state, they could now organise as they saw fit (Los Acuerdos de San Andrés, 1997). The present section offers an analysis of the EZLN and some of its practices during its hey-day, reflecting on the nuanced forms of authority that I was told about and that I encountered across the communities I visited in Chiapas. After showing the unfolding of Zapatista authority in practice through a retelling of my experiences in an existing EZLN-affiliated institution, I conclude (in accordance with much of the existing literature, see for example Pleyers, 2009) that in the aftermath of the signing of the Accords the Zapatistas were successful in setting up a parallel source of authority to the Mexican state across their territories, and that they were seen as an important and, for some, positive force to take into account.

The importance of the San Andrés Accords can hardly be overstated. The agreement was crucial in granting a measure of peace to the Zapatistas (save for sporadic, low-level confrontations with the authorities) and in legitimising their rule, at least to some extent (Los Acuerdos de San Andrés, 1997). Since the early 2000s, the movement was thus able to focus on building its centres of power and its credentials as an egalitarian, environmentally conscious force for local development (Pleyers, 2009; Tischler & Holloway, 2018), despite the government’s ambivalence concerning the accords themselves. The EZLN developed its normative theories and utopian visions (examples can be seen in the works of one of its most prominent and charismatic spokespersons, Subcomandante Marcos – see for example Marcos, 2002; 2003; 2007; or through collectively authored declarations, such as in Comandancia General del Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional, 2005; or Comandancia General del Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional, Congreso Nacional Idigena., 2017) and poured resources into opening more and more *caracoles* across Chiapas (see Figure 1 below for an idea of their distribution), making each one of them a centre of learning and growth for the local population (Comandancia General del Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional, 2003).

The Zapatistas inaugurated schools and hospitals centred on Mayan forms of knowledge across their municipalities, encouraging the use of indigenous languages and practices so as to decolonise key domains of public life (Forbis, 2016) and root themselves into the context of the specific territories in which the *caracoles* were being founded. These developments reflected the EZLN's commitment to reject the capitalist ideas of development that underpinned many official Mexican policies from the 1980s onwards, while still delivering on the movement's promises to improve local conditions in accordance with local customs and priorities (Mora, 2015; Pleyers, 2009). The structures housing schools and health centres or the communal spaces were distinctively decorated in bright colours, with murals referencing the EZLN's fight and creating an iconography around the core tenets of environmental agrarianism, indigenism, gender equality and resistance (i Puig, 2022). Through the creation of these structures, the Zapatistas effectively supplanted the state in the provision of public goods at the local level, taking on one of the key tasks of a government and developing their own (para)state capacity.
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<figure><img src="image_20.png" /><figcaption>**Figure 1.** Map of the Zapatista caracoles in Chiapas (Red Ajmac, 2022).</figcaption></figure>

The EZLN also carefully constructed a contrast with the Mexican authorities by embracing horizontalism as a way to reduce the gender, class and race inequalities which can be seen in the country. I was told, for example, that 'we [the Zapatistas] have no boss [jefe]. There is no commander, because the leaders are below the people, they are servants of the people' (Participant ZOV-PM19 2023). According to my interviewees, the leaders of the *caracoles* and of the Councils, in other words, are elected to listen and enact the will of the community, should not make decisions on their own, and remain strictly accountable to the membership of the movement (Participants ZD-PM19; ZOV-PM19 2023). Horizontalism is embedded in theory and practice, and it is tied to notions of equality and dignity. Class distinctions are, at least ideally, annulled between the Zapatistas, since inequalities between different members of the movement are supposed to be essentially non-existent. Consensus is seen as the bedrock of decision-making, and leaders have a clear mandate to mediate, not to rule (de Huerta & Higgins, 1999; Participant ZD-PM19 2023).

Justice has been another area of focus for the Councils of Good Governance (Participants FBC-P124; FZC-P120 2023). A form of reparatory justice was put in place early on, following ways of rehabilitating and re-integrating offenders into society that differ significantly from those envisioned by the Mexican penal code (Mora, 2015). As a pro-Zapatista and pro-indigenous interviewee told me:

> And let's not even mention [non-Zapatista] justice, to this day it is so unfair and vindicative against indigenous people. You see, indigenous justice is about community, and relationships, it's about restoring not punishing. Say you get drunk and kill a man. What happens in the indigenous communities? Say that man you killed had a wife and children. You would be made to take care of them, you would have to provide for them. You will have to work twice as hard, your field and their field, and that is your punishment. Instead, if we go to court and you are guilty, they put you in jail. What use is that? You have to be fed and taken care of in jail, that's on everyone's tax money. And the family of the person you killed get nothing, they are victimised twice – you are in jail, what does that do for them? They'll starve. (Participant ADMG-P112 2023)

This rather extreme example, meant to elucidate the principles behind the forms of community justice practised by the Zapatistas, helped me reflect on the different conception of justice that the EZLN had tried to promote since its rebellion – one more attuned, perhaps, with the feelings of the local population, and in explicit opposition to the structures seemingly imposed by the Mexican government (Mora, 2015).

