The year 2014 marked twenty-five years since Kimberlé Crenshaw coined the term “intersectionality” to describe how social realities such as “class” or “race” should not be analyzed in isolation, but instead be combined in order to understand the complexity of a particular praxis. Building upon previous work by scholar-activists Deborah King, The Combahee River Collective, Gloria Joseph and Jill Lewis, as well as Cherrie Moraga and Gloria Anzaldúa’s 1981 anthology This Bridge Called My Back, among others, Crenshaw proposed that: “Because the intersectional experience is greater than the sum of racism and sexism, any analysis that does not take intersectionality into account cannot sufficiently address the particular manner in which Black women are subordinated.”  While Crenshaw may have been speaking particularly of the lived experience of Black women and ‘mainstream’ feminism in the United States, the intersectional approach proposed by Crenshaw has been adopted by many disciplines and groups in order to analyze the junctures at which complex identities are contested and staged.

This interrogation of political, social, and economic systems is particularly salient today, as the past decade has seen a wave of global socio-political and economic changes punctuated by the specter of ideologically driven acts of violence and “The War on Terror.” We are witnessing geopolitical conflict on a local as well as international scale, intensified by rising wealth disparities, mass migrations, crippling austerity measures, repression of dissent, and increasingly controlled borders.  These borders—at once more porous and more visible–may be nationally designated or internal, as increasing division and strife in civil societies mirrors longstanding geopolitical tensions. These events make evident the centrality of class and to any discussion on the sweeping changes taking place in the global political landscape, as well as the struggle to both emerge from and generate new discourses from lingering legacies of colonialism and race/gender stratification. Major developments that shaped the last year, such as unrest in Ferguson in the United States and the resulting #BlackLivesMatter movement, the missing 43 students of Ayotztinapa, the spread and media coverage of the Ebola virus, the assault on Gaza, and the spread of ISIS, further illustrate the need to analyze events by focusing on layered experiences of power and marginalization. Indeed, the point of departure and means of articulation do not operate in isolation from social structures such as the economy, a fact that underscores the need for continued interdisciplinary and intersectional research.

The pieces in the Fall/Winter Intersectionality, Class, & (De)Colonial Praxis issue draw from varying regions, disciplines, and languages, but all seek to tease out how “intersectionality” is deployed in contexts where intersections—points of meeting, points of encounter—frequently reveal sites of slippage and tension. Maurício Hashizume’s “Lições a partir da experiência do movimento katarista da Bolívia” delves into the Katarista movement in Bolivia, reminding us of indigeneity’s uneasy role within postcolonial studies. Virginie Privas-Breauté’s “Au Carrefour du didactisme brechtien et de la résistance post-coloniale : Protestants (2004) de Robert Welch” further interrogates ideas of postcoloniality as a North-South phenomenon by analyzing Northern Ireland as a (post)colonial site of enunciation. Zachary Price’s timely “Economies of Enjoyment and Terror in 12 Years a Slave and Django Unchained” employs visual and critical race analysis to recent films that seek to illuminate the present by analyzing the past, while Rebecca Galemba’s “Mexico’s Border (In)Security” study brings stark reality to abstract debates on immigration and border crossings. Intersectionality’s possibilities within Francophone Arab feminist studies are explored in Ines Horchani’s “Intersectionnalité et feminismes arabes,” and in turn the invisibility of political actors who do not align neatly within the sociopolitical imaginary in Puerto Rico is examined and re-envisioned by Guillermo Rebollo Gil’s piece “Aguafiestas: Marginalidad y Protesta en Puerto Rico.”

“This Borderland Called My Sexuality: Excavating Queer Nightlife of the American Southwest Through the Lens of Intersectionality” by Kris Hernandez probes the claiming of queer sexual identity among Latinos in the US border space of El Paso, and how race, class, and sexual identifications problematize such (be)longings , while Alissa Simon’s “Mythology, Taboo, and Cultural Identity in Elif Shafak’s The Bastard of Istanbul” explores how the domestic realm and its associated female body both shape and defy the contours of societal expectations, and Cristina Onesta’s “Mai 68 au service de l’interdiscursivité médiatique : entre mémoire révolutionnaire et mémoire discursive. Deux approches interdisciplinaires : lexiculture et mots événements,” brings us back to 1968, a year of massive cultural shifts whose outcomes are frequently invoked and contested today. These and other arts and editorial pieces, such as Annie Mcneill Gibson’s vignettes and photo essay on mythologies and changes surrounding Cuba from a foreigner’s perspective, Anna Stielau’s observations on the Dakar Biennale, and Maheen Hyder’s poetry on ‘home’ as site of both salvation and ruin, explore how intersectionality has been built on, applied, and questioned in a contemporary world of crossings: the intersection is not the destination, but the starting point.

As we look back at 25 years of intersectionality, and in spite of the growing criticism of the concept itself, it is above all important to look at how scholars and organizers around the world are employing an intersectional spirit in their analysis and praxis. Even as the concept of intersectionality faces increasing pressure from the academy and hegemonic liberal feminism and is at risk of losing its radical potential, it is clear that it continues to be used by countless critical thinkers. Indeed one way of countering its co-optation is by continuing to use the concept in radical and groundbreaking ways. The aim of this issue is to present some of the research that is doing just that.

The post Letter from the Editors: “Intersectionality, Class, and (De)Colonial Praxis” appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

Hollywood has had, at best, an oblique relationship to America’s longest running nightmare, slavery. As Donald Bogle demonstrated in Toms, Coons, Mulattoes, Mammies, and Bucks: An Interpretive History of Blacks in American Films, the screen is haunted by the first images of Blackness and slavery by white actors performing in black face in Uncle Tom’s Cabin (1903) and D.W. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation (1915). The industry’s most enduring twentieth century film of slavery, Gone With the Wind (1939) portrayed the end of slavery not through the eyes of the white master, but through a plantation’s headstrong mistress, Scarlett O’Hara. The film also provided the first Oscar to a Black actress, Hattie McDaniel for her role of Mammy. Our latest filmic encounters with slavery Quentin Tarantino’s Django Unchained (2012) and Steve McQueen’s 12 Years a Slave (2013) continue this process of cinematic indirection, even while focusing our gaze on what was largely ignored in the 1930s versions—the enslaved themselves.  For instead of showing the liberation from slavery as primarily a Black struggle, both of the more recent films continue the well-worn narrative that the only way for their black protagonists to be free is through the agency of white men. Yet interestingly, the white men are not ostensibly abolitionists, even though they are sympathetic to the plight of the central Black characters, Django (played by Jamie Foxx) and Solomon Northrup (played by Chiewetel Ejiofor). Rather, the white men are interested allies, men who have an agenda that goes beyond race, a desire for redemption themselves that both enables but limits their ability to be true liberators.

This article uses Django Unchained (2012) and 12 Years a Slave (2013) to consider slave cinema (films that take slavery as their main subject) as unique sites of labor in which Black bodies are organized as commodities to perform economies of “pleasure and terror” (Hartman:1997) on the screen as cultural workers under the rubric of United States capitalism and white supremacy within the Hollywood film industry. Based on close readings of the films, interviews with directors (McQueen and Tarantino) and screenwriter (John Ridley), as well as a close reading of Solomon Northrup’s text, 12 Years a Slave, I argue that the economies of terror and pleasure produced through these films reify colorblind ideology and white supremacy by denying Black people empathic capacity or viewing them as full human beings. To understand the problem of the colorblind is to understand the function of two types of overlapping modes of performance – aesthetic and efficacious – in which the aesthetic performance of Black social death is congruent with the way in which the performance of Black laborers is persistently marginalized within Hollywood.

Tarantino’s story begins in 1858, in the still of a night in Texas. Two slave traders (who go by the name of the Speck Brothers) make their way through the darkness on horses followed with their chattel in tow when they are confronted by an odd character, Dr. King Schultz (Christopher Waltz), who insists on purchasing their slave, Django. We later find out that Schultz is in the business of bounty hunting on behalf of a judge in Austin, and Django is in fact the only individual who can positively identify Schultz’s next bounty – a trio of overseers who formerly whipped, scarred, and then sold Django and his wife to separate plantations. Thus, when Schultz guns down the Speck brothers after their refusal to sell Django, he is acting out of pure economic interests. For Schultz, profit motivates Django’s purchase. He states, “On the one hand, I despise slavery. On the other hand I need your help. If you’re not in a position to refuse, all the better. So for the time being I’m going to make this slavery malarkey work to my benefit. Still, having said that, I feel guilty. So I would like the two of us to enter into an agreement” (Django 2012). The agreement is for Django to assist Schultz in capturing his bounty, for which Django will receive not only twenty-five dollars per bounty, but also his freedom. This begins Django’s journey into an improbable world of violence to fulfill his “super-objective” – to rescue his German speaking wife, Broomhilda von Shaft (Kerry Washington). The final scene culminates in fireworks when Django literally explodes the Candieland Plantation. The destructive act also destroys the antagonist of the film, the loyal slave Steven, played by the loyal Tarantino collaborator Samuel L. Jackson. Steven’s loyalty to Calvin Candie (Leonardo DiCaprio) parallels Jackson’s loyalty to Tarantino who became “the filmmaker’s ticket to street cred” (Vognar, 27). Tarantino’s film suggests, therefore, that the white character who liberates the Black man does so because of some inexplicable but evident infatuation with the Black body and violence.

12 Years also pictures gratuitous violence, yet without the sensational violence on the order of Django’s exploding plantations, or the Spaghetti Western romanticism of riding off into the moonlight. The viewer watches Northrup (a formally free New Yorker) make several attempts to escape bondage on his own after having been kidnapped and sold into slavery by two white slavers. McQueen’s epic 12 Years ends in 1853 with Northrup leaving behind the repeatedly brutalized and sexually violated Patsey (Lupita Nyong’o) in the dirt road before he is then reunited with his family. Northrup is finally “rescued” (for lack of a better word) from the Louisiana plantation by former friends from New York who, after having received word of his location by way of a sympathetic Canadian named Bass (Brad Pitt), have come to the plantation along with the United States Marshall to retrieve Northrup. In Tarantino’s piece, Django, with Schultz, kills white bounty for money on behalf of the same government that sanctions slavery as an institution. Yet, the institution of slavery, and the United States government that sanctions it, is never contested in either of these films – certainly not contested in the way that Christopher Dorner contested the Los Angeles Police Department as arbiter of racial and anti-Black violence.[1] While scholars such as Walter Johnson have suggested that there is a collapse between Django and Dorner (to an extent I believe this to also be true) there is a distancing in Tarantino’s use of the Western genre that allows audiences to find pleasure in Django’s violence while disconnecting the historical factuality of slavery from the very real racial inequality of the present. Because “the United States is constructed at the intersection of both a capitalist and white supremacist matrix,” (Wilderson: 2005,1) these two films, despite the different approaches, are not for Black audiences. Rather, they are ways for civil society,[2] “the ensemble of so-called private associations and ideological invitations to participate in a wide and varied play of consensus making strategies,” (Wilderson: 2005, 4) to render slavery as either historical adventurous entertainment or somber sentimental docudrama. This without the viewer being implicated in the perpetuation of slavery’s legacy in the present day police state, carceral system, and racial economic disparity. Any demand for contemporary social justice is elided in 12 Years by McQueen’s choice to end his film with Northrup’s return to his family in New York and not with the trial and the subsequent acquittal (á la George Zimmerman) of Northrup’s kidnappers. Similarly, Django would have its audience believe that by riding off into the moonlight, the slave is being returned to civil society.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

My discussion thinks through “social death,” the desire and disavowal of Black flesh as a fetish which masks colorblindness but also undergirds, and locks into place, “the permanent, violent domination of natally alienated and generally dishonored persons” (Patterson 13). To understand slaves as simply property is to fall short of understanding “the principal way in which power is immediately interpreted in socially and cognitively acceptable terms” (18). Social death is structured through an unrelenting discursive, sexual, and corporeal violence, whose effects are felt today in the most vernacular of ways; in particular the unrelenting Black necropolitics of the carceral system. This is what Wilderson means when he refers to the “contingency of violence,” (Wilderson:2010) that holds civil society together (the world of the living), and a matrix of gratuitous violence that places the slave (in this case the Black) outside of civil society through a structural antagonism. Hence the non-slave, non-Black people, may engage in conflicts within civil society that can be reconciled through various mechanisms such as courts, schools, museums, and cinema. However, the constituent elements of civil society (a commons which can be equally accessed) are anti-Black.

While Black actors appear on the screen as characters, Django and 12 Years still render Black people and Black suffering illegible. As Frantz Fanon demonstrated in Black Skin, White Masks, the proscriptive therapy for suffering colonized subject/objects was and is decolonization.  However, the psychoanalytic conceptualization of what it means to suffer, to be a human, is located in the Jewish Holocaust as the constant reference point for humanity. This is evidenced in interviews by Tarantino’s and McQueen’s repeated conflating of slavery with fascism, “little family quarrels,” (Fanon 87)[3] and Anne Frank. Black suffering and empathy[4] for Black humanity is incomprehensible because the grammar through which to understand Blackness is choreographed by a white Eurocentric discourse. As Susan Leigh Foster suggests, research “indicates that empathy and the feelings, such as compassion and admiration that it enables, are “hard-wired” in the brain” (Foster 127). However, empathy must be organized and socially choreographed through performance. While human beings may be hard-wired to empathize by projecting their condition into the situation of another, colorblindness, as the lingering effects of social death, is a technique that prevents the development of a language through which to recognize (and hence empathize) in a way that affords Black people a humanity and a voice.

What is the Colorblind and its Relationship to Performance?

As scholars such as Eithne Quinn and Brandi Catanese have demonstrated, colorblind ideology has shaped labor markets from the Antebellum South to current day Hollywood. Slavery, as a production of the African American subject/object, should be considered in terms of the stylized behaviors of Black bodies to occupy a certain social role as well as the economic imperatives that performance opens up in relation to those bodies at different moments in history. Django and 12 Years are representative of sources of labor in which unions, guilds, agencies, and a multi-million dollar Hollywood network are a part of an economic order that has historically marginalized Black labor. These diegetic experiences produce a paradoxical tension between Black performance within the Hollywood apparatus that affords employment to a small percentage of Black talent (actors, writers, directors, and producers)[5] and an almost return to plantation-like ghettoization through the corralling of laborers and objects within an industry which continues to propagate whiteness as the norm[6] reaping tremendous profit in the process.[7]

Working through the effects of aesthetic and efficacious performance elucidates how race continues to structure relationships of power and how at “both institutional and cultural levels, performance has become the medium through which American anxieties about race (and in particular, blackness) are pondered, articulated, managed, and challenged” (Catanese 3). Ejiofor’s performance of Northrup as a free man, skilled laborer, violinist, and slave means survival as an actor within the Hollywood industry just as performance of labor meant survival for Northrup.[8] The desire and necessity to perform was at once a paradox for Northrup, for it was the offer from Merrill Brown and Abraham Hamilton (Northrup’s captors) to perform in their traveling circus company which lead to his kidnap. As Northrup wrote, “They also remarked that they had found much difficulty in procuring music for their entertainments, and that if I would accompany them as far as New-York, they would give me one dollar for each day’s services, and three dollars in addition for every night I played at their performances, besides sufficient to pay the expenses of my return from New-York to Saratoga” (Northrup 13). The slavers veil their nefarious intentions with promises of financial return just as Schultz’s relationship to Django was driven by the profit motive.

The Black body in these films is still a fungible object despite Tarantino and McQueen laboring to convince otherwise. These films ask us to suspend our disbelief and buy into, as Tarantino purports in an interview with Henry Louis Gates, “a different place…an unfathomable place… not just…a historical story play…but actually…a genre story… an exciting adventure”  (Gates 50). Tarantino gets away with this by conflating a Western genre story (civil society) with that of the Antebellum South (social death). Django’s and Northrup’s struggle relies on unique exceptional individuals who are able to endure American slavery and further inflate colorblind ideology by suggesting that the “racial regime” (Robinson xii) is about individual choices (rugged individualism) and not the power of the institution or collective struggle to change it. Rugged individualism is embodied by Django’s decision to role play a Black slaver as well as his constant decision to return to emancipating his wife rather than taking up arms with other slaves. To be truly manumissioned (in the eyes of Wilderson or Fanon) would require fulfilling an excess lack which would mean the implosion of civil society and the film and entertainment industry as we know it. Historically, this is most clearly evidenced by the temporal relationship to the Constitution as a legal framework for slavery,[9] the Fugitive Slave Law of 1850, which further solidified the Constitution’s relationship to Black folks, and the Supreme Court’s ruling in Dred Scott v. Sandford of 1857, which not only upheld the Fugitive Slave Act, but removed the Black body (as text or corpus) out of any conceptualization of civil society in Justice Tauney’s decision.[10] There was no empathy for the Black within the Constitution because the Constitution only applied to human beings; not to property or those who were three-fifths of a human.

Moving from New York to Washington, D.C. (a slave holding territory), Northrup and the reader/audience are led further into the South’s forced performance spaces by Brown and Hamilton. Northrup writes, “The voices of patriotic representatives boasting of freedom and equality, and the rattling of the poor slave’s chains, almost commingled. A slave pen within the very shadow of the Capitol! Such is a correct description as it was in 1841, of William’s slave pen in Washington, in one of the cellars of which I found myself so unaccountably confined” (23).  And it was there in the nation’s capital and with a savage beating at the hands of the slaver James H. Burch that Northrup would learn to perform what Harvey Young refers to as “the still stand of [B]lack bodies” (Young 29) the Black embodiment of silence for survival. Northrup’s text demonstrates the awareness of the very capitalist processes that are at the central trappings of social death. Observing the slaver peddling human flesh forces Northrup to negotiate an economy of terror that is dependent upon the corporeal power of his labor for which he gains nothing in return.

Colorblind ideology also operates to produce apathetic narratives around Black labor within the material conditions of the film industry itself. Film and cultural studies scholar, Eithne Quinn, demonstrates how the ideology of colorblind practices grew out of neoconservatism within Hollywood during the 1960s and was initiated as part of anti-Black campaigns against Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission’s findings of widespread discrimination. Quinn writes:

a new “colorblind”’ discourse was first fomented by intellectuals and policy advisers around the turn of the 1970s. These influential advocates, many of whom became known as neoconservatives by the late 1970s, came from the right of the Democratic party and the left of the Republican party and turned sharply away from the black freedom struggle, which they had supported, after the mid- 1960s civil rights victories. Proceeding from the assumption that discrimination had more or less ended with civil rights reforms, these new conservatives championed a laissez-faire approach to racial equality. That strategy was to have far-reaching implications. (Quinn 467)

As Quinn goes on to suggest, this logic of the colorblind, as ideology and policy, has been perpetuated and now buttresses the current state of the industry through white nepotism between individuals and institutions and denies Black participation. Indeed, Quinn suggests that Jack Valenti – head of the Motion Pictures Association of America from 1966 to 2004 — galvanized support for anti-Blackness through the strategic deployment of neoconservative rhetoric.

The logic of neoconservative rhetoric fulfills white supremacy by pealing off cultural producers such as 12 Years writer John Ridley who will then deploy neoconservatism when discussing the lack of Black economic mobility in return for a seat at the executive table. As he stated in his 2006 Esquire magazine op-ed piece titled “The Manifesto of Ascendancy for the Modern American Nigger,” ascendancy necessitates assimilation at all costs even when it means negating empathy for poor and working class Blacks. In the opening lines Ridley writes:

LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING ABOUT NIGGERS, the oppressed minority within our minority. Always down. Always out. Always complaining that they can’t catch a break. Notoriously poor about doing for themselves. Constantly in need of a leader but unable to follow in any direction that’s navigated by hard work, self-reliance. And though they spliff and drink and procreate their way onto welfare doles and WIC lines, niggers will tell you their state of being is no fault of their own. (Ridley:2006)

This rhetoric was born out of the false belief that the few gains that Blacks had made through the Civil Rights struggle had somehow genuinely leveled the playing field and that anything else granted to Blacks through federal intervention was reverse discrimination, despite the fact that those in the position of white privilege were constantly lobbying the state and federal governments for advantageous tax accommodations and relaxed corporate regulation. It is as if Ridley has downloaded the neoconservative playbook and refashioned himself as a Black Valenti. Before continuing to identify the ideal models (Collin Powell and Condoleezza Rice) for the ascension of niggers, Ridley makes clear that he is not a nigger. Furthermore, he must tow the party line that his own success is the result of his ability to keep the promise of taking what is rightfully his in exchange for his investment, energy, and dedication to the American Way. He writes:

Now, let me tell you something about my generation of black Americans. We are the inheritors of “the Deal” forced upon the entrenched white social, political, and legal establishment when my parents’ generation won the struggle for civil rights. The Deal: We (blacks) take what is rightfully ours and you (the afore-described establishment) get citizens who will invest the same energy and dedication into raising families and working hard and being all around good people as was invested in snapping the neck of Jim Crow. In the forty years since the Deal was brokered, since the Voting Rights Act was signed, there have been successes for blacks. But there are still too many blacks in prison, too many kids aggrandizing the thug life, and way too many African-Americans doing far too little with the opportunities others earned for them. If we as a race could win the centuries-long war against institutionalized racism, why is it that so many of us cannot secure the advantage after decades of freedom? That which retards us is the worst of “us,” those who disdain actual ascendancy gained by way of intellectual expansion and physical toil—who instead value the posture of an “urban,” a “street,” a “real” existence, no matter that such a culture threatens to render them extinct. “Them” being niggers. (Ridley:2007)

In 1967, EEOC studies showed that at all of the major studios Black employment was never higher than 2.1% and of that, they were all low-skilled and low-paying jobs. Beyond the paucity of Black and minority employment in the studios at the corporate level was systemic exclusion within the trade and guild organizations, which required that union employees vouch for an individual who wanted to enter a trade or guild. As a further obstacle for minorities, guilds and unions such as the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees screened applicants with questionnaires that inquired into the nature of employment held by applicants’ parents and grandparents. In this context, empathy as acceptance is reserved for the white working middle and upper middle class laborers who solidified their privilege through unionization. The fact that white men such as Valenti, who only recently retired in 2004, continue to be the arbiters of the Hollywood film industry and the broader economy of America, Ridley’s critique of Black dysfunctionality[11] is disingenuous as it ignores systemic racism of the present.

Tarantino has been able to actualize his fetish for Black bodies and Black death without consequence by creating and delivering an economy of pleasure through which audiences can consume an unrelenting ideology of tolerance for Black suffering. Django, is not an individual case of necropolitics within a slave narrative. It is part of a genealogy of Tarantino’s “dead niggers” or “dead nigger storage” as witnessed in his own on screen performances in Pulp Fiction (1995). Dead niggers – social death writ large – have been very good to Tarantino earning him an Oscar for best screenplay for Pulp Fiction and Django. Echoing Ridley, Hollywood’s rush to celebrate McQueen’s 12 Years as an unprecedented work about slavery, negates Gordon Parks’s television adaptation of 12 Years (1984). As Janice Harris Jackson suggests in her editorial for New York Amsterdam News:

African artists risk getting lost in the concept of “art for art’s sake.” The 2013 film “12 Years a Slave” is certainly very powerful. It is the most painfully carnal and graphic portrayal of slavery that I have ever seen. Its cinematography engages and disturbs all of the senses. It is intimately terrifying and a brilliant moment in filmmaking, but we must remember, nonetheless, that this excellent work is not the first cinematic portrayal of Northup’s story. Its remarkable artistry is bonafide while its “discovery” is fraudulent. (Jackson: 2014)[12]

Parks (an award winning African American photographer) worked on a limited budget from the National Endowment for the Humanities (created for PBS). As Jackson points out, the lack of acknowledgement from any sector of Hollywood, most importantly McQueen, Ejiofor, Ridley, or any corner of the 12 Years team would suggest an investment in the mythology that African Americans have been somehow incapable of working through slavery on their own terms.

The Economies of Terror and Pleasure

In McQueen’s and Tarantino’s attempts to represent the terror of slavery, Black cultural laborers must perform what Sadiya Hartman refers to as “scenes of subjection” (Hartman:1997) in order to bring into materiality the historicity of slavery. This performance is always brokered through the interpreter (filmmaker, biographer, historian) who must filter the lens of the spectator’s gaze. This filtering is problematic because it pleads for empathy by asking whites to read their subjectivity into the condition of the slave. The white spectator reads themselves, and thus whiteness as ontological condition, into the non-ontological. White audiences can seclude themselves in the economies of pleasure produced by Tarantino’s Django. It is an opportunity for them to enjoy the brilliance of Tarantino’s boldness and edgy filmmaking because they are not asked to take seriously the possibility of Black suffering. With 12 Years, it is not the Black as a person who suffers, rather it is white subjectivity projected into the narrative of Northrup.[13] Subsequently, cinema plays a slight of hand by suggesting that through the genealogy of slave cinema, the nation has embraced a racial progress toward colorblind egalitarianism.

McQueen’s film unearths performances of horror and traumas that echo through the crack of the whip. In the world of Edwin Epps’s plantation, the inscription of cruelty through a confluence of performative labor and torture enmesh, intertwine, ejaculate, and unrelentingly receive the violence of the racial regime. The absurdity of these performances is captured in Northrup’s passages such as the following:

All of us would be assembled in the large room of the great house, whenever Epps came home in one of his dancing moods… “Dance you [damned] niggers, dance,” Epps would shout. Then there must be no halting or delay, no slow or languid movements; all must be brisk, and lively, and alert. “Up and down, heal and toe, and way we go,” was the order of the hour. Epps’ portly form mingled with those of his dusky slaves, moving rapidly through all the mazes of the dance. (Northrup 137)

Epps’s desire to see the “niggers dance” was no less about his desire for amusement than it was about instruction and reminding of how to behave and perform as a slave. The spectacle simultaneously operates to maintain the idiom of power through the surveillance of Black bodies. The master instructed the slave how to dance in order to remind the slave that they were not the master of their own body. The very pleasure of the performance derived by Epps was terror for the slave. “Formations of terror and enjoyment” solidified the relationship of domination because representing power was essential to reproducing domination. Terror and domination also produced economies of enjoyment which “bound the black body, [and] permanently affixed [it] in its place, engender[ed] pleasure not only rooted in the buffoonery and grotesqueries of Cuff, Sambo, and Zip Coon but above all deriving from the very mechanisms of this coercive placement; it is a pleasure obtained from the security of place and order and predicated upon chattel slavery” (31). I would argue that these very same economies of enjoyment permeate throughout audience consumption of 12 Years and Django. In particular, scenes such as Mandingo fighting in Tarantino’s Candieland, in which two Black bucks are forced to fight to the death for the amusement of plantation owner, Calvin Candie, are capable of reproducing a similar spectacle of amusement. Django’s misplaced vengeance, not at Candie, not at the state as sanctioning institution of Black violence, but at the ultimate slave, Stephen, satisfies similar (white) audience desires.

While Black audiences may have gone to see 12 Years or Django to support the overwhelmingly Black casts, as one columnist, Orville Lloyd Douglas, writes, “The narrow range of films about the black life experience being produced by Hollywood is actually dangerous because it limits the imagination, it doesn’t allow real progress to take place. Yet, sadly, these roles are some of the only ones open to black talent. People want us to cheer that black actors from…12 Years a Slave are likely to be up for best actor and actress awards, yet it feels like a throwback, almost to the Gone with the Wind era” (Douglas: 2013). In response to Douglas’s editorial and augmenting commentary over the lack of insurrectionary impulses, Demetria Lucas suggests the following in The Grio:

And maybe I’m just too demanding and never satisfied, because I (and Douglas) want more options than watching blacks suffering in servitude with stoic dignity. If Hollywood insists on giving me slave narratives, can I least get a Nat Turner movie where a black man goes H.A.M. at the injustice of it all? If I must watch servants, can I get more maids, like the character Minnie from The Help, who exact revenge? Must black people always be calm and righteous in the face of social abuses? (Lucas: 2013)

While Django explodes and scales up the act of revenge to the point of farce, 12 Years remains in steady tension through calmness and “critical stillness,” and this is especially true in relationship to the most salacious of performances.

Sexual Desire and Fetish

While intimated, Tarantino denies the visualization of sexual abuse of the light skinned German speaking Broomhilda whom, by Django’s account was, “not a field nigga…she pretty.” However, if Broomhilda is not a field nigga, then what is she? Bound by the particularity of white sexual desire for Black flesh in Northrup’s text, Patsey, on the other hand is “the queen of the field,” queen of Epps’s desire, and the desire of white audiences to hold onto the Black female body as a sexually dysfunctionally functioning object. While the darker skinned Nyong’o has been awarded the Oscar and People Magazine named her most beautiful person of the year for 2014, her acceptance speech at the Black Women in Hollywood Luncheon reveals a paradoxical disavowal and desire that I have been exploring:

I got teased and taunted about my night-shaded skin. And my one prayer to God, the miracle worker, was that I would wake up lighter-skinned. The morning would come and I would be so excited about seeing my new skin that I would refuse to look down at myself until I was in front of a mirror because I wanted to see my fair face first. And every day I experienced the same disappointment of being just as dark as I had been the day before. (Nyong’o:2014)

When placed in conversation with Kerry Washington’s performance and career trajectory, Nyong’o’s statement reveals how Broomhilda’s sexual violation as “mulatta” is denied on the screen in exchange for her contrapuntal relationship to the position of “field nigga.” In so doing Django makes sexual violation of the Black female body all the more palatable for civil society by reifying the notion that sexual violation is acceptable for some bodies, if not for others.

The darkness of Patsey’s flesh as a Jezebel, her inability to be raped because of her lascivious tendencies, simultaneously secures the validation of relentless sexual violence visited upon the Black female corpus. As Hartman writes in her discussion on seduction and the ruses of power, “the actual or attempted rape of an enslaved woman was an offense neither recognized nor punishable by law, but also its repression was essential to the displacement of white culpability that characterized both the recognition of the black subject as the originary locus of transgression and offense” (80). Sexual domination as a technique of control worked to return the Black female body to the place of object by denying ontology and natal sexual identity. The Jezebel trope validated and justified unfettered access to the Black female body, in turn precluding any consideration that it was even possible for the sexual relation between master and slave to be anything other than necessary and consensual.

The historicity of sexual violation of female slaves at the hands of white masters often took on a pedophiliac nature. Such history was documented in the legal case of State of Missouri v. Celia, a Slave (1855)[14] as well as in McQueen’s 12 Years in the relationship between the Patsey and Epps.  Northrup writes:

Patsey is twenty-three—also from Buford’s plantation… [She]…was queen of the field… Her back bore the scars of a thousand stripes; not because she was backward in her work, nor because she was of an unmindful and rebellious spirit, but because it had fallen her lot to be the slave of a licentious master and a jealous mistress…Nothing delighted the mistress so much as to see her suffer, and more than once, when Epps refused to sell her, has she tempted me with bribes to put her secretly to death, and bury her body in some lonely place in the margin of the swamp. (143)

Both in the passages and scenes in the book and film, the depiction of Epps’s relationship with the Patsey further illustrates the tyrannical process of gender constitution within the economy of terror and enjoyment. This process renders the Black female body as sexually illegilible, and with the state’s collusion, incapable of being raped. Hartman writes:

The eliding of rape must also be considered in relation to what is callously termed the recognition of slave humanity and the particular mechanisms of tyrannical power that converge on the black body. In this instance, tyranny is not a rhetorical inflation but a designation of the absoluteness of power. Gender, if at all appropriate in this scenario, must be understood as indissociable from violence, the vicious refiguration of rape as mutual and shared desire, the wanton exploitation of the captive body tacitly sanctioned as a legitimate use of property, the disavowal of injury, and the absolute possession of the body and its “issue.” (86)

Patsey is forced to endure the desire and disavowal of both master and mistress, rendering her culpable of unprovoked violence that she must suffer at the hands of both parties and even at the hands of Northrup, when he is forced to whip her. Patsey has no right of redress under the law. She is the one deemed responsible for her own suffering, in which the nonexistence of rape means that the enslaved woman is a guilty accomplice and seducer. The omissions of any kind of jurisprudence must be read symptomatically within an economy of bodies in which the full enjoyment of the slave as thing depends upon unbounded authority and the totalizing consumption of the body and its fungibillity. Patsey as free laborer is queen of the field in her ability to barrel cotton as well as fulfilling Epps’s sexual fetish. There is no empathy for Patsey for she is the very purpose of her suffering.

Yet, McQueen has described the relationship between Epps and Patsey as one of love? In an interview with Charlie Rose for PBS, McQueen is asked specifically about Epps the character and his relationship to Patsey. Rose asks, “You see Epps as a victim of a man who could not see anything beyond his own property?” (Rose:2013) McQueen responds, “I think Epps is a human being first of all, just like everyone here at this table… [sic] He doesn’t understand how, he, a white slave owner, is in love with this black slave. There is a passion there which, you know, love is a thing where it decides. You don’t decide. And his dealing with that is classic. It’s a classic tragedy in a way” (McQueen:2013).  Granted, as a filmmaker McQueen would have to ask of his actor to commit to the role of a three-dimensional person. Northrup’s description of Epps in the book doesn’t bode well as he suggests that the slaves referred to Epps as “old hog-jaw,” when not in earshot – a nuance which is absent in the film.

However, I read the dynamics between these two individuals as not love, but the quintessential example of simultaneous desire and disavowal of the Black body by the white patriarchal heteronormative gaze. It is this contradictory dialectic, which cannot be euphemized as love, through which power is produced, and in this case enacted upon the slave’s body in the most brutal and horrific ways. Such brutality is embodied in a scene in which Epps brings Patsey out into the moonlight and mounts her on top of a wooden cart. After climaxing, he slaps Patsey with full force across the face and proceeds to choke her. Epps stops short of completely asphyxiating Patsey as he realizes that he is vulnerable to discovery and the jealous rage of his wife. The absolute authority that the master holds over the slave as object – as thing – pushes the relationship between Epps and Patsey toward what Harvey Young suggests as a fetish for the Black body as a souvenir object. Young’s discussion of the spectacle of lynching, which renders the Black body as souvenir, a fetish, emerges from his historiographic reading of the brutal practice.

Patsey’s body, as Epps’s queen and souvenir, takes on an aura of mystique because in addition to being incomplete, her body is also illicit. It displays the romance of contraband, for its scandal is its removal from its natural location and its appeal to the person who takes the object and the audience to whom it is displayed. Taken away from its environment, which is unlike the one in which it is displayed, the souvenir’s presence reveals its own theft (170). Epps’s nonconsensual control and desire to possess Patsey within political and sexual economies is not love but a fetish.[15] Young, citing William Pietz, defines the properties of the fetish as having four traits:  “it is materially based; it synthesizes multiple elements in a single body; it has social value; it has power to affect the physical body” (179). Epps’s fetish over Patsey’s body synthesizes his desire to brutalize Patsey with the whip and his genitalia, while simultaneously lending social value to his status as master. Indeed, in perhaps one of the most horrific scenes after Patsey has been whipped, we see Epps strolling in the pastoral of his plantation holding hands with a prepubescent young girl who is a spitting image of Patsey. Epps has found another souvenir to replace his old one and a thing through which to further enact his fetish. On this point Ridley seems to grasp the non-empathetic condition of negrophobic pedophilia.

