The (un)making of marine park subjects: Environmentality and everyday resistance in a coastal Tanzanian village

World Development 126 (2020) 104696

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The (un)making of marine park subjects: Environmentality and everyday resistance in a coastal Tanzanian village Justin Raycraft Department of Anthropology, McGill University, 1654 Laurier East, Montreal, Quebec H2J 1J2, Canada

a r t i c l e

i n f o

Article history: Accepted 24 September 2019

Keywords: Marine conservation Marine protected area Environmentality Protest Power Subjectivity Resistance

a b s t r a c t This paper focuses on local conflicts over marine conservation in southeastern Tanzania. It draws from ethnographic fieldwork conducted in 2014 and 2015 in a coastal village located inside the boundaries of a marine park. The paper first examines why villagers have come to contest the park, and subsequently outlines the various forms of resistance they employ to mobilize their opposition. Some people are willing to protest openly, as evidenced by the destruction of the park’s gatehouse office and directory signs in 2013. However, an immediate violent response to such acts from state paramilitary forces has instilled fear in villagers. The swift crackdown, coupled with ongoing surveillance from ranger patrols, has engendered a degree of discipline in some people. Rather than risking further repercussions, many villagers engage in ‘everyday forms of resistance’ through subtle acts of noncompliance to the conservation regulations. These practices are entangled with material benefits and moral statements about customary rights to resources. They may also facilitate political mobility by destabilizing conservation management, while simultaneously avoiding open confrontation with governing authorities. I refer to this overall process as the (un)making of marine park subjects. Ó 2019 Published by Elsevier Ltd.

1. Introduction Recent scholarship on the social impacts of protected areas on local communities has been extensive, especially in sub-Saharan Africa. Protected areas can displace local people (Brockington, 1999, 2002; Brockington & Igoe, 2006; Witter, 2013) deepen food insecurity (Kamat, 2014; Kamat & Kinshella, 2018), modify property rights (Bluwstein, 2017; Mascia & Claus, 2009), and undermine pre-existing customary tenure practices (Brockington, Duffy, & Igoe, 2012; Igoe, 2004; Neumann, 1998). Several scholars have recently moved this discourse one step further by connecting protected areas to the reconfiguration of governance over people and resources (Bluwstein, 2018; Bluwstein & Lund, 2018; Lund & Rachman, 2018; Orozco-Quintero & King, 2018; Rasmussen & Lund, 2018; Raycraft, 2019a). Protected areas create new networks of relations between state actors, private stakeholders and citizens (Gardner et al., 2018; Igoe, 2010; Igoe & Brockington, 2007). Paradoxically, such processes may actually extend the reach of the state’s governing apparatus through privatization and decentralization of authority (Corson, 2011; Gregory & Vaccaro, 2015). In the context of neoliberalization, protected areas have become a platform through which new forms of power emerge, and in partic-

E-mail address: [email protected] https://doi.org/10.1016/j.worlddev.2019.104696 0305-750X/Ó 2019 Published by Elsevier Ltd.

ular, those that attempt to influence the subjectivities of local communities along the axis of environmental conservation (Holmes & Cavanagh, 2016). These changing sociopolitical terrains of conservation may also constrain resource-dependent communities by prioritizing the protection of biodiversity and natural resources over human well-being (Brockington, Igoe, & Schmidt-Soltau, 2006; Goldman, 2011; Igoe, 2007; Singleton, 2018; Woodhouse et al., 2015; Woodhouse & McCabe, 2018). Ethnographic insight into the textured ways that local people exercise agency vis-a-vis protected areas is critical to scholarship on the human dimensions of conservation (Hoffman, 2014; Holmes, 2013). People’s responses to protected areas often stem from their experiences and interpretations of the impacts of conservation, together with their perceptions of how costs and benefits are distributed across stakeholders (Bennett & Dearden, 2014; Holmes, 2007). Depending on how people conceive of underlying power asymmetries between involved actors, protected areas can foster varied combinations of trust, cooperation, frustration, and opposition from local communities (Voyer, Gladstone, & Goodall, 2014, 2015). Such social outcomes can influence people’s environmental attitudes and practices, in turn strengthening or undermining conservation objectives. This paper focuses on the lived experiences of residents of a coastal village located inside the boundaries of a marine park in

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southeastern Tanzania. Rather than making villagers into ‘‘environmental subjects” who support the notion of marine conservation, the park has bred discontent and recalcitrance as a result of its exclusionary models of governance and management (Agrawal, 2005a, 161). Such forms of marginalization, coupled with the tangible livelihood consequences of conservation enforcement, have led village residents to adopt negative attitudes towards marine conservation. Moving beyond a unidirectional analysis of the social impacts of the park on villagers, the paper subsequently addresses the various forms of resistance that people employ to mobilize their opposition. I highlight villagers’ agency by showing that some people resist the park overtly, through acts such as destroying the gatehouse office with homemade explosives and vandalizing park signs. However, the fear of both ‘‘remembered” and ‘‘anticipated” physical violence for protesting against the park deters most people in the village from openly displaying their political positionalities (Holmes, 2007, 186). Instead, many village residents engage in covert acts of noncompliance to the conservation regulations. Following Holmes’ (2007) and Hoffman’s (2014) applications of Scott’s (1985) concept of ‘‘weapons of the weak,” I argue that these acts constitute ‘‘everyday forms of resistance” (Scott, 1989). They facilitate political mobility by destabilizing the conservation goals of the park, while simultaneously avoiding the risks associated with visibly confronting governing authorities (Scott, 1985). Such practices are also interwoven with material benefits and moral statements about customary rights to resources (Holmes, 2007). Through this process, characterized by the circulation of power between villagers and government, marine park subjects are (un)made. The remainder of the paper is organized as follows: In section two, I provide context and background information on the research problem. In section three, I outline my theoretical framework. In section four, I describe my methodology. In section five, I present ethnographic data, and in section six I discuss these findings and their theoretical and applied significance. 2. Research problem – context and background Dating back to colonial times, parks in Tanzania have been characterized by a fortress model of conservation that physically displaces human inhabitants, dispossessing them of the resources upon which they are dependent (Brockington, 2002). Since the 1980s, the community-based turn in conservation in Tanzania has purported to reconcile biodiversity conservation with community development through decentralization of governance, collaboration with local communities, and respect for people’s territorial rights (Goldman, 2003; Levine, 2004). The extent to which this conservation rhetoric translates into practice, however, has been called into question in recent scholarship (Benjaminsen, Goldman, Minwary, & Maganga, 2013; Bluwstein, Moyo, & Kicheleri, 2016; Goldman, 2011; Wright, 2017; Noe & Kangalawe, 2015). Brockington (2008) offers a reminder that scholars must attend to the various forms of exclusion that are less visible than the physical displacement of local communities from conservation areas in Tanzania. While still in its nascent stages, marine biodiversity conservation began to gain considerable momentum in coastal Tanzania in the 1990s. Following the Marine Parks and Reserves Act No. 29 of 1994, the Government of Tanzania implemented a series of state-run marine protected areas (MPAs), referred to as marine parks (Andersson & Ngazi, 1995; Walley, 2004). Generally speaking, the goals of these MPAs are to protect marine biodiversity, enable recovery of overexploited resources, and promote ecosystem resilience in the face of climate change (Katikiro, Macusi, & Deepananda, 2015). They are also meant to generate ecotourism revenue through state-private partnerships, against the backdrop