Zapatista tribunals applying principles of communitarian justice appear to have had some notable successes (Mora, 2015). They have been broadly considered to be fair and equitable, and the reparatory
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measures they employed were favourably contrasted with the punitive ones imposed by Mexican courts which, rightly or wrongly, have been portrayed as slow, corrupt and inefficient (Participants ADMG-P112; FBC-P124 2023). Even an interviewee who generally held negative views of the Zapatistas conceded that:

> It is fair to make the case that their view of justice is different – it is more communitarian, more based on inter-personal relationships and how those can be used to fix things. They mostly deal with small-scale stuff to be hon-est, like civil matters, disputes between neighbours, things like that. And those can be solved by indigenous tribunals, and these – even when practised by the Zapatistas – they have had some successes. (Participant PV-P113 2023)

The Zapatistas, therefore, seem to have been able to develop a sufficient standing to be seen as a point of reference on some justice matters, being recognised as impartial and even-handed in their application of community justice principles (Mora, 2015). This denotes a consequential level of moral authority, and proves that the EZLN has been a tangible source of power in Chiapas, one whose decisions were respected and sought by different groups as an alternative to the deliberations of the official system put in place by the Mexican state (Mora, 2015; Participants ADMG-P112; FBC-P124; PV-P113 2023).

Taken together, in fact, these developments showcase the Zapatista success in crafting a truly different, parallel system to the official one. Embracing the principles of horizontalism and of servant leadership, and engaging in forms of reparative justice are all methods to establish a form of authority that is seen as more legitimate by the population insofar as it is closer to, and more accountable, to the average person, as well as fairer and more equitable (see for instance Tischler & Holloway, 2018 for a discussion on the feminist cre-dentials of the movement). As Mexico democratised in the early 2000s, the Zapatistas built their commu-nities in opposition to electoral politics as practiced by the government, highlighting the latter model's vulnerability to corruption and the inequalities it created and relied on, and focusing on centring themselves on the local territories and their specificities. In the following section, I will then turn to showcasing an existing institution that embodies many of these trends and demonstrates the Zapatistas' capacity to build viable alternatives to the state.

## 4.1. The case of CIDECI-UniTierra

Asking about places where the Zapatista model could be seen at its best, in fact, I was told to visit CIDECI (Centro Indígena de Capacitación Integral – Indigenous Centre for Integral Learning), also known as ‘*la Universidad de la Tierra*’ (the Earth’s University), a well-known educational space, openly supported by the Zapatistas and by many indigenous communities. CIDECI is deeply intertwined with the history of the movement, and its premises even host a small *caracol* (in the form of a few buildings detached from the main campus). Although the *caracol* and the University are formally separated, they share a commit-ment to education and the improvement of people’s lives, and have typically cooperated closely (Participant FZC-P120 2023). Surprisingly, CIDECI seemed indeed to be an example of a successful Zapatista offshoot, one that was still thriving notwithstanding some challenges.

I chose to visit CIDECI (and, thereafter, to include my impressions of it in this work) on the basis of the fact that it could offer me a tangible, vivid example of how models of Zapatista authority and practices have taken root and been adopted by a broad community of people, one that goes beyond the boundaries of EZLN membership itself. It is important to reiterate, in fact, that while CIDECI and the EZLN are closely associated, what happens inside the *Universidad de la Tierra* is not representative of life inside a ‘normal’ Zapatista *caracol*, given that the latter face other living conditions and have different objectives to begin with. As such, I do not wish to present CIDECI as a window into the life of a classic Zapatista community: what is interesting for the purposes of this work, instead, is to understand how forms of authority rooted in many of the aforementioned practices and theories developed by the Zapatista movement make their way into diverse sectors of society and can take a variety of shapes, including that of an educational institution committed to a horizontal, egalitarian, indigenous form of teaching and learning. Seen in this light, CIDECI retains its relevance as a localised expression of autonomy, given that it challenges the state-imposed system of ‘normal’ education and instead offers an array of activities that are deeply intertwined with the local sur-roundings and with the history of the people involved in it.
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CIDECI, in other words, is an interesting example of the possibilities that a revolution such as the Zapatista one can open up in a brown area. Its continued existence and (broadly speaking) the support it received from the local community (as I will proceed to document shortly) showcase the manyfold ways in which alternative forms of authority can emerge and even thrive in localities where state-sanctioned alternatives do not abound or do not provide the necessary services. Further evidence in this regard can be seen through the case of the *Universidad de la Tierra Oaxaca*, a sort of sister institution to CIDECI that operates according to a very similar model in the nearby state of Oaxaca. The existence of this institution highlights the adaptability and flexibility of the Zapatista model, and its ability to move across formal boundaries while remaining within the confines of a brown area. The *Universidad de la Tierra Oaxaca*, in the words appearing on its website, is an 'ironic [take] on the educational system, given that there are no professors, pupils, subjects, exams, or degrees' (Universidad de la Tierra Oaxaca, 2025), and as such represents a critique of the system promoted by the state and an alternative to it, an attempt to carve a space for a different way of living and living. While caracoles specifically, therefore, might have unique and different living arrangements, exploring CIDECI and its internal mechanisms was still worthwhile insofar as it allowed me to understand how deeply Zapatista ideas had made their way into the regional ecosystem, and how they continued to challenge a state-led approach in key sectors – in this case, education – throughout the years.