 Colorblindness and its Relationship to the Ruse

Citing Fanon, Afro-pessimists such as Jared Sexton and Wilderson have called attention to the ruse of analogy which negates social death, Blackness, and further reifies the non-ontological condition of the slave. It is this non-ontological condition in relationship to civil society that Wilderson suggests throws the Black into a state of objecthood which cannot be understood through the analogy. This is what McQueen and Tarantino cannot comprehend. As Fanon wrote, “the attitude of the anti-Semite can be equated with that of the negrophobe…the anti-Semite is inevitably a negrophobe (101). However, Fanon did not say the negrophobe is invariably an anti-Semite. Yet, the metadiscourse on racial formation and its relationship to domination necessitate that any conversation about Black suffering is immediately checked by analogizing it to European fascism.

When asked why make 12 Years now, McQueen automatically defaults to the Anne Frank’s Diary of a Young Girl. It is only through lens of the Holocaust, that slavery seems to make sense for McQueen, his interviewer, and for whiteness writ large. The grammar that constructs the parallax through which suffering is understood is still rooted in the ontological condition that has provided the natural metaphor through which one can ask what does it mean to suffer? However, Auschwitz is not unprecedented for one whose frame of reference is the Middle Passage. The Muselmann is not the slave. Yet, the historiography of intellectual thought emerging out of the Second World War has fortified and extended the “interlocutory life of widely accepted political common sense which positions the German/Jewish relation as the sine qua non of a structural antagonism” (Wilderson 36). This historiography allows political philosophy to attribute ontological and social significance to the Jewish Holocaust that can be resolved because the Jew can be returned to civil society as a human being. This is the difference between being hunted and being sold.

In a roundtable discussion with the Hollywood Reporter’s David Simpson in 2011, McQueen is the only one of six male directors who is not white.[16] At the end of the hour and seven minute interview Simpson asks, “You’re all men. Only one of you, Steve, is a minority.” There is uncomfortable laughter with eyes turned down as the group attempts to name three to four woman directors. Then McQueen states, “The question should be different. The question should be why are there no Black directors since there are more women directors than there are Black directors.” To which Simpson presses further, “So, what’s the answer?”  It is here where I would argue that McQueen shows the disjuncture between African descended people of the North Americas and his positionality as a Black British artist.  Similar to his other interviews, McQueen cannot fathom the idea that the very negation of Blackness, as non-ontology, is the principle reason for the underemployment of Black directors. Because directors construct the reality of the film set, they are often the primary arbiters of employment for talent in front of the camera. Hence the paucity of Black directors correlates with the casting of Blacks and other minorities. McQueen fumbles around for an answer, concluding:

I’m always astonished by American filmmakers, particularly living in certain areas, when they never cast one person as a Black person, who have never actually put a Black person as a lead in a movie. I’m astonished. It’s shameful. [sic] How can you be living in a country or cities in America as a director and not cast sort of [Black] people, I don’t know, you live in New York and not cast Black actors or Latino actors. It’s shameful. It’s unbelievable. (McQueen:2011)

Simpson presses on, “Why is that?” McQueen nods with his head to the rest of directors sitting in the circle who are now all silent and squirming awkwardly in their chairs, further intensifying the very point of McQueen’s Blackness as an alienated condition.  McQueen continues:  “You ask them. It’s bizarre…I feel it’s odd. I feel it’s shameful. Tremendously shameful in fact.” Simpson then presses the question to the rest of the group about why this reality, which McQueen has made blatantly obvious, exists. There is a pause from the group and then the following answers, “I’m not stepping into that,” and “I don’t know.” For a moment, McQueen had managed to articulate the problem. The exchange took place three years before McQeen’s 12 Years won the Oscar for Best Picture. The conversation could not “hold the break” (Moten:2003). Rather it had to close by returning to a discussion what the coming year would hold for independent versus commercial (as if inclusion isn’t commercial) cinema. A topic to which the other roundtable directors were more than eager to entertain given their inability to speak back to McQueen’s previous remarks.

This is not to suggest that the Black is at the top of every hierarchy of discrimination. Rather it is to call attention to the manner in which “violence which…destroys the possibility of ontology because it positions the Black in an infinite and interdeterminately horrifying and open vulnerability” (Wilderson 38) with practical and real implications. Another way to think about this is the constant echo-chamber of Black on Black violence that Ridley espouses as the dysfunctionality of niggers.  In filtering the suffering of the Black through the white lens of the Holocaust, we are blinded, calloused, and indifferent to Black social death, and the lives of actual people. We can see this indifference in President Obama’s reaction to the carnage Adam Lanza unleashed on New Town, Connecticut, in which President Obama, rightfully so, decried that this “kind of senseless violence” has to stop and pointed his anger toward the gun manufacturing industry and structural inequality in mental health.  Adam Lanza, a member of civil society, was mentally disturbed, not a thug, right?  By contrast, the President’s rhetoric regarding Black youth dying either at the hands of other Black youth or at the hands of the state often has been couched in a language of absentee-fatherism, gangster youth music and culture, urban decay, and the necessity to just pull up one’s trousers. This language, even coming out of President Obama’s mouth, is never an issue of mental health caused by colonialism and internal colonialism of the mind.

In fact, it finally took the tragedy of Trayvon Martin, and the subsequent acquittal of George Zimmerman, for the President to finally pose the question to the American public on live television, in effect, asking how would a jury have reacted if Trayvon Martin made the same claim to stand your ground. Or better yet, can Black people make the same claim to the second amendment and the right to self-defense? In the press conference the President stated:

And for those who resist that idea that we should think about something like these “stand your ground” laws, I’d just ask people to consider, if Trayvon Martin was of age and armed, could he have stood his ground on that sidewalk?  And do we actually think that he would have been justified in shooting Mr. Zimmerman who had followed him in a car because he felt threatened? (Obama: 2013)[17]

Yet, this would have nothing to do with mental health because as Fanon demonstrated, “A drama is played out every day in the colonized countries. How can we explain, for example, that a black guy who has passed his baccalaureate and arrives at the Sorbonne to study for his degree in philosophy is already on his guard before there is the sign of any conflict?” (123). For President Obama and Django the state’s sanctioning of violence cannot figure into the question of Black liberation. However for Fanon, writing and fighting were revolutionary acts to bring about the denouement within the drama of a dying colonialism.

Conclusion

This article has used Django and 12 Years to work through recent iterations of slave cinema. I have demonstrated that these films are representative of unique sites of labor in which Black bodies are organized as commodities to perform economies of pleasure and terror within a Hollywood film industry that propagates colorblind ideology and white supremacy by denying Black people empathic capacity or humanity. Furthermore, simultaneous desire and disavowal for Black bodies has created a fetish for Blackness that has been conflated with love as well as the suffering of white innocence. In exploring these relationships, I have also been calling for an understanding of how colorblind ideology is intertwined with aesthetic and efficacious modes of performance in which Black social death is congruent with the way in which the performance of Black labor is persistently controlled and marginalized in Hollywood. As a consequence, cinema helps shape the discussions around race relations that continue to affect the lived experiences of Black people in the United States.

I didn’t cry when I went to an invited screening of 12 Years, which had a predominantly Black audience.  As Wilderson concludes, empathetic aesthetics, by which popular socially progressive films are underwritten, dissipate cinema’s critical potential by hailing the spectator to an impoverished ensemble of questions, such as Isn’t it sad? Isn’t it tragic? Why do some people behave badly and others don’t? (339).  Certainly, within McQueen’s project we are asked to move in the direction of these moral questions at the expense of analytical ones. Yet, just like analytic film aesthetics that strive to repudiate moral assessments by privileging effect over cause as well as independent cinema’s implicit and explicit political promise, neither tradition processes the ensemble of questions nor approaches a language through which to articulate the economy of Black non-ontology.

In Django Unchained, we are never asked to ponder any kind of relationship to civil society, as the protagonist is presumed to live outside society except when accessed as fungible object by the will of the state to perform the role of bounty hunter alongside Schultz. All of this, despite the fact that the will of the state determines that the slave has no relationship to the state because the slave is a non-citizen, a non-human. But exploring the relationship of Blackness to civil society is neither Tarantino’s project nor concern. Tarantino, like Ridley, is concerned with the box office and obsessed with Black necropolitics. As the history of capitalism in the United States has demonstrated, Black bodies and money make excellent bedfellows. While Ridley recognizes that he is in fact being consumed and simultaneously prospering, but yet cannot comprehend why he is being consumed in parasitic like fashion (and thus must insist that he is a unique host unlike the other niggers), the parasite, Tarantino, feasts. Tarantino wants us to indulge with him in his fetishization of the slave’s body. He will do anything to it he wants. He will kill it, eat it, fuck it, shit on it, and then fuck it again. His obsession, yes, festishization, with the Black body has no end and he wants everyone to know it. He enjoys knowing that everyone knows it. It is through this process that his status as white, male, and privileged is affirmed, and for this his audiences handsomely reward him.

*******

Acknowledgements

Funding for this project was made possible by the Ralph J. Bunche Center for African American Studies, a research center within the Institute for American Cultures at University of California, Los Angeles. For their generous sharing of time, resources, and knowledge I would like to thank Vice-Provost Belinda Tucker, Professor Darnell Hunt, Dr. Ana-Christina Ramon, the Bunche Center staff, and the Race and Hollywood team for committing their energy to the study of diversity (or lack thereof) in the Hollywood and entertainment industry. I am most grateful to Dominic Steavu-Balint, Leo Cabranes-Grant, Darnell Hunt, Bob Myers, Rael Jero Salley, and Jeffrey Stewart who contributed to the shaping of this essay by lending insights and providing comments on drafts.

The post Economies of Enjoyment and Terror in Django Unchained and 12 Years a Slave appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

En una actividad de presentación de un proyecto comunitario en el municipio costero de Loíza para “dar voz” a los jóvenes de comunidades marginadas mediante talleres de escritura creativa, la discusión se abrió al público y de inmediato giró hacia la falta de movimientos organizados, sostenidos de oposición política en el Puerto Rico. El público, en su mayoría proveniente de los sectores más radicales dentro y fuera de la universidad, de activistas comunitarios y gente solidaria en general, se debatió por unos veinte minutos acerca de las dificultades para aunar fuerzas, motivar a personas, establecer alianzas, pasar del ciber-activismo al trabajo de base y de pensar más allá de la convocatoria para una marcha o un piquete aislado. Varios de los y las presentes intervinieron para traer a memoria lo acontecido durante la lucha contra la Marina de Guerra Norteamericana en Vieques quince años atrás, durante la más reciente huelga universitaria 2010-2011 y durante la exitosa campaña ciudadana en defensa del derecho constitucional a la fianza en el 2012. Esto con el propósito de identificar los factores que posibilitaron movilizaciones considerables de la población en el pasado reciente, y de auscultar las razones por las que estos aparentarían estar ausentes ahora. A estos fines, las y los presentes argumentaron cómo en esas instancias o bien se logró fraguar un imaginario compartido de la oposición, o se había realizado un trabajo de bases extenso, o simplemente existía un consenso acerca del “mal” a derrotar. La conversación fue algo frustrante y en extremo aburrida.

Antes de eso hubo poesía. Antes de la poesía, el fundador del proyecto comunitario habló extensamente acerca de la desinformación que existe en torno a la historia de las comunidades más pobres en el País (por qué mayúsculas?). Habló más extensamente aún acerca de sus viajes y su conocimiento en temas de pobreza, activismo y apoderamiento comunitario. Habló de su poesía y recitó un poema. En fin, de lo menos que habló fue del proyecto. Acerca de éste, lo único que recuerdo al presentador decir es que sería demasiado estúpido e irresponsable compartir la poesía de la poeta americana Emily Dickinson con los jóvenes de una comunidad negra, costera y pobre en el caribe. Semejantemente, y en relación a la discusión que se suscitó entre el público en torno al actual panorama de la oposición política en Puerto Rico, parecería ser que existe un consenso acerca de lo estúpido e irresponsable que sería imaginarnos un panorama político actual atiborrado de diversos actos de oposición que pasan desapercibidos por la mayoría. Esto porque los mismos no acontecen en los escenarios tradicionales para la protesta en el País o porque los reclamos no son articulados de formas fácilmente comprensibles por el público, o porque son escenificados por sujetos que no son reconocidos como actores políticos. En este ensayo, intereso abrir paso a la estupidez e irresponsabilidad del pensamiento en torno a la oposición política en Puerto Rico. Es decir, pecaré de iluso, de inevitablemente optimista.

“Hope is the thing with feathers”[1]. Así comienza un poema de Dickinson—tan comprensible y contundente, se me ocurre, en su natal Amherst, Massachusetts como en el municipio costero de Loíza. Sin embargo, el presentador de la actividad antes descrita insistió en que la poesía de Dickinson no tendría resonancia alguna entre los jóvenes de la comunidad que él buscaba impactar. Esto porque no compartían los mismos referentes socio-culturales. Lo que resulta a lo menos paradójico cuando consideramos que el mar ocupa un lugar prominente en el imaginario poético de Dickinson, y los jóvenes que el presentador se disponía a cautivar viven marginados por razones de raza y clase social frente al mar. Esta paradoja, se me ocurre, hace evidente un imperativo de la crítica y la creación literaria: Para abordar poesía es necesario desprenderse de presunciones con respecto a cuáles podrían ser los y las interlocutoras de un texto. Descartar a una posible audiencia para un poema significa abandonar a priori un universo inesperado de interpretaciones en torno a su forma y contenido. Esto es grave, puesto que estas interpretaciones, en muchos casos, podrían trascender los contornos discursivos del ámbito poético para asentarse en los imaginarios propios de la acción política, que a su vez dan forma e inciden directamente en el devenir de una comunidad. Dice Zizek: “Words are never only words’; they matter because they define the contours of what we can do”.[2] Añade Rancière: “If words serve to blur things, it is because the conflict over words is inseparable from the battle over things”.[3] De ahí que en materia de análisis literario, como de teoría y práctica política, resulte imperioso precisar el significado de los términos con que armamos el imaginario solitario y singular de un poema, al igual que el imaginario colectivo, dinámico de una comunidad.

Ahora bien, si se nos permitiera hurgar en y jugar con las palabras de la poeta, y al hacerlo, tomar un atajo discursivo de una discusión sobre poesía a una sobre política, podríamos decir que “protesta es cualquier cosa con esperanza”. No importa si el acto en cuestión no comparte las mismas señas y signos de las manifestaciones políticas estereotípicas. O que éste no haya sido realizado por manifestantes con una postura bien definida en cuanto a sus reclamos, o que estos incluso carezcan de la conciencia de que han incidido en el espacio público con el fin de oponerse políticamente. De acuerdo al filósofo puertorriqueño Bernat Tort, “lo político o lo ético en el arte o en el activismo no se define según la intención del artista o autor de los actos, sino por las reacciones del público, por el contexto social en que se instaura la pieza o el gesto; son los espectadores quienes le dan su sentido”.[4] Siguiendo la pista de Tort, podríamos decir que actualmente en Puerto Rico, las manifestaciones de oposición política protagonizadas por sindicatos y partidos sufren de una deficiencia de sentido en tanto y en cuanto, las mismas siguen un libreto harto conocido por el público, que las asume con relativa naturalidad. La marcha, el piquete, el cese momentáneo de labores por los y las empleadas de alguna agencia gubernamental, por ejemplo, con camisas y pancartas y consignas coreadas son presenciadas por la multiplicidad de espectadores con la certeza de que nada remotamente significativo ocurrirá. Esto porque dicho tipo de manifestación se ha vuelto parte de nuestra cotidianidad compartida y si bien podría incomodar al interrumpir el flujo regular del tráfico momentáneamente o las funciones gubernamentales durante un día normal de trabajo, lo cierto es que su escenificación regular, invariable, no comunica una amenaza real al gobierno de causar una interrupción mayor a su funcionamiento. De hecho, la repetición de las mismas, sin mayores disturbios a lo largo del tiempo, podría incluso dar fe de la estabilidad y recrudecimiento del orden imperante. Podríamos decir, entonces, que las protestas tradicionales en Puerto Rico han dejado de ser, que han devenido en otra cosa, en tanto carecen de esperanza.

A propósito de la desesperanza, el historiador puertorriqueño Carlos Pabón, en su reciente libro Polémicas: Política, Intelectuales, Violencia, señala la necesidad entre las y los intelectuales críticos de desarrollar y lanzar nuevos conceptos para armar un nuevo imaginario político que nos permita interpretar lo que nos acontece a nivel local y global. Particularmente, y ante los diversos eventos de oposición política que se han desatado alrededor del mundo, Pabón hace hincapié en la responsabilidad del intelectual de hacer las preguntas precisas—“¿resultarán estos movimientos en transformaciones radicales o se disiparán sin lograrlo?”[5]— antes de dejarse llevar por el entusiasmo y optimismo espurio que determinados levantamientos podrían provocar. Se me ocurre pues que tanto en el campo de la acción política como en el ámbito intelectual-académico actual se percibe una aparente aversión hacia esa cosa con plumas que Dickinson llama esperanza y que propongo, es un elemento esencialismo tanto para aquellos que inciden en el espacio público a reclamarle al estado de manera informal, como para aquellos espectadores críticos, que interesamos desarrollar un marco teórico apropiado para interpretar el quehacer de los y las manifestantes. Sobre todo cuando el quehacer del sujeto que protesta resulta en extremo alocado o desagradable o errático o caprichoso y el mismo toma lugar en el sitio menos adecuado, en el momento menos indicado; lo que bien podría denotar demasiada estupidez y/o irresponsabilidad de parte del actor como para catalogar su gesta como una manifestación clara de oposición política. Aquí seguimos a Rancière cuando propone:

“Politics, then, has no proper place nor any natural subjects. A demonstration is political not because it occurs in a particular place and bears upon a particular object but rather because its form is that of a clash between two partitions of the sensible. A political subject is not a group of interests or of ideas, but the operator of a particular dispositive of subjectivation and litigation through which politics comes into existence. A political demonstration is therefore always of the moment and its subjects are always precarious.”[6]

En lo que sigue posaré la mirada sobre tres actos precarios de protesta provenientes de nuestra contemporaneidad en Puerto Rico, marcadamente distintos a las protestas tradicionales y protagonizados por sujetos disímiles a aquellos que típicamente las escenifican, con el fin de, como espectador, aquilatar su contenido político. Cada uno de estos eventos recibió cobertura mediática local—dos de ellos de hecho fueron tema de conversación, parodia y debate durante varias semanas y meses—sin embargo, ninguno fue abordado por los medios o por la crítica como actos bona fide de protesta ciudadana ni mucho menos reclamados por grupos de oposición. Esto, argumentaré, se debe en gran medida al perfil demográfico de los sujetos envueltos: su raza, género y/o posición social; como también al carácter y contenido de sus reclamos. Sobre este particular adelanto una teoría de forma alocada e irresponsable: las protestas sólo son esperanzadoras cuando sus reclamos resultan incomprensibles y por tanto imposibles de atender sin transformar el entramado de entendidos sociales en una comunidad. Veamos.

ii.

SENOR GOBERNADOR LO PEOR K A ECHO ES JO… KON EL DINERODEL PUEBLO NO SIGA ASIENDO BRUTALIDADES K LE PUEDE KOSTAR LA VIDA”; “USTED ANDA EN UN 300C Y YO EN… BIEN KA… NO SIGNIFIK K NO SEA APRUEBA DE BALA NOSEA PUREKO SAKO D AKI PA METER AKA”; “Manana marcha a la 1 pm… Mi reintegro o SEKUESTRO AL K… GIBERNADOR Y K VENGA KIEN KIERA AREGLARME POR LO DICHO SE VA AMORIR ATT YO”. [7]

En diciembre 2013 el autor de este tweet—un joven padre— fue sentenciado a seis meses y medio de cárcel por un juez de la corte federal de los Estados Unidos, distrito de Puerto Rico, quien aprovechó la ocasión para aconsejarlo y advertirle de las consecuencias del mal manejo de su temperamento. El texto del tweet, apenas comprensible, fue interpretado por las autoridades que diligenciaron el arresto y por el juez que lo sentenció, como una amenaza de muerte al gobernador. Basta con decir que ningún grupo, organización o partido político se expresó en solidaridad con el convicto, ni mucho menos acogió el contenido del mensaje como propio. Esto, supongo, porque ningún grupo de oposición interesaba quedar en récord apoyando la amenaza de secuestro y muerte del gobernador. Adicionalmente, no hay nada en el tweet que remita a un conflicto eminentemente político entre el autor y el primer mandatario. De hecho, el objeto principal de la disputa parecería ser el tipo de carro que ostenta el gobernador. O más bien el hecho de que el emisor, suponemos, no tiene uno comparable o que simplemente no tiene vehículo propio. Es decir, se trata de un asunto de mera envidia, producto seguramente del consumerismo rampante que por décadas ha arremetido contra la fibra moral de nuestra ciudadanía; de esa pulsión que sienten miles de individuos por tener más, haciendo menos. O, lo que es peor, tomando en cuenta el lenguaje empleado, se trata de la pulsión de tener más, a toda costa, no importa a quienes se les haga daño.

Esta lectura, se me ocurre, resultaría ser la más lógica y quizás hasta más acertada. Partamos, sin embargo, desde la estupidez e irresponsabilidad del pensamiento y digamos, en cambio, que se trata de una diferencia de estatus social y/o poderío económico que el emisor interesaba resaltar—sumada a un aparente disgusto con el uso del fondos públicos— lo que lo motivan a comunicar su frustración en las redes sociales. El problema, claro, es que uno no tiene derecho a desahogarse de esa manera—las amenazas de secuestro y muerte no son expresiones protegidas constitucionalmente. No obstante, ante el desenlace de esta historia, y visto desde una perspectiva de criminología crítica, uno bien podría argumentar que seis meses y medio de cárcel por un tweet resultan en extremo punitivo para lo que a todas luces no fue más que un desafortunado desahogo producto de un aparente desasosiego con el lugar que el emisor ocupa en el mundo en comparación con aquel ocupado por nuestro gobernador. Pero, qué tal si en vez de hacer una apología al autor del tweet, consideramos las posibilidades de acoger su reclamo y solidarizarnos con su expresión.[8] Para ello habría que, en primer lugar, tomar conciencia de la severa desigualdad social y económica que existe en Puerto Rico.[9] Luego habría que potenciar otra lectura de lo acontecido en corte. ¿Qué tal si en lugar de una sanción penal impuesta sobre el autor de una expresión que cumple los requisitos del delito de amenaza, se haya castigado al emisor por abrir un horizonte de acción política imprevisto e impermisible para el Estado ante la severa desigualdad social y económica en la Isla? Es decir, ¿acaso el carácter ofensivo del tweet no radicará en la aparente negativa del emisor a acoger y asumir la desigualdad como una realidad social a la cual cada individuo se debe atener? Visto de esta forma, el texto es punible en tanto amenaza con el desarrollo de un subjetividad política que contempla acciones violentas, descabelladas, como respuesta a la inequidad en nuestra sociedad. Su tweet entonces es una invitación al público a considerar si en efecto la brecha entre ricos y pobres en el País es lo suficientemente grave como para que un individuo cualquiera tome las armas y cometa una locura. Más importante aún, el tweet—y la posible incomodidad que el mismo podría causar de tomarlo en serio (tal como hizo el juez)— es una invitación a sopesar la diferencia entre actos particulares de violencia a manos de sujetos individuales y la violencia sistémica del Estado. Sobre este particular, Zizek arguye:

“One should learn to step back, to disentangle oneself from the fascinating lure of this directly visible ‘subjective’violence—violence performed by a clearly identifiable agent. We need to perceive the contours of the background which generates such outbursts. A step back enables us to identify a violence that sustains our very efforts to fight violence and to promote tolerance: the ‘objective’violence inscribed into the smooth functioning of our economic and political systems. The catch is that subjective and objective violence cannot be perceived from the same standpoint: subjective violence is experienced as such against the background of a non-violent zero-level of ‘civility’. It is seen as a perturbation of the normal, peaceful state of things. However, objective violence is precisely the violence inherent in this ‘normal’ state of things.”[10]

Desde Zizek, entonces, argumentaría que resulta útil y necesario visualizar al emisor condenado a cárcel federal como un prisionero político dentro del marco de un orden político y social en Puerto Rico que censura y castiga a todo aquel que intente abordar la desigualdad social como un problema público y cuya solución requiere cambios radicales al orden imperante. De ahí que el gobernador, recientemente sentenciara: “Puerto Rico está para propuestas. Y no para protestas.”[11] Claro, procede preguntar: ¿acaso este tweet cuyo registro discursivo nos remite al bajo mundo y a los protagonistas de la violencia callejera constituye una protesta? ¿Podríamos argumentar de forma seria que ha quedado cifrado en el texto algún reclamo al poder ejecutivo producto de una frustración válida, reconocible del emisor? ¿Es el tweet indicativo de algo más allá de la crisis de valores y del fin trágico que le espera a miles de nuestros jóvenes ligados a o inspirados por el mundo criminal que continúa cobrando sus vidas a niveles alarmantes? Sobre este particular, Carlos Pabón propone:

“El asesinato de miles de jóvenes —sobre 15,000— constituye una guerra social (in)visible, que opera como una “limpieza social” de sectores socialmente excluidos o “desechables” en el país. Se trata de una suerte de un nuevo tipo de conflicto social, de una suerte de auto-purga social, que produce cadáveres indiferenciados, cuerpos de personas cuyos nombres no conocemos o recordamos, cuerpos de una población excedente que se asume con demasiada frecuencia como una excrecencia social”.[12]

Para Pabón, la violencia ligada el narcotráfico debe ser abordada como un problema político, no como un mero issue de seguridad—abordaje que, según él, ha acrecentado los niveles de exclusión y desigualdad en Puerto Rico a través de los ámbitos de la educación, el trabajo, la salud, y la vivienda, entre otros. Ante este panorama, yo leo el tweet una y otra vez y siento que leo las palabras de un sujeto que tiene más probabilidades de matar y/o morir violentamente por una cuestión de drogas, que de irrumpir en el espacio público y obtener una audiencia. Leo sus palabras una y otra vez, y luego de intentar despacharlas como un simple desahogo, intento abordarlas con seriedad y urgencia, como una expresión dirigida, consciente, emitida desde algún rincón del bajo mundo a nuestro centro de gobierno. Y me perturba, por supuesto, la idea de que la violencia callejera continúe desbordándose de sus límites. Pero, siguiendo a Pabón, esa preocupación, sin más, me haría cómplice de lo que en esencia es una política pública dirigida hacia la invisibilización y desaparición de un sector—joven, varón, predominantemente negro y pobre—de nuestra población. Quien habla entonces es un sujeto atravesado por efectos de raza, clase y género que lo marcan como sujeto y objeto de una violencia que el estado permite en tanto no está dispuesto a abordarla como un resultado directo del sistema social. Lo cierto es que durante las últimas tres décadas en Puerto Rico se ha atendido el problema de violencia desde la perspectiva exclusiva de la seguridad y la privatización. Quienes cuentan con los recursos suficientes viven en urbanizaciones y complejos de vivienda con control de acceso, matriculan a sus hijos en colegios privados, equipan sus residencia con sistemas se seguridad y vigilancia, frecuentan los costosos e inaccesibles centros de comercio cada vez más lejos de centros urbanos. Quienes no cuentan con esos recursos, quedan sujetos al patrullaje policial intenso en sus barriadas y residenciales públicos, a la ineficiencia del sistema de educación pública y a la creciente ola de encarcelamiento en un estado cada vez más punitivo.

Entonces vuelvo a leer, y me propongo acoger la expresión como una protesta política y pregunto ¿cómo exactamente debo esperar que estos jóvenes articulen sus reclamos, sino a través de los códigos discursivos que manejan en su cotidianidad, con toda su crudeza? Exigirle otro registro discursivo es insistir en su invisibilidad. Visto así, por supuesto que el tweet debe ofender, porque la violencia objetiva a la que apunta es en extremo ofensiva. Desde Pabón, quien habla aquí no supone tener voz; supone morir o caer preso antes de los treinta años. Quien habla no tiene representantes autorizados, ni tiene audiencia. O más bien, su única audiencia fue en corte abierta. Y, sabemos, la corte es uno de los lugares más riesgosos desde donde articular una protesta.

iii. [13]

El 6 de enero del 2013, dentro del marco de la Tradicional Fiesta del Día de Reyes, ofrecida por el gobernador y la primera dama, una joven madre fue entrevistada para la televisión. La mujer, a preguntas de la reportera, se mostró inconforme con la actividad, en particular con el obsequio que recibió su hija—una bola de baloncesto. Se refirió a la misma como un “trapo de bola”[14] y lamentó haber traído a la menor, quien estaba enferma. La entrevista que culminaba un reportaje especial de la estación, donde se recogían las expresiones de agradecimiento y las apreciaciones positivas de varios de los asistentes, obtuvo gran difusión en las redes sociales. Analistas políticos, académicos y funcionarios públicos comentaron la intervención de la mujer, calificándola como lamentable, vergonzosa. Ella, a su vez, fue tildada de malagradecida y mala madre—culpable de haber llevado a su hija enferma a buscar un regalo gratis, y culpable también de su aparente incapacidad para inculcar en la pequeña los valores correctos. De hecho, por espacio de meses, la mujer fue la “poster child” de lo que para muchos resulta ser hoy el principal problema social en la isla: la dependencia de ayudas gubernamentales.  Si nos fuéramos a dejar llevar por la prensa y por los comentaristas en los sitios de noticias web, la crisis social y económica que enfrenta el país se debe en gran medida a una población excedente que vive de dádivas y del trabajo y esfuerzo de los demás; que no aporta nada al país, en tiempos en que el país necesita de las aportaciones y el trabajo de todos y todas para salir de la crisis. De ahí que los comentarios de la mujer fueran recibidos como desafortunadas y despreciables quejas de la boca de una “buscona”. No obstante, otra lectura es posible. Pero antes es necesario volver atrás.

La Tradicional Fiesta de Reyes ofrecida por el gobernador y la primera dama se distingue principalmente por la entrega de regalos. Desde el amanecer, familias enteras esperan en fila largas horas para que sus hijos e hijas obtengan algún obsequio de manos del gobernador y su equipo de trabajo. En el pasado, esta actividad ha servido como una manera en extremo efectiva para ganar el favor del electorado mediante la entrega de juguetes electrónicos y computadoras, por ejemplo. También ha sido escenario de discordias, principalmente debido al largo rato que las personas han tenido que esperar, las condiciones bajo las cuales permanecen en espera, y/o por las cantidades insuficientes de los regalos prometidos. Para algunos, la actividad es representativa de una cultura de mantengo gubernamental, mediante la cual el estado satisface una vez más las necesidades y caprichos de personas—provenientes de los sectores más desaventajados—que no hacen nada por ellas mismas ni por otras. Ante esta situación, el gobernador de turno había anunciado que el propósito principal de su celebración del Día de Reyes sería la unión familiar, el fomento de valores morales y el desarrollo integral de nuestros niños. De ahí que los juguetes a ser obsequiados serían exclusivamente de índole educativo y/o deportivo, y de bajo costo. Adicionalmente, la entrega de regalos cobraría la forma de un intercambio: los niños asistentes tendrían que hacer un dibujo de los reyes para obtener su obsequio. Esto con el propósito de fomentar en ellos una ética de trabajo y una cultura del mérito. No es sorpresa, entonces, que la reacción de la joven madre, desde la perspectiva de nuestros funcionarios públicos y otros, pusiera en evidencia la urgente necesidad de educar e inculcar valores entre nuestras clases más bajas. Su queja pues terminó dándole la razón al gobernador, en tanto las expresiones de la mujer ante las cámaras simplemente sacaron a relucir la deficiencia de integridad y la falta de fibra moral que caracterizaban su vida domestica privada. De esta forma, el trapo de bola se convirtió en la metáfora para una cotidianidad al garete, vivida malamente en miles de hogares a lo largo y ancho de la Isla. Es decir, la crítica lanzada por la mujer a la actividad fue redirigida, transformada al momento mismo de su enunciación en una alegación de culpabilidad. No era un trapo de bola, sino un trapo de madre con un trapo de vida, ofreciéndole a su hija un trapo de crianza, y qué rayos se cree el trapo de mujer esa para venir ahora y quejarse. De esta forma su expresión se convirtió en la razón principalísima para no reconocerle derecho alguno a hablar.

Dice Rancière: “If there is someone you do not wish to recognize as a political being, you begin by not seeing him as the bearer of signs of politicity, by not understanding what he says, by not hearing what issues from his mouth as discourse.”[15] En este caso, esperar en fila para obtener un regalo de navidad—que suponía ella comprar—con su hija enferma—que suponía ella cuidar— alegadamente la desautorizó como actor político que interesaba manifestar su oposición al gobierno a raíz de su participación en dicha actividad. Asumir esto como correcto implicaría que sólo aquellos y aquellas que no sufren de la necesidad económica necesaria para estar ahí podían articular su disgusto, desde la comodidad del afuera. Es decir, que protestar—ser reconocido como un actor político—también sería un privilegio en Puerto Rico. Ciertamente no estoy de acuerdo con esa visión y por tanto, propongo considerar las expresiones de la mujer como lo que Zizek llama  “la condensación metafórica de una demanda”[16] donde el trapo de bola representa no la falta de valores de la hablante, sino un emplazamiento al gobierno por el trato  condescendiente que le ofrece a los sectores más desaventajados de la población. Por hacer de una fiesta navideña una lección de moralidad dirigida a un grupo de personas que quizá no tienen otro remedio que asistir a ella, en tanto y en cuanto interesan obtener un juguete para sus niños. Y que evidentemente al tomar la palabra no pueden más que fingir agradecimiento por la lección brindada. En ese sentido, la Fiesta de Reyes resultó en una perfecta lección en estrategias de coerción.

Ante este escenario, nuestra responsabilidad como espectadores críticos consiste en acoger las expresiones de la mujer según estaban intencionadas. Esto es, como una crítica al gobierno. Y jugar creativamente, críticamente con la metáfora empleada por ella en toda su especificidad. Esto requiere, primero, situar a la joven madre dentro un contexto socio-político donde la vida de mujeres está en riesgo. Actualmente en Puerto Rico, las mujeres representan una mayoría de la población bajo niveles de pobreza. Enfrentan niveles alarmantes de violencia de género, acoso y agresión sexual. Adicionalmente, en el imaginario colectivo, una de las razones principales por la difícil situación económica y social que enfrenta el país es la supuesta crisis de la mujer puertorriqueña (en singular) que no sabe ni controlar su sexualidad, ni criar correctamente a sus niños, en hogares marcados por la supuesta ausencia del padre. A esto se le añade una renuencia tanto del poder ejecutivo como del judicial de promover la equidad entre hombres y mujeres mediante decisiones de política pública y de política jurídica con perspectiva de género. Tomando esto en consideración, esta joven madre hablaba  (“se quejaba”) desde la vulnerabilidad extrema de una mujer que ante todo, era culpable de haber tomado las decisiones (malas todas) que la llevaron a hacer esa fila en ese día. Y si estaba ahí era porque merecía recibir cualquier cosa que el gobernador estuviera dispuesto a dar. De hecho, ni eso.