of neoliberal reforms. Given the problematic history of fortress conservation in Tanzania’s terrestrial parks, marine parks are supposed to feature community-based approaches to conservation, including collaborative management strategies, geographic inclusion of villages inside park boundaries, conservation education, and benefit sharing (Levine, 2004; MNRT, 2005; Mwaipopo, 2008). However, marine parks in Tanzania currently face many barriers to reaching these goals, including inter-stakeholder politics and poverty (Moshy, Bryceson, & Mwaipopo, 2015; Mwanjela & Lokina, 2016; Raycraft, 2019b; Walley, 2004). Currently, Tanzania has three marine parks: the Mafia Island Marine Park (MIMP), the Mnazi Bay-Ruvuma Estuary Marine Park (MBREMP), and the Tanga Coelacanth Marine Park (TACMP). This paper is based on fieldwork conducted in a village inside the MBREMP. The MBREMP is located in southeastern Tanzania along the coastal border with Mozambique (see Figs. 1 and 2). It was gazetted in 2000 and spans a total of 650 km2 of both terrestrial and marine areas. The park is governed by the Board of Trustees for Marine Parks and Reserves, under the Ministry of Livestock and Fisheries Development. Park management is carried out by the Marine Parks and Reserves Unit (MPRU), together with a warden-in-charge, a team of professional staff, and six park rangers (Tortell & Ngatunga, 2007). The WWF and World Bank conducted initial ecological surveys of the area prior to park formation, and the establishment stages were aided by the IUCN and the UNDP. However, the MPRU has since assumed full governing authority, and these private actors are no longer involved. Currently, there are 23 coastal villages located inside the MBREMP’s boundaries, with a total population of approximately 45,000 people (Kamat, 2019). The geographic inclusion of villages inside the park is supposed to accompany their political inclusion in the conservation governance and management models. In short, the MBREMP is supposed to reflect a community-based protected area. While the initial idea for conservation came from local fishers, however, published academic literature and assessment reports on the park planning process indicate that most ordinary villagers were not adequately consulted during the planning stages (Gawler & Muhando, 2004; Katikiro et al., 2015). Conflicts emerged across stakeholders as some members of village communities believed that the park would bring benefits to communities through tourism, revenue sharing and employment, while others maintained that the park could constitute a form of state-led land grabbing (Raycraft, 2019a). While Village Liaison Committees (VLCs) were meant to be formed during these initial stages, most villagers were not fully informed about the park’s management techniques, goals, and regulations (Assad, 2018). Workshops were carried out with expert advisors, government officials and various other stakeholders to produce the General Management Plan (GMP) for the park. While villagers were supposed to be involved, they were only provided a forum to discuss the plan once it had been produced, but not during its planning process. As Katikiro et al. (2015) explain, the MBREMP ‘‘failed to reconcile community interests with conservation objectives from the outset” (227). Rather than a devolved, community-run protected area, villagers have generally been excluded from the formal governance processes of the park throughout its implementation. Here I will focus on villagers’ lived experiences and subjective interpretations of these processes of exclusion to demonstrate the ways in which they have influenced villagers’ environmental subjectivities and practices. According to the GMP, the park follows a zoning scheme to fulfill its goal to protect marine biodiversity – park residents are not allowed to fish in Core Zones, though they are permitted to fish in General-Use Zones and Specified-Use Zones in accordance with acquired permits and enforced fishing gear regulations (MNRT, 2005). In practice, however, the MBREMP management team lacks

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Fig. 1. Map of Mtwara Peninsula. Figure reprinted from Geoforum, 100(1), Justin Raycraft ‘Circumscribing Communities: Marine Conservation and Territorialization in Southeastern Tanzania’, 128–143, Copyright (2019), with permission from Elsevier.

the social and financial capacity to implement all components of the park’s GMP, including permitting and demarcating zones via buoys (Raycraft, 2019a). Nonetheless, conservation regulations are enforced by rangers (government employees) during patrols.1 Several studies have documented the negative socioeconomic impacts of these regulations on villager livelihoods, manifest in the forms of food insecurity, dispossession and social suffering (Bunce, Brown, & Rosendo, 2010; Bunce, Rosendo, & Brown, 2010; Mangora, Shalli, & Msangameno, 2014; Kamat, 2014, 2018; Kamat & Kinshella, 2018). Villagers have also reported physical beatings from rangers, and ‘‘the use of police force” for not complying with conservation regulations (Mwanjela & Lokina, 2016, 153). While the park is supposed to generate ecotourism-related jobs for villagers and share revenue benefits, a recent audit report by the National Government reveals that the park has thus far failed to do either (Assad, 2018). This is largely attributable to the fact that the park generates minimal to no revenue, all of which filters back into daily operations. Put simply, most studies of the social impacts of conservation on village communities inside the park reveal that the rhetorical win-win narrative of community-based conservation has not translated into empirical reality (Mwanjela, 2011).

3. Theoretical framework – environmentality and everyday resistance The rhetorical claims that the MBREMP integrates villagers into the governance and management processes of the park are laden with elements of what Agrawal (2005a, 2005b) refers to as environmentality. This concept refers to the tendency for citizens to develop subjectivities that are intertwined with the environment, 1

Please refer to (Raycraft, 2019a, 135-136) for list of conservation regulations.

Fig. 2. Map of study area. Figure reprinted from Geoforum, 100(1), Justin Raycraft ‘Circumscribing Communities: Marine Conservation and Territorialization in Southeastern Tanzania’, 128-143, Copyright (2019), with permission from Elsevier.