CIDECI itself sits at the edge of San Cristóbal, stretching over a dozen acres in the foothills of one of the wooded mountains that surround the city. It is made up of several workshops dedicated to a wide range of vocational activities (see Figure 2 for one such example), from nursing to woodworking to coding. It also hosts verdant gardens and small cultivated fields, carefully tended to. When I visited it the different buildings – spacious, airy, well-constructed, with freshly painted walls and colourful curtains – were bustling with activity, and especially with the sounds of children laughing and playing. People could be seen attending classes, working or chatting around the compound of the University, in a relaxed and friendly atmosphere. Entry to the compound was controlled, but the people who welcomed us (I travelled to CIDECI in the company of a friend, a local journalist) were not hostile and appeared pleased to hear about our interest in their institution.

We were shown around by a young Zapatista of around 20 years of age, who took great care in explaining in detail the way the various workshops functioned, and the ways in which each of them helped CIDECI further its aim of educating capable, resourceful people who could return to their communities and use

<figure><img src="image_23.png" /><figcaption>**Figure 2.** A workshop inside CIDECI.</figcaption></figure>

Source: Author's own picture.
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their knowledge to generate positive spillover effects in a variety of fields (Participant FZC-P120 2023). He told us that:

> The idea is that when you graduate – although since we are not part of the formal instruction system none of these courses are recognised by the government as official – you will go back to your village and use what you have learnt to help out there. Maybe you’ll open a clinic, or a garage shop, or an artist’s studio: all of these things help. This is our mission, to kickstart the development of the indigenous lands, this is what we’ve been doing so far. And we are kind of the only ones doing it. (Participant FZC-P120 2023)

He encouraged us to see first-hand the range of activities that CIDECI offered to its students, ensuring that all inclinations and passions can find their expression here, and invited us to follow him to see some of the workshops for ourselves. At some point during our tour, we were welcomed in the large communal kitchen by a smiling elderly woman who kindly offered us a drink and made some conversation, before wishing us well on our endeavours.

While walking around, our guide explained that he – and many other teachers and workers living there – were Zapatistas from other *caracoles* who had been seconded to the University, but that being a member of the EZLN was not a prerequisite for joining CIDECI (Participant FZC-P120 2023). He proudly observed that the University accepted students regardless of their circumstances, asking for no prior educational titles and only for financial contributions commensurate with one's financial means (Participant FZC-P120 2023). He stated that the institution encourages the rediscovery of Mayan practices, beginning with language – indeed, one could hear Tzotzil, Tzeltal and Chol being spoken across the various buildings we visited.

The educators at CIDECI, in fact, favour the transmission of skills that reflect a mindset that is not tied to conventional economic practices, and that often reflect indigenous practices. In the words of its principal coordinator, CIDECI is a bottom-up University, a 'center that's just for, but it's also by, the indigenous. It's an indigenous center in its work, in its definition, in its method of operating, in its components, in those who make it up' (Paget-Clarke, 2005, p. 1). In this sense, it is evident how the University is a close relative of the larger Zapatista project, and although it is not mandatory to be a member of the EZLN to live and work on its grounds, it is an unwritten rule that a degree of conformity with the movement and its aims is expected (Restrepo, 2014; Participant FZC-P120 2023). CIDECI's premises have been used for Zapatista-run events aiming to include a broader public, who could not easily access some of the more remote EZLN-held villages.