¿Se trataba pues de un trapo de bola? Diría que depende de la bola. Y de qué se puede jugar con ella. Y cuántos son. Y si hace falta guante o raqueta o líneas en la tierra o mallas en los canastos o un set de palos. Depende de cómo se coge y a dónde se tira. Depende de si tienes quién te enseñe a jugar. O si tienes donde jugar cerca y más o menos seguro. Depende de la bola. De si basta con tirarla contra la pared. De si puedes o no pasar horas viéndola picar y rodar. De si tienes quién te mire y te practique y la pique y la ruede contigo, más rápido, con mayor gracia y dominio. Depende de si la puedes agarrar con una mano o con dos. Si necesitas membresía a un club para jugar o si el punto se trasladó a la cancha y los canastos hasta nuevo aviso permanecerán cerrados. Depende de quién te la tire y cómo y para qué. De si la bola supone ser un pasatiempo en tu vida o tu vida. Depende de la bola. Y si un poco la bola, vista de cierta forma, te recuerda al globo terráqueo y sientes que sujetarla es sujetar el mundo con una mano o con dos. Depende de si en el salón hay suficientes globos del mundo para darle vuelta y vuelta y pensar el mundo tan accesible como salir y agarrar un balón. Depende de con qué manos. Depende de si sabes de las manos de los grandes que alguna vez sujetaron esa misma bola y la lanzaron o la encestaron o la sacaron del parque. De cómo llegaron a darle la vuelta al mundo con la bola debajo del brazo. Depende de si tuviste alguien que tuvo el tiempo y el amor y el conocimiento para hacerte las historias de los grandes y te hizo sentir que tú con la bola debajo del brazo eras lo más grande en el mundo. Depende de la bola y de las circunstancias en que llega a tus manos. De manos de quién por ejemplo. En ocasión de qué por ejemplo. Siendo tú quién ante los ojos del mundo. Siendo el mundo qué cosa exactamente en los ojos de quien te obsequia la bola. Depende de lo que la bola significa como regalo para un nene como tú en el mundo. Depende de qué representa la bola como regalo en tus manos. De cuánto vale. De si la bola vale más que tú.

iv.

Y tú eres una ignorante, lee un maldito periódico. ¿Quiénes pagan la reforma de la salud de este país? Yo con mis taxes. ¿Tú pagas taxes? Ah, pues, nosotros somos los que pagamos la reforma…“¡Maldita sea! Yo me ‘escocoto’ en el Recinto de Ciencias Médicas para venir aquí a bregar con ustedes…Por eso es que este país es una porquería. Coge un maldito libro ignorante.[17]

Estas expresiones le pertenecen a una doctora recién separada de sus funciones en el Hospital Regional de Bayamón. Las mismas salieron a la luz pública luego de que una paciente grabara con su teléfono celular una diatriba de la galena contra un grupo de pacientes en la sala de espera del hospital, ocurrido en agosto de este año. El vídeo, como el del trapo de bola, ha sido diseminado y comentado hasta la saciedad por individuos particulares, noticieros y funcionarios de gobierno. La doctora quien fue sancionada de inmediato por la Secretaria de Salud, debido a lo que ésta determinó fue un trato discriminatorio hacia los y las pacientes que suponía atender, ha gozado, no obstante, del apoyo de amplios segmentos de la población que aparentan identificarse con ella. Para muchos, la galena—una mujer blanca, miembro de ese grupo altamente cotizado de puertorriqueños y puertorriqueñas profesionales que actualmente migran del país en grandes números—simplemente expresó una frustración colectiva hacia esa masa vaga, indecente y problemática del país, que no sabe apreciar la ayuda y el servicio que personas como ella le brindan. Lo que dijo la doctora, entonces, lejos de ser percibido como discriminatorio o reprochable, fue una dosis de “medicina amarga” tanto para sus interlocutores en la sala de espera como para el gobierno, que mediante dádivas fomenta y premia la indecencia y dependencia extrema de estos sectores.

Esta identificación con la doctora y el apoyo demostrado por medio de foros en línea, sondeos y entrevistas para radio y televisión, tiene su contraparte en el odio vertido no sólo hacia las pacientes con quien la doctora discutió (quienes no aparecen en el vídeo), sino que hacia la mujer que grabó y difundió el mismo. Ésta, previo a que fuera identificada por la prensa y concediera entrevistas para la televisión, ya había sido descrita como una mujer negra, pobre y “cafre”, quien seguro también estaba ahí como beneficiara del plan médico que ofrece el estado y que según la doctora, ella ayuda a costear mediante el pago de impuestos. De ahí que, para muchos, lo verdaderamente ofensivo y lesivo a los derechos de las personas envueltas fuera el acto de grabar, ya que sirvió para perjudicar a una mujer profesional y “fajona” que tuvo un mal día y dijo la verdad de forma cruda ciertamente y quizás hasta lamentable; pero no por ello, dejaba de ser verdad.

De esta forma, entiendo, se perdió de vista el gesto políticamente esperanzador de la mujer que grabó. Esto es, delatar una manifestación clara de los patrones de prejuicio, discriminación y exclusión por razón de raza y clase social que activamente empobrecen la vida de miles de personas en el País. Este acto transgresor, sin embargo, no fue acogido por ningún grupo u organización política. La autora del mismo no obtuvo defensa contundente alguna. De hecho, todo lo contrario aconteció—los medios se limitaron a hacer públicos ciertos detalles acerca de su vida privada y su situación económica, que sirvieron para confirmar las sospechas y satisfacer los prejuicios de los y las comentaristas; quienes, a través de los distintos foros, solicitaron algún tipo de sanción penal para ella.  Esta reacción visceral, hiperbólica, multiplica el carácter políticamente radical del gesto puesto que pone en evidencia no sólo el grave problema de exclusión por raza, clase y género en Puerto Rico, sino que deja claro que el problema de la oposición política en el País no se remonta a una falta de activismo sino a una carencia crasa de un contexto de recepción e interpretación crítica progresista que recoja, desde la solidaridad, las protestas que sí toman lugar en el País. Actos que más allá de responder a una decisión particular del gobierno de turno en materia de convenios colectivos, por ejemplo, arroja luz a la desigualdad estructural y la violencia sistémica en Puerto Rico y que fuerza al público espectador a lidiar con hablantes y actores que por razón de su raza, clase y/o género no suponen tener ninguna agencia política.

Estos sujetos, entonces, cuando irrumpen en el espacio público se propasan desde el inicio—la mujer que no debió haber grabado, el hombre que no supo expresar sus frustraciones, la madre que no sabe aceptar dádivas. Son aguafiestas, un excedente incivilizado de la población cuyo único lugar en el imaginario es el de ser una carga y chivo expiatorio para la diversidad de males sociales que nos acechan. Por ende, como manifestantes, ocupan los lugares más precarios en nuestro entorno. No son estudiantes ni empleados públicos ni obreros (todas categorías que connotan un valor de producción)—son hombres que suponen morir en la calle o en prisión y las mujeres que o los crían o tienen hijos con ellos. De ahí que sus intervenciones pasen desapercibidas como protestas, sus reclamos resulten incomprensibles y reciban el reproche colectivo, el castigo o la amenaza de sanción penal como respuesta. Se trata entonces de los y las manifestantes más peligrosas en el país: aquellos actores particulares, que no teniendo otra alternativa y desde la vulnerabilidad extrema—en el sentido de que no pueden darse el lujo de no hacer la fila para un regalo, de no tomar asiento en esa sala de espera—con la más mínima acción interrumpen nuestra cotidianidad; nos aguan la fiesta ideológica, si se quiere, de pensar felizmente que la desigualdad social es un asunto personal. Lo hacen a la mala, desde la diversidad de espacios—siempre los menos indicados—sin organización ni comité ni consignas, halando por los pelos esa cosa emplumada, en forma de protesta.

The post Aguafiestas: Marginalidad y Protesta en Puerto Rico appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

“Yuni and his Mákina” – Photo credit: Annie Gibson

I walk over the broken eggshells on the corner of E and 13 and wonder what paths Eleguá opened today?

Cuba is the daughter of Ochún. Be careful because the smile is a front for her to get what she needs by leading you astray.

I remind myself to keep my foreign gaze so as not fall into the routine of the Cuban experience. The street is a great spectacle of drama, comedy, and sometimes horror– alive with humanness and expression as is no other city I know.

Each trip to Cuba, I arrive to find another Cuban friend suelto por el mundo [let loose to the world].

People on the street are constantly asking me the time in order to figure out where I am from, not because there is somewhere they need to be.

Constant sizing up to try to figure out, what kind of foreigner are you?

When the students arrived at the University today, they found out that classes were cancelled because it is “The day of the student.”

To be reminded of the preciousness of a plastic bag or a pen…

The students bought hamsters for their room but I am pretty sure one of them is a mouse.

Learning to live and navigate another country is like being born again.

Tiempo

“Boy with flag in pioneer uniform” – Photo credit: Miriam Psychas

One of my first transformations upon arrival in Havana is walking at the slow, local pace. There is no rush to get anywhere because time is not a commodity.

Cuba’s tempo of tomorrow is counter time. Rather as if the chacha lo kafún [ceremonial step of the orishas] was to take over Miami.

My guitar teacher is always late to our classes because there is no máquina service from his house and the bus is never on time.

Getting official signatures: Closed for lunch. The secretary went to the doctor. He already left for the day. Come back tomorrow morning. She had some issues to resolve. The power is out. His mother was sick. I don’t know where he is. He went to the bank but he might be back soon. Take a seat.

The repetition of daily events…

The melodrama of crumbling buildings alongside new businesses dressed up in 1950s décor, bringing the past back to life.

I wonder if they will make a museum out of the Riviera that depicts Meyer Lansky and the mafia years in Cuba before the hotel crumbles beyond repair.

There is a different kind of exceptionality in the Cuba post-Special Period, one that involves identifying with and meditating a peculiar sense of time.

History is an ongoing process that moves at accelerated revolutionary speeds.

“History will absolve me.” –Fidel

Imágenes

“Havana from the 18th floor” – Photo credit: Annie Gibson

As I watch from the 18^th floor, the storm clouds roll across the ocean and bathe Havana in its afternoon shower.

Mojito green, strawberry daiquiri red, guayabera white, cement grey, ocean turquoise, sky blue: the colors of Havana.

On my evening run along the malecón, I watch the man with the sad eyes who is cradling the black doll in a blue dress and speaking gently to the sea. I wonder if Yemayá will show her kindness to his supplications?

Shades of sunset illuminate Havana from the malecón as the flag is folded to start the cañonazo ceremony.

“Havana Sunset” – Photo credit: Annie Gibson

Along the malecón, the turbulent sea, the salt air, and time erode the walls of the apartment buildings. Eroded but not vanquished.

A sea of white medical school jackets walking down San Lázaro to the Punta del Prado on November 27…

Tropical storm waves over the malecón.

Grateful for nature’s beauty when sitting in the lookout tower inside the castle of shells and sand in the Japanese garden of 1830 Restaurant… Watching the sunset over the malecón.

I almost stepped on the human shit in the middle of the malecón this morning.

The students laugh and take pictures of the fisherman blowing up condoms to use as floaters on their fishing lines. And the mother inflates another one for her child to play with like a balloon as she nibbles on peanuts.

From the luxurious pool of the Meliá Cohiba hotel, I can see both a girl hanging her laundry from a window of her tenement apartment building and the abandoned balconies of the Rivera hotel, former symbol of 1950’s mafia glory.

The abuelos meet at sunrise to gossip and to swim at the playita of 16^th. Wearing shoes to protect their feet, they carefully step over the sleeping man to plunge their bodies into the ocean and swim along the coast of the malecón. Bart, the dog, stands guard for emergency.

The solar is a living organism.

Centro Habana, a glamorous 1950s shopping district, deprived of stock, now divided into barbacoas for families to stack up generations… Buildings change the structures of their interiors in accordance to their new uses.

Centro Havana, most densely populated municipality, where personal lives spill into public spaces… The two mothers dressed in bathrobes stand gossiping while they watch their children play with toy cars in the street.

Two children in school uniforms chase chicks between the billowing sheets of laundry hung on lines across the patio under the watchful eye of the man fixing the red high heel shoe. Someone yells, “¡Hasta cuando!” [Until when!] from inside the solar with the Industriales sign over the door.

The park smells of grass, freshly cut by the old man with a machete. The young boy laughs as his father teaches him to ride a bike around the waterless fountain that now serves as the field for the neighborhood children to play soccer. I think of sitting and watching from the bench beside the bust of Jose Martí, but find all the wooden boards have been stolen. There is nothing left but the frame.

I like to try to imagine what lovers are whispering into each other’s ears as they sit folded together on benches along Prado.

At the Taller Experimental de Gráfica in la Chorrera we break for lunch and J. leads me into a solar on the corner and into someone’s kitchen, where the workers in Habana Vieja make lines for lunch. The sweet woman serves up a tasty plate of pollo con congris for 1 CUC that rivals any of the paladares that are being pushed on the foreigners below.

The pastel de guayaba.

Turquoise, blue, purple, and pink enliven the facades of crumbling Vedado. Laundry billows from the windows.

“Se Vende” reads the sign beside the pile of rubble that was once an apartment building on the corner of B and 5^th St.

The Iwayós, dressed in white, hide from moonbeams under their umbrellas as I walk to the theater soaking in the full moon.

Havana fashion represents the hustling and ingenuity between Europe and the New World. Tropical interpretations of zoot suits meet santería. The brighter the better. Lycra and rhinestones die hard.

How long will the unfortunate yonki mohawks be in fashion?

– Photo credit: Annie Gibson

In the living room at the santero house, the saints are whispering in the babalao’s ear. On one side of the living room is the altar for the orishás. We sit down on the other side of the room on the couch below a framed pin-up of a half-naked woman wearing underwear and heels who is lounging on a motorcycle.

Green and yellow bracelets of mano de Orula…

The students are allowed into the back room to watch the babalao feed coco to the santos on Y’s 18^th birthday as the daughter of Oyá.

October 4th, Orulá’s birthday. The sound of batá comes out of unexpected corners. The dulceria is all out of dulces. The woman sitting in the sidecar of the scooter is carrying a cake decorated with the Cuban flag and the woman getting into the collective taxi beside me can’t stand up for so much rum.

We pull up to photograph the apartment building across the street from the US Interest Section. “You want to take pictures here? I could lose my job.” And the car drives off and leaves us on the corner, not even accepting payment.

Today’s máquina was a shockless 1953 Buick tank. It’s like riding in a Flintstones cartoon.

Tattoo sleeve on the arm out the window of today’s yellow máquina driver.

We are riding in a 1952 Ford Customline, but the motor is a Toyota. The Virgen of Charity sits proudly on the dashboard protecting our journey.

There was a colt running the highway alongside our Transtur bus outside of Bayamo.

The police officers excitedly stopped our bus on the way from Baracoa to Santiago and asked the driver if he had seen a dead cow beside the road. (There had been a hit and run and they were searching for the culprit.) The policeman jumped on the bus to be taken to the nearest town to get back-up. His partner tried to come aboard, too, with a group of prisoners, but the bus driver refused since we were full of yuma.

We are following the tracks of the old filmmakers, chasing yesterday as we re-film “Tempo of Tomorrow.” The project is like a scavenger hunt across Cuba, through time backwards and forwards; past, present, and future overlap.

The Kurhotel Escambray sits out of place in the cool air and green mountains of the Tope de los Collantes National Park. Dreamt up by Batista in the 1930s, now the ex-military come here for homeopathic medicine and relaxation and to walk the grounds in tracksuits.

“Danger of Collapse” – Photo credit: Miriam Psychas

Observing architecture in Havana is like observing nostalgia for worlds that were abruptly ended.

Photographs of decaying buildings are politicized evidence of Havana stuck in time. Image has always been necessary for the Imperial project. But how do you photograph the Cuban experience when every image requires a caption about what is visible and what is missing? The foreign and the Cuban gaze collide.

The camera lens is focused on the changes taking place in Cuba?

Ciego de Ávila

Ciego de Ávila, the city of porches, where we can walk the whole historic center protected from the rain and the contradictory beauty and despair of decrepit buildings and crumbling staircases that lead to home.

Camagüey

Camagüey has narrow streets that keep out pirates and large buses. The tourists line up for bike taxi tours. All streets lead to a church. Ileana Sánchez found an original 18th century fresco on her wall when she chipped away at old paint to expand her studio. Tiny ballerinas in black leotards, their hair tied up in yellow bows, file out of the crumbling yellow building and double up on bikes with their mothers to ride home for dinner. The smell of maduros fritos at 6 pm drift out of open doorways in the narrow streets of Camaguey. The slow pace of the countryside…

Santiago

The Conjunto Santiaguero blares out of the speakers and is projected on the screen above El Encanto Department Store; the smell of fried chicken and oil drifts from the street vendors; the chess players hover over their tables in the park beside Heredia Street as shoppers saunter to and fro.

The women sit embroidering detailed guayaberas and sun dresses at the Quitrin.

The students ask if they will get lice by putting on the helmet to ride the collective moto taxis around Santiago.

Climb the Padre Pico steps to the Tivoli neighborhood and wind through the hilly streets that look down over the Bay. A grandfather is teaching his two grandchildren to ride a bike but their feet don’t quite reach the pedals. Neighbors are playing dominoes on the street corner to catch a breeze; the students are invited into a living room to dance salsa played loudly on a stereo. I sit to have a Bucanero as the Tivoli Son Band rehearses for their show at Casa de las Tradiciones.

The students question the giant penis coming out of the Monumento del Cimarrón [Monument to the Runaway Slave] looking over El Cobre copper mines. There are flowers and bones left at the statue’s ngangá. We seek out the Eleguás hidden in the woods. Art creates ritual and ritual creates art.

Alberto Lescay is expanding his studio and he leans over and whispers that the back door with the beautiful stained glass transom is the escape route for the cimarrón. “How many children do you have?” I ask L, “As of right now I have 7 but I haven’t shut down the factory yet.”

Rafael brings us through the living room where his grandmother is watching the Brazilian novela “Paraíso Tropical.” We go under the sheet that divides the living room from his bedroom. He pulls out a needle, anesthesia, and an assortment of studs for D’s lip piercing.

Baracoa

Curves over la Farola and fog over el Yunque as we make our way to Baracoa.

We order chocolate in la Casa del Chocolate but they are all out.

Local legend has it that if you take a bath in the Rio Miel you will always return to Baracoa.

S. hasn’t shaved since arriving in Cuba. In Baracoa people call him Pelú, like the crazy unshaven man of local legend who is supposed to bring misfortune. They keep steering him towards the barbershop.

Our flight out of Baracoa was delayed because there are no lights on the landing strip so the incoming flight had to land in Santiago. We must wind the 5 hours down the Farola in the dark.

Son y Movimiento

“Oyás” – Photo credit: Annie Gibson

Sitting under the flamboyanes on the patio of the Conjunto Nacional and listening to the rumba in the Palenque… Eight Oyás spin their skirts with the winds of the cemetery.

At 8:30 am the park comes alive with viejos in black pants and white tops gracefully practicing tai chi.

The sound of 50 voices singing “Para su ayo omo niala guana omonianama keke ayo é” as we run lines of dancing Eleguá in Baile Folklórico…

“Listen to me so that you can learn the step correctly,” said the dance teacher to the Cuban student ogling the German student instead of paying attention. “Then you can teach it to the yuma. Be careful; if you don’t pay attention, then the yuma will be dancing better than you. And then how will you catch a yuma in the Palenque?” The Baile Folklórico class (which costs 30 MN [$1.25] for 4 months) erupts into giggles.

“You have to brush the floor with each step,” says the dance teacher explaining Eleguá’s step. He says to correct me, “I know that in your country you all don’t have to scrub your shoes with toothbrushes, but here we do. So pretend like you are scrubbing.”

R, who sings with the Coro Folklórico Nacional, improvised amazing verses to “Chan Chan” as I strummed the new chords on the guitar. “Stop strumming like a yuma. Where is your cubaneo?” she says.

What music is the soundtrack to your Havana?

At the outdoor concert in El Sauce a packed crowd of Cubans grind their hips to the harmonious sounds of the seventeen Los Van Van musicians playing their souls out into the night.

With the breeze from the rocking chair on the second floor balcony, I listen to the music of the man selling brooms harmonize with the woman selling crackers up and down Calle E.

The New Jersey school bus decorated by Pastors for Peace drives the dancers of the Ballet Nacional Cubano home after rehearsal.

The tambor has begun in thanks to Yemayá and Ochún for saving Marta from her injuries incurred when a neighbor put on a spell of brujería.

Rap group Obsesión organizes a Saturday party for the elderly in Centro Habana so that they can have a space to “dance, socialize, and be relevant” [bailar, socializar, y ser relevantes].

Los Aldeanos sing, “A La Habana ya no aguanto más, se acabó el querer.” [I can’t stand Havana anymore, I have fallen out of love.]

Rain, lightening, and thunder smashes as Síntesis sings to the orishas at Casa del Alba.

At the Peña del Ambia at the UNEAC, the percussion that got everyone on their feet was made out of armoire drawers.

The craziness of my days here seems worth it when in the evenings I can go to see the National Ballet of Cuba, the American Ballet, the New York City Ballet, the Chinese Ballet, and the Stuttgart Ballet all for the equivalent of 50 cents.

Dozens of young jazz musicians improvise on stage at the Jardines del Mella as part of JoJazz [Jóvenes Jazz] Festival, which sounds like jóias [jewels]. The electricity goes off but they keep playing even louder and even funkier in the pitch-blackness.

The rumba dancer on stage at Muñequitos de Matanzas used a pañuelo [handkerchief] with an American flag to prepare his vacunao.

Danza Contemporánea performed “Identidad-1,” a choreographed dance by George Céspedes imagining the story of Cuban cultural exchanges and dance genres if the cubaneo were to be replaced by robotic repetition. The Indian dance critic behind me didn’t understand, saying loudly to her friends that the piece didn’t say anything. Understanding Cuba means perceiving subtle cultural movements.

She spent intermission telling her Cuban guide that he should acknowledge that the government is controlling him while he held his breath to keep from bursting.

Francisco used to dance abakuá but lost his leg to diabetes. Now he sits at the park outside of my house and greets me every evening with a promise to take me out dancing to a Disco Temba party for senior citizens.

Voces

“Plaza de la Revolución” – Photo credit: Annie Gibson

Welcome to Cuba! “Se fue la luz” [The lights went out] and your room is on the 18^th floor.

“Tengo fé en el mejoramiento humano, en la vida futura, en la utilidad de la virtud.” [I have faith in human advancement, in times to come, and in the utility of virtue.] José Martí

Words spoken in the rhythm of son…

Exasperated visitor storms out of the registration line for the film festival saying, “Why is it that in Cuba they seem to want to complicate everything?”

Daynaris tells me to go change my clothes because I am wearing all black on the Día de Santa Bárbara (Changó).

“Are ruins really shame?” asks S.

“Pero amar y ser feliz es algo,” says the graffiti at Línea and Calle G. And I wonder if the voice is spraying out despair over having nothing material or happiness for having the company of others. And I think to myself that scarcity reveals the secret to a good life.

“Step exactly where I step,” says E as I follow her across the crumbling balcony to her home. Who is responsible for ruins in the hallway?

“La gente vive como puede, no como quiere.” [The people live as they can, not how they want.]

Y. tried to shove her wallet into her disheveled bag and then said, “Wait a minute, let me do this the way white people do,” as she organized the clutter.

Cuba is “orden con relajo” writes Damián Fernández.

“Quién no tiene de Congo, tiene de Carabalí.”

“Sueño con papas” [I dream of potatoes], says A. “What I wouldn’t give to eat a potato right now.”

“If they made t-shirts here like they did in New York for every time there was a blackout, I would have all the pullovers I need,” says Ale with a laugh. “Blackout at 2pm. Blackout at 6pm…”

I stand in the park on Neptuno and San Lázaro. “¡Celia!” I yell up to the 8^th floor apartment. Celia leans out the window and throws down the keys to open the door because the buzzer is broken. “¡Doctora, traigo jamón!” [Doctor, I have ham!], yells the vendor. “Should I come up?”

M’s godmother in santería made her hacerse Oyá because she had never had an Oyá as an ahijada, even though the caracoles said that M. was the daughter of Ochún. “¡Que trabajo pasé para Oyá asumirse a la cabeza!” [What difficult times I went through for Oyá to assume her position on my head], M. says, as she tells me about her misfortunes for being initiated as the daughter of the wrong orisha.

“De dos en dos, las maracas se adelantan al yanqui para decirle: ¿Cómo está usted, señor?” [Two by two, the maracas move toward the Yankee to say, How are you, Sir?] – Nicolás Guillén

“Hershey Sugar Factory” – Photo credit: Annie Gibson

Luis, who once guarded the Hershey sugarcane factory when it was in its heyday, now guards its ruins. He chats with me to pass the time. “Life in Cuba is not easy. $300 pesos isn’t much to live on. It is a shame to think about how beautiful this place used to be.” And as we wander around the factory he warns, “Don’t walk too close because it could collapse at any moment.” And I think about how the collapse of Hershey somehow makes this place levitate in our camera’s gaze.

We had steak for lunch. “Where did you get that?” M. asks. “Don’t ask so many questions,” says Ivo. “En Cuba nada se puede y todo se hace.” [In Cuba you can’t do anything and you do everything.]

“Los cubanos son pegajosos.” [Cubans are sticky.]

“Estoy complicada”=I am busy.

Problemas

“March from the University of Havana, 27 November 2014″ – Photo credit: Miriam Psychas

“Todo mundo se busca solución al problema. Estamos acostumbrados a pasar problema.” [Everyone searches for solutions to their problems. We are used to getting through problems.]

Day 2 in Havana: “Get out at Parque Central and wait for the rest of the group there. Don’t trust anyone,” I said on their first trip in the máquinas. José Martí points and laughs at me from Parque Central and tension builds as the men argue baseball at the Esquina Caliente and I wait for my students who don’t arrive. One hour later and 25CUCs lighter, they crawl back to me embarrassed, my pollitos led astray by the young man who promised to take them to a salsa festival that never was. It’s a good first lesson.

The students can’t get into the Artes y Letras building without a carnet and the facultad is out of carnet paper. The solution is to forge UH ID cards at the corner computer printing business and get the secretary to give me the official stamp so that my students can get to class this semester.

“Suave pa que se te de,” says Angel when I come home exasperated after another trip to immigration without receiving the student’s carnets. And I think how the Special Period has made sexuality and violence daily expressions for dealing with daily struggle.

The preciousness of water: Carrying bucket by bucket up the crumbling steps to fill the barrels outside Y’s apartment.

The Arquitecto del Barrio from the Ministerio de la Vivienda who was supposed to fix the hole in the hallway of E’s solar moved to the United States.

When winter comes, the waves break over the wall of the malecón and take away our evening lounging spot.

Seems as if all the 12-seat micros in Havana are broken…

The Cuban bureaucracy is a Kafkaesque machine.

I have to leave the house with Plan A, B, and C and consider the day a success when I complete one of them.

Mercedes fell through the floor of her rotten barbacoa onto the kitchen counter. Then, she dusted herself off, left the barbacoa in the sink, and went to work cleaning the house of the Colombian woman from UNESCO. Just as she does every morning.

D’s frantic phone call, “I don’t know what happened, but L. slipped and fell and there is blood everywhere. Come quick!” And I arrive to hold L’s hand as the doctor tells me, “Hay que luchar por la juventud,” as she meticulously ties 30 stitches to save the skin that had been sliced off L’s knee when she slipped on the mopped floors.

And the woman in the high heels is taking the passport with the paper to be signed into the next door and from there it is a mystery. We wait. And we wait. And we wait some more. “Chicas, no vale la pena coger lucha.” I tell them as I slump back dejected in the waiting room. And I put on that smile that by appearances means all is under control.

As both Brazilian and mulatto, Leo can pass as Cuban by his looks. ¿Quién es el hombre de color? , asks the highway patrol who pulls over our purple Customline 1952 Ford. They take him out of the car for questioning and check his passport and documents while Josh and I, who are clandestinely filming in Cuba, are never questioned. White is not always the color of innocence.

“You have to take advantage of the beach, the art, and the avocado when in season,” says A. in his explanation about how to deal with the difficulties of daily Cuban reality.

Ivo taught me to make tea with onion skins and dandelion to cure A’s cold.

When the rest of the world runs out of natural resources, Cuba will have learned how to make steaks out of marabú.

“Virgen of Charity and bike taxi” – Photo credit: Miriam Psychas

Josh forgot the charger for his camera back in the US. We walk onto the porch of Cellandia and ask, “Does anyone know anything about electronics?” R. gets to work trying to make us a new charger, testing the voltage with his tongue.

Y. can’t replace his stolen drivers’ license because the office is all out of stamps.

You can only get a t-shirt for Marhabana [marathon race] if you paid to participate as a foreigner or if you qualified in the race last year. T-shirts are rationed.

Registering 3,000 participants for Marhabana by hand, the old fashioned way. I wait in line for the woman from INDER to write down my name and my carnet number. Days later I will return for my race number but they can’t find the paper where they had written down my name.

Wear a guayabera and you will be dressed for any occasion.

A piece of metal protruded out of the seat of the collective taxi and tore a hole in my guayabera. The seamstress at the Quitrin in Havana Vieja shuffled me into the bathroom and instructed me to hold the door shut so no one would see me shirtless while she took my favorite shirt to her sewing machine, and using tailoring and problem-solving skills, magically repaired the hole in under 2 minutes.

H. calls to tell me that her carnet was pickpocketed and wants to know what scam the pickpocket was trying to pull when she broke into the bathroom and started chatting with D. as she squatted over the toilet. Hours in immigration paperwork await me.

S. broke his leg trying to jump down on the rocks of the malecón so that he could find a private place to hook up with his girlfriend.

Students arrive angry after waiting all day outside the professor’s office because she didn’t show up to class again and it is the last day for foreign students to take their final exams.

In order to leave the country, International Relations has asked us to turn in our carnets so that they can take them to immigration to be hole-punched. Making that hole is a 3-day process. Didn’t Cuba do away with exit permits? Can’t I just buy a hole-puncher?

Major crises of Tulane in Cuba semester: 2 physical assaults, 1 fall from a 20-foot ledge (luckily into water causing minor bruising), 1 fall resulting in 30 stitches in the knee, 1 fall resulting in leg and ankle break in 3 different locations, 1 dislocated shoulder, 2 stolen carnets, 2 deceased parents, 1 deceased best friend, 1 parent in the hospital in critical condition, 2 food poisonings, 2 allergic reactions needing cortisone injections, 1 crazy sub-letter back home who will not pay my last month’s rent.

Trabajo y Dinero

“Private Enterprise” – Photo credit: Miriam Psychas

“Sueña que no cuesta nada.” [Dream because it doesn’t cost you anything.]

Inventos Cubanos! [Cuban Inventions]

In the voice of a praying monk, Pedro Luis Ferrer and his audience repeat, “The people pretend to work and the state pretends to pay.”

The onion costs 75 pesos and the average state monthly salary is 500 pesos.

M. can’t retire from her secretarial job at the University because then she wouldn’t find students to fill her casa particular.

L. wanted to buy E’s father a drink to celebrate their new friendship. Unknowingly to L., the bartender and E’s father split the commission on his $8 mojito.

I ask to see the menu at the paladar and look the waiter in the eye while inquiring if this is the menu with or without commission.

Writing receipts because no one gives me one…

I make a reservation for the students to go snorkeling and Chirino insists on giving me the commission in hopes that I will bring another group to Punta Perdiz. I buy the students lunch with the commission they were charged for being yuma in Cuba.

We live in function of our infrastructure. The receipt for payment wasn’t prepared today because the power went out. Maybe tomorrow.

Cuba is a smileless customer service industry.

Always being aware of how much every fruit and vegetable costs at the agro…

“Agro Cooperative” – Photo credit: Annie Gibson

It is beautiful to watch neighbors give to neighbors, but nothing is for free. As I listen to snippets of conversations down Línea, everyone is preoccupied with money, food, and getting what is theirs.

She came up to sell yogurt and cheese but she got a much better price for her body from the Canadian tourists renting the room next to me.

“How long have you been in Cuba?” asks T., one of the most important professors and researchers on race in Cuba. “I can’t believe that you have been here for two months and you haven’t invited me to give a talk! Do you want me to starve to death? You have lived here long enough to know that we don’t live off our salaries. I make $500 pesos cubanos a month. How am I supposed to eat if you don’t invite me to give a talk?”

R’s job is to watch the statue of Salvador Allende on the corner of Calle G and 17 where he earns $500 pesos a month, just like Professor T. at the University of Havana. “When I leave for Chile there are going to be people fighting to take my job,” says R. “Statue watching gives you plenty of time to ‘resolver los problemas de la vida.’”

Listening to the Beatles used to be prohibited. Now there is a statue of John Lennon in the park in front of the Yellow Submarine and a statue watcher because people are always trying to steal his eyeglasses.

The owners of the garage on 3ra y C turned it into a private fast food restaurant with the signage modeled after Burger King.

“Why do foreigners think they need so much toilet paper? All you need is one square. The toilet paper está perdido for a month and I have to get it from Julita’s house and she is charging 3 times the cost!” says Ivo as she cleans the bathroom of her casa particular.

At the seamstress’s house in the solar across the street, the seamstress yells out the door for me to come back tomorrow because she is having diarrhea coming out like water.

“Cakes Ana María” is on the second floor of the bright pink building. No sign. Just walk through the door and past the quineañera pictures where the birthday girl poses wearing nothing but a scarf and take your position in line for the best cake in Havana.

At the Cajonera, the warehouse has now been subdivided into living spaces. As we arrive with our cameras, we are offered a photo assistant, gas for our car, cigars, percussion classes, and to hacerse el santo [to be initiated into santería]. Though no longer a place of trade, the neighborhood is ready to do business.

I hand the teller 40CUC and she dispenses a huge stack of CUP through the plastic partition.

“$ pa que me mantenga.” [$ so that I can maintain myself.]

The Colombians staying in the room next door ran out of money and couldn’t pay for their casa particular because all they had was a Citibank card.

Misconceptions of the US: “You can do anything you want in Cuba. If you want to go out and spend $600 every night you can do it, no problem,” says the taxi driver who wants to overcharge us for a ride home.

“Parque Lenin” – Photo credit: Annie Gibson

At the Monument to Celia Sanchéz in Parque Lenin, the old man poses as a tour guide to get a few pesos for his inaccurate historical analysis and I make up a fake phone call to help my students escape.

At N’s apartment, a woman makes her rounds with a bag of shirts, pants, and shoes for sale sent from her brother living in Portugal…

Y’s husband moves back in with his parents during the one-week a year when Y’s Canadian boyfriend comes to visit. How else would they pay the rent and keep money on their cell phones?