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in Agrawal’s case, through the decentralization of conservation governance. By receiving benefits associated with conservation through their new positions within the state apparatus, citizens’ interests become aligned with the central government. In short, governments may not need to ‘force’ communities to conserve, if they can indirectly produce subjects who ‘choose’ to conserve. Thus, people govern themselves, becoming ‘‘environmental subjects” who support conservation as a product of the redistribution of state power to the level of communities and individuals (Agrawal, 2005a, 161). Environmentality has its genealogical roots in Foucauldian studies of power and governance. Foucault developed the concept of governmentality throughout his work to describe the techniques that governments utilize to increase the governability of people and resources, generally without having to resort to the topdown use of force (Foucault, 1977, 1978, 1982, 1991, 2007, Lemke, 2001, 2002). Governmentality builds from his theorization of government as the ‘‘conduct of conduct,” or the general management of people’s behaviours (Foucault, 1982, 220–221). Environmentality is far from a homogenous process of producing subjects. With reference to Foucault’s evolving works, Fletcher (2010, 2017) outlines the nuances of four distinct forms of environmentality. Truth environmentality draws from discursive reference to ‘‘the funamental nature of life” (Fletcher, 2010, 176). This may entail religious belief, or the creation of scientific ‘facts’ that serve to legitimize governmental intervention. Neoliberal environmentality aims to produce rational actors who are incentivized to act in particular ways based on basic economic cost-benefit analyses (Fletcher, Dressler, Anderson, & Büscher, 2018). Disciplinary environmentality is characterized by the use of surveillance and monitoring techniques that instill in subjects fear of repercussions for transgressing rules. Consequently, subjects ‘discipline’ themselves and become self-regulating subjects (Foucault, 1977). And never to be forgotten completely, sovereign environmentality refers to a more classic form of government involving the top-down exercise of power, and the use of direct force. Fletcher (2017) argues that disaggregating environmentality studies into these (and perhaps other) sub-types can enable more textured ethnographic assessment of the complex ways in which power circulates between governing authorities and subjects in the context of conservation. Bluwstein (2017) and Youdelis (2013), for example, each apply this theoretical discussion in their analyses of communitybased conservation and ecotourism in Tanzania and Thailand respectively, highlighting the fact that multiple environmentalities can be present at the same time. Most recently, Youdelis (2019) uses a multiple environmentalities framework to analyze multiscalar and multi-actor processes of government used to rationalize, and oppose, the privatization of a National Park in Canada. Envrionmentality studies branch in diverse directions, across a number of applied environmental fields (Darier, 1999). While some scholars focus on the relationship between technologies for environmental governance and processes of subject-making (Bose, Arts, & van Dijk, 2012; Darier, 1996), others have shown that environmentality may be de-tethered from territory in a contemporary context, given the multi-scalar effects of globalization (Heatherington, 2012) and the discursive pathways of eco-knowledge production (Luke, 1995, 1999). Some have suggested that environmentality may work through ‘‘eco-frontiers” (processes of bounding ‘wilderness’) to dissolve, remake, and redefine material boundaries between ‘‘protected and unprotected nature” (Guyot, 2015, 68). As Laforge and McLachlan (2018) show in their study on the Canadian prairies, techniques of environmentality can be mobilized by states to reshape people’s sensibilities, de-territorialize indigenous communities, and secure control over resources. In the context of neoliberalization,

such processes can occur through NGOs, whose work may unintentionally extend ‘‘political rationalities of control” to indigenous peoples and their relationships with the environment (Bryant, 2002, 286). Here, I take environmentality to mean processes of government that produce an axis of thinking in relation to the environment that can be positive (i.e. the creation of conservationists), negative (i.e. the production of anti-conservationists), or varied mixtures of both (Cortes-Vazquez & Ruiz-Ballesteros, 2018). I also draw from Fletcher’s (2010, 2017) distinctions of multiple environmentalities with reference to the overlaps and articulations between disciplinary environmentality and sovereign environmentality. Presence of multiple environmentalities in the same ethnographic context can lead to important contradictions between the various approaches to producing subjects, as notions of collaboration and control become pitted against each other (Youdelis, 2013). Importantly, several scholars have raised critiques and potential limitations to environmentality explanations (Rutherford, 2007). Singh (2013), for example, argues that such analyses privilege the power of economic and political rationalities vis-a-vis affective forms of labour and embodied emotions (see also GonzálezHidalgo & Zografos, 2017). Similarly, Cepek (2011) suggests that environmentality approaches may ‘‘underestimate” the abilities of people to forge their own critical, self-aware, and culturally grounded understandings of collaborative environmental projects (501). Furthermore, as Scott (1990) shows through his concept of ‘‘hidden transcripts,” subjectivities may be formed relative to the public visibility of behaviours. Subordinate groups may engage in ‘‘infrapolitics,” which occur out of sight of those in power (Scott, 1990, 183). Thus, the explicitly visible interactions between dominators and oppressed form public transcripts of power relations that do not necessarily encapsulate the subjectivities of people across all situations (see also Nations & Monte, 1996). Bearing in mind these theoretical nuances, I will attempt to show that as a consequence of villagers’ lived experiences of political and socioeconomic exclusion from park governance and management, they have developed increasingly negative attitudes towards marine conservation and actively attempt to undermine the MBREMP’s success. To analyze how village residents mobilize their opposition to the MBREMP, I draw from a body of literature on the concept of resistance. Structural constraints can simultaneously restrict agency, while also motivating marginalized people to act in particular ways in an attempt to improve their political positioning (Scott, 1985, 1990). As Bluwstein et al. (2018) show, for instance, individuals and communities in Tanzania may respond to land alienation in various ways to ‘‘maintain control over their means of production” (806). In Foucault’s (1978) own words, ‘‘where there is power, there is resistance” (95). As Legg (2019) clarifies through careful re-reading of Foucault’s original works, Foucault approached resistance as a source of power that problematizes governmentalities, and perhaps even becomes a form of governmentality in and of itself. In many cases, people protest their subjugated positions in relation to the forces of domination that restrict them (Scott, 1985). Hall et al. (2015) refer to these as ‘‘political reactions from below” (467). I will later demonstrate that some village residents exercise their agency by openly displaying their opposition to the MBREMP. As Lister (2004) suggests, agency is characterized by a capacity to adapt to adverse situations in creative ways (see also Coulthard, 2012, 3; Brown & Westaway, 2011). McLaughlin and Dietz (2008) further argue that people generally exercise some level of pushback to challenging circumstances, in turn affecting environments through response in a dialectical way. Drawing from Lister (2004),