According to our guide, most students (of which he claimed there would be around 120 at any point) would remain for a couple of months up to a year, living, studying and working on the premises. He added with pride that most alumni chose to come back voluntarily to share their expertise and help train a new generation. This highlights how CIDECI sought to create a positive feedback loop that could lift people out of joblessness and poverty and foster a new kind of development based on reciprocity and voluntary exchanges (Participant FZC-P120 2023), as well as linking territories across Chiapas which shared an ambition to develop along the lines broadly proposed by the Zapatista movement. The products made in the various workshops were proudly used or exhibited throughout the site, and most were made with care and attention to detail.

In general, it appeared that the establishment and growth of CIDECI had served to translate into practice many of the original Zapatista ideological commitments to the creation of a new world founded on a different relationship with nature and with the means of production (Restrepo, 2014). Its popularity suggests that this model has had a modicum of success, and that, at the very least, it has filled a gap in which indigenous people left behind by the patchy national education system would have otherwise fallen, to the detriment of their future prospects (Restrepo, 2014). Ultimately, I left CIDECI with the feeling that the Zapatista approach, which in this case had been conjugated to create an independently-run educational institution, could offer some valuable solutions to the people of Chiapas, adapting to the pressing challenges of this brown area.

In summary, from the signing of the accords to the 2010s, the Zapatistas developed the theory and practice of their forms of authority (Pleyers, 2009), effectively fostering a diffused form of power that arises from consensus reached through radical democracy (Stahler-Sholk, 2010) and that is enforced through reparative justice, in opposition to the state and its perceived impositions (Mora, 2015). The Zapatistas came to
<figure><img src="image_25.png" /></figure>

represent a prime example of a group that refuses to be governed (Scott, 2009), one that lived in the inter-
stitial, marginal spaces where governments cannot penetrate (Lippens, 2003; Mora, 2015; Scott, 2009).
Among other things, this refusal is expressed in the figure of the servant leader, one not elected to rule
but to facilitate constructive discussion and community engagement (Participants ADMG-P112; FBC-
P124 2023), and in the adoption of local languages, practices and customs to reaffirm a commitment to
a specific people and territory. In these regards, the movement's original ambition to foster a new kind
of radical democracy came to bear fruit, and the EZLN achieved its aim of creating a model of community
that is different to that promoted by the Mexican state. (Participants ADMG-P112; FBC-P124; ZD-PM19;
ZOV-PM19 2023).

The Zapatistas thus laid the foundation for the creation of long-lasting institutions. One of these was CIDECI, where I was able to conduct my fieldwork and showcase how the model promoted by the EZLN could succeed in creating alternative forms of power, even when translated and repurposed by independent actors. When seen through the public authority lens, in fact, institutions like CIDECI took on a significant role, since they represent visible structures that respond to the needs of a part of the population and replicate and spread the ideology and praxis of the movement, in opposition to the models promoted by the central government – the former being close and accessible to the people living in the area, while the latter is often presented as remote and secluded, answerable to completely different logics.

In this regard, my understanding is that rooting CIDECI in its territory was a very deliberate choice,
made to embrace the Zapatista's ideas of commitment to this specific area of Chiapas and its populations,
once again in opposition to the perceived 'abandonment' by the central government. That this did not result
in the outbreak of open conflict between the two parts is perhaps surprising, but demonstrates the capacity
of states to come to terms with different governing arrangements in their brown areas. Successive Mexican
governments accepted the reality on the ground in Chiapas and indeed largely ignored the question (much
as they largely ignored CIDECI): the agreement held, with minimal disruptions, throughout the 2000s and
2010s. A watershed time for the Zapatistas, however, came in the shape of the COVID pandemic – the sub-
ject of the next sections in this article.

**5. The COVID crisis and the cartels**

This section now turns to the task of substantiating the second part of the argument, demonstrating how the authority of the EZLN has declined, and that the movement is increasingly coming under pressure from multiple fronts – at times it seemed to be fighting for mere survival. Upon my arrival, in fact, I felt as if I was witnessing the sunset of an era for the Zapatistas. As established earlier, for approximately two decades the EZLN had been ostensibly successful in its efforts to establish permanent, parallel structures to those of the Mexican state (Mattiace, 2012). Members of the movement had resisted the pressures of development as imagined in its most technocratic form, while proactively attempting to construct an alternative model within their communities – one based on a close connection with the land and with the original cultures from which many of the members of the movement hailed. Now, however, they seemed to be struggling to maintain the gains they had conquered in the previous decades. To elucidate this point, I survey the causes of the decline of the EZLN, focusing in particular on the role of the COVID-19 crisis and on the responsibilities of the cartels (and of other paramilitary groups), before drawing some insights from a place of significance for the Zapatistas: the village of San Andrés Larrainzar.