I stand with a huge stack of cash at the accounting office of the University of Havana. Fidel and Raúl stare down at me from the poster that reads, “La revolución pujante y victoriosa sigue adelante.” X. holds up a calculator through the bars of the payment window, “They prepared the issue of payment wrong, see? Sign here and on these other 10 copies. I don’t want anyone to think I stole the money.” And he starts counting, bill after bill and I start signing. The two young workers gossip on the lone black couch in the waiting room about how they would redecorate the office. It’s a blank slate. The line to get a receipt to process payment grows. The gossip distracts Y who reprimands them to return to work. He loses count and starts over. The student from Denmark walks in and asks where she should go and I point towards the line to get the receipt for the receipt to process the payment for her tuition.

Turismo

“Coco Taxi” – Photo credit: Annie Gibson

Ivo picks the stale crackers out of the trash where the tourists discarded them. One of the most important lessons to be learned from Cubans is that everything has a use. She will mash them up to make croquetas.

“This is not a tourist experience. Do you see any tourists here?,” says the historian who mediates our contact with the “real” indigenous people of Nengón Kiribá. “They didn’t know that what they were doing was anything special until the teacher discovered them.” We are ordered to sit in the chairs strategically lined up for us to stare at the natives who will cook, sing, and dance for us. After it is over, they will go back to their lives as students, teachers, farmers, and artisans until the next tourist bus rolls up. This was the “real” Cuba.

The clave beat of son and changui ring out from the balcony of Casa de la Trova while the tourists sit and drink their mojitos. The jineteros wait below, dancing in place, hoping to catch a tourist looking for a late-night local tour of buildings and bodies on their way back to the hotel.

Candles, votive figures, and copper rocks are shoved into our hands as we approach El Santuario del Cobre. “It is a gift! Take it my friend!” they shout, in hopes of whatever small change they can get from the students.

Artisans walk back and forth all day, waiting for the moment that a tourist allows them to spread out their hand-cut wood boxes for viewing. These same artists hover in the background ready to cut down coconuts or bring chocolate and cucuruchos or perhaps even to give a coconut oil massage. I buy a wood cutting board, not because I want it, but because I’m made all too aware that the local economy depends on my presence. The little boy throws a rock at the bus as we slip out of town and the artisans mumble under their breath.

Does Baracoa really house the cross that Cristopher Columbus planted on the Americas? It is the holy grail of local tourism.

We meet Señor Fuentes #5, the campesino from the Lonely Planet Guidebook, who will take you to the Cueva del Agua. They should start making Lonely Planet ID cards in Baracoa.

“All the bald men look just alike,” says Ivo as she watches the street through the binoculars to see if she can find Angel. Maybe he stopped for fruta bomba in the market? Angel still hasn’t returned from immigration where he went to report and the tourist and his Cuban companion are ready to check out of the room. They chain smoke impatiently.

Yacht travelers are allowed to stay at port in Cuba for up to 3 days without a visa thanks to Hemingway’s sport fishing tournaments. At the Hemingway Marina posed beside a boat from Wilmington, NC: “You aren’t from the Interest Section, are you?” (It is illegal for Cubans to board a boat in Cuba unless they have a special license for taking tourists sport fishing.) Where do all these boats come from and where do they go?

As the foreigners get goodie bags for their participation in Marhabana, they pose beside a cardboard mascot of a tropical mulata wearing a fruit hat and Adidas running shoes.

“Easy on the door!” say the máquina drivers anytime a foreigner gets into the 1950s vintage taxis because delicate care is needed in closing the doors.

There are plans for a new Hotel Internacional of Varadero, but Lansky’s vision for 1950s resort-style Cuba keeps pouring all-inclusive drinks. How much cheap Santiago rum until the Hotel Internacional of Varadero has been revived to its former mafia glory?

The true magnificence of the Cuban beach resort experience is to watch the foreigners in their vacation haze shaking their rusty hips behind the dance coach during the exercise hour.

“I have a license to take you into Varadero, but not a license to take you out,” says our taxi driver. (There is a special license with higher taxes for taxi drivers working with tourists in Varadero.) “Walk over this bridge and past the security checkpoint and I’ll pick you up where the highway curves.” So we walk over the bridge, umbrellas to block the sun, taking pictures of the signage for the Literacy Brigade that trained young teachers at Varadero beach and eliminated illiteracy in 1961.

The road to the ruins of 19th century sugarcane plantations like Mañach Iznaga is paved with vendors selling embroidered sheets and guayaberas. “I got conned into buying a banana and a cricket made out of sugarcane fronds,” says the Canadian tourist as she finally emerges from the gauntlet.

Standing behind the yellow line – Photo credit: Annie Gibson

There is a yellow line around the Plaza de la Revolución to mark where tourists are allowed to stand to take pictures of the martyrs of the Revolution. The guards keep watch and blow their whistles if we step outside the line.

The foreign voyeur finds his desires met by Cuba. There is a symbiotic relationship between foreigners and their host.

There is always a political rationale behind images produced for foreign consumption.

Cayo Coco: When the tourists eat at the buffet table at the Iberostar Resort of Cayo Coco they have no idea what food shortages Cubans find in the agro when they are bused two hours home from work. “I am so happy to be in Cuba!” say the Canadians in a drunken haze with their all-inclusive wristbands while watching the Michael Jackson impersonators on the pool stage.

A. won a bottle of rum last night by quickly changing clothes with a Canadian stranger during the nightly entertainment show.

J. returned to Cuba after 3 years and rented a car for his visit. He picks up as many hitchhikers as he can on the highway from Santa Clara to Havana. The trauma of living 29 years with poor transportation… He brings his parents on vacation to Havana and Varadero. His dad tells me that J. is now un hombre realizado [complete] because he is behind the wheel of a nice car going on a joyride along the malecón.

“Go to your room! My student is coming over!” I scold the drunk 50-year-old Spanish tourist and his naked Cuban lover sitting on my couch at 9 am. And to think that Cuba eradicated prostitution.

It is ironic that classic American cars are the symbol of revolutionary Cuba. A caravan of classic convertibles carrying tourists to the Meliá Cohiba hotel cruises down the malecón.

The Colombian tourist who came for Baila Cuba got conned into buying overpriced drinks in an empty bar as he naively trusted that the man he met on the street was leading him to a salsa festival.

Pillo Chocolate and his dog are professional costumers in Havana Vieja. If Pillo tells the dog that the tourists watching the act are Americans, then the little dog naughtily refuses to pose for the camera.

Am I like the tourists who come to take pictures of the living decay?

“Renta una fantasia,” says the coco taxi.

Políticas de Género

“At the santero house” – Photo credit: Annie Gibson

On the days that the catcalls on the streets are too exhausting, I decide to spend the rest of the day at home.

Y. thinks it is normal to go over to her stepfather’s house to cook and clean for him because he never learned to do it himself.

At Casa de la Música, a strange show of masculinity: Maykel Blanco sits in a chair onstage sipping a glass of wine while his band plays behind him. A male dancer from the crowd, dressed head to toe in Cuban athletic gear inspired by the Juegos Centroaméricanos y del Caribe, jumps on stage to perform abakuá and breakdancing moves while Maykel Blanco inspects him from his chair sending nods of approval. The male dance circles around Maykel’s attentive gaze.

“Don’t you like mulaticos feos” asks the micro-driver with a flirtatious smile.

“Necesito hablar con su superior” I say, so that I can get the boss to get the boss who finally gets the boss who will do something…

I stuck my hip out with attitude and told the old man asking A. for a kiss to, “Deja la mecánica y coje tu rumbo.” And he looks at me with a surprised face and saunters away.

“It is her fault for being strangled and his fault for stealing the woman,“ says the policeman as we fill out a report in the waiting room.” As if she was paid for merchandise… We all know who was the paying member of that relationship.

I covertly find out the address and phone number of the jinetero that the police wouldn’t deal with as he laid game on me from Yara to Calle G. “Que si te haces el guapo con uno de los míos, lo que te voy a formar es candela,” [If you mess with my job I mess with yours], I say to him with attitude. We shake hands to confirm he will stay away and then he disappears around the graffiti wall of Nelson Mandela.

At CENESEX (Centro de Educación de la Sexualidad) D. tries to explain why she thinks catcalling in the street is machista and the head research librarian responds, “Yes, those piropos in the street are the good side of our machismo. I will see if I can find you a list of them so that you can take them home with you to your country.”

“Chocolate is an aphrodisiac.” That must be why you can find so many 70-year old men with teenage Baracoans at La Terraza night club. They must all have eaten the chocolate.

“Please not again.” I think to myself as the 70-something man with a cane sits down right beside me in an almost empty movie theater at the Yara. I wait tensely until that moment when he unzips his pants to masturbate and I put on the guapería that I wasn’t born with but have learned for survival purposes and, say, “¡Oye niño, ¿no te da vergüenza sacar esa pinga tan chiquitica?!” The theater turns to look. I change seats. And the old man hobbles quickly out the back door. Just another day at the afternoon movie show.

A man with dick in hand chased them down the street again last night. What is the psychological reason for so much public masturbation in Havana?

J. loves the attention at the gay club. “Why don’t you girls like the catcalling you get on the streets?” he asks.

At the adult puppet show, “Charco Seco,” I am handed rainbow-colored anti-discrimination propaganda, condoms, and instructions for proper anal insertion. Cuba sure is doing something right.

Revolución/Evolución

“Chavez at Fuster” – Photo credit: Miriam Psychas

“Fidel Te Queremos, Raúl Te Seguimos, Chávez Te Recordamos” [Fidel we love you, Raul we follow you, Chavez we remember you]

Ciudad Libertad and its barracks stand tall like a ghost town except for the laughter of children in their pioneer uniforms on their way to the schoolroom.

What does the poverty of resistance look like without war? The Special Period in times of Peace is the dignity of the quiet decay of infrastructure.

On 5^th Avenue, there is a statue built in homage to the egg, the salva vida of many a Cuban family during the Special Period.

1950s Cuba showed tropical paradise turning into a tropical nightmare.

All that is left of the statue on G and 1^st is the feet. What counterrevolutionary was removed from his immortality?

The caldosa at the CDR party on July 27th has the smoky flavor of hours over an open flame. The neighbors arrive with their plates and to-go containers and respond with a hardy “Viva la revolución” while rolling their eyes. And at the stroke of midnight we sing happy birthday to the revolution and the grandmothers and grandfathers fold up their chairs and take their plastic cups and plates home until the next time.

The Isaac Delgado concert was cancelled because Sunday, December 7 is Día de los Mártires and you can’t play music after 11pm.

December 8 is Día de los Derechos Humanos and the government organized a party in the square on Calzada and Calle D to cover up the madres en blanco who make laps in support of the freeing of political prisoners in Cuba.

José Martí, Che Guevara, and Camilo Cienfuegos stare down at me at dusk as I walk through Plaza de la Revolución to flag an almendrón down Calle G. Havana is more than a city. It is a monumental dream.

What they fought to prevent happened anyway.

La Guarida is now a solar that Cubans can’t afford to enter.

Dilapidated buildings are the result of historic evolution. The structures of the Cuban nation are aging.

In a capitalist country all the socios would die of hunger.

“Che está liberando y ganando más batallas que nunca” [Che is liberating and winning more battles than ever], says the billboard in front of Calixto Garcia Hospital. Che sure has been busy postmortem.

“Jose Marti” – Photo credit: Miriam Psychas

The heroes have all become statues.

Every day when I walk past the National Office of Normalization [Oficina Nacional de la Normalización], I think of the scene in the movie La Muerte de un Beaurócrata where the uncle’s machine keeps spitting out busts of José Martí.

There are two rides working at the Parque Lenin. Families walk around eating popcorn and observing the rusting metal.

The adrenaline rush you get when getting onto “The Caterpillar” (La Oruga) mini-rollercoaster in Parque Lenin… It may not move fast, but there is real danger that it may fall off the track at any moment.

The psychological hunger of Cubans eating at a resort buffet.

All of Nuevo Vedado is out of power until 5pm today because Fábrica del Arte is doing some electric work. The clash between new private enterprises funded from abroad and Cuban neighborhoods begins.

Is Fábrica del Arte one of the first examples of Cuban cooperatives in the field of culture?

Tonight the theme of the nightly news show “Mesa Redonda” is the conflict between morality and legitimacy in Cuban society. Honesty is actually an expensive virtue. It is easy to be honest when you have everything that you need.

The comedian says, “Havana is like an onion, the more layers you peel back, the more you cry.” The audience bursts into laughter.

The first signs of creeping capitalism are the Bucanero mascot and his sexy dancers promoting beer at Casa de la Música.

The opening scene of Rascacielos by Jazz Vilá: If Cuban theater is the pulse of Cuban society it makes sense that there always seems to be someone on stage masturbating. It is also telling that it may be the first play promoting the small businesses that were the financers of its production. It’s virtually an advertisement for paladares StarBien and Catedral.

Behind every new small business is foreign capital.

We interview two students from California and New York studying at ELAM [Escuela Latinoaméricana de Medicina] and leave feeling as if we need more doctors in the US to practice preventative medicine. The living conditions at ELAM may be eleven students to a dorm room and rice and beans everyday, but med school means sacrifice no matter where you attend. At least ELAM doesn’t put a price tag on health.

I ask P. if she wants to come along to the march on November 27 in honor of the eight martyred medical students shot by Spanish firing squads in 1871. She says she had to spend her whole schooling being obligated to attend marches, receiving bad grades if she didn’t show up. She wishes me well on my adventure.

The tensed shoulders of the Cuban Americans in Terminal 2, arriving for their vaccination against nostalgia, for the part of themselves that they left behind. Or that left them behind. It’s unclear who abandoned whom.

After 3 years of living in the US, J. says that he no longer feels Cuban. But his father never tires of showing off the video of when J. was 11 singing on stage in his pioneer uniform for Fidel.

Medios de Comunicación

“Billboards” – Photo credit: Annie Gibson

Informes [Reports]: the art of writing circles around what I really want to say.

Waiting passengers along Línea point their thumbs over their shoulders while others gesture forward to the oncoming 1950s Chevy collective taxis. Fluency is much more about interpreting gestures than language.

At the opening of the movie Contigo Ajo y Cebolla in the Chaplin, director Héctor Quintero, dressed all in white, comes on stage to present his movie with a sign that says “Viva el Cine Libre.”

“Reading is Sexy. Be prepared. Free Condoms. Si, son de afuera,” says the note attached to the empty basket at Cuba Libro bookstore.

It is Cuban character to crack jokes at their own shortcomings.

“Último,” I call to the blob of people waiting in line. And I mark my ground behind the old woman in the pink skirt sitting in the corner. “Último” says the man walking up and I raise my hand and give my último position to him and he gives it to her and on and on again.

I wonder if there will be Internet today?

The importance of a flash drive: You never know when someone will have music, film, or pdf versions of rare books to pass along.

– Photo credit: Annie Gibson

Socialist slogans adorn city walls in an attempt to overwrite the city.

“El Bloqueo: Genocidio más largo de historia” [The Blockade: The longest genocide in history] reads the billboard in front of the Facultad de Artes y Letras.

Are billboards of socialist propaganda any different from billboards of consumer culture telling us what we should buy, what we should look like, and how we should behave?

Futuro

“Filming in Havana” – Photo credit: Annie Gibson

Sitting at the bookstore, we are approached by the young producer of “Bikinis and Boardwalks,” who is working on a TV segment for an American audience about travel to Cuba. He wants to film us showing them around the beach and a cigar factory in Havana, “like any normal day,” he says. Poor planning by Indigo Films since OFAC doesn’t allow Americans to go to the beach or to cigar factories. I will not be showing my face on that TV show.

Cuba is the country of the future when it comes to managing resources. Y. gives three-year old M. a bath, brushes her teeth, and washes her face with one bucket of water.

How will we cross the street to sit along the malecón when the embargo ends and Havana fills with traffic?

Iconic presence. Nostalgic travellers.

Delírio Habanero. Restored to former glory. I feel as if I’m on South Beach.

D. asks, will new economic changes get rid of Cubans sharing with neighbors as the haves and the have-nots become more visible?

What is the strange alchemy that holds this place together?

Viewers do not get a picture of the present. It is the picture of the past that helps imagine what the present and future will be.

Each fall, the University of Havana organizes a talk with the family of the 5 heroes so we can write to our Congressmen and Senate to plead for the freedom of 5 Cuban spies caught in a political stalemate. What talk will we hear next year?

You want to know what will happen when they open up Cuba to foreigners? The rich will get richer and the poor will get poorer. And Cuba will shuffle all tourists to all-inclusives in Varadero or control them through entrance visas. They have had 50 years to think up a plan.

The US and Cuba announced the end to the embargo on the day of San Lázaro, Babalú-Aye in santería, the orisha of healing. Cubans take to the street on hands and knees in thanks. We all must heal.

“Hasta La Victoria Siempre” [Towards Victory Always]. –Fidel

“CDR” – Photo credit: Miriam Psychas

The post “Vignettes” – Havana, Cuba, 2014 (by Annie McNeill Gibson) appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

Por mais poderosos, articulados e sofisticados que sejam os aparatos filosóficos, epistemológicos, institucionais e teórico-ideológicos em favor  do capitalismo e do imperialismo, os sujeitos sociais e coletividades oprimidas têm sido capazes de responder com alternativas. Ainda que a modernidade ocidental hegemônica, forjada em grande medida pelo eurocentrismo e pelo etnocentrismo, tenha longo alcance através de suas “mãos” (vísiveis e invisíveis), é possível realçar, de forma paralela, variados exemplos concretos, forjados nos mais distintos contextos, que revelam o protagonismo, a rebeldia e a inventividade de subalternos que, compartilhando de outras matrizes de pensamento, conhecimento e experiência de vida, não se submeteram a (e até subverteram) o que lhes foi imposto.

Este artigo busca destacar alguns aspectos do complexo processo de “formação”[1] de um movimento que constitui um desses exemplos. O movimento katarista da Bolívia desafiou as regras pré-estabelecidas e ganhou terreno, especialmente a partir do final dos anos 1960, duas décadas antes da formalização por Krenshaw (1989) do conceito de “interseccionalidade”[2] – que descreve a opção pela relevância prática e teórica da complementaridade entre as normalmente distintas categorias de “raça” e “classe”. No bojo do enfrentamento ao sistema corrente de relações de poder marcado pela opressão aos povos originários, camponeses-indígenas[3] Aymara da região do Altiplano andino formaram uma inovadora articulação e estiveram à frente de mobilizações com fortes demandas étnico-culturais em um dos países com maior grau de exclusão social da América Latina.

O Katarismo emergiu, grosso modo, como resultado da confluência de dois processos (Hurtado, 1986): um de longo prazo, marcado pelos sucessivos atos oficiais de deslegitimação e expropriação de amplas terras coletivas e respectiva conversão das mesmas em propriedades rurais individuais privadas – que tiveram início no longo período marcado pelo colonialismo espanhol, mas continuaram durante o período republicano (a partir de 1825); e outro mais de médio e curto prazo, caracterizado pelo ambiente de alta tensão resultante do tenebroso massacre de soldados camponeses-indígenas na Guerra do Chaco (1932 a 1935), seguido das políticas públicas de incorporação e cooptação adotadas pelo bloco em torno do Movimento Nacionalista Revolucionário (MNR) que, com a ajuda dos próprios camponeses-indígenas empenhados na extinção do pongueaje econômico[4], deslocou a elite extrativista e mais conservadora que dava corpo à chamada rosca[5] e assumiu o comando do Estado Boliviano após a Revolução de 1952.

Uma das medidas estruturais que fizeram parte da agenda inicial do governo revolucionário[6] foi justamente a reforma agrária (no sentido de garantir legalmente as posses de terras a comunidades “tradicionais”, especialmente em áreas andinas), associada à aplicação, a partir dos gabinetes da República, de um modelo de organização das comunidades rurais com base nos sindicatos agrários. À medida que cumpria, ao menos parcialmente, a promessa de evitar a continuidade da desterritorialização dos povos e nações indígenas, a coalizão à frente do governo que se seguiu à Revolução de 1952 colocava em prática também, com a compulsória exigência da sindicalização rural, uma tentativa de enquadramento dos beneficiários aos padrões sociopolíticos da modernidade. A intenção era forçar o deslocamento de todo esse contingente, que mantinha um peso populacional enorme, para a condição de camponeses, dentro de um regime de organização classista, enfraquecendo, ainda que de forma gradual, as demandas de ordem étnico-culturais.

Em compasso com a implementação de um modelo educacional “integracionista” – ou seja, que assumia o aprendizado formal concentrado na língua espanhola, sem espaço para a diversidade social[7]-, a sindicalização rural compulsória foi pensada e implementada como mais um recurso de engenharia social dentro do paradigma moderno de dominação e incorporação de povos e culturas “inferiores” ao modelo institucional “universal” construído a partir de modelos de países do Norte.

O que os idealizadores da “inclusão por decretos” dos indígenas ao quadro institucional moderno não esperavam é que os próprios “objetos” das nomeadas políticas pudessem vir a atuar como “sujeitos” dotados de saberes, demandas e estratégias próprias. Em resposta à tentativa positivista de invisibilização e extinção de seus padrões distintos de modos de vida, camponeses-indígenas aymara do Altiplano Andino trilharam um “caminho próprio” – sem seguir necessariamente o receituário da modernização assumindo-se como camponeses nem se refugiar no essencialismo indígena de cunho “purista” que, pelo lado oposto, também acaba se acoplando perfeitamente à divisão simplista entre aqueles ocidentais e não-ocidentais.

Essa escolha “imprevista” que toma como base o diálogo – e não o divórcio – entre estruturas de cariz “moderno” (sindicato agrário) e práticas aparentemente “tradicionais” (mantendo a organização em ayllus[8] e o papel de jilaqata[9], por exemplo) permite identificar no movimento katarista insinuantes características pós-coloniais, no sentido sublinhado por Young (2003), em seu compêndio de síntese sobre o tema. Para este autor, o pós-colonialismo oferece a possibilidade de “ver as coisas diferentemente”, de acordo com uma linguagem e uma política em que os interesses dos subalternos “estão em primeiro plano, e não em último”.

Imagem 1 – Monumento em homenagem a TupacKatari na cidade de Achacachi (Bolívia) – Fonte: Maurício Hashizume (2009)

2. Antecedentes e contextualização

A análise da formação do Katarismo não pode prescindir da revisão do perfis e dos caminhos percorridos por alguns personagens que vieram a se firmar como precursores e primeiros líderes do movimento. Para este fim, destacaremos as biografias de dois artífices que lhe foram centrais: Raimundo Tambo e Jenaro Flores.

Há um consenso – presente em variadas obras que de alguma forma abordam o movimento, entre as quais as de Hurtado (1986), Albó (1987), García Linera (2008) e Tapia (2007) – de que os primórdios do Katarismo estão ligados ao surgimento de “uma corrente de opinião entre jovens aymaras residentes em La Paz que empreenderam a revalorização de sua cultura” (Hurtado, 1986: 11). Esses jovens – quase todos vindos de áreas rurais do interior da Bolívia – encontraram nas reivindicações étnico-culturais, ainda durante a década de 1950, não só uma forma de nutrir a auto-estima para enfrentar o intenso racismo nas áreas urbanas (ou seja, como um mecanismo de defesa em território hostil), mas também de dar visibilidade às suas intenções de atuar e interferir como sujeitos políticos na definição dos rumos do país. (ou seja, como mecanismo de ataque, ainda no bojo da “abertura”, especialmente com a reforma agrária nas terras altas e nos vales, proporcionada pela Revolução de 1952).

Entre os jovens indígenas que despontaram no interior desta articulação na área urbana, despontaram nomes como Raimundo Tambo e Constantino Lima. De acordo com este último, o grupo realizava reuniões clandestinas em lojas de comerciantes simpatizantes e decidiu fundar a primeira entidade política de inspiração na cultura indígena (Hashizume, 2010). Em 5 de novembro de 1960, 21 índios se reuniram na capital boliviana para formar o Partido Autóctone Nacional (PAN), que pode ser considerada como a primeira agremiação política a abraçar a ideologia indianista. O PAN defendia, grosso modo, a autonomia dos povos indígenas por meio do resgate integral da civilização pré-colombiana e a extinção da organização social com base no Estado-nação, copiada do modelo europeu. Tambo e Lima faziam parte do rol dos 21 que estiveram presentes no que pode ser considerado um marco do Indianismo[10]. Em 1962, os militantes do PAN recebem o reforço decisivo do intelectual Fausto Reinaga, que veio a consolidar obras que se tornaram referência indianistas.

Com Reinaga, o PAN se converte primeiro em Partido dos Índios do Qollasuyo  (PIQ) e, logo depois, em Partido dos Índios Aymara Quechua (PIAQ). Fundado em 15 de novembro de 1962, no mesmo dia e mês da morte do mártir indígena Tupac Katari[11] no final do século XVIII (1781), em Peñas (Departamento de La Paz), local no qual fora esquartejado em praça pública. O período que se seguiu à criação do PIAQ foi marcado pela crise de governança enfrentada pelo comando político do MNR. Essa situação de instabilidade culminou, em 1964, com o golpe militar do astuto general René Barrientos, um dos articuladores do que veio a se chamar de Pacto Militar-Camponês, que teve grande relevância no relaxamento temporário de tensões entre os setores descontentes do campesinato-indígena e o governo central.

Dois anos após o golpe, em 1966, o PIAQ se converteu no Partido Índio de Bolívia (PIB). Mesmo sob os auspícios das perseguições da ditadura militar, Reinaga é nomeado para presidir o PIB, junto com uma nova direção, na qual Raimundo Tambo aparecia como secretário geral e vice-presidente.

Como já foi dito, mesmo antes do regime militar, jovens estudantes aymaras vinham se reunindo em núcleos de discussão em La Paz. E Tambo, como um desses estudantes, permaneceu na operação dessa forma de agitação ao longo da década de 1960, paralelamente à sua participação como militante indianista. O colégio militar Gualberto Villaroel, situado numa área de grande concentração aymara em La Paz, era um dos principais focos de movimentações. Juntamente com outros que também vieram do campo, Tambo fundou, em meados dos anos 1960, o Movimento 15 de Novembro, grupo secreto formado em homenagem a Tupac Katari (data de sua morte[12]) que se dedicou ao estudo e discussão dos valores e da história indígena.

Nesse exercício de reinterpretação do passado a partir da perspectiva indígena, redescobrem as figuras lendárias de Tupac Katari, Bartolina Sisa e Zarate Willka, além de promoverem ampla reflexão sobre a discriminação étnico, racial e social cotidiana sofrida no “exílio” que enfrentavam na urbe. Todas as questões discutidas no âmbito mais intelectualizado do círculo indianista sendo compartilhadas por meio de Tambo (e não só por ele) com a “base” dos estudantes indígenas.

Ele terminou o ensino secundário e tentou, sem sucesso, galgar posições nos colégios militares. Matriculou-se então na Faculdade de Direito da Universidade Mayor de San Andrés (UMSA) e, junto com outros ex-participantes do Movimento 15 de Novembro[13] fundou o incômodo Movimento Universitário Julian Apaza (Muja). Ao mesmo tempo em que combatiam o preconceito e a discriminação no meio acadêmico e urbano, os jovens do Muja também procuravam denunciar o conjunto de problemas enfrentados pelas comunidades camponesas-indígenas da área rural.

Curiosamente, Tambo também estreitou laços com segmentos da esquerda sindical, ligada às ideologias originadas na Europa e alojada na COB, entidade que concentrava grande parte dos trabalhadores “formalizados” da Bolívia. Já no final da década de 1960, com apoio da COB, Tambo se engaja em uma manobra ousada – forma o Bloco Independente Camponês (BIC), que almejava se firmar como uma espécie de núcleo político rival  ao sindicalismo agrário marcadamente dependente do governo central – instituído oficialmente pelo MNR no contexto de 1952 e depois largamente “aproveitado” no contexto do Pacto Militar-Camponês.

A montagem do BIC se deu em paralelo aos esforços da COB, de partidos de esquerda (com destaque para o POR trotskista, com Guillermo Lora à frente) e de organizações independentes em fazer prosperar a Assembleia Popular – mobilização com ambições de gestar e aplicar uma agenda paralela popular, surgida no hiato democrático após a queda de Barrientos (1969) que se estendeu pelas administrações dos generais Ovando e Torres, até 1971. Uma das principais fragilidades da Assembleia foi, por sinal, a sua limitadíssima participação camponesa.

Enquanto o BIC, de Tambo (bastante influenciado tanto pelo Indianismo como pelo Marxismo sindical e partidário), não conseguia alcançar os seus objetivos, outra liderança katarista dava os seus primeiros passos por dentro da complexa estrutura do sindicalismo agrário, institucionalizado e fomentado pelo Estado (seja pelo MNR, no bojo de 1952, ou pelos militares que assumiram o poder) com inegável intuito de controle dos camponeses-indígenas.

Jenaro Flores, então jovem indígena que havia também frequentado o colégio Villaroel e retornado à comunidade  onde nasceu, assumia, em 1969, o comando do Sindicato Camponês de Antipampa (Subcentral de Lahuachaca, Província de Aroma).

Antes de iniciar a sua carreira dentro do sindicalismo agrário, contudo, Jenaro Flores passou por uma experiência marcante, mas pouco conhecida, até entre pesquisadores do tema. No final da década de 1960, quando voltou para Antipampa , foi escolhido para trabalhar como assistente de investigação de um estudo sobre os reflexos da reforma agrária de 1953 que estava sendo levado a cabo pela Universidade de  Wisconsin, nos Estados Unidos. Coordenada por Ronald Clark, a investigação era financiada pelo Comitê Interamericano para o Desenvolvimento Agrícola (Cida) e apoiada pelo Serviço Nacional de Reforma Agrária do governo boliviano. Essa experiência, segundo Albó (1987), permitiu que Jenaro aprofundasse os conhecimentos técnicos sobre as questões rurais. Ao mesmo tempo, o jovem testemunhou de perto a discriminação sofrida pelos pongos aymaras, que tinham o trabalho explorado em relações de servidão e ainda tratados, inclusive pelos próprios funcionários oficiais (que também participavam da pesquisa), com extremo desprezo.

“Mais do que qualquer coisa”, define Albó (1987), “esses estudantes de mão cheia criaram uma identidade baseada nas suas próprias experiências como camponeses e aymaras em face aos desafios da cidade”. Na comparação direta entre os indianistas (articulados em torno dos partidos e movimentos dos quais Raimundo Tambo e Constantino Lima fizeram) e os kataristas, que passaram a focar esforços na organização por meio dos sindicatos agrários, Yashar (2005) ressalta que os kataristas foram “mais bem-sucedidos na formação de redes transcomunitárias” (Yashar, 2005: 169). Os ativistas do katarismo viam a sua luta de forma “diferente em termos ideológicos e estratégicos”, como também realça Hurtado (1986: 262). Ideologicamente, eles concordavam que o colonialismo era um instrumento de opressão que vigorava há séculos contra camponeses-indígenas. O final do período de domínio oficial do colonialismo político em 1825 (independência da Bolívia como Estado-nação) acabou se desdobrando em um novo período de colonialismo interno (González Casanova, 1969) que manteve a condição de subordinação e de exclusão dos indígenas, mesmo depois da Revolução de 1952. “Mas eles se recusaram a reduzir a sua luta à questão racial ou à questão de classe” (Yashar, 2005: 169).

Nesse sentido, como deixa poucas dúvidas o Manifesto de Tiwanaku, documento de 1973 que é apontado como referência inicial do Katarismo, é bastante abragente. “Nós nos sentimos economicamente explorados e cultural e politicamente oprimidos”, destacam os signatários[14], reforçando o potencial de ações efetivas de  “tradução intercultural” (Santos, 2006) e de “ecologia dos saberes” (Santos, 2007), com espaço para as “epistemologias do Sul”[15] (Santos e Meneses, 2007).

Imagem 2 – Sede da CSUTCB, que tem sua origem ligada ao Katarismo, em La Paz (Bolívia) – Fonte: Maurício Hashizume (2008)

3. Diálogo entre lideranças e “tradução intercultural”

Como se nota pelas trajetórias de Raimundo Tambo e Jenaro Flores, os kataristas optaram pela escolha mais complexa de cruzar permanentemente as fronteiras estabelecidas pelo “cardápio cognitivo” então existente. Cruzaram sistematicamente não apenas a “linha abissal” (Santos, 2007) entre o que o mundo moderno (escolas, universidades, instituições do Estado e sindicatos) e o que pensamento hegemônico classifica como “pré-moderno”, obsoleto, rudimentar e descartável (cosmovisão, herança cultural, práticas e rituais aymaras), mas também a linha das grandes ideologias identificadas pelas correntes de esquerda e de direita, reciclando os conhecimentos adquiridos no contato com esses diversos campos de conhecimentos.

Uma das linhas divisórias do conhecimento mais subvertidas pelos kataristas foi a que tende a separar o rural e o urbano. Por exemplo, ainda em 27 de maio de 1969, aymaras que residiam em La Paz – entre os quais Mario Gabriel, cunhado de Jenaro Flores -, criaram o Centro de Coordenação e Promoção do Campesinato – Mink’a[16], um espaço cultural na principal aglomeração urbana para tratar das tradições, histórias e da cultura camponesa-indígena, como um todo, que inclusive é uma das signatárias formais do Manifesto de Tiwanaku. Manteve-se um fluxo de trânsito de pessoas entre campo e cidade. Todos os familiares de uma comunidade retornavam (e ainda continuam retornando até hoje, em algumas regiões andinas), por exemplo, para ajudar a recolher a produção agrícola no período de colheita. Ao mesmo tempo, estudantes camponeses-indígenas eram frequentemente enviados para a cidade, assim como ocorreu no caso do núcleo que veio a formar o Katarismo. Incontáveis deslocamentos para o perímetro urbano também eram feitos por conta da venda de muitos dos produtos agropecuários produzidos no interior.

Um episódio envolvendo os dois principais líderes do movimento katarista ajuda também a mostrar esse insinuante caráter híbrido do movimento. Em março de 1970, realiza-se um congresso na localidade de Ayo Ayo para a escolha da direção sindical agrária da Central da Província Aroma. Mais de mil delegados compareceram e assumiram uma posição antioficialista, afastando conhecidos “dirigentes amarelos”  como Pascual Lara, Francisco Lima e Angel Morales, enfraquecidos por terem apoiado o Imposto Único Agropecuário instituído pelo general Barrientos. No entanto, a disputa pela secretaria geral da Província colocou frente a frente Jenaro Flores, da Subcentral de Lahuachaca, e Raimundo Tambo, da subcentral de Ayo Ayo. Este último tinha muito mais experiência sindical e política: era quase um advogado formado e havia sido condutor tanto do Movimento 15 de Novembro como do Muja, no período em que viveu na capital La Paz. Cinco anos mais jovem, Flores não apresentava grande experiência no sindicalismo, mas atraía atenções com seu carisma pessoal. Em menos de um ano e meio, Flores tinha saltado do sindicato de sua comunidade para a subcentral, e já concorria à central, numa carreira veloz (Hurtado, 1986: 36).