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Coulthard (2012) notes that in the context of fisheries, fishers can ‘get back at’ authorities through ‘‘rule breaking” and ‘‘illegal fishing” as a means of exercising their agency in response to livelihood threats (4; see also Hoffman, 2014). Scott (1985), however, highlights the potential risks associated with overt acts of rebellion for those who experience subjugation. Often, such acts evoke violent response from the state in an attempt to re-assert control over citizens and maintain social order (Scott, 1985). This was the case in the study village when the state responded to the office bombing in a militarized manner. I will describe this event in greater detail in section 5.2. As Orwell (1950) suggests, it is often the public visibility of such open clashes between governing authorities and citizens that force the state to ‘save face’ by visibly displaying power and authority. Consequently, people who engage in acts of protest run the risk of subjecting themselves, or their families, to physical harm or other significant repercussions (Scott, 1985). In light of this, many people who experience subjugation act in ways that do not directly confront ruling powers, choosing instead to undermine existing power structures discreetly (Scott, 1985). Scott (1985) refers to these actions as ‘‘weapons of the weak.” Such acts are subtle and covert in nature, and avoid the risk of persecution for blatant insubordination (Kerkvliet, 2009). Although seemingly less effective than direct acts of rebellion, however, the consequences of such acts can be far reaching (Kerkvliet, 2005). As Scott (1985) describes, the amalgamation of a multitude of individual acts of resistance can serve to dismantle the structural relationship between the forces of domination and those who are subjugated. Everyday forms of resistance are ‘‘enmeshed” with the ‘‘everyday exercise of power” (Sivaramakrishnan, 2005, 19; Haynes & Prakash, 1992). Thus to understand resistance, it is crucial to first understand the pathways through which everyday power is exercised. Put differently, specific forms of resistance must be contextualized in relation to specific forms of domination (Bardhan, 1984). Central to this endeavour is the cultivation of a nuanced understanding of how resistors experience and interpret their relationships with those in power. A growing body of literature applies Scott’s (1985) discussion of resistance to acts of noncompliance to conservation regulations inside protected areas (Holmes, 2007; Hoffman, 2014; Cavanagh & Benjaminsen, 2015). Holmes (2007) argues that previously inconsequential acts of hunting and fishing can become politically charged acts of resistance once they are labelled as transgressive. In such cases, these practices can undermine the conservation effort and destabilize the governing authority responsible for its implementation, regulation and enforcement (Holmes, 2007). In some instances, community members may choose to exercise discretion when violating conservation regulations. Hoffman (2014) and Holmes (2007) refer to these kinds of acts as ‘‘everyday forms of resistance” because they can reduce the effectiveness of conservation projects, while simultaneously avoiding the risks associated with overt forms of protest (see Scott, 1989). I must, however, note that some of the literature surrounding the notion of resistance to conservation is hazy, as scholars must subjectively interpret and subsequently apply the label of resistance to observable actions. As Kull (2004) cautions, resistance is often overemphasized in comparison to the underlying economic benefits of acts of noncompliance; put simply, sometimes people act in particular ways to meet their material needs, regardless of regulatory orders (see also Fletcher, 2007). However, other scholars differentiate between explicit forms of disobedience intended to make visible political statements, and those which primarily serve to fulfill material needs (Gibson, 1999; Western, 1994). As Holmes (2007) points out, the political symbolism of routine noncompliance is often mixed with pragmatic ‘‘livelihood functions” in an implicit manner (193). Furthermore,

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such acts can also reflect moral statements about customary rights to resources (Holmes, 2007). In my analysis, I will consider the ways in which subtle transgressive acts can be materially, morally or politically motivated. My intention for doing so is not to produce a ‘hierarchy of resistance,’ but to describe the diverse and nuanced reasons why village residents engage in such practices, and how they reflect, among other things, opposition to the MBREMP. 4. Methodology I conducted ethnographic research in Msimbati village between August–October of 2014 and July–August of 2015. Msimbati is a seafront village located between Mnazi Bay and the Ruvuma River, directly inside of the MBREMP’s catchment area (see Figs. 1 and 2). It is the largest of the 23 villages inside the park, with a population of approximately 10,000 people.2 I selected Msimbati as a field site because it contained more elaborate park infrastructure as compared to other coastal villages, including the park’s main gatehouse office, ticketing booth, and park signs. During this time, I engaged in participant observation of everyday life inside the park, and conducted 40 in-depth interviews and four focus group discussions (FGDs) with residents of Msimbati. In consultation with village leaders, interviewees and focus group participants were recruited based on a convenience sampling method.3 Interviews and FGDs were carried out in KiSwahili, with the assistance of a male and a female field assistant. Interviews and FGDs generally spanned around forty-five minutes to an hour. In total, 20 men and 20 women of mixed ages were interviewed, and four FGDs were carried out with six participants in each group (two groups of men, and two groups of women). During interviews and FGDs, respondents were asked if and how their attitudes towards conservation and their relationships with the environment had changed since the establishment of the MBREMP.4 In KiSwahili, the word mazingira translates into English as ‘the environment,’ and is used as an umbrella term to encompass landscapes, plants, animals, seascapes and other marine and terrestrial resources. It is also used with reference to people’s social context and surroundings. Respondents were also asked to describe any advantages or disadvantages they believed to be associated with the park, and how they perceived the distribution of conservation costs and benefits. The interviews and FGDs were semi-structured and maintained these central focal points, though respondents were encouraged to discuss anything they felt to be of particular significance in their daily lives. Interviews and FGDs were recorded with a digital audio recorder, transcribed verbatim into written KiSwahili, and translated into written English. Key quotes were then organized thematically for this paper. Study participants ranged in age from approximately 25 to 70. All participants were Makonde, the dominant ethnic group in the

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Msimbati village has recently been sub-divided into Mtandi and Ruvula. Due to the methodological limitation of using nonrandom participant recruitment, study participants’ views documented in this paper do not representatively address the experiences of all villagers living inside the park. Several other studies more evenly address the inter-village and intra-village socioeconomic impacts of the MBREMP on people’s livelihoods (Mwanjela, 2011; Kamat, 2014, 2018). As a product of recruiting participants via consultations with local leaders, it is also possible that there may have been some recruitment bias by these actors with their own sets of interests. 4 As described by Agrawal (2005a, 2005b), processes of environmentality are elucidated over a long period of time through ongoing observation of people’s changing environmental attitudes and practices. While the actual period of observation in this study was limited to two rounds of fieldwork over a four-month period in 2014 and 2015, people’s narrative responses provide some insight into how their relationships with the environment and marine conservation changed between 20002015 in their own descriptions. This is indeed distinct from conceptualization of environmentality over a period of many years of direct observation, and reflects a methodological limitation of this study. 3

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area, and followed Islam. The majority of male respondents identified as artisanal fishers, followed by cashew farmers and tailors. Many practiced some combination of fishing and farming. Most women collected crustaceans from the shoreline, harvested small fish in shallow waters with fine-mesh (tandilo) nets, and grew tomatoes and onions in small gardens for consumption and sale. Most people in Msimbati have household incomes of less than 12,000 shillings (5.20 USD) per week and live in mud houses with thatched roofs, though on average Msimbati is more economically prosperous than other villages inside the park (Kamat, Le Billon, Mwaipopo, & Raycraft, 2019). Residents of Msimbati feel that they have customary rights to fish, based on the historical precedent of ancestors utilizing the inshore fishery in the area for approximately 200 years. Access to marine resources in Msimbati was historically based on common property mechanisms, determined by informal institutions at the family and community level. However, access to the fishery in Msimbati has also been governed by the formal institutions of the post-independence state, through the Fisheries Acts of 1970 and 2003. Thus, prior to the park, access to the inshore fishery was characterized by legal pluralism. Customary marine tenure practices, however, have broken down in recent years, which several scholars have attributed to macro-level political and economic pressures throughout the socialist and neoliberal periods (see Katikiro, Macusi, & Deepananda, 2014). Most villagers assert a moral right to fish and harvest coastal resources for the fulfilment of basic material needs, which exists relative to changing ecological conditions, political and economic constraints, and communitylevel social norms (Raycraft, 2019b). Fishers generally target coral reef fish with basic hand-lines and nets from dug-out canoes, though some use prohibited equipment such as beach seine nets, spear guns, and dynamite (Kamat, 2019; Raycraft, 2018a). Net fishing has a customary basis, while spear gun and dynamite fishing do not. Some fishers with access to larger boats target pelagic species of fish, which are subsequently brought to market in Mtwara town. Small reef fish and crustaceans are generally fried and sold on the main street of Msimbati. Income from these sales is used to buy maize flour, and other foods that can be stored without refrigeration. Food insecurity is an everyday concern for most people in Msimbati.