Firstly, it is possible to single out the spread of COVID-19 as an important factor in the decline of the movement. The COVID-19 pandemic represented an extremely trying time for México as a whole (Ibarra-Nava et al., 2020), but it also contributed to an important erosion of support for the EZLN. There was the obvious loss in terms of human lives, but there were also more complex dynamics at play. An interviewee with direct knowledge of Zapatista affairs explained to me:

Many Zapatistas left after COVID. For years Marcos and the leaders had been telling them that the state was the enemy and that they would never have anything to do with it, they would never engage with it. Initially, during COVID, Marcos told them that they would not take the vaccine. Then, for some reason, he did a U-turn [...]. But in México the vaccine was not distributed by the health authorities – its distribution was assigned to the army.
<figure><img src="image_26.png" /></figure>

So the army went into the communities and brought the vaccines, and they had to feed and house the soldiers. Marcos had been telling them for years that these soldiers were the enemy, that they had to fight them, to resist, that they would never let them enter their communities, and now they had to be grateful to them and had to host them and share food with them! So after that many were disappointed, and confused, and left the movement – now it has shrunk in size significantly. I would not be surprised if today there were only a few hundreds of them. (Participant PCL-P101 2023)

This interview was particularly interesting, as it offered novel insights into the ideas of legitimacy that underpinned the movement. Much of the moral authority of the EZLN seemed to be based upon its opposition to the state and its diversity in ideology and practice from the mainstream (Forbis, 2016). The Zapatistas saw themselves as fiercely opposed to anything that the government, and the army in particular, stood for, and cooperation was largely ruled out after the partial failure of the implementation of the Accords. Accepting help from the armed forces amid the vaccine distribution programme became, therefore, a rupture with years of anti-state narrative, leading to a loss of credibility for some of its leadership, and to a number of defections in the aftermath of the pandemic.

Beyond the acute problems caused by the pandemic, a series of 'hostile actors' – namely the cartels and the paramilitaries – have long contributed to the decline of Zapatista strength. The Mexican War on Drugs, launched in 2007, has thrust into the spotlight the increasingly pivotal role of criminal organisations in México. Drug cartels existed long before the rise of the Zapatistas, but organisations such as the Jalisco Nueva Generación Cartel (CJNG) or the Sinaloa Cartel have become more aggressive (Correa-Cabrera et al., 2015), expanding across the country, engaging in all sorts of activities, and recruiting hundreds of thousands of Mexican youths, (Prieto-Curiel et al., 2023). In recent years, they have also penetrated into Chiapas, traditionally a state that had been spared from their activities, in order to control and take advantage of the weakly guarded Guatemalan border (Saavedra, 2024) and exploit migrants forced to stay in the country by former US President Donald Trump's 'Remain in México' programme. The border represents a double opportunity for the cartels, as a route for drug smuggling as well as human trafficking. Multiple cartels have thus established themselves in Chiapas, clashing with each other and with law enforcement in increasingly violent confrontations (Saavedra, 2024).

Due to cartel activity, I was explicitly told to avoid visiting certain *caracoles* in the *Altos* region of Chiapas. What little information transpired from these regions was fragmented, occasionally contradictory, and impossible to verify, but it often concerned the activities of said cartels, clashes between rival armed groups of an unspecified nature, and losses among the population. I was warned that the EZLN (or, indeed, the police) would not be able to protect me if I decided to head there. Many civil society actors, and even some Zapatistas, appeared to be confused and worried about these developments, puzzled by the lack of reliable data and left to fear the worse. A man from the area told me that: 'I left there about two years ago, and I cannot go back. I have family there, but I don't know if they are alive or dead – I have no way to contact them, and I can't go back. It's terrible' (Participant GL-P230 2023). Reports about missing people abounded at the local Human Rights Centre, their faces lining the wall on laminated sheets sporting the words 'Disappeared' and bearing recent dates.

Generally, the vast majority of interviewees saw the uptick in cartel-related violence as an emergency that neither the Zapatistas nor the state have been able to confront (Participants ASC-P230; GL-P230; REL-P111 2023). Therefore, they expressed their disappointment in both centres of power, citing their passivity in the face of cartel-related violence as a major fault. In a statement symptomatic of widespread sentiments, one inhabitant (a friendly business-owner who relied, at least in part, on the arrival of tourists in the city for his income, and therefore especially sensitive to the security situation) of San Cristóbal de las Casas told me:

> The cartel situation has definitely gotten out of hand here. Just a few weeks ago I heard gunshots from over there [pointing at the northern neighbourhood of San Cristóbal]. At first it was just a few shots fired, and then proper machine gun fire. I listened to it, could not believe it.