A eleição foi muito disputada, mas as bases acabaram elegendo Flores, jovem que era casado e, detalhe que veio a se mostrar importante, atuava concomitantemente como jilaqata (autoridade rotativa “tradicional”) de sua comunidade; o preterido Tambo era solteiro, e não ocupara nenhuma posição dentro do sistema indígena de organização social. Ou seja, numa acirrada disputa pela chefia de uma instituição tipicamente “moderna” – e por que não dizer, colonial? -, teria pesado o fato de que um dos candidatos tinha uma conexão mais efetiva com a identidade e os valores de extração “étnico-cultural”. Esse caso mostra como a hibridação pode se dar na prática, com base no diálogo intercultural entre os distintos conhecimentos.

Conta-se que, após a divulgação do resultado da disputa, o público exigiu um abraço de unidade entre os dois concorrentes (Rocha Monroy, 2006: 12). O perdedor Raimundo Tambo teria, então, partido para um abraço em Jenaro Flores. A partir dali, começaram a trabalhar juntos. Tambo passou a ocupar posição estratégica no Conselho de Amautas (ligado ao modelo indígena de organização social), que assessorava a Central Agrária de Aroma, e consolidou-se como quadro político e formulador do Katarismo. Enquanto isso, Flores se firmava cada vez mais como dirigente camponês de massas.

Formado na encruzilhada da cidade e o campo, Jenaro Flores utilizou habilmente os ensinamentos e os contatos mantidos entre essas duas esferas. Organizou, por exemplo, campeonatos de futebol para atrair camponeses e fazer ressoar as idéias kataristas. Estimulou e manteve canais relevantes com La Paz, com destaque especial, além dos já citados Movimento 15 de Novembro e do Muja, para duas emissoras (Rádio Méndez e Rádio San Gabriel[17]) que passaram a transmitir programas com conteúdo e história indígena, e o Centro Mink´a .

Em 1970, dois fatos relevantes fortaleceram a imagem de sindicalismo “cultural” dos kataristas (Hashizume, 2010: 22). Pela primeira vez, a simbólica bandeira wiphala[18] apareceu hasteada, em 6 de junho, por ocasião de um encontro de camponeses no dia do professor, em Corocoro (Província Pacajes, vizinha à Aroma). E no dia 15 de novembro, a wiphala voltou a tremular em Ayo Ayo diante de cerca de 30 mil camponeses-indígenas que compareceram para homenagear Tupac Katari.

Por meio da aproximação com políticos como José María Centellas e Juan Chambilla (ambos da ala mais à esquerda do MNR), Flores promoveu o evento de 189º aniversário da morte de Tupac Katari, no qual foi inaugurado um monumento em homenagem ao mártir, e conseguiu atrair a presença não só do presidente naquela ocasião, Juan José Torres, mas também de outras autoridades bolivianas (Hurtado, 1986: 38). Esse primeiro impulso de ascensão dos kataristas[19] foi sucedido pelo golpe de Banzer, em 21 de agosto de 1971, que colocou todo o movimento na clandestinidade. Mesmo nessa condição, o Katarismo continuou a conquistar espaço. Primeiro, surgiu o já citado Manifesto de Tiwanaku (1973). Ladeado por assassinatos, desaparições, prisões e perseguições, o massacre de Epizana, Tolata e Melga, em 1974, que ceifou a vida de camponeses-indígenas que protestavam contra o governo, tornou o clima ainda mais tenso (Rivera Cusicanqui, 2003: 147). Após aprovar mais uma declaração de apoio ao programa katarista em 1977, o setor consegue realizar um importante encontro em 1978 que, por sua vez, permitiu estruturar duas conquistas centrais em 1979: a fundação da Confederação Sindical Única dos Trabalhadores Camponeses da Bolívia (CSUTCB) e as mobilizações populares contra o governo que resultaram numa paralisação nacional contra o pacote de medidas de ajuste econômico receitadas pelo Fundo Monetário Internacional (FMI) da presidenta interina Lidia Gueiler, em dezembro do mesmo ano.

Como desdobramento desse processo de lutas, a CSUTCB reiterou a adoção da análise dos problemas e da busca de soluções com base na “teoria dos dois olhos”: como camponeses, juntamente com toda a classe social trabalhadora explorada, e como povos indígenas (aymaras, quechuas, ayoreos, moxeños etc.).

Em junho de 1983, com sua tese política, a CSUTCB de certa forma conclui o seu programa político, que pode ser sintetizado no seguinte trecho:

Nosso pensamento não admite uma redução unilateral de toda nossa história a uma luta puramente classista nem puramente etnicista. Na prática, dessas duas dimensões reconhecemos não apenas nossa unidade com os operários, mas também nossa personalidade própria e diferenciada.

Imagem 3 – Reprodução de cartaz exposto em prédio municipal de Sica Sica (Bolívia) – Fonte: Maurício Hashizume (2009)

4. Formas de luta e “ecologia de saberes”

Na prática, portanto, o movimento katarista utilizou a estrutura formal e institucional formada em torno do sindicalismo moderno/colonial para cultivar e disseminar outros conhecimentos, ou melhor, a hibridação de conhecimentos, sempre de acordo com os contextos nos quais os problemas eram apresentados. As jilaqatura e sindicato agrário foram (e continuam a ser) utilizados como duas faces, uma mais institucional (com registro formal junto às autoridades estatais) e outra mais simbólica (com forte influência na vida comunitária), de uma proposta comum. Há depoimentos que garantem que a luta sindical ganhou com os ensinamentos culturais, e vice-versa. Em vez de recusar em absoluto possíveis ensinamentos “vindos de fora”, o katarismo escolheu absorver e reorganizar as ideias de acordo com as suas necessidades.

Evidentemente que essa sobreposição não se dava de maneira natural, tranquila e sem sobressaltos. Em inúmeras vezes, a convivência entre essas duas lógicas gerava “faíscas”: impasses, entreveros e contradições. O caso do Katarismo demonstra claramente, porém, que o pressuposto paradoxo social formatado pela matriz colonial pode se misturar, embaralhar as regras pré-estabelecidas e funcionar como elemento de contestação das relações de poder, saber e, inclusive, ser.

Se é inegável que não chegou a dar forma final a um projeto alternativo completo (não só no aspecto epistemológico e intercultural, mas também nas esferas política, econômica e social) de relação entre sociedade e Estado, capaz de articular os níveis local, nacional e global, também é possível afirmar que ajudou a ampliar e embaralhar as margens que dividem o previamente bom do irremediavelmente ruim, o válido do inválido, o possível do impossível e, em última instância, o real do utópico.

Em larga medida, o movimento katarista inspirou e abriu as portas, com décadas de antecipação, a uma série de mobilizações, reivindicações e programas políticos que vieram a se consolidar na Bolívia desde então[20].

Por não permanecerem confinados e se afastarem de “purismos” conceituais adotados por grupos políticos mais convencionais de esquerda, os militantes kataristas colocaram a “interseccionalidade” na prática e ganharam espaço em diversas frentes de atuação. Atualmente, a imagem do movimento pode ser associada por alguns à demasia “flexibilidade” de alguns de seus notórios membros – como é o caso de Victor Hugo Cárdenas, que ocupou o cargo de vice-presidente entre 1993 a 1997 na gestão francamente neoliberal de Gonzálo Sanchéz de Lozada (MNR). Ainda assim, o Katarismo segue como relevante referencial político-ideológico de contestação para as organizações camponesas-indígenas até hoje.

Na prática, a experiência katarista ratifica a problemática das dicotomias como obstáculos à interpretação da “ecologia dos saberes”, apresentada por Santos (2007) como alternativa diante do sistema colonial, capitalista e imperialista que, nos últimos séculos, tem determinado o desperdício da experiência social que o próprio Santos (2000) define pela desigiação de “epistemicídio”. A escolha pelo diálogo e combinação recíproca entre diferentes conhecimentos contribuiu para furar os bloqueios e limitações armadas pelos esquemas e relações de poder estabelecidas.

O questionamento à relação intrínseca entre colonialidade/modernidade – duas faces da mesma moeda, conforme conceituação de Mignolo (2000) – não implica o anseio por “sociedades congeladas no tempo, ilhadas e essencializadas”, como adverte Blaser (2007: 14). “É muito fácil constatar que estas sociedades não existem, que são fantasias românticas”, conclui este último.

“A capacidade inovadora, a adoção de tecnologias e conhecimentos ‘externos’ úteis, a adaptação e a mudança, a conexão com e a abertura relativa com relação a outras sociedades”, prossegue Blaser (2007: 14), “não são atributos exclusivos da sociedade moderna; são atributos de todas as sociedades”. Não se deve, contudo, assumir que as diferenças sempre significam antagonismos, mas tampouco se “deve dar por certo que existe complementaridade entre elas ou que essa complementaridade pode ser imposta de cima para baixo” (Blaser, 2007: 14).

Uma formulação interessante para essa mescla sobreposta de culturas pode ser encontrada em Rivera Cusicanqui (2006: 11). Ao se auto-definir ela própria, ela diz se considerar uma mestiça – não mais nos moldes da integração por meio dos programas modernos de mestiçagem, mas no sentido de mistura conflitante – ou simplesmente chhixi, em língua aymara. A palavra chhixi, de acordo com ela, tem diversas conotações: é uma cor produto da justaposição, em pequenos pontos ou manchas, de cores opostas ou contrastantes: o branco e o negro, o roxo e o verde, etc. “A noção chhixi, como muitas outras, obedece à ideia aymara de algo que é e não é ao mesmo tempo, ou seja,a lógica do terceiro incluído” (2006: 11).

Além disso, na arena imaginária em que os diversos e recombinantes conceitos pós-coloniais estão em contínuo encontro, conflito e sobreposição, a experiência do Katarismo dialoga diretamente com a escolha do “essencialismo estratégico” (Spivak, 1999), pois apresenta um componente de ressignificação da condição do subalterno por ele próprio como protagonista da ação política e sujeito social. Também guarda relação com as reflexões acerca da “outra modernidade” (Chatterjee, 1997) forjada por diferentes pontos de vistas e das especificidades dos contextos de ex-colônias.

De alguma maneira, este trabalho procurou seguir a dica deixada pela própria Spivak. “Se o sujeito (…) foi mascarado como o sujeito de uma história alternativa, devemos refletir sobre como ele está escrito, em vez de simplesmente ler sua máscara como uma verdade histórica.” (Spivak, 1994: 188)

O que a autora indiana reforça é que escrever e ler, em um sentido mais amplo, “marcam duas posições diferentes em relação à ‘oscilante e múltipla forma de ser’”. (Spivak, 1994: 188). Segundo ela, “produzimos narrativas e explicações históricas transformando o socius, onde nossa produção é escrita, em bits – mais ou menos contínuos e controlados – que são legíveis”.

A forma como essas leituras emergem e a definição a respeito de qual delas será legitimada são questões que têm implicações políticas em todos os níveis possíveis, reitera. Ou seja, o subalterno e seu discurso não são apenas e necessariamente as formas como alguém é capaz de lê-los, mas é inclusive como ele mesmo se produz por meio da ação social. Por isso, o Katarismo como “epistemologia do Sul” é resultado não de heranças ou legados mantidos pelos camponeses-indígenas do Altiplano Andino, mas da iniciativa coletiva daqueles que agiram diante da subalternidade e conferiram um significado convertido em conhecimento contra-hegemônico, ou seja, em “outros saberes” que, diferentemente da “pureza” reivindicada pelas teorias produzidas pelas ciências sociais do Norte[21], são repletas e constituídas de “contaminações” e interferências mútuas, no sentido do que pode ser definido como exercício prático de “tradução intercultural” (Santos, 2006).

Imagem 4 – Manifestações em El Alto: wiphalas tremulam ao lado da bandeiras nacionais – Fonte: Maurício Hashizume (2009)

5. Conclusão

No campo dos estudos coloniais, é bastante comum ver citada a obra do  psiquiatra e ensaísta negro Frantz Fanon, nascido na Martinica, como um dos principais referências “históricos”, visto que sua obra data justamente da década de 1960: a mesma em que se deram desdobramentos determinantes para a formação do Katarismo. É notável a convergência entre os escritos de Fanon sobre os conflitos socioculturais na Argélia e as formulações kataristas no que diz respeito à “inadequação” dos marcos teóricos do Norte hegemônico para o Sul Global.

Quando se examina de perto o contexto colonial, é evidente que a divisão do mundo começa pelo fato de pertencer ou não a uma determinada raça, a uma determinada espécie. Nas colônias, a estrutura de base econômica é também a superestrutura [da teoria marxista]. A causa é a consequência; você é rico porque é branco, você é branco porque é rico. Esse é o motivo pelo qual a análise marxista deve sempre ser ligeiramente alargada toda vez que temos que lidar com o problema colonial (Fanon, 2001: 31)

Tal “coincidência” não reflete exatamente uma espécie de pensamento único e uniforme a respeito das experiências coloniais na Argélia (principal referência para as inquietações de Fanon) e na Bolívia, mas antes uma latente discordância, moldada pelos respectivos contextos sociais, quanto aos quadros-gerais eurocêntricos e etnocêntricos.

No caso mais específico do Katarismo, os camponeses-indígenas Aymaras bateram de frente não só com a colonialidade (do poder, do saber e do saber) – que, como ressalta Quijano (2000), vai muito além do colonialismo em sua concepção convencional e se perpetua através de práticas sociais de subalternização assimiladas e incorporadas pelos próprios colonizados, mas também do supracitado colonialismo interno (Gonzáles Casanova, 1969), desafiando conspirações elitistas a partir de massivas mobilizações de nações e povos indígenas, originários e camponeses.

Esta forte vinculação com as experiências sociais vividas no terreno faz dos pensamentos pós-descoloniais não uma escola de pensamento “de vanguarda”, conforme léxico usado com frequência no âmbito das ciências sociais convencionais. Em vez disso, ancoram-se na concepção de pensamento “de retaguarda”, em linha com as reflexões de Santos (2012). Daí a relevância de sublinhar os processos de enfrentamento protagonizados pelos movimentos por trás da emergência de tendências acadêmicas. As lutas dos movimentos sociais são prévias a quaisquer giros pós-descoloniais. Estes últimos podem ter sido beneficiados pelo acúmulo, consistência e abrangência derivados do aparecimento de um conjunto posterior de escritos – que incluem o aclamado Orientalismo (1981), de Edward Said -, mas as primeiras são as fontes e as bases da concretude e repercussão da perspectiva pós-decolonial como crítica sociopolítica.

Sob o manto das pretensas neutralidade e universalidade (repletas de pré-concepções, direcionamentos e limitações de caráter eurocêntrico e etnocêntrico), destacadas lutas como as do movimento katarista têm enfrentado cânones, postulados, proposições e intervenções modelares de transformação social. Esses sujeitos sociais expuseram problemas e exigiram direitos, cavando e ganhando terreno em espaços científico-acadêmicos. Empurrada por interpelações “sentidas na pele” e por contestações vigorodas dos movimentos sociais, as portas, então, se abriram. Como detalha um reconhecido investigador dedicado aos estudos pós-descoloniais, desenvolveu-se, desde o início dos anos 1980, “um corpo de escritos que tentam deslocar as formas dominantes pelas quais são vistas as relações entre povos ocidentais e não-ocidentais e seus mundos” (Young, 2003: 2).

O que isso significa? Isso significa virar o mundo de cabeça para baixo. Isso significa olhar a partir do outro lado da fotografia (…). Isso significa se dar conta de que quando os povos ocidentais olham para o mundo não-ocidental o que eles enxergam é frequentemente mais a imagem deles mesmos e de suas próprias suposições do que a realidade daquilo que de fato lá está, ou ainda a forma como as pessoas fora do ocidente realmente sentem-se e entendem-se a si próprias (Young, 2003: 2).

O segmento final da referida definição (“a forma como as pessoas fora do ocidente realmente sentem-se e entendem-se a si próprias”) remete novamente às experiências protagonizadas por sujeitos políticos do Sul, tais como o movimento katarista, que desafiaram o status quo (político, econômico, cultural, epistemológico e ontológico) com a sua opção pelo ativismo sindical com forte influência étnico-cultural.

Isso faz com que se torne imperativo evitar a delimitação territorial, temporal e sociocultural da ideia de interseccionalidade e do pensamento pós-descolonial. Há evidências de que essas proposições analíticas não são propriamente “novidades” das últimas décadas, desconectada das lutas anticoloniais do passado levadas a cabo pelos povos colonizados. Muito antes da “onda” de produções e reflexões que passaram a ser categorizadas “técnica e cientificamente” como pós-descoloniais, diversas mobilizações concretas protagonizadas no Sul já tinham sido formadas não só para pensar, mas para aplicar programas político-ideológicos que não se restringiam aos manuais engessados e moldes pré-fabricados dos setores “de vanguarda”. Tais iniciativas, a despeito de suas incomensuráveis heterogeneidades, se coadunam no diálogo e intercâmbio horizontalizado entre diversos conhecimentos e modos de vida ocidentais e não-ocidentais, ou seja, tendem a combinar justamente, cada um da sua forma, elementos “clássicos” da luta de classes com a defesa dos direitos “diferenciados” nos campos étnico-culturais.

Este artigo foi desenvolvido no âmbito do projeto de investigação “ALICE, espelhos estranhos, lições imprevistas”, coordenado por Boaventura de Sousa Santos (alice.ces.uc.pt) no Centro de Estudos Sociais da Universidade de Coimbra – Portugal. O projeto recebe fundos do Conselho Europeu de Investigação, 7.º Programa Quadro da União Europeia (FP/2007- 2013) / ERC Grant Agreement n. [269807]

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En effet, dans les cercles intellectuels comme dans les rues européennes, peu de noms de féministes arabes sont connus. Qui se souvient du nom de la journaliste libanaise Rose al-Yussuf (1898-1958) ? de l’égyptienne Houda Cha’rawi (1879-1947) ? de la tunisienne Bchira Ben Mrad (1909-1993) ? Et pourquoi les écrits féministes de Tahar Haddâd (1899-1935) sont-ils si peu traduits et si peu diffusés en Europe ? Nous constatons aujourd’hui cette invisibilité flagrante du féminisme arabe, sans en connaître les raisons profondes. Les féministes contemporaines sont un peu plus connues, telle Fatima Mernissi très active dans l’ensemble du Monde arabe, ainsi qu’en Europe. Mais tandis que le féminisme occidental (européen et nord-américain) s’est constitué comme une entité complexe, le féminisme arabe semble ne pas avoir existé hier, et peiner à exister aujourd’hui.

Kimberlé Crenshaw peut nous aider à comprendre ce phénomène d’invisibilité d’un féminisme non-occidental. Tout d’abord parce qu’elle a contribué à faire connaître les travaux de Gloria Hull, Patricia Bell et Barbara Smith et en particulier leur ouvrage All Women are White, all the Blacks are Men[2]. Ce titre énonce un préjugé qui explique pourquoi les femmes afro-américaines ont été d’emblée exclues des mouvements féministes. Et ce préjugé peut aujourd’hui s’appliquer aux sociétés arabo-musulmanes vues d’Europe et s’énoncer de la sorte : Toutes les femmes sont occidentales ; tous les Arabes, tous les Musulmans sont des hommes. Ainsi, en 2014, le féminisme mondial reste un féminisme foncièrement occidental, qui accepte malaisément d’inclure d’autres féminismes comme le féminisme arabe ou le féminisme musulman. C’est dire à quel point les découvertes de Kimberlé Crenshaw sont d’actualité.

Quelle est la réception effective de l’œuvre de Crenshaw dans le monde arabo-musulman contemporain ? Dans quels domaines l’intersectionnalité s’y applique-t-elle particulièrement ? Et comment certains concepts y sont discutés, sans que l’ensemble de la méthode initiée par Crenshaw ne soit remis en cause ?

Intersectionnalité et sociétés

La réception de l’œuvre de Kimberlé Crenshaw dans le monde arabo-musulman est contrastée. Non encore traduite à ce jour en langue arabe, elle se trouve assez bien connue des universitaires des pays anglophones (notamment l’Egypte) mais très peu connue dans les pays francophones (comme l’Algérie). On peut donc parler ici d’une réception limitée, l’œuvre de Crenshaw ayant encore trop peu d’impact direct sur les sociétés arabo-musulmanes. Pourtant, la notion d’intersectionnalité ouvre un domaine de recherche fort utile dans des sociétés qui peinent parfois à penser leur hétérogénéité. L’ouverture prochaine de départements d’Etudes féminines (comme à l’Université de Tunis) devrait pallier ce manque, et permettre aux théories féministes non-occidentales d’être plus visibles.

Le cas de l’Egypte, où l’œuvre de Kimberlé Crenshaw est la plus reconnue dans le Monde arabe, est une exception : il s’agit d’un pays dont l’élite est parfaitement anglophone, et il s’agit du pays de Nawal Saadawî, figure de proue du féminisme arabe, longtemps exilée aux USA. Ainsi, le féminisme arabe devient visible dès lors qu’il se trouve porté par une figure internationale, maîtrisant la langue de l’autre (ici, la langue anglaise) et vivant dans le pays de l’autre (ici, les USA). Autrement dit, le féminisme de Saadawî a acquis une forme grandissante de visibilité à mesure qu’il s’occidentalisait. Cette visibilité ne réduit cependant pas l’invisibilité de tous les autres féminismes du Monde arabo-musulman, bien qu’il en encourage l’émergence.

L’invisibilité des féminismes du Monde arabo-musulman tient donc peut-être à la langue. Enoncées en langue anglaise, les théories de Nawal Saadawi rencontrent celles de Kimberlé Crenshaw, en Egypte, ou aux USA. Nawal Saadawî s’intéresse elle aussi à ce point de croisement aveugle entre diverses catégories : femmes, pauvres, malades, exploitées, emprisonnées. En tant que médecin, elle soigne ces patientes dont l’existence est niée par la société, et elle décrit leur parcours, parfois en s’identifiant très fortement à elles[3]. Il nous faut noter que les femmes auxquelles s’intéresse Nawal Saadawî sont opprimées par la société dans laquelle elles vivent, et non par l’extérieur (c’est-à-dire l’Occident). Elles peuvent dès lors plus facilement susciter l’empathie de femmes occidentales, qui, elles non plus, ne supportent pas la dictature, ni les dérives du patriarcat…

La solidarité s’avère plus compliquée lorsque les femmes qu’il s’agit de soutenir ne correspondant pas au prototype de la femme occidentale, par exemple lorsqu’elles sont voilées, et semblent soumises. Kimberlé Crenshaw avait vu juste en parlant de « the centrality of white female experience in the conceptualization of gender discrimitation[4]». A sa suite, Elsa Dorlin a montré comment « les [premières] associations féministes se déchirent et se scindent sur la question perverse de la prééminence « légitime » des femmes et épouses « blanches » sur les Noirs et par conséquent sur les femmes « noires », excluant purement et simplement ces dernières de la catégorie « femmes[5]» ». Autrement dit, les femmes arabo-musulmanes non-occidentalisées ne seraient pas des femmes comme les autres. Certains propos rapportés et analysés par Elsa Dorlin, datant de plus d’un siècle, et s’appliquant aux femmes afro-américaines, rejoignent des propos circulant depuis une dizaine d’années en France et en Europe au sujet des femmes arabo-musulmanes. Par exemple, il y a plus d’un siècle, aux USA, la Présidente de la Fédération générale des clubs des femmes expliquait ainsi qu’elle ne pouvait accepter Mrs Lowe parmi ses membres : « Mrs Ruffin appartient à son propre peuple. Là, elle sera un leader et pourra faire beaucoup de bien, mais parmi nous elle ne peut que créer des problèmes[6]». Ce préjugé s’applique aujourd’hui à la femme de culture ou d’apparence arabo-musulmane en France, ou ailleurs en Europe. En tant que femme arabo-musulmane, elle se trouve renvoyée aux siens, tandis que les siens la renvoient à leur tour à sa condition de femme. Finalement, elle n’est jamais totalement elle-même : dans une communauté de femmes occidentales et féministes, la femme arabo-musulmane est d’abord perçue comme arabo-musulmane (a fortiori si elle est voilée) ; et dans la communauté arabo-musulmane, elle est perçue comme une femme, avec des droits et des devoirs spécifiques. Aucune de ces perceptions ne rend à cet individu (qui se trouve être une femme, de culture arabo-musulmane) toute son humanité.

De plus, il nous semble que la question du féminisme arabo-musulman s’articule avec la question post-coloniale. Elsa Dorlin cite d’ailleurs, en note, Edward Saïd[7]. Si les femmes africaines-américaines n’ont pas eu leur place dans les premiers mouvements féministes aux USA, c’était à cause du racisme. Et si les femmes arabo-musulmanes n’ont pas aujourd’hui leur place dans les mouvements féministes, c’est peut-être une conséquence de la colonisation et de l’orientalisme.

En effet, durant la colonisation, la femme arabo-musulmane était très présente dans l’imaginaire collectif français. En peinture comme en littérature, elle fut constamment représentée, puis très photographiée. Et l’on peut noter qu’elle était le plus souvent représentée assise ou allongée, nue et parée de bijoux. Or, il se trouve que les femmes arabo-musulmanes d’aujourd’hui, dans le Monde arabo-musulman comme en France, peuvent apparaître comme l’exact contraire de l’ « orientale » : les femmes voilées figurent une verticalité en marche, qui trouble et parfois effraie. L’image fréquemment utilisée pour exprimer le malaise ressenti devant des femmes entièrement voilées est celle de « fantôme ». Ainsi, tandis que la femme arabo-musulmane colonisée et orientalisée était couleurs et chair, la femme arabo-musulmane d’aujourd’hui paraît spectrale, insaisissable. Même lorsque ses prises de positions rejoignent celles des féministes occidentales, le voile creuse entre elles un fossé.

Mais le monde n’est pas binaire, et les fossés se creusent au sein même des sociétés arabo-musulmanes. L’intersectionnalité n’opère donc pas seulement entre ancien colonisateur et ancien colonisé, mais au cœur de toutes les sociétés, car toutes les sociétés de notre monde contiennent des éléments hétérogènes. Autrement dit, la question de la femme arabo-musulmane se pose aujourd’hui partout dans le monde, et le même paradoxe s’observe ici comme ailleurs : le voile la rend visible, mais inaudible, et le féminisme arabo-musulman semble ne pas exister, à moins d’être porté par des femmes arabo-musulmanes occidentalisées.

On voit de ce fait que les théories de Kimberlé Crenshaw permettent d’élucider des paradoxes très contemporains. La femme de culture arabo-musulmane vue d’Europe, et en particulier vue de France, pays de la laïcité, se retrouve à l’intersection de plusieurs catégories (sexuelles, sociales, historiques, économiques, culturelles) qui la rendent invisible. Elle sera tour à tour appréhendée comme arabe (non-européenne), ou comme musulmane (non-laïque), ou comme immigrée (même lorsqu’elle a la nationalité européenne), ou comme issue d’une ancienne colonie française, ou comme issue de tel milieu social… Mais son identité singulière, qui coïncide avec le point d’intersection de ces catégories plurielle, peine à être reconnue. Des rôles lui sont assignés, qui entravent sa connaissance de soi, et sa reconnaissance par autrui.

Ainsi, le passage semble étroit pour que les femmes arabo-musulmanes, et a fortiori les plus féministes d’entre elles, puissent se faire entendre et se défendre, tout en échappant à la fois au repli traditionaliste, à l’orientalisme latent, à l’occidentalisation forcée, au sexisme et au racisme.

Intersectionnalité et littératures post-coloniales

Cinq ans avant la parution de l’article de Kimberlé Crenshaw « Demarginalizing the Intersection of Race and Sex : A Black Feminist Critique of Antidiscrimination Doctrine, Feminist Theory, and Antiracist Politics » Alice Walker publiait la Couleur pourpre[8]. Dans ces deux textes fondateurs, l’un socio-juridique, l’autre romanesque, il est question des violences domestiques dont les femmes afro-américaines sont victimes. Cette coïncidence entre la parution d’un article scientifique et un roman, traitant de la même problématique, est intéressante. Elle révèle que parfois la littérature devance, ou rejoint la sociologie. En ce qui concerne la notion d’intersectionnalité, cette convergence semble remarquable dans les littératures issues du Monde arabe. On trouve cette problématique de l’invisibilité due à l’intersectionnalité dès 1945, date à laquelle Kateb Yacine commence à écrire Nedjma[9] dont le personnage se trouve être une femme, juive par sa mère, arabo-berbère par son père, nue dans une célèbre scène de bain, et finalement voilée, et errante. Quelle que soit la forme qu’elle prend, Nedjma ne parle pas. Elle est toutes les femmes que l’on veut, mais elle ne semble être personne. L’entrecroisement de sa judaïté, de son arabité, de sa féminité et de son statut de colonisé la font littéralement disparaître. Comme disparaissaient des statistiques les femmes afro-américaines battues sur le sort desquelles Kimberlé Crenshaw s’est penchée.

Après Kateb Yacine, d’autres écrivains ont continué à mettre en scène cette disparition des femmes arabo-musulmanes du champ de vision du féminisme humaniste, parmi lesquels Naguib Mahfouz, Assia Djebar, Hanan el-Cheikh, Fadhila Chabbi et, plus récemment Emna Belhaj Yahia. Dans son roman intitulé Jeux de rubans[10], Emna Belhaj Yahia s’interroge sur le voile en Tunisie. Elle rapporte ses pensées tandis qu’elle attend son tour chez l’épicier :

Je regarde les femmes auprès desquelles je fais la queue : nous ne sommes que deux à ne pas être voilées, c’est-à-dire à ne pas porter ce grand foulard qui enveloppe le cheveu et encadre le visage. Cela fait quelques années déjà qu’on commence à s’y habituer. Mais je suis tout de même à chaque fois surprise que cette nouvelle façon de s’habiller se répande autant et envahisse si vite le décor. Tout de suite, je me sens différente. Peut-être plus par les pensées qu’elle soulève en moi, que par le fait lui-même. (…) A les regarder de près, attelées comme tant d’autres aux tâches quotidiennes, ces femmes n’ont rien d’inquiétant dans le visage, rien d’agressif, à mon égard en tout cas, et ne manifestent aucune hostilité. Je revois à l’instant toutes celles qui leur ressemblent, que j’avais déjà remarquées bien des fois et qui, dans les quartiers populaires, ont sauté sur cet habit pour pouvoir exercer tranquillement leur métier d’aide-ménagère. Dans ces lieux-là, ce sont elles qui subviennent aux besoins de la famille[11].

Ici, une première raison de se voiler est explicitée : travailler, pouvoir aller et venir dans la rue, sans passer pour une prostituée. Mais la position de la narratrice est ébranlée lorsque son fils lui présente la jeune fille dont il est amoureux : étudiante, coquette, au caractère affirmé, et voilée. Le roman s’achève d’ailleurs sur une scène apocalyptique qui a tout d’une hallucination, et qui révèle l’immense perplexité de la narratrice :

[Mes enfants] se tiennent par la main et, derrière eux, il y a toute leur descendance, leurs enfants, petits-enfants, arrière-arrière-petits-enfants, qui avancent en dizaines de rangées correspondant à des dizaines de générations successives, de celles nées il y a plus d’un siècle à celles qui naîtront dans plus de cent ans. Mais, comme c’est curieux, elles se suivent dans un ordre singulier : une rangée où les femmes ont des foulards sur les cheveux, suivie d’une autre où elles ont les cheveux au vent, et ainsi de suite à l’infini, dans une alternance presque parfaite, vagues régulières, enlacées, exposant leurs différences comme si chaque rangée était une réplique à l’autre, comme si pour s’affirmer, elle avait décidé de marquer son opposition en reniant la tenue de celle qui l’a précédée. (…) C’est quoi, ce mystérieux manège ? Et pourquoi ce fétichisme d’un tissu sur la tête qu’on enlève, remet, retire de nouveau pour le remettre encore une fois, quelques temps après, et puis s’en défaire, et recommencer l’opération par la suite, tout au long des siècles ? Elles sont vraiment énigmatiques, les filles d’Eve, avec l’habillage de leurs corps, sur cette terre qui est la mienne ! J’aimerais les comprendre, mais je n’y arrive pas encore[12].

Ainsi, il y aurait autant de raisons de se voiler, que de ne pas se voiler. Les premières féministes arabes se voilaient pour aller travailler, ou pour participer aux assemblées politiques. Puis elles se sont dévoilées, pour être les égales des hommes. Aujourd’hui, les jeunes filles se voilent pour de multiples raisons : par réaction contre l’occidentalisation-laïcisation de leur culture, par réaction contre la nudité orientaliste, par réaction contre leurs parents, par désir de retrouver des racines identitaires, pour intégrer une communauté, pour retrouver une spiritualité, pour faire coïncider leur foi et leur apparence…

Pour Emna Belhaj Yahia, la plus commune de ces raisons serait une réaction par rapport à la génération précédente. Le résultat de toutes ces réactions en chaîne est une essentialisation de la féminité, en laquelle la narratrice ne se reconnaît pas. En effet, si, pour une génération, la femme doit être voilée ; pour la génération suivante, elle ne doit pas l’être, et cela à l’infini, comme si la femme se réduisait à ce qu’elle porte ou ne porte pas. A cette essentialisation, Emna Belhaj Yahia préfère sans doute un féminisme existentialiste, où l’existence précède l’essence, et non l’inverse.

De ce fait, la littérature contemporaine met en scène l’intersectionnalité tout en remettant en cause la catégorie de « femme ». Notons aussi que cette déconstruction de la catégorie de « sexe » s’accompagne d’une déconstruction de la catégorie de « race ». D’ailleurs, la langue arabe utilise le même terme pour dire « sexe » et « race », désignés tous deux par jins (qui peut aussi se traduire par « espèce »). De ce point de vue, la langue arabe semble nous inviter à dépasser les catégorisations « sexuelles » et « raciales » pour penser en termes de catégories mouvantes, et toujours à redéfinir.

Ce travail de redéfinition de notions liées au genre (masculin/féminin) ou à la culture (arabo-musulmane/occidentale) s’observe chez des écrivains tels Tayeb Sâlih, Amara Lakhous, ou encore Amin Maalouf. Ils appartiennent à une littérature post-coloniale qui repense les rapports de force tout en déconstruisant la notion d’identité fixe. Dans ce sens, ils s’inscrivent dans ce que Leslie McCall a appelé la complexité anticatégorique de l’intersectionnalité[13]. Amin Maalouf est allé jusqu’à théoriser cette nouvelle conception de l’intersectionnalité dans Les Identités meurtrières[14] en utilisant un modèle non plus à deux mais à une infinité de dimensions. En quelques mots : il se trouve que je peux être perçue comme une femme, ou bien comme un individu de culture musulmane, ou bien comme un.e salarié.e ou bien comme une personne aimant la nature etc. Or, ce qui est perçu de moi n’est pas la totalité de ce que je suis ; ce que je mets en avant n’est pas non plus la totalité de ce que je suis. L’identité est kaléidoscopique, et dépend des moments, des enjeux, des protagonistes et des circonstances. L’intersectionnalité n’est plus un croisement entre deux voies, mais un tourbillon d’intersections.