5. The (un)making of marine park subjects 5.1. Living with a snake in the house: sovereign environmentality The hypothetical benefits of marine conservation resonated strongly with some study participants, especially among artisanal fishers, who depend on the inshore fishery for livelihood. Several respondents had fond recollections of the initial proposition of commencing a large-scale marine conservation effort in their coastal waters. When asked about the potential benefits of the MBREMP during an interview, Musa,5 a male elder in Msimbati responded, ‘‘when the marine park first came to this village, we were so happy! We clapped our hands,” recounting his feelings of enthusiasm at the prospective conservation effort. During my fieldwork in Msimbati, several villagers explained to me that they initially expected to benefit significantly from the establishment of the MBREMP when the concept was first proposed. These positive outlooks stemmed from the belief that villagers’ livelihood concerns would be included in the management priorities of the park. Several interview respondents echoed these memories of optimism towards the project at its outset, citing their initial hopes that marine conservation would entail 5

All respondent names in this paper are pseudonyms.

economic benefits in the form of tourism, hotels and revenuesharing as part of a collaborative effort to protect the coral reef fisheries in their coastal waters. In the first few years after the establishment of the MBREMP, however, village residents’ expectations of the benefits they would accrue from the project began to diverge from their actual experiences of the highly regulated model of conservation within the park. These misalignments led to the corrosion of their support for the MBREMP. During an FGD, Athumani, a male artisanal fisher, explained how village residents’ feelings towards the MBREMP began to change after its initial establishment, ‘‘At the beginning [2000], the marine park was ours. But now [2014], it is not. The marine park is like a poisonous snake that we unsuspectingly let into our house, and now the snake has come to bite us. I say this because at first, we accepted the project in our village, thinking that they would protect our environment (mazingira). But now we know it is actually the enemy of the people of Msimbati.” In this response, Athumani describes how village residents were initially supportive of the project when it was first conceived in the mid 1990s and early 2000s, given their enthusiasm for the notion of environmental protection. As he describes, however, the people of Msimbati did not foresee the MBREMP undermining their customary rights to coastal and marine resources, which occurred after the park was gazetted in 2000 through the closure of fishing areas and restrictions on traditional fishing gear. These interventions were not communicated to villagers during the planning phases. Metaphorically speaking, people did not realize that the MBREMP was actually a dangerous snake that they had unsuspectingly allowed into their home. For people living in Msimbati, the potential lethality of snake bites is a very serious concern, and one that instills widespread fear; snakes have symbolic power over life and death. Thus, Athumani’s metaphor of people being bitten by a snake in their own home paints a very grave portrayal of their troubled relationship with the MBREMP. It signifies his sentiment that the MBREMP has attempted to protect marine biodiversity at the expense of villagers. During my fieldwork in Msimbati, around ten people with whom I spoke recalled a particular confrontation between park authorities and village residents that arose when a group of people in Msimbati attempted to take sand from the beach to repair a pothole in the main road. Park rangers immediately intervened, explaining that this extractive practice was environmentally destructive. Village residents disagreed, arguing that they had historically used sand for a variety of purposes in Msimbati. Villagers were particularly resentful because they felt that park staff used the road, damaged it, and did not repair it, affecting the transportation of food and supplies in and out of the village. In the end, however, the rangers forced them to return the sand to the beach. This story highlights the common sentiment among village residents that the MBREMP neglects their needs. The contention surrounding the degree of destructiveness of the practice points to concerns about the opaqueness of the decision-making processes that determined how marine resources should be used inside the MBREMP. People in Msimbati are uncertain about what the actual benefits of the conservation regulations are, highlighting the lack of knowledge dissemination from park officials to villagers, a key oversight for the production of environmental subjects who support conservation. While the park’s written GMP, made available in 2005, articulates the benefits of the conservation interventions in English, most villagers cannot access this information. At the outset of the project, village residents understood broadly the benefits of marine conservation, since they appreciated how central the fishery was for their livelihoods, but they were not informed about

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the benefits of the specific regulations. Park audit reports reveal that even park staff believe that knowledge dissemination and communication with local communities during the early implementation stages between 2000 and 2003 was inadequate (Tortell & Ngatunga, 2007). The lack of economic development, which was purported to be a significant objective of the park according to its GMP, has led to frustrated expectations among village residents, and interpretations of park governance processes through the lens of broken promises. As a consequence, village residents have come to perceive the park and the introduction of regulations as assertions of state power over their everyday lives. The exclusion of their voices and traditional ecological knowledge from the park’s governance processes has led to collective experiences of deprivation in Msimbati. As Asha, an elder female who harvests shoreline crustaceans for livelihood described during an interview, ‘‘the park has only disadvantages for us. When the marine park people came, they came with restrictions on the use of the sea, and the coastal environment as well, so we have lost our rights.” In her view, the conservation regulations directly undermine villagers’ customary rights to access and use resources. Saidi, a male farmer and fisherman living in Msimbati, also voiced his criticisms of the MBREMP during an interview, ‘‘Since the marine park came to this village, my relationship with the environment has changed in so many ways. The marine park is about protecting the environment. This is a good thing! But the most important question is how will you protect it? How can you protect something which you own together with other people? How are they affected by this protection?” In this response, Saidi alludes to the fact that the MBREMP is based on a socially constructed ideology of environmental protection that mobilizes the conservation effort, but with little heed to the people of Msimbati, who are also directly implicated in the process. As he implies, the stand-alone mandate of environmental protection is positive, but the way in which it has the potential to exclude village residents is very problematic. In Msimbati, people feel that the ideology of environmental protection in actuality constructs village residents as separable from the marine resources upon which they are dependent. While framed publicly as a project focused on protecting the marine environment, people in Msimbati contrarily interpret it as one that increases socioeconomic vulnerability. This collective perspective stems in part from the frustrated expectations of village residents, who had initially hoped that the MBREMP would support their economic development and protect their needs together with the environment. Ali, another male fisher and farmer in Msimbati, articulated during an interview that the MBREMP has not helped village residents at all, despite their initial support for the project, ‘‘The villagers accepted the marine park and agreed to protect the environment, but the marine park has failed to fulfill its promise to improve the lives of people in the village. So life is very difficult for us now. We don’t get any benefit from the marine park. We continue to be weak.” In this narrative segment, Ali expresses resentment at the broken promises made by park officials, lamenting that they have not fulfilled their responsibility to improve the lives of people in Msimbati. While village residents cooperated during the initial stages of the MBREMP’s implementation, they quickly discovered that their own security and well-being had not been integrated into the management priorities of the park. Instead of empowering village residents and enabling them to maintain stewardship and rights to marine resources, the MBREMP neglected and even excluded them. Ali’s phrase, ‘‘we continue to be weak,” reflects the widespread