> They killed some local leader [...]. It never used to happen here, in San Cristóbal de las Casas, but now neither the government nor the Zapatistas nor anyone is doing anything about it [...]. The Governor of Chiapas came the other day, he showed up, shook a lot of hands, smiled in a lot of pictures and he was telling everyone that Chiapas is safe, that it is open for tourism and for business. But while he was here San Cristóbal was locked down, the main streets filled with soldiers, policemen, helicopters flying ahead. It was so ironic, he kept saying everything is fine and the town was patrolled like during a war. (Participant REL-P111 2023)
<figure><img src="image_27.png" /></figure>

The feeling of disbelief was palpable, as a was a certain kind of resignation at the prospect of cartel's penetration – which can result in cartel leaders regulating violence and demanding payments in exchange for protection (Sampó et al., 2023). At no point was it ever suggested that the Zapatistas could match the cartels in open confrontation and regain the ground they had lost – at best, it seemed that the EZLN could manage to hold some of its *caracoles* for the foreseeable future by avoiding direct confrontations. The fact that Zapatista territory is now being used to traffic migrants or drugs – something which they resisted in the past and that lent them credibility and respect – has led some interviewees (Participants CGN-P110; GL-P230 2023) to portray them alternatively as weak or, even worse, as colluding with the hated cartels. This signals a shift in attitudes and a severe reduction of the EZLN's moral authority, as their positive connection to the land around them becomes questioned.

Nor are the cartels the sole danger to Zapatista communities and their allies. Paramilitary organisations, usually well-armed and inclined to use force, have mushroomed all over the country, especially in the areas that have seen the worst levels of violence due to cartel activity (Herrera, 2023). During my fieldwork, I have come to understand that these paramilitary organisations are chameleonic entities, whose aims were not always clear from the beginning. Due to security concerns, I found it nearly impossible to gather data on them directly, but plenty of interviewees spoke about them. A well-informed civil society activist and organiser told me, with a note of concern in his voice,

> there are a variety of groups that contest this space. Some people have actually left the EZLN and joined rival groups and now are against the Zapatistas, and they fight them for control. [...] Like, these are associations and groups which are promoted by local authorities, like *autodefensa* groups. The EZLN has definitely weakened, they are no longer the only players, and they are constantly under attack, or at least they feel like they are. (Participant ASC-P230 2023)

Private militias and other armed groups have thus become increasingly important. Some have come into direct conflict with the Zapatista and their supporters, further eroding the capabilities of the movement to confidently project its authority in Chiapas and sustain its position in the delicate power equilibrium of the state, while others attracted members of the movement and encouraged them to join their ranks.

Insecurity seemed rife among communities affected by the presence of paramilitaries. The EZLN, too, seemed concerned about these developments, and unable to combat them effectively. The activities of paramilitary groups seemed to have contributed significantly to the reduction of the authority of the Zapatistas. In fact, the Zapatistas essentially admitted as much in a series communiqués which decreed the end of the MAREZ and the *Juntas de Buen Gobierno* and the establishment of new, smaller and more decentralised authorities – the *Gobiernos Autónomos Locales* (Subcomandante Insurgente Moisés, 2023a; 2023b). The EZLN justified this move with the need to face a new, dangerous context, one now rife with (dis)organised violence and multiple threats, claiming that smaller, more localised communities with more autonomy could better face the attacks of the ‘hydra’ (Subcomandante Insurgente Moisés, 2023b) in its dangerous and faceted expressions.

Many people I spoke to, however, seemed to believe that they had to seek alternative sources of protection – sometimes through organising in paramilitary formations themselves – and that the Zapatistas, in spite of their efforts, could not be relied upon anymore to maintain a stable equilibrium. Thus, the provision of a much sought-after public good (security), a key marker of authority, has been somewhat wrestled away from the EZLN by the paramilitaries: this has caused allegiances to shift, as reported by some interviewees (Participants FI-P21; PCL-P101 2023). They claimed that the Zapatistas have suffered a loss in their ability to project their power, and that, therefore, more and more people have begun to look elsewhere for protection, recognising other entities as the true power-holders in the region. In other words, the Zapatistas have not been able to keep their hegemonic position in the brown area of Chiapas, and their inability to guarantee a measure of security to the people has undermined their status in the eyes of many.