L’autre apport de cette littérature post-coloniale issue du Monde arabe à l’intersectionnalité de Kimberlé Crenshaw est la fin de la notion de « race ». Le mot n’est plus guère utilisé en langue française, bien que des théories « racistes » continuent à avoir cours. Il semblerait que les luttes contre les catégories de « sexe » et de « race » soient indissociables dans les littératures post-coloniales issues du Monde arabe. Car il s’agit de lutter contre tous les sectarismes. Et cela se fait aujourd’hui non seulement dans des ouvrages scientifiques, ou dans des romans, mais aussi dans la littérature enfantine. Deux exemples récents : dans sa série « Mes histoires préférées », la Maison d’édition tunisienne Messa opère une petite révolution à l’intention des enfants : Dora l’exploratrice y est présentée comme « une jolie petite fille brune de peau[15]» à un lectorat pour qui la blancheur est un critère de beauté ; et, dans un autre livre de cette même série, la princesse choisit elle-même celui qu’elle épousera, en interrogeant ses prétendants (tous les personnages masculins de Disney, réunis ici) et en tuant ceux qui ne répondent pas à ses questions[16].

Pour conclure, l’intersectionnalité de Kimberlé Crenshaw a non seulement traversé les décennies, mais aussi les frontières. C’est un formidable outil d’analyse, dont les catégories peuvent être discutées, mais dont l’efficacité opératoire ne se dément pas. Appliqué aux cultures arabo-musulmanes, cet outil nous aide à comprendre pourquoi les femmes peuvent y sembler invisibles : comme Nedjma, à la fois femme, arabe, juive et colonisée. A l’aide de l’intersectionnalité, nous saisissons mieux ce passage entre la représentation de la femme orientalisée et la femme voilée, toutes deux très présentes dans les imaginaires collectifs, mais inaudibles. Dans les deux cas, le son est coupé[17]: les femmes peintes par Delacroix durant son séjour algérien de 1832 ne parlent pas, et lorsque, aujourd’hui, en France ou ailleurs, une femme voilée prend la parole, on s’interroge sur son voile avant de l’écouter. La femme orientalisée de naguère et la femme voilée d’aujourd’hui se rejoignent dans un silence qu’il nous revient d’entendre et d’analyser.

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Image 1: Bus stationed in Frontera Comalapa, Chiapas, Mexico in expectation of a journey to the U.S.-Mexico Border. – Photo Credit: Rebecca B. Galemba

Mexicans ride these buses, but Central Americans also seek to blend in. At the southern border, a history of cross-border marriage, social networks, and refugee flight and return during the height of Guatemalan counterinsurgency conflict (1980-1981) make distinguishing Mexicans from Guatemalans difficult. Mexican adults in the region told me that most could not trace their families any further back than their parents or grandparents to Mexico. They all had Guatemalan roots. Yet Mexico’s official attitude towards such fluid identities is anything but. In this region many poor residents lack documents and the border has been historically porous. Meanwhile, at the southern border, the municipality of Frontera Comalapa has developed into a hub to purchase any document you want. Official surveillance in this context often takes on ethnic and classist tones. I asked one immigration official how she could ascertain the difference between Mexicans and Guatemalans in this context. In addition to dress and dialect, she mentioned, “we can often detect by the smell.”

One February day in 2007, I purchased tickets for this trip at a “Travel Agency” in Frontera Comalapa. I was not planning to travel until the end of March; advance purchase did little to secure my reservation. When my husband and I attempted to travel north on one of these buses one March Wednesday morning, many buses refused to let us board. Operators claimed they were full. While some buses were hired directly by maquilas, or border assembly plants, at the northern border, it was also clear that many were neither full nor contracted. What I learned from the one company that allowed me to ride was that many were wary of human rights reporters. I had bought my tickets to Tijuana, where I intended to visit contacts from field research in 2004. While many people said they were going to Tijuana, in reality few buses had Tijuana as their destination. The drivers told immigration agents they were headed for Caborca, Sonora. Only as we approached the border did I learn that the bus was destined for the desert border town of Altar, Sonora. Why were these buses so openly advertised, yet also disguised? A Mexican bus operating in Mexican territory should be free to operate without fear. The tourism or travel label was partly designed to get around Mexican bus companies’ monopolies over particular routes. Yet this label also disguised the purpose of the journey since a deeper suspicion of illegality surrounded the buses due to their destinations and passengers. This bus ride from Mexico’s southern to northern border provides a window into how Mexico is implementing border security through interior checkpoints, as well as to how the U.S.’s security agenda casts a specter of illegality over these buses and their passengers even within Mexican territory.

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This piece focuses on the problems of trying to prevent undocumented migration to the U.S. by investing more resources and assistance into Mexican border policing in order to fulfill a U.S.-designed security agenda. Mexico has recently escalated border enforcement to stem what the U.S. termed a “border crisis” of undocumented Central American youth arriving at the U.S.-Mexico border in 2014. In July 2014, Mexican president Enrique Peña Nieto implemented Programa Frontera Sur (Southern Border Program[1]) to improve border security and to protect migrants entering Mexico. To solve this crisis, according to many politicians and dominant media renderings in the U.S., Mexico must enforce its own southern border. U.S. assistance is implicit and explicit in this solution as the U.S. embraces Mexico as a key partner for establishing hemispheric security (Benítez Manaut 2003). Alan Bersin, U.S. Assistant Secretary of Homeland Security recently stated, “The Guatemalan border with Chiapas is now our southern border” (Isacson et al 2014: 5). Recently, Mexico’s Secretary of the Interior Miguel Angel Osorio Chong similarly articulated Mexico’s “new” approach to the border, “Never before has Mexico announced a state policy on the border… now [it is] absolute control of the southern border” (Archibold 2014). Yet these statements are somewhat misleading while they also lack historical depth. The southern border has never been consistently well patrolled, but periodic crackdowns have been common throughout Mexico’s recent history.

This article reveals the historical continuity that the discursive construction of a “border crisis” has played in justifying increased, yet often ineffective, counterproductive, and perhaps even destructive, border enforcement. As recently argued by Gabriella Sanchez (2014), the construction of a “border crisis” is a powerful narrative to justify the escalation of criminalization, militarization, and violence.[2] It entrenches the political status quo: fear of a “crisis” derails immigration reform and justifies more resources for controversial U.S.-backed Mexican and Central American security initiatives. In this narrative, enforcement, rather than human rights, the right to mobility, and the failures of broken immigration and labor systems, becomes the dominant policy and media focus.

The justification of heightened security to combat a purported border crisis has older roots. The suspicions and surveillance surrounding this bus’ journey, for example, highlight Mexico’s subservience to the U.S. border agenda seven years prior to the 2014 crisis. To claim that a crisis has simply emerged obscures the ability of historical analyses to temper current approaches and to offer alternative solutions. Specifically, the crisis discourse, and the enforcement policies it legitimizes, shares much in common with the U.S. approach to the U.S.-Mexico border, which became especially prominent during the 1980s War on Drugs and the 1990s border enforcement built up.[3] Peter Andreas identifies the similar power of the narrative of “loss of [border] control” at the U.S. Mexico border. According to Andreas (2000: 7):

The stress on loss of control understates the degree to which the state has actually structured, conditioned, and even enabled (often unintentionally) clandestine border crossings, and overstates the degree to which the state has been able to control its borders in the past…it obscures the ways in which the state itself as helped to create the very conditions that generate calls for more policing.

In the historically porous Mexico-Guatemala borderlands, the rhetoric of border security has intermittently risen to the fore to justify increased surveillance; state officials have often used ethnicity and dialect to signal otherness and exclusion.[4] Mexico first militarized its border with Guatemala to contain the refugee flow during the Guatemalan conflict in the early 1980s (Cruz Burguete 1998). More recently, Mexico intensified border enforcement and interior inspection points in line with a U.S. post-September 11, 2001 hemispheric security agenda. In July of 2001 under Plan Sur,[5] Mexico signed onto a U.S.-backed plan to not only strengthen its southern border with Guatemala, but also to implement militarized internal checkpoints. According to Miguel Pickard (2005), “the measure had the effect of ‘displacing’ tasks of the U.S. southern border to southern Mexico.”[6] Plan Sur increased migrant vulnerability as migrants sought out more dangerous routes and sophisticated smugglers to avoid the checkpoints (Birson 2010). Migrant desperation has become lucrative for cartels and criminal gangs who bribe their way through the bolstered security system (Birson 2010).

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On the bus, the mood was light as passengers joked with one another, music switched somewhat seamlessly between Mexican Norteña bands and Britney Spears, and passengers requested different DVDs. Some DVDs were bootleg copies of comedies; bus passengers laughed when the amateur bootlegger also captured audience members walking in and out of the theater when trying to film the actual movie. Most of the DVDs did not even have Spanish subtitles. However, most passengers seemed content to focus on something else besides the barren hillsides. The bus journey, however, was impeded by multiple checkpoints staffed by immigration, customs, the police, or the military. Checkpoints were more frequent at the southern border in Chiapas and again, as we neared the U.S.-Mexico border. At each checkpoint, the atmosphere shifted as passengers were instructed to get off the bus and to file into separate male (over 40 individuals) and female (4 individuals) lines as their papers, faces, and ways of talking were inspected.

Outside of Tuxtla Gutiérrez, Chiapas, we came to a temporary inspection point in the form of a tent set up on the side of the road with a small plastic table for food and a television. An immigration agent boarded the bus yelling, “Gather of your belongings [when you get off]. Please gather all of your belongings.” She didn’t give anyone time to speak. We were never given a reason why three men were kicked off the bus after the agents inspected every passenger. The agents suspected that the men were Central Americans. One passenger, who others referred to as their “guide” or “boss”, urged people who knew the men to defend them, but many people were afraid that this would render them suspect as well. One passenger told me that he was traveling with five friends, but that two were from Guatemala. The men told officials at the Mexican checkpoints that they were traveling separately because, as the passenger explained, “I don’t want to be accused of being a coyote [human smuggler] if they [Guatemalan friends] are caught. We don’t want to be associated.” He continued, “Sometimes Mexicans are being taken [off the buses] at the checkpoints while some Guatemalans pass fine. They [officials] will confuse [Mexicans] as being Guatemalan. It is very strict now.” Sometimes people were unsure if others were Mexican or Central American. The above passenger was uncertain, “They are from Guatemala, but have lived in Mexico for a long time. They are more Mexican.”[7] The “guide” believed that the men were Mexican and that the immigration officials “just want money. They often behave badly. If they have money, the [officials] will let them pass. They [officials] don’t have the education to know who is Mexican and who is not. They also don’t seem to care.” He continued to explain that people “often do not know how to defend themselves…Even when they are Mexican, the migra [immigration agents] will remove them [from the bus].” The three men had been taken off of the bus, but at later checkpoints, officials instead collected money from individuals or from the bus drivers who then collected from the corresponding passengers. Some men told me they believed that people who anticipated a problem could sometimes pay an advance fee to the bus drivers to help them through checkpoints. One man told me that he refused to succumb to this practice; “If you don’t pay, they take you off the bus…[But] I am Mexican and I would rather get off the bus than pay.” When this man was stopped for further questioning at one checkpoint, he related, “They asked for everything, all my documents…” He laughed…“And then, what are my parents’ names, how old are my parents, where was I born, how old am I, what day was I born, why did I leave? …If you answer just one question not to their liking, they take you off the bus.”

Ironically, Grupo Beta,[8] a Mexican unit dedicated to protecting migrant rights in Mexico, stopped the bus a few miles after the men had been removed from the bus by immigration. As they delivered pamphlets addressing the right of Mexicans to travel freely within Mexico, we recognized the terrible irony that the men had just been kicked off the bus. A Grupo Beta representative inquired if any immigration agents had asked for money from anyone or if anyone had been kicked off of the bus. They told the passengers that no one should be able to infringe on their rights to travel as Mexicans or to take money from them; if this occurs, then they should report it. Yet, the passenger who identified as a “guide” explained, “If you are Mexican you can go to human rights, but it’s often too late. They [human rights] should be watching the migra since it is complicated to denounce them. But they [human rights] are often located where they cannot do anything to resolve anything. Then you lose time and money.” When passengers mentioned that three men had just been kicked off of the bus, the Grupo Beta representative responded, “If you know they are Mexican… from your communities, defend them.” Yet the representatives also admitted that this could lead to problems since they knew that many people carried false documents and “if you do not know, you can be accused of being a coyote.” The potential for illegality rendered all passengers vulnerable to the whims of authorities operating under a U.S. security lens that is suspicious of all travelers heading north. Surveillance in northern Mexico is often racially marked against not only Central Americans, but also against southern Mexicans and the indigenous, who northern Mexicans have historically stigmatized as backwards and as posing a potential threat to the socioeconomic order (Vila 1999: 80).

As we approached the U.S.-Mexico border, the bus drivers gave gifts of DVDs and cigarettes to immigration inspectors to ensure a smooth passage through various checkpoints. The drivers knew the agents well; then the agents would wave, “see you next week.” As we neared the border, the bus drivers also urged passengers to hide their cell phones in overhead compartments. They knew officers might confiscate phones since they suspected they would be used to call coyotes waiting at the border. Some passengers had made the journey to the U.S.-Mexico border in groups and planned to call coyotes to help them with the long trek through the desert into the United States. Less experienced passengers were accompanied by the Mexican “guide” on the bus, whose task was to deliver them at the U.S.-Mexico border to a partner more familiar with the next leg of the journey. When we arrived in Altar, Sonora, everyone got off the bus and seemed to disappear into the desert dusk. My husband and I entered one of the few taquerias in an otherwise desolate town to wait almost two hours for a bus to Tijuana.

The bus journey illustrated the unpredictability of surveillance and the anxieties, as well as opportunities, this generated for passengers. Immigration agents might detain and deport someone, collect a bribe, or choose to ignore or fail to recognize false documents. While many bus passengers were apprehensive about the journey, more experienced migrants knew that they would eventually succeed. One passenger who was friends with the men who had been kicked off the bus received a phone call from them as we approached the U.S.-Mexico border. His friends would be joining him at a hotel in Altar, Sonora to wait for their coyote.

The Mexico-Guatemala border has long been selectively and unpredictably enforced. The actual official border is often easy to cross. At an official inspections post at Ciudad Cuauhtémoc, Mexico and La Mesilla, Guatemala, I often found confused tourists wondering where to get their passports stamped when they crossed the border. Border officials generally remain in their offices as people easily walk across the border and board vans to their destinations. However, semi-permanent, as well as unpredictable, checkpoints increasingly break up interior highways. Makeshift checkpoints may emerge overnight and vanish the following day. However, at the same time, a lack of sufficient and trained personnel, historically porous flows, the necessities of trade, and the fact that border security is costly and often counterproductive, lead the government to promote one image—of total control—while the reality is otherwise. As one customs official explained, “There are only 30 fiscal inspectors in all of Chiapas. Look…[he beckoned out of his office window to the expanse of mountains that constituted the international border]. This is a big state. With only 30 [inspectors] what are we supposed to do?” Unpredictability at once engenders fear and hope, which fuels the ability of corrupt state officials and smugglers to take advantage of migrants. Meanwhile, an image of control, rather than its actual implementation, enhances state legitimacy by demonstrating the state’s commitment to border management (Andreas 2000: 11; Nevins 2002). Similarly, at the U.S.-Mexico border, Peter Andreas (2000: 9) argues, “successful border management depends on successful image management, and that does not necessarily correspond with levels of actual deterrence.”

One customs official in Chiapas explicated the function of the image of control:

What the government wants to do most is show an image of control…but of course…if you actually see, you know that isn’t true…To actually exert control costs…the government is often not willing to spend the money…The government has sent more forces, but they are the same….They could send ten more units and it would be the same.

This disjuncture between image and reality has proven true in the past; when Mexico created a new border police force (Policía Estatal Fronteriza-State Border Police) in 2007, border residents I knew soon realized that many of the officers were the same men they knew from the state police force. The officers had received new uniforms, but otherwise nothing had changed. This buildup of the border security apparatus is a product of the state’s desire to show a public presence of force, while simultaneously realizing the inability, and impracticality of, fully controlling the border (Andreas 2000).

Recently numbers of undocumented migrants at the U.S. border have declined and the rhetoric of crisis in the U.S. media has subsided. However, Mexico continues to confront much of this flow. A priest who works with the Casa del Migrante in Tecún Umán, Guatemala told me in 2007, “To work for immigration is dirty work…Bush asked Mexico to help detain migrants going north and Mexico is doing its dirty work.” According to Migration Information Source, Mexico has deported over 30,000 Central Americans in 2014 (Archibold 2014).  Can this really be termed a successful solution to a crisis? When migrants are caught within Mexico’s web of enforcement, they’re more likely to be preyed upon by gangs, officials, and cartels, especially in border cities where migrants may desperately wait, become stranded, or try to gather funds to try again or return home. The hostel worker related, “And from these same migrants the officials feed themselves, taking their money and then they are allowed to proceed.” One migrant described the symbiosis between migrants and officials, “If there weren’t migrants, the migra [immigrant agents] would not have jobs. The migra are corrupt, they take your money and beat you.” To him, officials and bandits belong on the same continuum. He was deported because he had no more money to pay officials-the maras gangs had already taken everything.[9]

Mexico recently committed to patrolling the freight train called “La Bestia”/ “the Beast”, which migrants jump on and cling to as they attempt to make the journey north.

Image 2: Flyer warning migrants of the dangers of “The Beast” if they decided to travel north. Translation: “If you go… ‘the dignity and human rights of migrants do not have borders.” – Photo Credit: Photo taken by Rebecca B. Galemba at the Casa del Migrante in Tecún Umán, Guatemala.

In Tapachula, Chiapas, I met double amputees whose limbs were crushed by “the Beast” when they fell from the train. Yet for many the risks of “the Beast” were preferable to alternative routes, where they believed they would encounter more official corruption and criminal groups.[10]Amputees at the Albergue Jesus El Buen Pastor in Tapachula, Chiapas, a shelter for injured migrants, have fashioned wheelchairs out of plastic chairs.[11] One man, a double amputee, realized the irony behind his higher quality wheelchair. He told me that in 2006, Maria Shriver, who was married to Arnold Schwarzenegger, the governor of California at the time, came briefly to the shelter to donate fifteen wheelchairs. He told me “It was nice of her to donate the chairs,” but he disliked Schwarzenegger’s politics, especially concerning immigration.[12] “No he didn’t come,” he said. “We wouldn’t accept him if he did.”

Image 3: Photo of a make-shift wheelchair at Albergue Jesus El Buen Pastor in Tapachula, Chiapas – Photo Credit: Rebecca B. Galemba

The lesson from the U.S.-Mexico border is that the militarization of enforcement does not stop unauthorized border flows (Andreas 2000). When security escalates, smugglers become more sophisticated, violent, and demand higher fees, migrants pursue more dangerous routes, and officials increase bribes (ibid.). In turn, the border policing apparatus expands to combat it in a spiral of mutual escalation (ibid.). In 2012, the U.S. budget for immigration enforcement was $18 billion, larger than all other federal law enforcement agencies combined, despite evidence that such escalation may be counterproductive (Preston 2013). A similar border security approach is exported to Mexico, without enough consideration of judicial and policing reform, corruption, causes of migration, and a lack of transparency and accountability in policing institutions (Isacson et al. 2014). In this context, further feeding the current security and migration infrastructure has led to an escalation in human rights abuses. For example, human rights activists point to concerning implications for migrant rights as Grupo Beta, whose purpose is to aid migrants, has now been enlisted to help Mexican authorities conduct migrant raids (Stanton 2014).

In 2014, The Merida Initiative,[13]a security agreement established between the U.S. and Mexico in 2008 to combat drug trafficking and transnational crime, directed increased funds and attention to  “creating a 21st century border” and securing Mexico’s borders (Isacson et al.: 24). As of February 2014, The Mérida Initiative allocated $112 million in technology for border security including training, inspection equipment, and infrastructure, including additional small amounts for Navy/Marine training and facilities from the Defense Department’s counter-narcotics budget (ibid.). Most of this funding has gone to the northern border, but the southern border is now also becoming a priority (ibid.). Yet militarizing security forces in Mexico and Guatemala through U.S.-backed initiatives like Merida and Central American Regional Security Initiative (CARSI[14]) has not only failed to stem the drug war, but Mexico’s war on the cartels has also left 80,000 dead, 27,000 disappeared, and thousands displaced and since 2006 (MAWG 2013: 3; Abrego 2014). Such approaches are worrisome in regions where the military continues to be associated with human rights abuses and impunity. The United States cut off funding to Guatemala’s military in 1990 due to human rights abuses. Despite this, conditions have loosened and these restrictions do not apply to Defense Department funds, from which $27.5 million was given to Guatemalan security forces for counter-narcotics control form 2008-2012 (Isacson et al. 2014: 29; MAWG 2013). As David Bacon (2014) warns, “giving millions of dollars to some of the most violent and rightwing militaries in the Western hemisphere…is a step back towards the military intervention policy that set the wave of migration into motion to begin with.”

Mexico’s current approaches to tackling border issues, such as the Southern Border Program, do not contain sufficient measures to protect migrants or prosecute corrupt officials. While the program stresses migrant protection as a key component, Jorge Urbano, Director of the Program on Migration at the Iberoamerica University, expressed doubts that “if there is no qualified human capital…professionally trained to do a job that requires expertise in the subject of human rights, the measure…will result in little more than merely good intentions” (Langner 2014, translation mine). The program also does not address the concerns of migrants in transit (Langner 2014).[15] Rubén Figueroa, Coordinator of the Mesoamerican Migrant Movement in the Southern Region, asserts that:

the federal government has applied the Southern Border Plan as a police action to detain and deport the largest number of migrants…within this plan there are no provisions to prevent crimes…In the last decade more than 70,000 migrants have disappeared in Mexico and there are no mechanisms to denounce these disappearances when family members are in Central America[16] (Blanco 2014, translation mine).

Tasking Mexico’s migration institutions and enforcement agents with bolstering border security, regularizing migration, and protecting migrant rights raises additional concerns as critics doubt the ability of Mexico’s National Institute of Migration (INM) to implement immigration laws and respect human rights. In 2013, the INM ranked 8^th in the number of human rights abuses reported to Mexico’s National Human Rights Ombudsman (Isacson et al.: 32). The federal police and military ranked even higher in terms of abuses. According to Casa del Migrante in Saltillo in 2013, the federal police received the most denunciations for migrant abuses, even ahead of the Zetas cartel and maras gangs (Ureste 2014a). It is evident that strengthening security does little to make people feel secure. One merchant complained to Mexican journalist Manu Ureste, “as there are more checkpoints, there is more corruption” (Ureste 2014b, translation mine). As soldier demanded money to look through her bags, the merchant laughed when asked if the additional checkpoints made people feel more secure (ibid.). Instead, she saw the checkpoints as an opportunity for officials to distribute money amongst themselves (ibid).

To further understand Mexico’s approach to Central American migrants, it is important to note that Mexico accepts very few refugees–last year only 208 Central Americans (Kahn 2014). Many migrants are deported before they can pursue claims or they are detained indefinitely in INM’s poor facilities while filing (Isacson et al. 2014: 33). Once detained, migrants have a miniscule chance of advocating for an asylum case (IAHCR 2013). At one Mexican detention facility I visited in 2007, the women told me the men were denied water. Visits with their husbands in a different cell depended on the discretion of individual agents. One woman said the only reason the immigration delegate in charge came to check on them that day was because I was present. “Normally,” she said, “they yell at us and insult us.” Most detainees did not know how long they would remain in INM facilities or when they would be sent home. Mexico has recently made some efforts to decriminalize migration in 2008, as well as to enable migrants to seek justice for abuses regardless of status under the General Population Act in 2010 (IAHCR 2013). Nonetheless, detention remains the norm and protections have been insufficient to stem abuses. A recent Washington Office on Latin America report cautions:

Given the widespread and well-documented involvement of Mexican authorities with human smugglers and organized crime, increased immigration enforcement in Mexico is likely to accomplish little, and will only contribute to the further enrichment of corrupt officials and criminals, and to the victimization of innocent migrants (Meyer and Boggs 2014).

We need to become attuned to the reasons why people migrate and why they go where they do; this forces us to look in the mirror at foreign intervention, devastating trade policies, and inconsistent and insufficient immigration and refugee policies.[17] Pushing the crisis elsewhere through increasingly militarized means not only does not work, but it also leaves death and violence in its wake. Moreover, just as the crisis imagery obscures the fact that such problems have long been in the making, it also makes the issues seem to disappear once media and policy attention dissipate. Instead, Joseph Nevins (2002: 171) points to how the political-economic context and political elites shape our perceptions of crisis even when actual conditions may remain similar.

The power of the U.S. to control the border has become a normalized response to larger economic, political, and global anxieties (Nevins (2002: 37). Laying bare the social, historical, and political processes by which border policing has become a normalized mode of nation-building can help us question the implications of extending such exercises of power beyond and within national borders (Nevins 2002; Nevins 2014). As witnessed by the suspicions of illegality surrounding the Mexican bus’ journey, the U.S. has extended its border surveillance practices to Mexico, effectively undermining its sovereignty. Mexico and the U.S. have also instituted internal borders like the checkpoints depicted along the bus trip while the U.S. has implemented various practices of governance (e.g. E-Verify, Secure Communities, workplace policing, and the denial of driver’s licenses in various states) that increasingly delimit and criminalize the movement and existence of immigrants, creating what Nuñez and Heyman (2007) term, “entrapment processes” (also see Nevins 2014).

The restriction of rights based on national borders, coupled with the presumption that border policing can effectively guarantee these rights, relies on an assumption that threats to a nation come from outside of its borders and that such threats should therefore be combatted at the border. The normalization of this logic has made the granting and withholding of basic rights conditioned on national borders appear beyond reproach.[18] Such national frames of concern further contribute to the exploitation and abuse of migrants in transit as well as in the U.S., as their rights are either outright devalued or all too easily suspended in the name of security.

Image 4: Mural of the difficult northward journey, which depicts an imposing border with a narrow entryway between the United States and Mexico at the Casa del Migrante in Tecún Umán, Guatemala. - Photo Credit: Rebecca B. Galemba

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Towering over the Senegalese capital of Dakar, the recently completed African Renaissance Monument casts a long shadow that stretches out across the surrounding suburb of Ouakom. Ahead of these three colossal bronze figures – a man, a woman and a child – is the Atlantic Ocean. Behind, an otherwise barren landscape is scattered with tell tale signs of development: here a cluster of cranes, there the foundations of a hotel rising up from the beach scrub. The skyline of Dakar is changing.

The brainchild of former Senegalese president Abodulaye Wade, the 49-metre high African Renaissance Monument (Le Monument de laRenaissance Africaine) was billed as an effort to challenge “centuries of ignorance, intolerance and racism” about Africa (Ba, 2009). To this end the monument represents a confluence of two distinct agendas. On the one hand, it embodies a moment of enormous optimism. As the name suggests, the statue signifies a rebirth of sorts; the right to a future just over the horizon signalled by the bronze child’s outstretched hand. In aiming to “match the Statue of Liberty or Paris’ Eiffel tower” (Ibid), however, the ARM also stakes out a claim in a global arena of national monumentalisation. This statue does not merely celebrate; it competes. The latter goal is complicated by a number of factors: a lack of transparency around the cost of the project, labour secured from a North Korean investment cartel, and an “un-Islamic”, even Stalinist aesthetic belie its scope and ambition. Collectively these concerns have engendered extensive debate in the global press. While Wade’s supporters argue that the statue brings life to Africa’s “common destiny” (Walker, 2010), celebrated Cameroonian curator Simon Njami has called the monument (in O’Toole, 2012) the “‘most outrageously stupid thing in the world”.

African Renaissance Monument – Photo by Author

In terms of sheer schizophrenic impact, the ARM is perhaps an apt metaphor for another giant looming large in the Dakarois cultural imaginary. The Dakar Biennale or Dak’art, the oldest mega show of its kind on the African continent, is likewise the meeting place of two ideological commitments that can make for uneasy bedfellows. As the descendent of poet, politician and philosopher Léopold Sédar Senghor’s “First World Festival of Negro Arts”, the biennale is closely bound up in the rhetoric of a contemporized pan-Africanism[1]. In its most recent incarnations the event has also strategically aspired to internationalism. To extend my metaphor, Dak’art turns its gaze to the West with its feet still anchored in African soil and as the African Renaissance Monument suggests, this can at times be an awkward, even inherently unstable, cultural and political location. In the text that follows I briefly chart some moments of friction that emerge as a consequence of these two ideological metanarratives overlapping in Dak’Art 2014, and evaluate to what extent the biennale has succeeded in reconciling a pan-African regionalism with its alignment to a global art world.

Rather than polarise these discourses and risk rendering them mutually exclusive, I hope to examine their points of intersection (and cross-pollination) in order to ask after Rasheed Araeen, “Can Africa assert its independence or develop its own direction and vision…without critically confronting the dominant structures of art around the world today?” (Araeen 2003: 100).

The theme of this year’s Dak’art, “Producing the Common”, makes for an interesting point of departure. In the show’s comprehensive accompanying catalogue, curators Elise Atangana, Abdelkader Damani and Ugochukwu-Smooth Nzewi establish their approach as “a conscious act of engaging what is collectively shared” that “take[s] into account what effects everyone, the Whole-World” (2014: 21). The phrase whole-world (Tout-Monde) is drawn from the writings of Martiniquan poet Edouard Glissant to describe a field of social relations: a world configured as an archipelago of “islands, isthmuses, peninsulas, lands thrusting out, mixing and connecting…” (cited in Dash, 2011). It is a radically egalitarian sentiment that also leaves room for cultural specificity, sharing some significant ground with the work of another theorist invoked at length in Dak’art press materials, Michael Hardt. Hardt’s conception of the common, from which “Producing the Common” takes its cue, operates as a politically and socially charged territory:

[The common] is not the realm of sameness or indifference. It is the scene of encounter of social and political differences, at times characterized by agreement and at others antagonism, at times composing political bodies and at others decomposing them (2009).

As a guiding principal of the biennale, “Producing the Common” thus locates Dak’art 2014 not only at the tense intersection of politics and aesthetics, but also at a meeting point between the global black consciousness movement brought to bear by Glissant[2], and the Western political philosophy of thinkers like Hardt. In the space of Dak’art’s catalogue, such bodies of thought seemingly sit comfortably side by side.

Read in conjunction, however, the references to Hardt and Glissant that punctuate Dak’art’s press resources also couch the show in a resoundingly academic rhetoric. I cannot resist recalling the experience of sitting at a conference at the primary Dak’art venue of the Village de la Biennale, translation headset in hand, and listening to the women behind me parody the academic language of a catalogue essay. They threw words back and forth teasingly, taking turns to find a pleasing turn of phrase: “interdependence”, “arbitrating”, and “communitarian solidarity”.

In framing the exhibition in a particular lexicon – the language of the academic, the university, the elite – it is worth asking for whom the triumvirate of curators aim to produce this “common” The 62 odd artists on the main exhibition? The Senegalese public? An international art market? Glissant’s whole world? In an earlier essay, ‘Curating Africa, Curating the Contemporary’, Nzewi offers the model of the counter-public by way of explanation. His is a public called into being by a curatorial approach that establishes Dak’art unambiguously as a “counter-exhibition”. He advances that it is the “discourse [of Dak’art] which imagines and produces a pan-African ‘exhibitionary’ world” at odds with a dominant biennale typology (2012: 6-7).

Dak’art curators (left to right): Abdelkader Damani, Elise Atangana, Ugochukwu-Smooth Nzewi

“Counter-publics”, as the notion is expanded in the work of American social theorist Michael Warner, are a kind of bounded audience at odds with a prevailing social paradigm. It is worth noting Warner’s first criterion by which the parameters of a public are defined. “Publics,” he writes, “are a space of discourse organized by nothing other than discourse itself” (2002: 49). They exist only as the end for which information is manufactured, or in the case of Dak’art, for whom exhibitions are organized. Such publics come into beingby virtue of being addressed (2002: 49-51). There is a degree, then, to which Dak’art forges its own countercultural arena of reception, generating a unique brand of pan-African internationalism that it simultaneously defines and delimits. Bearing that in mind, I am inclined to argue that there is, still, room to expend critical energy inventing (or perhaps reinventing) a register that reflects the needs of a contemporary African public. Following Nzewi, if Dak’art’s objective is to “imagine and produce” a pan-African exhibitionary model, particularly one that falls under the rubric of egalitarianism, surely inclusivity would be a worthy cause célèbre?

In a way I am doing an injustice to Dak’art 2014 by reading the exhibition through its theoretical framework. The active “producing” contained within “producing the common” was more evident in the main exhibition space of the Village de la Biennale. There, diaspora artists and African residents shared a level playing field unbounded by either theoretical partitions or artificial national borders. The tone was set by Angolan artist Kiluanji Kia Henda’s installation “As god wants and devil likes it” (O.R.G.A.S.M. Congress) (2011-2014) in the central courtyard, which modifies the European Union logo to include the African continent at its centre. Henda’s accompanying series of photographs, equal parts staged and manipulated documentary footage, featured prominent European leaders in Afros and cornrows. The resulting scenes were playful, but also represented a critique of Africa’s place in a global political arena. In re-signifying his subjects, Henda figures the possibility of re-scribing not just a bitter colonial past but also a political present and, indeed, a future. His codified politicians are both caricatures of Africanness and placeholders of a sort. And indeed, the vision of an Africa at the heart of a European emblem – an Africa that acts as a centrifugal force around which Europe must operate – is a potent symbol for the agenda that undercuts Dak’Art.

Although opening a day late (and who gets to say, really, that exhibitions should function according to a preordained schedule) Dak’art’s main venue was polished and sharply curated. Standing amongst the cosmopolitan crowd of collectors, curators and artists, I was reminded of the biennale’s many siblings the world over: perhaps Documenta, Manifesta or the Venice Biennale. Filipovic et al observe that the nomination ‘biennale’ frequently refers less to a specific periodicity – simply a bi-annual art event – and more to a model of exhibition practice that is “often grandiose in scale, sometimes dispersed across several locations in a city, [and] at times locally embedded through site-specific commissions while being global in ambition” (2010: 14). A biennale conceived as such is not a name only, but rather a series of aesthetic and critical standards capable of legitimating certain curatorial models, certain artists, and certain spaces.

O.R.G.A.S.M., by Kiluanji Kia Henda. Photo by author.

Let me be clear. Conforming to the standards of an international biennale typology is not a fault, nor am I levelling a critique of that aspiration here. Calling for something as reductive as “local flavour” would be too much like demanding that selected work exhibit an “African essence”. Ironically, the biennale selection committee upheld that same principle of “essence” as a necessary precondition for entry until Dak’art’s 2004 iteration (Fillitz, 2011). It is through such ill-defined criteria, taken on board unequivocally, that the mechanisms of colonialism are institutionalized and sustained. And make no mistake, such mechanisms are still at work. As Araeen asks of the present generation of African artists, “If the social, economic and political conditions of Africa are still struggling against the global hegemony of the West, how can its art be free from this hegemony?” (2010: 100).