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feelings of vulnerability that the MBREMP has instilled in village residents and echoes the common refrain voiced by many study participants: that the MBREMP’s public rhetoric of benefitsharing masks a significant discrepancy in power between coastal villagers and the central government (serikali). In theoretical terms, villagers have come to interpret the implementation of the MBREMP as an exercise of sovereign power. When asked directly how the MBREMP has affected village residents’ relationships with the environment, artisanal fishers responded passionately during interviews, conveying the deep emotional impacts of the fishing gear regulations. As one male fisher responded, ‘‘When you ask me this kind of question, my heart breaks and I feel like crying. The marine park came to this village only to make our life difficult.” Other study participants repeatedly voiced similar sentiments. During an FGD, one male participant exclaimed, ‘‘The marine park is not a project for improving people’s lives, it is a project for destroying people’s lives,” expressing the deep burden that artisanal fishers must bear as a consequence of the fishing gear regulations. Female respondents were also adamant about the negative socioeconomic impacts of the fishing gear regulations. As Somoye, a female tandilo fisher explained, ‘‘We are affected a lot by the fishing regulations because the sea is our main office. We are able to send our children to school because of the income we get from the sea. Since the marine park came, we have been getting many problems because when park rangers find you holding anything from the sea, you are in trouble. For us tandilo fishers, we are in trouble when the park rangers catch us with tandilo along the shoreline. They confiscate our nets! This is a huge loss for us because we cannot get our food or send our children to school.” As her response shows, women are also directly affected by the fishing gear regulations, which include prohibition of tandilo nets within the MBREMP’s catchment area. Net confiscations significantly impact the abilities of women to produce food and generate income for paying the school fees of their children. Such narrative accounts speak to a form of sovereign environmentality, in that they reflect lived experiences of a top-down flow of power. To village residents, the park has become about ‘‘policing the local community,” rather than supporting it (see Agardy, Di Sciara, & Christie, 2011, 228). 5.2. Overt protest: the making of recalcitrant subjects The year prior to my arrival in Msimbati, in May of 2013, tensions surrounding the MBREMP escalated to a point of visible conflict. In an overt act of protest against the park, several individuals from Msimbati destroyed the gatehouse office with homemade explosives and vandalized the park signs located along the main road of the village. In doing so, they made a clear statement that the people of Msimbati would not willingly submit to the park’s coercive influences over their everyday lives.6 Mzee Ahmed, a respected elder in Msimbati, reflected on the event during an interview, offering his explanation for why the individuals decided to bomb the office, 6 As Kamat (2017) notes, the office bombing occurred at a time when there were wider protests going on in Mtwara town related to the state’s plans to pipe natural gas from rural Mtwara to the commercial capital of Dar es Salaam. In his interpretation, the office bombing in Msimbati was directed towards the gas project, and the office served as a visible ‘soft target’ vis-a-vis the pipeline. It is certainly possible, building from Kamat’s (2017) analysis, that the spirit of broader protest against state-led oppression emboldened people in Msimbati to mobilize their opposition to the park, which they also view as a state-directed project.

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‘‘The bombing was caused by the marine park because they don’t have a good relationship with our community. They put too many restrictions on us, so people decided to sabotage the project. People don’t know where to find the person in charge so that they can explain their problems. This caused people to sabotage the project. People feel great pain because when the marine park came, they took our land and fishing areas. So people destroyed the office because of the bad relationship between the marine park and the people of Msimbati.” Mzee Ahmed’s explanation illustrates that the office bombing has become a resonating symbol of the troubled relationship between village residents and park authorities. While he does not condone the actions of the individuals who bombed the office, he maintains that village residents had nowhere else to voice their feelings of pain over the dispossession they have experienced as a consequence of the MBREMP (see Kamat, 2018). As he clearly states, the bombing was ‘‘caused by the marine park,” signifying his perception that the MBREMP must also be held responsible for the event because of its oppressive relationship with the people of Msimbati. While many study participants maintained that the state utilizes the MBREMP as a means of asserting social control over village residents, the office bombing is a clear sign of the individual and collective agency that the people of Msimbati also hold in their abilities to actively resist the coercive influence of state power. Some individuals in Msimbati emphatically contest the top-down flow of power inside the MBREMP. During an FGD, Athumani, whom I mentioned earlier, was particularly outspoken about the power that village residents also wield in the face of state dominance. Once again, Athumani used a snake metaphor in his narrative response. This time, however, he depicted the people of Msimbati as the snake, and the MBREMP as the victim, ‘‘Let me give you an example of a snake called a puff adder. This kind of snake seems very calm, but if it decides to, it may bite your leg. The people of Msimbati are like this snake. Because this kind of snake seems calm, you may step on it, but then it will get angry and bite you. This is like the people of Msimbati. The people of Msimbati now have poison for the marine park and we are ready for anything.” In this response, Athumani provides significant commentary on the agency of village residents, and their abilities to individually, and collectively, take action in opposition to the MBREMP. The metaphorical representation of villagers as a deadly snake highlights his belief that despite the coercive influence of state power, village residents also hold power in their ability to resist these forces. Athumani continued to explain, with vigor, that the people of Msimbati are not simply passive victims of structural constraints, but are actively engaged agents who are willing to fight for their autonomy and self-determination, ‘‘We don’t want the marine park in our village! We have made efforts to make sure this project is gone from our village. President Kikwete will hear that we chased out this project. If he gets that information, I know he will send an army to beat us, but we are prepared to fight. Anything can happen, but we are not ready to die of hunger due to the marine park project. . . We destroyed the whole office of the marine park and it has not been repaired. . . Our aim is to eliminate the marine park project.” Athumani’s response clearly depicts the fearlessness, and willingness to fight, that characterize the dispositions of some people in Msimbati. While state power is tangible and subjugating in its manifest forms of land appropriation and conservation regulations, his response reveals that some individuals are still willing to openly contest its coercive influence over their lives. By destroying