## 5.1. Visible signs of decline: the case of San Andrés

To check what I had been told against the situation on the ground I headed to the village of San Andrés Larrainzar, the town after which the accords have been named. San Andrés is not technically a *caracol*, but I had heard many times the story of how, in the aftermath of the ‘94 uprising, the Zapatistas had retained
<figure><img src="image_28.png" /></figure>

control of the municipal buildings, forcing the council to relocate away from the central square and into a newly built structure on the outskirts of the town. Indeed, upon my arrival it was confirmed to me that for years the Zapatistas had used the buildings in the city centre openly. They set up what was in effect a parallel administration, which produced anything from birth certificates to education diplomas, in open defiance of the local council that technically remained the official emanation of the Mexican state (Hernández et al., 2010). Relations between these two entities and their supporters had nevertheless remained civil (Hernández et al., 2010). However, it could be argued that the relative positioning of these two forces (one in the city centre one on its outskirts) spoke to the authority of the Zapatistas, and the acceptance of said authority by the locals and – to some extent – by the state too.

While San Andrés is not a town wholly and exclusively dominated by the Zapatistas, its significance to the movement was nevertheless hard to understate, and I thought it would be noteworthy to explore it and understand its trajectory and the way in which public authorities had developed there. I was interested in mapping the actors ‘on the ground’ and in seeing who people would refer to as the real power brokers in the city. I also thought San Andrés could provide additional insights into the interactions between the EZLN and the Mexican government and its local representatives. As I arrived in San Andrés, however, I was disappointed. The buildings formerly occupied by the Zapatistas, arranged around the main square of the village and opposite the cathedral, appeared deserted. Whilst they still were marked with the names of the corresponding offices (‘registrar’ or ‘school office’) as well as with a number of effigies, there had clearly been little to no recent activity here (Figures 3 and 4). Most were positively abandoned, the doors left ajar on empty rooms containing no more than a broken chair or an old, empty cabinet. Although there was no immediate danger, there was a persisting feeling of uneasiness, and despite it being a pleasant afternoon the city centre as a whole was quiet, with very few people out on the streets.

Once again, few of those I encountered seemed to be eager to talk to me, and when asked about the activities (or lack thereof) of the EZLN in their town, they simply commented that the Zapatistas had gone because of more pressing issues, and perhaps would not return. They did not display any particular emotion when answering these questions, and were cautious in their supply of vague answers concerning changes in the *status quo*. They mostly shrugged, and reiterated that the Zapatistas had other problems to confront, and that the town had to go on with or without them. It was obvious, however, that the fact that the Zapatistas had left what had once been a deeply-rooted stronghold had created vacuum – one both physical and metaphorical – which could allow for others to enter San Andrés and offer themselves as alternative power holders for its region.

The Zapatista-founded market for indigenous produce, situated directly below the city centre, was also empty and appeared to not have been opened in months. It consisted of a large structure built at the foot

<figure><img src="image_29.png" /><figcaption>**Figure 3.** The abandoned Zapatista municipal office.</figcaption></figure>

Source: Author’s own picture.
<figure><img src="image_30.png" /></figure>

<figure><img src="image_31.png" /><figcaption>**Figure 4.** A sign above the municipal office.</figcaption></figure>

Source: Author's own picture.

of the hill on which the main square of San Andrés sits. Originally, it was meant to accommodate merchants from San Andrés and its surroundings, who would gather under the auspices of the EZLN to buy and sell fair-trade products and showcase the traditional goods and services produced by the region's indigenous people. The market's doors, however, were nailed closed, and its main gate was padlocked. I was told that the town's market now took place in improvised stalls along the streets around the cathedral, while a new, rather grand building designed by the town's official administration awaits its inauguration. No one, however, pointed at the Zapatista market as a place of any significance, simply stating that nothing had been going on there for a while, and that the Zapatistas themselves had not sold anything there in the preceding months.

San Andrés corroborated the accounts I had heard regarding the downward trajectory of the movement. Across the town, the EZLN's absence spoke of a spent force, long past its zenith. It might be that abandoning the former municipal buildings in San Andrés aimed at gathering increasingly scarce forces in the *caracoles* themselves, leaving non-essential outposts behind. This move, however, removed the movement from the lives of the people even further, as it was now not necessary to interact with the EZLN to access important documents or comply with bureaucratic mandates. The disappearance of the Zapatista indigenous market also contributed to causing the loss of authority of the movement in the area. Fewer people would now interact with EZLN's leaders to discuss matters of businesses, accepting their arbitration on eventual trade disputes, and fewer people would now buy goods produced in the *caracoles*, diminishing revenues and resources available to the movement itself.