That said I would like to point out that Dak’art 2014’s detailed (if madcap) press page links to an article from Italy’s Domus magazine that opens with the line “For the first time in its history, Dak’art has begun to resemble a real biennale” (Pensa, 2014, my emphasis). Written by the director of Wikipedia’s collaborative WikiAfrica initiative, the review is exhaustive and full of flair and critical dexterity. The authoritative judgement implied in that first statement, however, is compounded by the addition of the line “From what they say [the curators] seem well aware that a biennial – even in Africa – can certainly not represent a continent” (Ibid, my emphasis). Needless to say the author is not alone in this sentiment (over the years, such conversations have plagued Dak’art) but she does explicitly foreground something important. Adhering to the standards of international biennales reifies those same standards and ascribes universality to them, allowing for a category like “real biennale” to operate with relative impunity. And who polices the boundaries of that definition, after all? Who decides what constitutes a sufficiently ‘real’ exhibition?

It is in Dak’Art’s fringe programme, known colloquially as the ‘Off’, that the “realness” of a biennale is further complicated. The ‘Off’ is not confined within an orderly exhibition model. Over the course of Dak’art’s month long run, more than 250 artists exhibit work in the city and surrounds. Artwork materialises in disused warehouses and car dealerships, along bridges and in courtyards. I would suggest that the ‘Off’ allows for Nzewi’s imagined counter-public to be more truly activated. The mode of address in the streets of Dakar is less clearly defined, the art-public relation more protean and nebulous. Thus, “the common” is untethered from the curatorial dialogues engineered between works and expanded to encompass a more complex social sphere of engagement. An artwork that appears in the street – that most public of public spaces, and ideally available to all – necessitates, even demands, a different tone and register of engagement.

This is not always without complication. In the case of “Precarious Imaging: Visibility and Media Surrounding African Queerness”, such engagements were far from polite. Curated by Koyo Kouoh and Ato Malinda at the Raw Material Company venue in suburban Dakar, the show sought to profile explorations of queer African experience. Among others, the show featured South African artist Zanele Muholi’s Faces and Phases portrait series of black lesbian women, and Kenyan artist Jim Chuchu’s Pagan, exploring contemporary African homophobia as a colonial hangover. Within a day of opening, religious fundamentalists had attacked the gallery space, broken windows and destroyed light fittings on its front facade. According to Senegalese newspaper Le Monde, Mamè Mactar Guèye, vice-president of Senegalese Islamic organization Jamra, spearheaded the attack. In a subsequent television interview, Guèye explained, “This event is supposed to promote our culture, but proves to be propaganda for unions which are against nature. Undeniably, this edition of Dak’Art has been detrimental to our morality and to our laws” (Forbes, 2014). The show closed early due to pressure from the Senegalese state.

To me, this incident represents a clash between the immediate conditions of locality and globality; between the enactment of a local political logic and an aspirational internationalist agenda. In a predominantly Islamic country where perceived acts of homosexuality remain illegal, an exhibition of queer visual culture imagines and produces publics outside the bounds of the immediate political present. That is not to say those publics do not already exist- the opening event was duly attended by a diverse group of local and international artists and activists, some of them very outspoken figures in the Dakar community. The press release by Secretary General of Dak’art Babacar Mbaye Diop’s, however, suggests that these counter-publics exist beyond the purview of Dak’art. He formally disassociated the biennale from the troubled (and troubling) ‘Off’ show, bluntly stating that Dak’art was “not responsible for collateral exhibitions” (Forbes, 2014). As a crucial insight into the biennale’s objectives, this event manifests the frictions that exist when local particularities encounter internationalism and both commitments are equally compromised.

Critic Clementine Deliss, describing the first iteration of Dak’Art in 1992, acknowledges what she deems a “misguided faith in the so-called international art circuit” that has “deterred the organizers from developing a pan-African approach” (1993: 136). Notably, her review is titled “When internationalism falls apart”. Deliss finds fault with both the biennale’s pan-Africanist and internationalist ambitions. For her, writing in the early 90’s, the event had a long way to go. As Fillitz (2011) has suggested, though, it is all too easy to force upon Dak’art the goal of dismantling the dominant aesthetic discourses of a Euro-American art world without taking into account its ambivalent cultural location or, indeed, the needs of exhibiting artists.

Much like the African Renaissance Monument, Dak’art is caught between looking outward and inland. Situated at the meeting point of distinct national and international cultural agendas, the event is necessarily conflicted at times. It is important to keep in mind, however, that the intersection of pan-Africanism and internationalism – that metaphorical crossroads – is also a vantage point. From that unique point of view, new worlds are visible.

The post Dak’art 2014: At a crossroads appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

The history of El Paso’s queer population, in particular, has been briefly illustrated in various works, most notably by El Pasoan gay authors Arturo Islas and John Rechy, who both speak to various aspects of homosexual life in their burgeoning city.[3] This paper will place El Paso’s queer community in a larger discussion with intersectionality by exploring the chronicle of the city’s alternative nightclub – the Old Plantation (or OP) – across four decades, the 1970s to 2010s. By studying queer encounters along the border through intersectional lenses, it will uncover varying racial and sexual anxieties between the American imperial state via Fort Bliss and the surrounding Latina/o population. Due to El Paso’s bicultural history and segregated past, queer life must be examined through several academic and community–based methodologies, which cultural historians such as Hayden White and Lynn Hunt have employed in their studies of peoples and interactions, especially the use of oral testimonies.[4] Furthermore, a “people’s history” of queer life will elucidate sexual encounters (and transactions) that cannot be found easily in the traditional archive. Previous scholars like Madeline D. Davis and Elizabeth Lapovsky Kennedy have researched culturally homogeneous queer sexualities in cities before, but in locales without national borders or without multiple races like Latina/os.[5]

In order to historicize this city’s queer nightlife given the deprivation of printed sources, it employs theoretical frameworks from Latina/o scholars such as Michael Hames-Garcia, Juana María Rodríguez, Lawrence La Fountain-Stokes, and Ramón Rivera Servera, all of who have investigated queer Latina/o communities, relationships, and discourses.[6] Their scholarships retain the intersectional lenses of race, time, location, and sexuality to unravel histories of biopower and sexuality. The paper builds upon the models set forth by Hames-Garcia, contending that queer Latino identity is created in resistance to the “imposition of modern colonial manifestations,” such as white gay mainstream culture.[7] Furthermore, it adheres to the scholarship of queer Latina/o dance clubs laid out by La Fountain-Stokes, Rodríguez, and Servera, who suggest that the dance floor, rather than being a site of literal dancing, is more a location where colonized subjects, usually Anglo gay males, feast on the Latino-ness, or “latinidad” of the “othered” men present in the club.[8] Finally, it models oral testimonies upon historian Nan Alamilla Boyd, and the “historical narrative theory” proposed by Karen Halttunen.[9] In “Cultural History and the Challenge of Narrativity,” Halttunen calls for a “domestication of theoretical issues [about] narrativity” within the discipline of history to elaborate upon the relationships and connections between people in assembling histories.[10] This paper will construct a single narrative from several oral interviews to help uncover the queer past in the American Southwest, but should be used only as a starting point in further understanding the intricacies and intersectional nature of queer life and identity within contested borderlands between modern empires.

Before the OP: Cold War Gender Rights

In the early 1960s, the second wave of feminism permeated the United States with intellectuals such as Betty Freidan pushing for women and men to redefine gender roles by working in jobs and political spheres that were traditionally reserved for a single sex.[11] At the same time, Cold War era political and social sentiment transformed the nation’s civil rights positions, “as the primacy of anticommunism in postwar American politics and culture left a very narrow space for criticism of the status quo.”[12] Consequently, racial and sexual diversity were notions that were considered dangerous in a black/white, heterosexual society. Given the influence of the Feminist movement and the Cold War, 1960s El Paso homosexual life was hidden within “McKelligon Canyon or past the border into Mexico,” recalled Cristina Hernandez, a self-identified El Pasoan lesbian.[13] Hernandez, a fifty-five year old Mexican American, had spent her entire life in the borderlands region. The history of cruising, or driving slowly through city alleys and streets scouting for sex had been one of the main vehicles for El Paso gay men to find each other, but not lesbians.[14] Because of a lack of queer, in addition to heterosexual nightlife, El Pasoans negotiated the national boundary to experience the vibrant entertainment of Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua.

Ever since the 1950s, Ciudad Juárez was deemed a cultural hotspot for northern Mexico and the southwest United States, hosting famous celebrities like Marilyn Monroe and James Dean who publicized their visits to the city known for its vivacious lifestyle.[15] Scholars, such as Rachel St. John, have even proposed that most northwestern Mexican border cities experienced a golden age of vice and international nightlife during the first half of the twentieth century.[16] El Paso resident Cristina Hernandez commented that before the rise of the disco era and the year 1973, Ciudad Juárez became “the city of sexual expression that lesbians could retreat to when they were not living different lives as heterosexual women in the city of sexual repression [El Paso].”[17] For several decades, El Pasoan queers not only separated their public from private lives, but also traversed the U.S.–Mexico border to fully embrace and perform their reserved sexual lives, especially when Cold War America retaliated against the conception of sexual freedom. In 1973, the Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission lowered the legal drinking age from 21 to 18, and “many lesbians who crossed the border for alcohol and partying could now remain within the U.S., consuming booze,” stated Hernandez.[18] Perhaps it was of no coincidence that the legal drinking age changed, as the American disco music movement was concurrently growing in tandem around the United States, “especially among Hispanic and Black demographics.”[19]

Hernandez alleged that the disco movement “brought mainstream gay culture into straight bars and clubs, allowing for lesbians and gays to return to El Paso and participate in a new [revitalized] gay nightlife.”[20] The Pet Shop, one of the first lesbian bars in El Paso history, opened sometime in the early 1970s. According to El Pasoans Yolanda Chávez Leyva and Irma Montelongo, the Pet Shop was located underground in a prewar building that would later become the San Antonio Mining Bar.[21] Leyva, a leading fifty-eight year old Chicana lesbian, moved back to the city after completing college at Austin in the 1980s. Montelongo, a native fifty-two year old El Pasoan, experienced the many changes in nightlife within the region. Leyva and Montelongo revealed that the social environment of the bar was distinct from established disco bars and clubs, as “working-class femme and butch lesbian couples made up most of the patrons and they listened to a mixture of rock and roll, blues and disco.”[22] Furthermore, Montelongo maintained that “many of the butch lesbians embodied masculinity and at times, exhibited that masculinity by engaging femme and other butch lesbians within the dance space of the establishment.”[23] Leyva stated that her first experience in the Pet Shop was surprising yet comforting: “I walked downstairs into a place where all kinds of women had the freedom to do what they wanted.”[24] The Pet Shop succeeded in attracting a large lesbian population, in part because of the revitalized El Pasoan nightlife, or in part because of the new drinking law. But most of all, because this space operated as separate venue from mainstream disco culture, providing a safe haven for lesbians to congregate and express their sexualities. Word of mouth about its success reached other parts of Texas, and soon, more “alternative” bars began to open up downtown.

Creation of the OP: Queer “El Chuco”[25]

In the mid-1970s, Dallas-based company Craven Entertainment dispatched businessman Bob Bonaventure to scout for possible alternative bar locations that would bring the lesbian, gay and hetero-disco communities together in West Texas. Bonaventure, according to friend and co-worker Jak Klinkowaski, was thought to “believe that the trade secret to gaining a large audience – whether gay and straight – was to position a large ‘alternative’ club away from other clubs.”[26] Klinkowaski, an Anglo American El Paso native, worked in many of the queer bars throughout the last decades of the twentieth century. The space Bonaventure purchased eventually led to a conversion in El Paso’s queer culture. In 1977, he discovered that 219 South Ochoa Street had become vacant, and founded the thirty-five year-old bar that would go down as one of the longest running gay establishments in West Texas: the Old Plantation (OP).[27] According to several lesbian and gay oral histories, the OP bar was mixed with both women and male patrons.[28] During its first year, the bar included “multiple performances” of “drag shows, foam parties, all girls nights and military nights,” as well as a diverse audience of “whites, blacks, Mexicans and Puerto Ricans, lesbians and gays and everything else in-between,” recalled Klinkowaski.[29] The minority, Montelongo and Klinkowaski recalled, “were Anglo males,” which was understandable given the large El Paso Latina/o demographic.[30]

The OP, like the Pet Shop, became a prime location for same-sex sensual expression and intimate encounters. Montelongo mentioned that the most unique part of the bar was the “female” bathroom, where “lesbians, straight women, and drag queens congregated and interacted with each other.” She recalled that the conversations that took place were illustrative of how different each “woman” viewed fashion, boys, girls and popular culture: “I remember talking about hair, dancing and music and even learned new colloquialisms.”[31] The bar brought the queer population of El Paso together on a single dance floor, and in closed, safe spaces like the bathroom. Rodríguez suggests in her work that “in multigendered queer Latino spaces, fags and dykes, both friends and strangers, will often invite each other out on the dance floor.”[32] The OP was no exception. There finally existed a fully public venue for perceived “deviant” behaviors and identities to congregate.

After homosexuality was removed from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) in 1973, it was assumed that lesbians and gays were able to express themselves with the understanding that their sexual identities were no longer classified federally as mental disorders.[33] This was not the case for the transgender community, as American psychiatrists maintained the notion that transgender identity was an illness that was synonymous with Gender-Identity Disorder (GID).[34] Susan Stryker has argued that after 1973, transgender populations throughout the U.S. felt left out of a national gay rights discourse because their identities had remained stigmatized. Stryker upheld that the transgender movement’s “politics toward the medical establishment were more like those of the reproductive freedom movement than those of the gay liberation movement.”[35] Moreover, she suggested that transgender individuals “wanted to secure access to competent, legal, respectfully provided medical services for a nonpathological need not shared equally by every member of society,” a concern that their queer sisters and brothers did not have to worry about.[36] While the political activism and awareness of lesbian and gay communities mobilized nationally and within the OP and El Paso, transgender persons still had to grapple with the reality that federal recognition and support of transsexuality would not arrive for some time.

As legal transgender legal rights idled, trans culture flourished. Klinkowaski pointed out the early 1970s were exciting due to the rise in “drag king culture and transgender participation at places like the OP.”[37] Drag kings essentially performed a gender and sexuality that was usually opposite of the drag king’s biological sex and acted gender. Thus, many drag kings were persons born with female sex organs who embodied notions of “masculinity” and contested “maleness.” Chanel, an forty-five year old Anglo American El Pasoan drag queen, or male performing femininity, stated that she “met various transgendered ‘women’ who told [Chanel] that they would perform as drag kings within the OP because other homosexuals and friends were more accepting of their lifestyles as drag queens and kings.”[38] Chanel commented that when she witnessed many transgendered females pushed to perform drag, she questioned her own desire and sexuality. Transgender persons posed a threat to the El Paso gay rights movement in that the people who represented transgender identities did not fit into the homosexual and heterosexual binary that was formed uniquely in the aftermath of the Cold War and the Civil Rights movement. While 1970s El Paso nightlife evolved to include more private spaces for lesbians and gays to interact, it reinforced the discrimination and overall national intolerance for the lifestyle and identity of transgender people living along and crossing the U.S.–Mexico Borderlands.

Even though the El Pasoan heterosexual population viewed the sexual conduct inside the OP bar as illicit, sexual behavior was not as polarized during the 1970s before the time of carnal epidemics. The exchange of oral and anal sex was “usually unprotected,” commented Chanel, as HIV had yet to enter society.[39] Chanel and Klinkowaski noted that while many individuals came to the bar to enjoy alcohol and disco music, others, “especially Anglo American males,” came there for sex. The two described that the place had become an outlet to “fast-track” sexual experiences. Chanel remarked that many of his “straight-identified” male friends “came to the OP, scouted out some Jorge or Guillermo [meaning any Latino looking boy], penetrated them and then left the club, never to speak to them again.”[40] The bar was an innovative dance space, not only due to the consumption of latinidad, which Rodríguez, La Fountain-Stokes and Servera articulate in their research, but also because the location operated as a space where two men, one identifying as “gay” and the other “straight,” executed sexual acts without personal knowledge of one another, but with complete anonymity and disclosure. In addition, the proximity to the national border bifurcated cultural and sexual understandings between Anglo, Latino, and other “foreign” men.

The reputation of the OP as an alternative bar would take a “moral blow,” after 1982, when Lawrence Altman described a disease that “attacked and killed homosexual men” called Gay-Related-Immune-Disorder, or GRID, in his controversial New York Times article.[41] In the words of Chanel, “it was as if everything they [bigots, heterosexuals, society] said was vindicated, our lifestyles were scientifically condemned.”[42] Thus, OP sexual politics for gay men, as Chanel pointed out, “were disrupted and sexual activity decreased in number for several weeks,” as the public waited to learn about the proper precautions in distancing oneself from contraction.[43] Still, unprotected sex occurred between various bar attendees. Chanel and Klinkowaski reaffirmed that “having unprotected sex up to 1984 was considered normal and there wasn’t the stigma that existed today.”[44] After GRID (Gay Related Immune Disease) was reclassified scientifically as HIV (Human Immunodeficiency Virus) and the use of a condom was articulated as the best defense in protecting oneself from the disease, the sexual behaviors in the bar rehabilitated with the increased use of the condom.

The erotic practice of “barebacking” also arose from the HIV/AIDS stigma in response to changes in contemporary sexual behaviors during the 1980s. At the time, many in the El Pasoan queer community were both in denial and acceptance of the possible consequences and “euphoric risks” associated with anal sex without a condom. Tim Dean historicizes and explains the phenomenon of barebacking in relation to the prejudice of homosexual life as “both the premeditation and eroticization of unprotected anal sex.”[45] Thus, barebacking was the sexual act of unprotected sex in an HIV/AIDS conscious age. Before the pandemic, Chanel engaged in unprotected sex that was synonymous with barebacking, but the action lacked the associated social and moral stigma in a post-HIV/AIDS discursive environment. Now, the “gesture” of barebacking brought intimate, political, and social underpinnings. The lens of “gesture,” first used in deconstructing queer life by Rodríguez, can also serve as another intersectional unit in investigating queer behaviors. She explains gesture as “a socially legible and highly codified form of kinetic communication, and as a cultural practice that is differentially manifested through particular forms of embodiment.”[46] Hence, the gesture and practice of barebacking was politically charged.

In The Subculture of Barebacking, Dean revealed that the notion of hypermasculinity was associated with the exchange of semen during gay bareback sex as “hypermasculinity accrues to the man who assumes what used to be thought of as the female role in homosexual relations. The more men by whom one is penetrated, the more of a man he becomes.”[47] Chanel and Klinkowaski stated that barebacking held an inimitable attraction for them: “it felt good before, but now raw sex felt more intimate and deeper,” explained Chanel.[48] Sex between two participants of the same gender altered structures of power, control and masculinity. Furthermore, kinship became the ultimate result rather than the consumption of more masculinity, as the entrance of sexual risk made the act of sex more dangerous. Dean argued that bareback subculture’s hypermasculinization of bottoming, “its picturing erotic submission as a proof of manhood could be seen as a compensatory response to modern society’s feminization of male homosexuality.” Dean’s contention is corroborated by the testimonies taken from various attendees of the OP, and fits the categorization of gesture, which Rodríguez unpacks in her research.[49]

While the entrance of GRID and later HIV/AIDS reformed club attendance, sexual practices as well as understandings of sexual identities at the OP, the bar still became a landmark of El Paso queer culture. The bar featured weekends where “events were either sold out or near occupancy level,” remembered Klinkowaski. The OP, unlike other night clubs like The Pet Shop, attracted “the most diverse clientele out of all the clubs” as “Blacks, Whites, Cholos, and Drag Queens all shared the dance floor,” something various queer residents were not accustomed to seeing in El Paso.[50] Attendance was high at the bar, and popularity only increased over time. Eventually, Bonaventure realized that his bar was too small to accommodate El Paso’s queer and “straight” audience, and decided to move it to a larger venue. In 1985, he found an open lot across the street at 301 S. Ochoa Street.[51] The New Old Plantation as Bonaventure called it was advertised as “bigger, better and operated by gays and lesbians.”[52] The OP’s move added more publicity and audience to the nightclub, and its existence was now fully recognized and felt throughout El Paso. Chanel stated that “tipping,” or the process of drag queens engaging in sexual acts with white and black military men, increased as the New OP’s building had two floors where individuals could retreat to and maintain a sense of privacy. As the dance space of the New OP was split between different stories, people could choose their crowd and ambience. Chanel remembered the sexual politics, and “gestures” of the club:

Younger boys situated themselves at the focal point of the dance floor while older men circulated the periphery, scouting for any men. And if he had luck, he and his boy would go upstairs and move to a corner to either make out, or perform oral sex.[53]

Klinkowaski similarly recalled:

I remember the girls’ bathroom was where to hookup, mainly because its where all the trannies went. And it also helped that it was ‘cleaner,’ not just in hygiene but some trannies were ‘Poz’ [HIV-Positive] and therefore always used condoms.[54]

It became apparent that while the club featured the same demographics of the original OP, sexual encounters and meetings were executed in new spaces in the two-story gay discotheque. Simultaneously, the anal sex that was performed in the dark corners and bathrooms of the New OP was split between barebacking and protected sex, whether or not knowledge of HIV/AIDS was present.

The club’s dance floors allowed for multiple performativities of gender and sexuality in comparison to its original, which was styled more as a bar than a nightclub. While Klinkowaski and Chanel mentioned that “straight” men came to find young Latino males, Mexican Americans and Mexican-nationals from Ciudad Juárez also interacted with the “heterosexual” men. The space of the club had perhaps transcended nation as well as ethnicity. Adrian Gutierrez, another gay attendee during the early 80s, noted that “the only reason why the OP was different was the inclusion of Anglo straight acting men.”[55] Gutierrez, a forty-nine year old contractor for the U.S. Army Military Beaumont Medical Center, was a teenager when the OP first opened. Gutierrez revealed that many of the men he had sex with from the OP were enlisted soldiers who were usually single but mentioned that a couple of them were married to women and had children. He believed the “rush and taboo” associated with sleeping with “straight men” made the act attractive in addition to barebacking.

Gutierrez stated that “masculine” or “straight acting men” were most desirable for gays, mainly because they embodied a masculinity and sexuality that he and his friends envied and craved. The club transformed into a site of contact for consumption(s) of masculinity between distinct parties; in Gutierrez’s case, he received the thrill of being with a “straight” man, which informed his sense of manliness. More interestingly is that his Anglo sexual partners gained something particularly special in return: consumption of latinidad, or alternative masculinity, that he (the military male) had eroticized and “othered” onto Gutierrez. Historian George Chauncey has explored a similar sexual exchange of masculinity between effeminate “fairies” and more masculine “queers” in New York City; the difference in the case of the OP and Gutierrez was that ethnicity and race were also exchanged between sexual partners.[56] Using the theories set forth by Hames-Garcia, Gutierrez also desired Anglo military men because of the innate “modern colonial power dynamic” that epistemically thwarted Gutierrez into desiring kinship from colonizers.[57] But Rodríguez believes that scholars must think of consuming latinidad as a practice of reaffirming agency for the consumed Latina/o. She contends that “rather than attempt to redeem or erase our [Latina/o] experiences of violence and violation, register the possibility of recovering pleasure in the shame of abjection, a sexual pleasure that engages the sexual submission demanded of racialized subjects.”[58] In applying Rodríguez, the exchange of racial fetishization serves both parties.

It is notable that the impact of Fort Bliss and its men held a unique position in terms of the behavior of people who attended the club. The presence of Fort Bliss had long been felt before the opening of the OP in 1977. Historian Leon C. Metz writes that Fort Bliss was founded in response to the U.S. War with Mexico during 1848, citing that the U.S. Department of War felt the need to form a military post to occupy and protect the area opposite Mexico’s Paso Del Norte.[59] Fort Bliss was created at a time when Mexican-nationals and Anglo Americans fought a borderless conflict. And for over a century, the fort was steadily growing, and represented a facet of the past and presence of military history. When the original OP opened, this military presence had already existed and was over a hundred years old. According to the 1960 through 2000 censuses, the size of the Fort Bliss military population had progressively increased through time, with a total population of 8,286 persons or 1,444 households and families by 2000.[60] That figure did not include troops who arrived at the fort for deployment overseas, government contractors, or El Pasoan hired workers, which would bring the population number to over 30,000. Moreover, it did not include troops who arrived to the area for a two-week briefing before deployment to Asia.

Klinkowaski, Chanel, and Gutierrez, revealed in their oral interviews that the OP’s dance stage was filled with military personnel: “we began to see not only whites and Latinos, but also Middle Eastern men who informed us that they were employed by the U.S. military as contractors.”[61] Why did the OP environment attract so many agents of the state? In one of the interviews with an enlisted soldier who wanted to remain anonymous, it was noted that the club became the “only homosocial space where we [anonymous] could be intimate with each other and acknowledge our sexualities. Being on post [Fort Bliss] everyday takes a toll on you, as you must act straight-edged all the time in an environment that is dominated only by men.”[62] The atmosphere of the club was much like that of Fort Bliss; the difference was that one’s sexuality and behavior was not judged and embraced on the OP dance ground and in the closed spaces of the facility.

The last few oral histories that this author conducted were with servicewomen that were referred to by other club owners. Based on several testimonies from anonymous military women who moved to Fort Bliss in the early 1990s, there indeed existed a large lesbian servicewoman community. One respondent stated that “lesbian and bisexual life was easy to navigate at the OP and other alternative bars like Nua Nua, the San Antonio Mining and the Whatever Lounge because they had been distanced enough from the military base.”[63] The same female army soldier stated that she was looking for femme lesbians, and commented that the club was the best place to find mostly femme, Latina lesbians. Another female army officer regarded the Whatever Lounge as her favorite spot because she looked for both femme as well as butch lesbians. When asked if they saw or met any transgendered persons, both women replied no, suggesting that the “transgendered people they did see in the 1990s were able to transition and perform in full gender,” thus making them lesbian or gay rather than transgender in the women’s eyes.[64] Before the use of the Internet, several spaces within downtown El Paso operated as meeting points for lesbian servicewomen.

The two female military officers also knew from other female colleagues before they were stationed to Fort Bliss that the lesbian culture had grown increasingly throughout El Paso since the late 1970s.[65] The women confirmed that they felt a sense of “unanimity because they had the luxury of separating their public lives as military servicewomen from their lesbian lifestyles in downtown as their work would never leave the gates of Fort Bliss and into the larger, civilian El Paso.”[66] While lesbian life was not exposed publicly on Fort Bliss, lesbian state agents migrated downtown, in the same way that 1960s El Pasoan lesbians traveled to Ciudad Juárez. The presence of Fort Bliss had a significant influence on the demographic that attended the OP. Chanel reiterated that “because the OP featured new and exotic men who wanted men, it became even more of a popular nightclub.”[67] The original and New OP channeled sexual politics that reflected more national discourses concerning not only mainstream Anglo gay culture, but also racial and ethnic tensions and desires.

New Leadership at the OP: The Decline of Queer “El Chuco”

In 1986, Klinkowaski left the employment of the New OP and Bonaventure eventually sold his club to its current owners, Jesus Santillan and his partner Gilbert Morales. Under the leadership of Santillan and Morales, who also owned The San Antonio Mining Cluband The Whatever Lounge, the use of social media was employed, as they advertised their New OP through magazines such as El Paso 411, a local digest.[68] In the 1990s, the two men achieved more publicity by promoting the club in West Texas queer publications such as 1994’s El Paso PRIDE and 1999’s Microcosm El Paso/Juarez, which were circulated throughout El Paso, Las Cruces, and Ciudad Juárez.[69] Klinkowaski and Chanel continued to visit the OP during milestone events, such as the “Halloween costume garty,” and the New Year’s Eve party, both of which were usually heavily attended.[70] The owners contended that during the 1990s, they began to see “a decrease in attendance to the OP, as the clubs on Stanton Street were more popular and more people cruised them.”[71] During the early 1990s, newer gay clubs began opening on Stanton Street, an area located directly in the heart of downtown El Paso. Klinkowaski and Chanel believed that because of the creation of a “pride square that featured new and upcoming clubs such as 8 and ½,Chiquita’s,and The Briar Patch,” there was less of an impetus to return to the other side of downtown to visit the OP.[72]

At the time when queer individuals and interested heterosexuals had a choice in attending different alternative clubs, Santillan and Morales decided to advertise the club as a space that featured an exclusively gay male clientele by appealing to the majority-male, military community. Marketing was again spread through word of mouth, but also through El Paso 411, and queer publications like PRIDE.[73]The new owners not only had to compete with other gay and lesbian bars and clubs, however, but also had to remain knowledgeable of current trends and fads in popular culture that they could incorporate into their gay male nightclub. In one interview with a source affiliated with the New OP who wished to remain anonymous, the New OP tried hosting events, which aimed to spark the interest of younger males as well as portraying a nostalgic 1970s theme such as disco to the older crowd. Thus, themes like “July All Red White Blue Block Party,” and “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell Dance” were commonplace at the club.[74] The argued result was that the OP would see a return of past attendees. The actual effect, however, was a dwindling attendance rate, especially since the owners mainly appealed to gay males and interested heterosexuals.

The process of recreating a male homosocial gay club by projecting Anglo military culture as caricature is similar to the notions of Jasbir Puar’s ascendency of whiteness and larger homonational projects. As Puar writes, the “national homosexual subject,” who has historically been a white Anglo male, “seeks to dismantle any foreign homosexual culture or politic,” and impose a uniformed Anglo homonormativity that “aims to destroy any sexual-racial other that does not adhere to whiteness.”[75] The themed events that Santillan and Morales constructed illustrated how beliefs of imposing homonational sentiment in the OP would assist in attracting a larger male audience. Gutierrez notes that during the 90s, “many mid-aged men lost interest in the OP and the club was more populated with young under-21-year-olds and older, white Anglo and African American military men.”[76] The multiculturalness and diversity of the OP shifted to Hames-Garcia’s epitome of “modern colonial” systems, where military men exoticized not only the colonized, Latino-ness of the younger men, but also their gayness that did not prescribe to the hegemonic, homonationalist model of queer identity that the military men understood.[77] And so, as the military presence on Fort Bliss increased through the 1990s, so too did the Anglo male attendance at the club.

The 2000s “saw a steady interest back into the New OP, increased participation in queer events like Mr. Pride Texas, and its citywide collaboration with El Paso Sun City Pride” during June Pride Fest, revealed Klinkowaski.[78] Chanel stated that with the beginning of the Iraq war in 2003 “much more Puerto Rican and African American vets were seen in the club,” something that they recall was “new and called attention in the gay community.”[79] When asked how they knew these men were veterans, Chanel responded that “their straight edged-ness with distinct military haircuts, which were usually short fades, pinpointed them as vets.”[80] The sexual encounters in the OP throughout the 2000s were “militarized” due to the increased attendance from wartime soldiers. Santillan and Morales had succeeded in revitalizing the level of male attendance at their club vis-à-vis homonational propaganda. Puar argues that homonationalism is a byproduct and symptom of war-related sentiment and emerges in response to “terrorist assemblages and attacks upon notions of citizenship, identity and sexuality.”[81] The Iraq War and the proximity of Fort Bliss to the New OP reasserted the need for military men to escape the government land and perform their same-sex desires with Mexican-national and Mexican American males. Homonationalism and a post-9/11 Anglo gay identity, however, became difficult to completely impose in a border city, as many of the non-military attendees who entered the club “were mixed, bilingual and lived separate lives as Mexican Americans and as jotos (fags),” declared Gutierrez.[82]

Santillan and Morales began to employ new social media outlets that had never been accessed before, such as MySpace and eventually Facebook, to maintain the slowly growing interest in their decades-old club.[83] The posters the two circulated in downtown El Paso and on social media websites employed images of queer military men to attract the various demographics the OP had seen in attendance during the early 1980s. They commissioned these images and concepts from the late 1990s until the 2010s. The themes associated with these documents illustrated the appeal and fixation for Anglo military personnel. In a study of archived posters produced by the owners of the OP, one can view how these advertisements conflated traditional images such as the military uniform and colors reminiscent of national holidays, such as Labor Day, with queer themes. Moreover, veterans who revealed their military IDs at the door received free admission.[84] Santillan and Morales hoped that by appealing and commodifying the military to the OP’s diverse clientele, the club would remain busy or at least regain its historic demographic of military men and El Paso Latinos. Images of army men illustrated the masculinity Gutierrez, Klinkowaski, and Chanel desired. At the same time, these images and others like them, reminded the spectator of a fantasy: sexual activities with the colonizer, an idea that “aroused” young men like Gutierrez. The backdrop of the Iraq War persuaded Santillan and Morales to recreate homonational imagery to attract a once popular demographic back to the New OP. Gutierrez surmised that many of the soldiers he met and slept with eventually left Fort Bliss and arrived to the club to forget the duties of a serviceman during war times.

Homonational imagery, the aesthetic that Santillan and Morales tried to embed in their club, succeeded in drawing gay males from the city, Northern Mexico, and Fort Bliss. But it could no longer contain El Paso’s ever growing queer identity of lesbians and other gay men. The U.S.-Mexico border and Fort Bliss functioned as catalysts in assisting Latina/o lesbians and gays to break free from “white Anglo gay culture and identity,” and embrace a queerness that exceeded the narrow categorization that Santillan and Morales tried to incubate. Over time, the OP no longer became a club for gays, but “for allies and everything in-between.”[85] After thirty-five years of evolution, El Paso queer identity metamorphosed. The original and New OP was a bar, and later a club, that illustrated the power, gender, and sexual politics that would raise and harness the uniqueness and interchangeability of borderland sexual identities and behaviors.

The New OP officially shut down on October 27, 2012.[86] No official word has been given to why Santillan and Morales suddenly closed it doors. Online social media outlets such as Twitter and Facebook allowed El Pasoans of all generations to comment on the legacy the club left on the city.[87]

Conclusion

In the history of U.S. sexuality, scholars have contended that the lesbian, gay, and transgender past grew in tandem with the Civil Rights era, blossomed during the Stonewall Riots and took shape through the 1970s and 1980s. This paper argued that in borderland cities with predominately Latina/o populations like El Paso, scholars must examine sexuality and the story of LGBT movements through multiple intersectional lenses and academic methodologies to further elucidate the contested history of queer peoples. The original and New OP provided the first long-standing alternative public space for folks of all sexual identifications in the bordered, bicultural city of El Paso. Bonaventure built a bar that staged music and sexual trends, which were in conversation with the national sexual movements of the U.S. from the 1970s to the 2010s. Sexual behaviors and identities transformed, however, with the entrance of HIV/AIDS and war, as attendees altered sexual acts based on national stigma, homonational imagery, and wartime sentiment. The dance floor of the OP came to represent colonial, racial, and ethnic consumptions between Anglos and Latina/os, gay males, and men who have sex with men, military personnel and civilians. Even more, the themes and commercialization of the OP revealed the interconnectedness between its political assemblages and sexual norms. After thirty-five years, the old and the New Old Plantation stood as a testament to the construction of community spaces and most especially, racial and ethnic fetishisms within the U.S.–Mexico Borderlands. Queer nightlife did reside in the American Southwest, fighting local, national, and international normative discourses of gender and sexuality. The principal border for queer communities and individuals situated along the U.S.-Mexico national boundary is the borderland called their sexuality.