the park office, the involved individuals targeted a visible symbol of state authority to openly declare their opposition to the government’s attempts to constrain their everyday lives. 5.3. Surveillance, enforcement and fear of violence: the emergence of disciplinary environmentality For the majority of people living in Msimbati, however, the fear of potential repercussions for visibly opposing the MBREMP in this manner is far too great. This fear has been stoked by the state’s response to the office bombing, and the responses by park authorities to violations of fishing gear regulations. Immediately following the office bombing, the state sanctioned the army to restore order in Msimbati. Uniformed soldiers swiftly arrived in the village the same night and proceeded to beat people whom they believed to be involved in the incident. People in Msimbati recall being terrified that night as they ran into the mangrove wetlands and bushes to escape. By using physical violence in this way, the government highlighted the potential consequences of not adhering to state authority, instilling fear among the people of Msimbati. The beatings, many of which were inflicted upon innocent individuals, can be interpreted as visible demonstrations of state power intended to reinstate control over citizens and maintain social order. In the same way that the act of protest was overt and acute, so too was the response by the state, but with greater force. Many study participants vividly remembered the bombing and subsequent violence. Mzee Ahmed recalled the event solemnly during an interview, ‘‘The marine park has caused many terrible problems for us. When people destroyed the marine park office with explosives, the army came to this village to beat people. Many people got injured, and many others ran into the bushes because they were so afraid. . . The army even beat people who did not participate in planting the explosives.” For most people in Msimbati, these feelings of fear have become etched into memory. During my fieldwork, several people in Msimbati also told me stories of being beaten by park authorities because they had used fishing equipment that did not comply with the gear regulations. Several youths in particular described instances where park rangers had threatened them with wooden sticks in an attempt to elicit information about dynamite fishers. These experiences of physical violence are deeply troubling for people in Msimbati, who must remain vigilant about the potential for state-sanctioned violence in their everyday lives. Stemming from these fears of violence, people in Msimbati are wary of the ranger patrols inside of the MBREMP’s ‘‘governable space” (Watts, 2004, 53). Many study participants perceived the park patrols as a technology of government intended to monitor villagers’ everyday activities. As Juma, a male fisher, commented during an in-depth interview, ‘‘Now, everything I do is under government supervision, so I am forced to obey the laws of the marine park,” revealing his resentment at the way that the MBREMP facilitates increased surveillance over people’s everyday lives. A dozen or so other people I spoke to in Msimbati voiced similar concerns, explaining that they resented being monitored and punished, but they were generally reluctant to visibly express their discontent. As such, the combination of conservation-induced surveillance and the fear of state violence has given rise to a form of disciplinary environmentality. People in Msimbati generally regulate their own behaviours, choosing not to openly protest against the park, despite their feelings of disdain.7 While the use of prohibited fishing 7 Neumann (2001) has noted a similar, yet distinct form of disciplinary power in Tanzania’s Wildlife Management Areas through the appointment of village game scouts to regulate the behaviours of fellow community-members.

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gear inside the MBREMP is still ethnographically visible, these practices are largely attributable a wider political economy of development that has resulted in everyday conditions of poverty (Raycraft, 2019b). Economic vulnerability may quite simply trump the fear of punishment for some fishers. Certain individuals are also particularly unwilling to succumb to the state’s attempts to implement social control, as demonstrated by Athumani’s zoomorphic construal of people in Msimbati as puff adders. 5.4. Everyday resistance and subtle noncompliance to conservation regulations Bearing in mind the potential consequences of overtly protesting against the MBREMP, many people in Msimbati instead mobilize their opposition in subtle ways by engaging in covert acts of noncompliance to conservation regulations. As Holmes (2007) asserts, these acts can serve to undermine park authority and the efficacy of the conservation effort, while avoiding the risk of open confrontation. At dusk, I often noticed men quietly cutting mangroves, despite the bans on live mangrove extraction. On some evenings, I watched as groups of women and children collected sea cucumbers and crustaceans inside the no-take zones of Mnazi Bay. While these kinds of activities are officially prohibited inside the MBREMP, they are considered by village residents to be socially normative parts of everyday life. As I have already mentioned, the vast majority of people in Msimbati feel that they are morally entitled to harvest coastal and marine resources for subsistence. The fear of punishment, however, deters most people from drawing attention to their engagement in prohibited activities. Acts of harvesting that would otherwise have been carried out during the day are instead carried out at night to avoid confronting park authorities. I would argue that by choosing to harvest at night, village residents avoid top-down surveillance, disenabling the state from exercising control over their everyday lives. In this way, these acts closely reflect Scott’s (1985) notion of ‘‘weapons of the weak.” Under the veil of darkness, village residents avoid the direct gaze of government. These subtle acts of noncompliance fulfil material needs, while also making significant moral statements about customary rights to resources (Holmes, 2007; Coulthard, 2012). They also destabilize the conservation objectives of the park, potentially facilitating political mobility. As others have shown, small everyday practices have the power to corrode top-down attempts at environmental regulation, even forcing policy change in some cases (Kull, 2004; Western, 1994). Many people in Msimbati continue to discreetly practice prohibited harvesting activities, instead of openly advocating for their rights to do so. As Bilaya, a female respondent, explained during an interview, ‘‘If you want to collect firewood from the mangrove wetlands (makokoni), you better make sure the marine park rangers do not see you do it. If people from the marine park find out, they will take all the firewood you have collected. Also, when you go fishing for small fish (dagaa) using tandilo nets, you better make sure they do not catch you, or they will take your net. When they take your net, you remain with nothing and you have to just sit at home. So you have to be careful.” As Bilaya’s narrative reveals, women are cautious about engaging in their traditional livelihood activities, including tandilo fishing and mangrove harvesting. As she describes, women continue to harvest, but discreetly when park rangers are not watching. Yusuf, a male farmer and fisherman, also discussed these covert practices during an in-depth interview,

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‘‘In this village, there are no bushes for cutting trees. Our bush consists only of mangrove wetlands, so when the marine park put restrictions on the use of mangroves, we were confused because we use mangroves for firewood and for building houses. We use them for everything! But we still use mangrove products. We usually check first to make sure the marine park people are not around. If the environment is safe, then we go cut mangroves. Some villagers cut mangroves during the night because at night you are not easily seen by the marine park people.” Yusuf’s response highlights the significance of mangroves for village residents’ material well-being. Despite the restrictions, people continue to harvest mangroves at night when their actions are less visible to park rangers. While it is important not to frame such acts in separation from their economic benefits, I would interpret night-time harvesting as an ‘‘implicit” form of resistance because the moral and political dimensions of the acts are married with pragmatic livelihood functions (Holmes, 2007, 193). As such, this form of resistance is fundamentally different from the overt act of bombing the park office, which was an explicitly political act targeting a dominant symbol of state control. 6. Discussion and conclusion As this study reveals, village residents were initially supportive of the notion of marine conservation in their coastal waters, hopeful that they would benefit from the establishment of the MBREMP. Based on their dependence on coastal and marine resources for security and well-being, artisanal fishers were particularly passionate about the project at its outset. Further to this, people in Msimbati believed that the establishment of the MBREMP would lead to improved village infrastructure through trickle down revenue from park-related ecotourism. Soon after the establishment of the MBREMP, however, village residents realized that the management priorities of the park did not adequately address their needs and well-being. Instead, villagers experienced a form of sovereign environmentality, exercised by park authorities in a top-down manner over their environmental practices. As a consequence, villagers came to resent the notion of marine conservation, a prospect that they had initially supported. Their lived experiences of marginalization, oppression and increasing socioeconomic vulnerability ultimately eroded their support for the MBREMP. This finding closely resembles Bennett and Dearden’s (2014) argument for ‘‘why local people do not support marine conservation” (107) – namely, because communities often perceive MPAs in terms of exclusionary governance processes, restrictive management practices, and livelihood costs. This speaks to the importance of understanding the social context of MPAs during their design, development, and management phases to ensure that marine conservation does not ‘‘alienate local communities” (Voyer, Gladstone, & Goodall, 2012, 432). In response to these increasing constraints on their everyday lives, some village residents protested against the MBREMP by destroying the park office and signs. These acts reveal that unidirectional analyses of the social impacts of protected areas often do not tell the whole story. Individuals and communities also retain agency in their abilities to respond to imposed constraints, though the outcomes of such struggles may be shaped by asymmetrical distributions of power across involved actors. In this case, the office bombing incited an immediate violent response by state paramilitary forces to re-establish what Weber (1946) describes as ‘‘the monopoly of the legitimate use of physical force within a given territory” (78). Interpreted along the lines of Orwell’s (1950) ‘On shooting an elephant,’ the violent response can be viewed as an attempt by the state to ‘save face’ through a public