Clearly, the times when the movement ruled over much of the state, essentially undisputed, were long gone; and in light of the observations shared with me by a number of interviewees as well as, partially, of my own insights from my visit to San Andrés, it is possible to claim that a combination of factors (COVID-19, cartel violence and the presence of paramilitaries) had compounded each other to weaken the hold of Zapatismo over many of its former centres of power, loosening their sway over the territory of Chiapas and thus pushing people to resort to other authorities. In conclusion, this section has served to support the second half of my argument, showcasing how the fluid and complex situation that often characterises brown areas makes it difficult for any actor to maintain a stable centre of authority, and allows new actors to vie for dominance and challenge the incumbents. In the case of the EZLN, in fact, the COVID crisis and the violence brought by the cartels and by the paramilitaries have undermined its authority and diminished its importance and strength.
<figure><img src="image_32.png" /></figure>

**6. Discussion and conclusion**

This article made the twofold argument that (1) since the 1990s the Zapatistas had constructed a novel, par-
allel state and established a degree of authority in Chiapas, but (2) that their power is now sunsetting, due to
the crises brought by COVID, the cartels and the paramilitaries. Broadly, local people used to perceive the
rule of the EZLN as legitimate and participated in processes of decision-making and in Zapatista economic
institutions for much of the 2000s and 2010s, but changes in the situation led to a decline in relevance for
the movement in the face of growing challenges. As a result of hostile forces, the Zapatistas have abandoned
many of their territories and their authority has diminished amongst local populations, forcing – or allow-
ing them – to look to the state or to other entities for protection, security and service provision. The case
studies of CIDECI and San Andrés were instrumental in showcasing these opposing trends and supporting
my conclusions. The former highlighted the ways in which the movement and its affiliated partners man-
aged to build successful outlets that reflected its vision and attracted considerable public support, while the
latter reflected the recent decline of the EZLN and its weakening grasp over parts of the state.

By observing these places within the broader context of the ‘brown areas’ of Chiapas through a public
authority lens, I was able to explore the rise and (partial) fall of the Zapatista movement as an alternative
source of power, one based on a close connection to the specific territories in question and on alternative,
horizontal forms of governance. In so doing, I expand on O’Donnell’s (1993) theory of ‘brown areas’,
demonstrating how these territories of fragmented authority are prone to relatively rapid changes in the
status quo, and how alternative models of governance can be hard to sustain over the long term – even
when they encounter the favour of the population. I also showcase how the Zapatistas ‘invented’ a new
form of authority based on their complex weaving of different philosophical strands, participating in the
debates on ‘alternative’ forms of power that can evolve in many different contexts. The nuancing of
these theories, therefore, can be helpful outside of Chiapas too, allowing others to charter the fortunes of
similar groups around the world in unstable contexts and reflecting on what authorities are possible and
desirable in the face of various place-specific issues. Further research is needed to explore the repercussions
of other events which were not mentioned in this work – chief among them the opening of the Mayan Train,
a major infrastructural project that promised (or threatened) to bring back the state into the region, once
again altering the fragile status quo.

**Note**

1. Adopting an emic approach implies prioritising the ideas, processes and ways of seeing the world as they are described and understood by those at the centre of the investigation, as opposed to an etic approach that relies on external precepts.

**Acknowledgements**

The author wishes to thank his current and former supervisors, Prof. Patrick Le Gales; Prof. Eduardo Posada-Carbo; and Prof. Diego Sanchez-Ancochea for their support and guidance. A special thanks goes also to those who participated in the research in Mexico, and without whose contributions this work would have never been possible. Lastly, the author thanks the European Union and the University of Oxford (in the form of St Antony's College and the Latin American Centre) for their generous financial support, as well as friends and family for their continued encouragement.

**Disclosure statement**

No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author(s).

**Funding**

The research leading to this work was supported by the European Union under the Marie Skłodowska-Curie Action/
Horizon Europe programme ‘LAC-EU – Understanding Latin American Challenges in the twenty-first Century’; St
Antony’s College (University of Oxford) through the Star Grant; and the Latin American Centre at the University
of Oxford through the Malcolm Deas Fund.
<figure><img src="image_33.png" /></figure>

## Ethics Statement

All the fieldwork conducted for this research received formal, prospective approval by the independent ethics review board at the Oxford School of Global and Area Studies (OSGA) at the University of Oxford. All participants provided informed oral consent – for more details please consult the Appendix in the online supplemental data.

## ORCID

Luca Venga http://orcid.org/0000-0002-2685-3787

## Data availability statement

The data that support the findings of this study are available on request from the corresponding author, L.V. The data are not publicly available due to their containing information that could compromise the safety and privacy of research participants.

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