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demonstration of power and authority. While the violence was real and tangible for villagers, it also carried tremendous symbolic power as a gesture of strength and intolerance for insubordination. For most villagers, the symbolic power of the event has been enough to dominate their imaginaries in a hegemonic manner. Villagers have come to associate the MBREMP with state power, a belief that is further galvanized by the strong-handed model of park management. For most residents of Msimbati, the fear of violence deters them from engaging in overt acts of protest against the park. In combination with this fear, park surveillance via ranger patrols has engendered a form of disciplinary environmentality in some residents. Villagers are well aware of the potential consequences of transgressing park regulations and openly opposing the park, and some have begun to discipline themselves to avoid incurring punishment from governing authorities. However, villagers have not internalized a conservation ethic that holds across all situations. Discipline is exercised relative to the public visibility of environmental practices, and the likelihood of being caught for transgressing park regulations. Instead, many people in Msimbati have resorted to discreetly undermining the park through subtle acts of noncompliance to the conservation regulations. Undertaken under the guise of dusk and nightfall, when surveillance is limited, villagers covertly engage in prohibited acts inside the park. As such, they are utilizing ‘‘weapons of the weak” by engaging in everyday forms of resistance (Scott, 1985). This finding parallels previous conservation case studies, such as the works of Brockington (2002) and Neumann (1998), which document the subtle, but defiant behaviour of people living near terrestrial parks in northern Tanzania, given the situational risks inhibiting open, organized protests. By avoiding the gaze of park officials while defying park regulations, people mobilize their opposition against the park, while simultaneously mitigating the risks associated with direct confrontations with park authorities. Though seemingly inconsequential, these acts can serve to systematically dismantle existing power structures through increased frequency (Scott, 1985). While those villagers who regulate their behaviour in public contexts out of fear of punishment may seem to exemplify a disciplinary form of environmentality, this is only the ‘‘public transcript” of power relations (Scott, 1990). The hidden transcript is that people in Msimbati engage in ‘‘offstage” critiques of the park through discretionary noncompliance (Scott, 1990). Thus, they have not become environmental subjects, but rather, they have cultivated ‘‘arts of resistance” (Scott, 1990). In public, villagers appear to consent to the park’s power dynamic, but in private, they continue to oppose it. I contend that within the context of the MBREMP, a new form of environmentality has emerged, one characterized by political exclusion and geographic inclusion that becomes observably manifest relative to audience. It marks an overlap and articulation between sovereign and disciplinary environmentality, and could perhaps most aptly be described as territorial environmentality. This form of environmentality is incomplete and unstable. Importantly, the empirical reality of noncompliance to conservation regulations cannot be singularly constructed by either an environmentality or everyday resistance framework. Given the socioeconomic context of such acts, it is important to also remain cognizant of their underlying material benefits (Raycraft, 2018b). For most people in Msimbati, poverty is an everyday concern. Furthermore, most village residents feel morally entitled to engage in subsistence-based livelihood activities given their customary rights to fishing and harvesting, which they have exercised for roughly 200 years. Net fishing and shoreline harvesting, for example, are considered by village residents to be moral practices (Raycraft, 2019b). As such, I would argue that in Msimbati, people make decisions to harvest at night based on private calculations of

material benefits, a community-defined perspective on the moral right to subsistence, and an underlying transcript that the park is illegitimate in its attempts to control their everyday lives. These three convergent influences represent plural sources of power that shape social behaviour, together constituting a local micropolitics of resistance to park regulations. Through multiple environmentalities, marine park subjects are made and unmade, and in the process, conservation objectives have become marred by conflict. Top-down sovereign environmentality has caused local support for marine conservation to unravel, and has ultimately provoked open protest. Disciplinary environmentality vis-a-vis fear of punishment has led to changes in people’s harvesting behaviours relative to park surveillance. However, the use of destructive fishing gear persists inside the park as fishers’ everyday lives are still constrained by poverty, and some people are particularly unwilling to conform to the government’s attempts to control them. Moving forward, better heed must be paid to the perspectives and lived experiences of coastal villagers, who currently bear the costs associated with park management, while receiving few of the benefits. Until then, power will continue to circulate between villagers and park authorities through conservation enforcement and everyday acts of resistance in an ongoing struggle over access to, and control of, resources.

Declaration of competing interest The authors declared that there is no conflict of interest.

Acknowledgements Ethics approval for this study was issued by the UBC Behavioural Research Ethics Board (approval number H14-01713). The permit to conduct research in Tanzania was issued by the Tanzanian Commission for Science and Technology (COSTECH) (research permit number 2013-240-ER-2008-68). The article derives in large part from the author’s MA thesis, carried out at the University of British Columbia under the supervision of Dr. Vinay Kamat (Raycraft, 2016). The author is currently conducting doctoral studies under the umbrella of a SSHRC/IDRC research project entitled ‘The Institutional Canopy of Conservation: Governance and Environmentality in East Africa,’ led by Dr. John Galaty at McGill University’s Department of Anthropology in partnership with the African Conservation Centre. The author is also affiliated with the Centre for Indigenous Conservation and Development Alternatives (CICADA), and the McGill Centre for Society, Technology and Development (STandD). The author is grateful to the people of Msimbati for welcoming him into their lives and to Vinay Kamat, John Galaty, Graham Fox, Lara Rosenoff Gauvin, Caroline Seagle, Jacques Pollini, Kariuki Kirigia, Klerkson Lugusa, Vineet Rathee, Kathleen Godfrey, and Leanne Ejack for feedback at various stages of writing. The author would also like to thank the anonymous reviewers of this journal, whose constructive comments improved the clarity of the article, and Arun Agrawal for his role as editor. The author takes sole responsibility for the arguments put forth, and for any errors that may remain.

Funding Fieldwork was supported by a Joseph Armand Bombardier Scholarship (CGS-M) from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada (SSHRC). The author held a Vanier Canada Graduate Scholarship while preparing this article.

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