The post This Borderland Called My Sexuality: Excavating Queer Nightlife of the American Southwest Through the Lens of Intersectionality appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

1. Les palimpsestes verbo-culturels de Mai 68 : une analyse lexi-culturelle des médias

Dans cet article, le mot-clé « événement » est presque un synonyme du mot « parole », d’où mon attention à la lexiculture, qui représente l’une des méthodologies de recherche les plus actuelles permettant d’analyser la culture d’une communauté, justement, par son système sémiotique, c’est?à?dire le langage. Galisson définit les expressions que nous prenons en considération ici comme des « palimpsestes verbaux » obtenus par la « délexicalisation » de l’énoncé de base et sa substitution par un « sur?énoncé », devenant ainsi des révélateurs culturels, donc des « palimpsestes verbo-culturel » (P.V.C.). Seul celui qui vit dans la même « sémiosis sociale » peut les reconnaître, d’où l’existence d’une « identité collective » qui « possède le mystérieux pouvoir d’agréger, de solidariser, d’aider à vivre ensemble des individus qui se reconnaissent en elle (implicitement, ou explicitement)[1] ». Dans la société française, Mai 68 semble ne pas être tombé dans l’oubli[2] et de nombreux interlocuteurs partagent encore sa mémoire… discursive. Cette section propose une analyse lexicale de huit de ces P.V.C.

• « Sous LE PAVÉ… (la page) »

Il s’agit titre d’un site Web d’une coopérative dont le but est l’éducation populaire, enjeu d’éducation au politique et au social. Elle enseigne à « prendre conscience de l’importance de se révolter » et de « s’entendre sur les mots[3] ». Le P.V.C. dérive du sous-énoncé « sous les pavés, la plage », par une délexicalisation avec filiation phonique et avec modification par suppression phonémique (plage à page). On remarque une transformation du nom, du pluriel au singulier, et du caractère graphique conférant de l’importance au terme « pavé », ainsi qu’une substitution d’un nom commun à un autre (plage à page); les points de suspension et les parenthèses sont ajoutés. Bien plus, il faut remarquer la polysémie du terme « pavé » (défini de façon dépréciative comme un gros livre), à partir de laquelle un jeu de mot s’établit. Le « pavé » fait appel à la « page », créant une synecdoque et véhiculant le message principal de l’association : l’éducation populaire pour créer les bases de la compréhension du monde capitaliste afin de le démanteler, en donnant importance aux « pages de la vie » de chaque citoyen.

• « Sous les pavés, Libé… mais sous la pluie, rien de nouveau »

La source médiatique de ce P.V.C. est un article du 18 avril 2008, « France Inter célèbre Mai 68… à sa manière »[4]. Il s’agit de sous?titres à deux paragraphes de l’article. Les sous-énoncés en question sont « sous les pavés, la plage » et « rien de nouveau sous le soleil ».Ce palimpseste est fort intéressant, car on peut l’interpréter de deux façons. Si on le considère comme une expression unique, alors il s’agit d’un palimpseste-amalgame qui mélange les deux sous-énoncés ci-dessus, tandis que si on les considère comme deux palimpsestes séparés, les remarques à faire sont multiples. Le premier est une modification de l’originel par une délexicalisation sans filiation phonique et avec déstructuration syntaxique : le nom commun est remplacé par un nom propre (plage à Libé), abréviation de Libération. Le deuxième est toujours une delexicalisation, sans filiation phonique et sans déstructuration syntaxique, mais avec une inversion des syntagmes par rapport à l’expression originelle, créant ainsi un parallèle avec le palimpseste précédent. Or, puisque la lexiculture nous permet de jouer avec les mots, pourquoi ne pas voir dans le célèbre « nihil novi sub sole », en français « rien de nouveau sous le soleil », une source d’inspiration qui arrive à Bernard Cousin pour créer son slogan, « sous les pavés, la plage » ?

• « Sous les pavés, des bulles »

La source médiatique de ce P.V.C. est une émission télévisée sur Mai 68, diffusée sur Public Senat le 2 mai 2008. Le sous-énoncé est encore une fois « sous les pavés, la plage », transformé par une délexicalisation sans filiation phonique et sans déstructuration syntaxique, vu que le nom « plage » est remplacé par un autre nom de la même catégorie, « bulles ». La seule différence est dans le nombre et dans le partitif qui suggèrent l’idée d’une quantité considérable et indéfinie, en opposition à l’idée de la « plage », déterminée et définie. Au-delà des déterminatifs employés, les deux énoncés jouent sur leur signification connotative : le sous-énoncé définit le caractère imaginaire et lyrique de Mai 68, alors que le P.V.C. renvoie, par une relation métonymique, à la création des bandes dessinées auxquelles l’émission télévisée a consacré un Spécial Mai 68. Les bulles représentent donc les BD ressorties de l’action à la fois révolutionnaire et poétique déroulée sur la rue, dont le pavé est le symbole. Il faut donc remarquer un même rapport symétrique des énoncés aux niveaux non seulement linguistique et grammatical, mais aussi au niveau de la signification, ce qui exige un travail d’abstraction et d’imagination, rappelant toujours l’atmosphère de Mai 68.

Dans cette catégorie il y a d’autres P.V.C., comme « sous les pavés la terre », « sous les pavés, le design », « sous les pavés, la grève » ou « sous les pavés, l’underground ».

• « Pour consommer sans entraves »

Ce P.V.C. se retrouve dans un article intitulé « Que reste-t-il de 68 ? » dans Le nouvel Observateur. Il contient un entretien avec Daniel Cohn?Bendit et Luc Ferry, écrit le 17 janvier 2008 et inséré dans un dossier spécial sur Mai 68.Le sous-énoncé est« pour jouir sans entraves », qui subit une délexicalisation sans filiation phonique et sans déstructuration syntaxique. Le verbe « jouir » est remplacé par un mot de la même catégorie grammaticale, c’est?à-dire le verbe « consommer ». Et c’est à partir de ce verbe que l’on peut saisir la critique que Luc Ferry lance envers les événements de Mai 68, qui ont été pour lui « la première grande libération de la société de consommation de masse ». Le P.V.C. s’insère en effet dans un cotexte qui révèle un ton plus que critique sur le concept de « consommation », créant des champs sémantiques opposés, celui de la « destruction » et celui de la « révolution ». Du dernier font partie les mots « mouvement », « valeurs », « libération » et « lutte », alors que du premier font partie les termes « casser », « destruction » et « déconstruction ». De plus, il faut noter que le sème « libération » pourrait appartenir aux deux champs sémantiques, mais sa collocation dans la structure de la phrase confirme la critique de l’énonciateur, Luc Ferry, associant au terme « libération » une idée négative. De fait, si Mai 68 a toujours été défini comme un mouvement de libération des valeurs culturelles et morales, pour Ferry il s’agit d’une « libération de la société de consommation de masse » ou encore d’« une révolution de futurs consommateurs qui changeront de portable tous les six mois ». La phrase en question est ainsi structurée :

Mai 68 a été un mouvement non pas de lutte contre la société de consommation, mais la première grande libération de la société de consommation de masse.

À travers la rhétorique de la négativité et la particule adversative, Luc Ferry oppose deux idées contrastantes : ce que Mai 68 aurait dû être, c’est?à?dire une « lutte contre » la consommation de masse, et ce qui au lieu se serait réellement passé, c’est?à?dire une « libération » de la consommation de masse.

Ce n’est donc pas un hasard si l’émetteur change le verbe « jouir » avec le verbe « consommer », conférant au slogan un ton de moquerie et de critique.

• « La culture c’est la chienlit »

Il s’agit d’un slogan tiré d’une photo d’un blog personnel qui se réfère à une manifestation de protestation de la part des Verts contre une émission de télé?réalité dans le troisième arrondissement de Paris, « Star’ac »[5]. Le sous-énoncé « la chienlit, c’est lui » est transformé par une délexicalisation sans filiation phonique et sans déstructuration syntaxique dans la première partie de l’énoncé. Ainsi, le nom commun « chienlit » est remplacé par un nom de la même catégorie, « culture », tandis que, dans la deuxième partie, on assiste à une déstructuration syntaxique par laquelle le pronom « lui » est remplacé par un nom commun « chienlit ». Entre le sous-énoncé et le P.V.C., un chiasme se crée, changeant d’ordre les termes de l’expression : dans la source, c’est le terme « chienlit » qui est mis en évidence en incarnant la figure de Charles de Gaulle, à l’époque critiquée par les soixante-huitards, tandis que dans le P.V.C. le terme en évidence est la « culture » considérée après comme « chienlit ». Ce rapprochement est une évidente dénonciation de ce type d’émission, (de télé?réalité), proposée comme « culturelle » mais qui en réalité est l’exaspération de la société de consommation contemporaine. Bien évidemment, le procédé, tout à fait ironique, utilisé par les énonciateurs est basé sur l’antiphrase : ils affirment le faux pour sous?entendre leur critique féroce d’un type de « culture », jugée déviante, et contre ses partisan. Ce sont ces derniers qui auraient transformé la culture en une mascarade, une véritable « chienlit ».

Dans cette catégorie, il faut rappeler aussi l’expression « La chienlit, c’est Sarkozy ».

• « L’imagination prend la Bastille »

C’est le titre d’un reportage sur la marche pour une sixième République[6]. Le sous-énoncé « l’imagination prend le pouvoir » est reformulé par une délexicalisation sans filiation phonique et avec déstructuration syntaxique d’un nom commun à un nom propre, indiquant une institution publique. La Bastille est interprétée par l’historiographie comme un symbole historique de liberté et de révolution. Au moment de la Révolution française, elle symbolisait le pouvoir despotique du Roi, qui l’employait comme prison. Le 14 juillet 1789, le peuple français l’occupe et la détruit, d’où la célébration de ce jour comme fête nationale. Malgré sa destruction, le mythe de la Bastille existe aujourd’hui encore, constituant donc une mémoire à la fois historique et discursive, et très forte puisqu’on parle de révolution. Dans ce reportage, en fait, on prépare une marche symbolique vers la « Bastille », donc vers la liberté, et les instruments les plus utilisés sont les slogans, réhabilitant le style de Mai 68, tels que « Nous, on peut », « J’ai des mots à faire défiler », ou le titre de l’émission.

• « Obama, nous sommes tous des Oussama »

La source médiatique de ce P.V.C. est un article de Libération datant du 14 septembre 2012, écrit à la suite d’une tentative d’assaut de l’ambassade américaine à Tunis par des salafistes protestant contre le film américain « L’innocence des Musulmans »[7]. Ce palimpseste donne le titre à l’article, mais c’est aussi un slogan crié par un manifestant lors de l’assaut.

Le célèbre sous-énoncé en question est « nous sommes tous des juifs allemands » qui subit une délexicalisation sans filiation phonique et avec déstructuration syntaxique, de fait la modification voit le passage d’un adjectif (dans ce cas deux, « juifs » et « allemands ») à un nom propre, « Oussama ». De plus, il y a des transformations ultérieures dans l’énoncé : les énonciateurs ajoutent à leur slogan le nom propre, Obama, président de l’Amérique qui rime avec Oussama, prénom de Ben Laden, en créant une rime interne et donnant une structure circulaire à l’énoncé.Le cri de solidarité que les soixante-huitards avaient crié à Daniel Cohn?Bendit se transforme en un cri de révolte et de défense de leur religion de la part des Musulmans salafistes[8]. Ce slogan évoque toujours une idée d’union et de solidarité qui peut s’élargir bien évidemment au journaliste qui l’a d’ailleurs choisi comme titre de son article. Outre la provocation faite réellement par les Musulmans contre les Américains, je pourrais y voir aussi la solidarité de certains Français, en premier le journaliste et le journal Libération, s’exprimant contre l’islamophobie.

Suivant cet exemple, je peux citer aussi « Nous sommes tous des Arabes[9] », « Nous sommes tous la France[10] » et « Nous sommes tous Américains[11] ».

• « Nous sommes là pour boire »

Il s’agit d’un slogan pour la campagne publicitaire du vin de la région Languedoc-Roussillon, l’une des plus grandes productrices de vins au monde, par la vaste extension de son vignoble totalisant une surface de 40 000 hectares.Le sous-énoncé « Nous sommes le pouvoir » est modifié par une délexicalisation avec filiation phonique et avec modification par fragmentation morphemique basée sur une assonance entre le mot « boire » et le syntagme « là pour boire ».Au niveau linguistique, l’énoncé évoque une masse, désignée par le déictique subjectif « nous », prête à l’action, à l’acte de boire : le ton du P.V.C. transmet une idée d’exigence qui, hors de parallélisme, peut vouloir faire l’éloge de la qualité du vin très demandée et mettre en évidence la grandeur, en termes d’extension physique aussi, de la production de vin, tout cela souligné par ce jeu phonique basé sur l’assonance entre le verbe « boire » et le terme « pouvoir ».

Sans être en mesure de donner une quantité considérable d’exemples, mais du moins satisfaisante pour le but établi, je peux constater que les expressions liées à Mai 68 sont nombreuses : en particulier, me fait réfléchir la provenance de ces P.V.C. soit dans des sites Web reconnus et officiels, soit dans des journaux plus périphériques ou bien des blogs personnels, ce qui confirme l’actualité de l’événement, malgré les décennies passées. Il a pénétré dans la culture des Français, puisqu’il fait partie d’une étape sociale et historique fondamentale pour l’Hexagone. Évidemment, Mai 68 est non seulement descendu dans la rue, mais il y est resté! Bien plus, selon le deuxième axe de ma réflexion, qui essaie de saisir le lien entre culture et médias, ces derniers sont vus comme porteurs de réalité sociale et donc de bagage culturel et historique de chaque peuple. Les P.V.C. en sont un exemple significatif.

2. Mai 68 et sa mémoire discursive dans les médias : les mots-événements

À propos du lien entre culture et médias, Sophie Moirand, soulignant l’importance du concept de « culture partagée », a postulé l’existence d’une « mémoire des mots » « voyageant aucours du temps, d’une communauté à une autre et d’une époque à une autre » selon l’orientation dialogique de Bakhtine, et que « tout membre d’une collectivité parlante ne trouve pas des mots neutres libres des appréciations ou des orientations d’autrui, amis des mots habités par des voix autres[12] ». Dans un autre travail, la chercheuse insiste sur le fait que les mots définissent l’événement et l’inscrivent dans un imaginaire commun grâce à la fonction des médias :

Ce ne sont pas les interlocuteurs qui interagissent directement dans la presse, mais les textes, les énoncés, les mots eux-mêmes, les titres, les photos, les dessins de presse, avec les discours qu’ils transportent, ceux qu’ils anticipent et ceux qu’ils rencontrent sur l’aire de la page… Les discours des médias sont essentiellement des discours « médiateurs » d’autres discours[13].

Elle nous montre la force énonciative des textes médiatiques et leur interdisciplinarité, car on peut étudier les textes d’un point de vue non seulement linguistique, mais culturel et sociologique. Charaudeau a postulé l’existence d’un modèle socio-communicationnel du discours où existe un « contrat médiatique[14] » basé sur « l’information » et la « captation » liant le texte au lecteur : le texte médiatique doit informer et en même temps capturer l’attention de son lecteur par l’emploi d’un langage, dirions-nous, « séduisant » qui fasse appel à un imaginaire, culturel et linguistique, collectif. L’approche de la chercheuse Moirand, soutenue par les thèses du professeur Charaudeau, se prête donc bien à l’analyse du langage de Mai 68 qui a envahi le domaine médiatique et qui révèle la complexité non seulement du discours médiatique même, mais des mécanismes socio-culturels qui en dérivent. L’événement Mai 68 est repris dans la presse d’aujourd’hui imposant sa majesté historique à travers un fonctionnement intertextuel, confirmant encore une fois le pouvoir de la parole sauvage, agissante et révolutionnaire qui encore au XXI^e siècle ne cesse de faire irruption dans la vie sociale de l’Hexagone.

Dans cette partie, j’analyserai un corpus de cinq articles de presse, évidemment groupés autour du moment discursif de Mai 68 dont l’air se fait sentir au long des textes à travers les mots-événements. Ils datent de 2007 à 2012 et ils concernent des sujets d’actualité variés.

2.2 Analyse du corpus

Le premier article, écrit en 2007 et paru dans Le monde diplomatique,explique le scénario du documentaire « LIP, l’imagination au pouvoir » sur un mouvement ouvrier en avril 1973. Bien évidemment, le contenu se prête à la réhabilitation, presque spontanée, dirions-nous, des mots?événements de Mai 68 : de fait, l’annonce des licenciements de l’usine LIP déclenche la révolte où les acteurs principaux sont les ouvriers, les syndicats et les patrons, et qui mieux que ceux-ci peuvent réhabiliter la mémoire de Mai ? Au cours du texte, l’auteur semble utiliser des mots qui attestent son savoir sur Mai 68, comme « grève », « camarades », « ouvriers », et de certaines expressions aussi, notamment « tout est possible » rappelant l’atmosphère de rêverie et de lutte soixante?huitarde. Au premier paragraphe, on lit :

le syndicaliste ouvrier Charles Piaget se montre hostile à la grève. Il préfère que ses camarades freinent le rythme des machines et celui des mains ; mais« ils avaient tellement les cadences dans la peau que c’était pas possible de ralentir ». Ils arrêtèrent de travailler dix minutes par heure.

L’image du rythme des « machines » et des « cadences » incessantes n’est?elle pas un écho direct aux revendications des ouvriers de l’époque ? Les mots deviennent donc symbole d’intertextualité d’un slogan soixante?huitard « BRISONS LES VIEUX ENGRENAGES » : il rappelle l’image des engrenages qui roulent sans cesse et écrasent l’homme. Les « usines », au centre de la contestation de Mai, reviennent au cours du texte à côté d’un autre slogan, « tu n’as pas besoin de lui », se référant au « patron » qui, avec « l’ouvrier » et les « camarades », définissent les acteurs concernés dans ce type d’événement. Ce qui est intéressant, selon mon interprétation, c’est la présence d’une phrase que l’auteur a voulu mettre exprès pour stimuler la mémoire du lecteur envers Mai 68, c’est?à?dire « y compris sur les plages ». L’extrait se poursuit ainsi :

Que faire de toutes ces montres ? On décide de les vendre et de remettre en route l’usine pour en produire de nouvelles, cette fois sans patron (« tu n’as pas besoin de lui »). La vente est un énorme succès, y compris sur les plages.

Il est évident que les montres de l’usine LIP à Besançon ne sont effectivement pas vendues sur les plages, (même si personne ne pourrait l’empêcher !); par contre, leur image m’a spontanément renvoyée au célèbre slogan « sous les pavés, la plage » et à la rêverie et à la puissance que les soixante-huitards confiaient au pavé, leur symbole de révolte, ce qui donne une identité culturelle au texte.

L’idée de rêverie mène à un autre article qui tisse un réseau de mots?événements sur Mai 68. Déjà le titre, « Sur les pavés, le pochoir », considéré lui-même comme un P.V.C.[15], plonge le lecteur dans cette « sous-culture » : la proposition « sur », renvoyant à la superficie du pavé, confirme l’idée de matérialité et de créativité, puisque l’article suggère des techniques pour dessiner sur les murs et décorer la rue. D’où l’emploi du terme « pochoir », l’instrument privilégié par l’illustratrice Keri Smith et auteure du guide Réveillez la rue! Idées, astuces et outils pour embellir le quotidien. Si, dans l’énoncé?source, le pavé est lié à la plage par une dimension presque onirique, dans le P.V.C. sa signification réside pour la plupart dans sa dimension dénotative : le pavé est au service d’un instrument concret, le « pochoir », qui déclenche de toute façon l’imagination et encourage les gens à pratiquer l’art de la rue. Le titre du livre renvoie donc à Mai 68 et à l’endroit le plus « massacré », c’est?à?dire la rue. D’autres désignations, comme par exemple « graffiti », « murs », « imagination » et « beauté ». Évidemment, ce dernier me rappelle le célèbre slogan, « la beauté est dans la rue ». Cette forme verbale s’unifie à d’autres au cours du texte, comme par exemple « créer de la beauté », « disséminer de petits mots poétiques » et enfin le titre même du livre « réveillez la rue », ce qui désigne le moment discursif de Mai 68 et en particulier son aspect à la fois lyrique et réactionnaire.

Cet aspect est repris dans un autre article tiré de Libération et publié le 20 mars 2010, « La jeunesse kurde prend le maquis[16] », où reviennent les mêmes acteurs des articles précédents, comme par exemple « camarades » et « jeunes », ainsi que d’autres mots?événements qui désignent Mai 68, à savoir « actions », « cocktails Molotov » ou « guérilla ». Dans ce cas aussi, il s’agit d’un P.V.C. dont le sujet est repris dans l’image de « jeunes camarades » qui rejoignent la guérilla kurde pour prendre le maquis. Il est intéressant de remarquer que non seulement le journaliste réhabilite l’imaginaire de Mai 68, notamment dans le titre de l’article, mais les témoignages des jeunes manifestants confirment l’idée que derrière chaque action révolutionnaire le souvenir de Mai 68 est bien fort, d’ailleurs les mots le confirment. En guise d’illustration, voici des extraits de l’article en question :

« Mon fils a 14 ans. De temps en temps, il participait avec ses camarades de classe aux manifestations dans le centre?ville. Il ne parlait pas beaucoup avec nous. Un soir, il n’est pas rentré à la maison. On était inquiets. Je suis allé voir ses camarades et on m’a informé qu’il était parti avec un groupe d’une trentaine d’autres jeunes »,raconte un fonctionnaire de Diyarbakir, la capitale du sud?est de la Turquie.

L’une des entrées du mot « camarade » dans le dictionnaire implique aussi l’idée d’un groupe solide et compact de gens[17]; on lit dans le texte que ces jeunes se nomment « Jeunesse » et qu’« ils détestent les journalistes et affirment « s’exprimer dans des actions avec cocktails Molotov et non dans les salles de conférence de presse ». Ce témoignage sous?entend aussi l’idéologie de Mai 68 qui oppose les actions de rue aux « salles de conférence » typiquement bourgeoises et ce n’est pas un hasard si le journaliste nous explique que l’origine de ces jeunes est justement bourgeoise, sous l’exemple des soixante-huitards.Dans un autre article, « Comment les conflits sociaux minent l’Afrique du Sud », publié dans Challenge le 31 août 2012, et traitant des conflits sociaux dans l’Afrique du Sud, apparaissent les mêmes mots?événements, comme « camarades » et « pavé » à côté d’autres nouveaux termes, par exemple « gréviste », « réformes » et « revendications », et d’expressions métaphoriques, notamment « nombre de salariés battent le pavé en dansant et en chantant leurs revendications ». Les acteurs de l’événement, « salariés », et les termes « pavé » et « revendications », avec les actions verbales « danser » et « chanter », sont une référence évidente à l’atmosphère de Mai. Bien plus, l’article se conclut par un témoignage d’un manifestant qui ressemble au ton des slogans soixante-huitards, on lit « Ils nous ignorent », où l’opposition des pronoms « ils » et « nous » est une constante que l’on trouve souvent sur les murs parisiens à l’époque et derrière laquelle se cache une opposition sociale entre la bourgeoisie, définie par le déictique objectif « ils », et le prolétariat qui se fortifie dans l’action collective et intime du « nous ». L’imaginaire de Mai revient dans deux autres articles, « Grève générale en Grèce contre la rigueur », tiré de Challenge et publié le 11 mai 2011, et « Grèce : manifestations et débrayages contre le nouveau train de rigueur », publié dans l’Express le 12 septembre 2011 concernant la crise et les protestations en Grèce. Ici, les mêmes mots?événements apparaissent, notamment « cocktail Molotov », « pavé », « grève » et « manifestation ». En particulier, l’expression « battre le pavé » est présente dans le sous?titre du premier, « Des milliers de manifestants ont commencé à battre le pavé » et dans le deuxième, « les médecins, dont les salaires sont menacés de nouvelles réductions, et les enseignants dénonçant la grande misère de l’éducation publique, ont aussi battu le pavé mercredi pour dénoncer le nouveau tour de vis ». Le pavé, emblème de la révolte, revient comme outil principal dans toutes les manifestations et il est associé à l’image de la rue. Dans le deuxième article, l’expression verbale « descendre dans la rue » apparait dans le contexte de lutte sociale et de sauvegarde des droits personnels. Bien plus, l’article relate les « banderoles » qui ont dominé la manifestation de la Grèce, à savoir « Ils nous poussent vers l’extrême pauvreté » où l’opposition connotative des déictiques objectifs et subjectifs revient, ou encore « Santé gratuite pour tous » et « Non au bradage de la patrie », rappelant le style sec et direct de la parole « sauvage ». Ainsi, la structure énonciative semble?t?elle être reprise dans ce mouvement discursif réhabilitant la mémoire de Mai 68, ce qui permet de pousser l’analyse de la chercheuse Moirand à un niveau supérieur, car ce ne sont pas seulement les mots qui deviennent événements, mais les tournures discursives mêmes qui acquièrent le mouvement de l’énonciation soixante-huitarde.

En conclusion, je peux bien affirmer l’existence d’une mémoire collective et d’une culture partagée réveillant le souvenir de Mai 68 : tous les médias ont recours à cet imaginaire bien vivant chez les Français qui ne cesse jamais de surprendre et surtout d’exprimer la « rage » et l’action des manifestants, car tous les mots?événements dans les articles pris en considération confèrent à leur contenu une touche révolutionnaire et rêveuse à la fois, typique de Mai 68. Ce qui frappe, c’est la diversité des articles contenant ce souvenir. Le pouvoir des mots et leur force ne s’obscurcit jamais : non seulement les murs avaient parlé en Mai 68, mais même aujourd’hui ils font parler les textes créant un véritable dialogue dans les médias qui suit le chemin naturel de la mémoire et de la culture.

The post Mai 68 au service de l’interdiscursivité médiatique : entre mémoire révolutionnaire et mémoire discursive. Deux approches interdisciplinaires : lexiculture et mots événements appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

The female voices in Shafak’s novel merge in a curious manner. One family lives in the United States, Armenian refugees who emphasize the importance of their traditions. The Turkish family that remains in Istanbul, however, has changed and modernized. The two young girls in the novel, Armanoush (Armenian-American) and Asya (Turkish), are unlikely, disparate step-sisters, who begin to bridge the gap between Turkish and Armenian traditions. The families are faced with challenges despite the similarity of their cultures, in terms of food, music and religious traditions. The two girls are unknowingly linked by a weak father, Mustafa, himself a product of persecution and upheaval. At his death, Mustafa transforms from a physical being into a silent, physical space that allows for conversation, healing and understanding. Without words to define his transformation, Mustafa the man disappears and instead becomes the framework of a mythological text.

Myth is a sacred type of speech that allows people to recognize and name the unspeakable. Roland Barthes believes that all obvious cultural objects have the power to attain mythical properties. Barthes says,

Every object in the world can pass from a closed, silent existence to an oral state, open to appropriation by society, for there is no law, whether natural or not, which forbids talking about things. A tree is a tree. Yes, of course. But a tree as expressed by Minou Drouet is no longer quite a tree, it is a tree which is decorated, adapted to a certain type of consumption, laden with literary self-indulgence, revolt, images, in short with a type of social usage which is added to pure matter. (109)

The body of a man has the ability to transform from a physical presence into a culturally significant text, filled with symbol and rhetoric larger than the individual. In coming to understand the events in Mustafa’s life that led to his eventual demise, the reader becomes a key participant in the evolution of myth. Barthes states that: “[M]yth is a type of speech chosen by history: it cannot possibly evolve from the ‘nature’ of things” (109). Therefore, in order to understand Mustafa’s mythological significance, the reader too must know his history.

Shafak takes great pains to explain a character’s societal and cultural significance. She uses categories as names, creating nick-names laden with socially constructed, obvious and essentialized identities. This unique approach must be differentiated from simply explaining a society or culture. Here, characters represent a specific aspect of a society and their actions, expressions, words and descriptions allow the reader to comprehend the nuances from particular stereotypes within the culture. By creating characters with disparate identities, she creates forms and through these forms, she enables speech. Shafak is, of course, designing a mythological society that parallels the actual. She leaves intelligent, obvious and accessible signs in this created culture. When Armanoush, self-named ‘Madame My-Exiled-Soul’ in her online chat room, decides to seek her roots, she claims, “I need to find my identity…. This is a journey into my family’s past, as well as into my future. The Janissary’s Paradox will haunt me unless I do something to discover my past” (117). Shafak deftly moves Armanoush from one place to the next through conversations with people categorized by their stereotype, creating layers of intersections and accessible, informative bridges simultaneously. The reader must note the importance of this technique, or overlook the meaning of Zeliha’s introduction, Armanoush’s journey to discover her Turkish family or Mustafa’s eventual death. This proves that the characters’ identities have been formed, in part, by cultural norms. They are mapped by things greater than themselves.

Due to the accepted norms placed upon women by religion and culture, the reader is doubly shocked at Zeliha’s rebellious nature, which forms a complex grid of intersections. The novel begins with Zeliha’s attempted abortion. Everything within this first chapter startles the senses. Unlike traditional Turkish women, Zeliha Kazanci speaks brusquely and rebelliously, but also places importance on traditional cultural practices such as the delicacy of teacups and the ritual of prayer. She embodies anger, rage, frustration and strength all of which affirm her voice, body and occupation as the text that deciphers the entire mythology. Zeliha’s narrative and experience is solidly placed within a marginalized world, outside of Islamic norms and made possible only through the use of character types. As Kimberlé Crenshaw notes, “[W]e will dare to speak against internal exclusions and marginalizations, that we might call attention to how the identity of ‘the group’ has been centered on the intersectional identities of a few” (“Mapping the Margins” 1299). In other words, Shafak’s novel utilizes culturally prescribed stereotypes in order to highlight disparities of identity. The Kazanci family forms the body of this myth and, therefore, in a male-dominated society, Zeliha is able to own a tattoo parlor, wear miniskirts and speak her mind, bridging both ancient custom and radical modernism.

From this introduction, the novel moves quickly while many characters are described, some developed, and some left as shadowy substances that represent nothing more than their assigned role. In this deluge of characters, Shafak purposefully chooses to begin and end the novel with the strength, resilience and rebelliousness of Zeliha. In order to understand The Bastard of Istanbul, one must understand Zeliha’s full-bodied mythological representation which contrasts with Mustafa’s bare form. Mustafa, Gulsum’s only son and Zeliha’s older brother, is introduced as a “king in his house” and “precious from the day he was born” (31). As a child, Mustafa was arrogant, rude, greedy and unlikeable to everyone but his family. Due to the fact that most of the men in the Kazanci family die unexpected deaths before reaching the age of fifty, these women decide to send Mustafa away for school as a form of protection. Mustafa’s existence within the Kazanci household allows him only silence as he is smothered by women.  The women, then, conspire to keep Mustafa alive and out of reach of the family curse by sending him to the United States. Until the very end of the novel, he resides in Arizona and does not return to Istanbul. Other than a quick history of Mustafa, the novel barely discusses him, proving that he is minimized by his own weaknesses and overshadowed by strong women.

As a voiceless, adolescent male, deified by a group of women, Mustafa, therefore, remains a shadowy figure throughout the novel. The reader learns about him through the voices and eyes of his sisters and future wife, Rose. In fact, Mustafa first speaks more than two thirds of the way through the novel, and then only about weather in Istanbul. He hints at regrets, but does not articulate them. Instead, the narrator notes, “[I]f truth be told, more than Arizona or any other place, it was the future that he [Mustafa] had chosen to settle in and call his home – a home with its backdoor closed to the past” (285). Without a past, Mustafa is an unactualized shell. Yet, the reader should recognize the cultural importance of the only male in a Turkish family. Typically, families would rely on the male to complete all business transactions in addition to offering a certain unspoken respectability. Instead, Shafak points out the way that female voices in a Turkish society can create intimacy and richness. And she allows the story to unfold through the Kazanci women. Shafak utilizes the language of the novel as both a background into social institutions and representative of social values. Roland Barthes explains the way that one accesses idea through form. Bridging both ideology and semiology, Mustafa is idea-in-form, he functions purely as a cultural stereotype representative of historical ideologies (Barthes 112). Deified, fragmented, bereft of emotion, Mustafa’s voice arrives in only two sections of the novel: Zeliha’s rape and Mustafa’s own death.

Shafak creates other human bodies in order to assume a space which will represent an idea-in-form, linked by universal, culturally significant history. In this way she builds a mythological, but culturally significant family. Generally speaking, The Bastard of Istanbul is a novel of women. The first chapter alone introduces the reader to Zeliha and the four other remarkably different women in the Kazaci household.  In addition to living without a male in the house, the Kazanci sisters assume extravagant qualities including clairvoyance and hypochondria. The mother, Gulsum, ironically avoids sentimental attachments, presenting as a severe and nearly silent figure throughout the novel. Mary Douglas writes, “To which particular bodily margins its beliefs attribute power depends on what situation the body is mirroring” (121). The family within their societal role, then, becomes the culturally significant text expressing sexual taboo and ritual.

The novel opens with the lines, “Whatever falls from the sky above, thou shall not curse it. That includes the rain” (1). Water serves as a linguistic device at critical times in the story, meant to draw attention to the implicit cultural identifiers. In this case, the character of Zeliha, on her way to obtain an abortion curses the rain, in direct contrast to etiquette and expected cultural norms. Then, as she receives anasthesia, Zeliha imagines cobblestones falling from the sky. The text reads, “[I]t was raining cobblestones from the blue skies. When a cobblestone fell from the sky, a cobblestone lessened from the pavement below. Above the sky and under the ground, there was the same thing: VO-ID” (19). Zeliha screams and the doctor abandons the abortion. First, real rain descends into the text, and then links into the cobblestones of Zeliha’s dream. Zeliha, sister of a ‘prince’, beautiful, youthful, falls in the same sense as the cobblestone, through a void. As she prepares to cross the physical boundary of abortion, Zeliha’s body becomes a text heavily laden with images. Mary Douglas notes, “Any structure of ideas is vulnerable at its margins” (121). Therefore, as Zeliha’s body awaits an abortion on the surgical table, she absorbs and reflects societal symbolism. For her, the chanting of the Friday prayer, typically a holy day, resulted in an internal awakening that allows her to abandon the abortion and accept the life of a single mother in a society that values the male.

The major events in this novel all incorporate rain. The element of rain, then, becomes the link that allows an object to transcend daily discourse and enter into myth. The rain from this scene links modern day Istanbul and Zeliha’s story directly to Noah’s ark as told by Auntie Banu, which will further enlighten the way in which bodies can be read as culturally significant texts. The familiar story of Noah’s ark is changed slightly in this retelling. Auntie Banu’s story focuses on the way that all members of Noah’s ark must share food. The ingredients physically combine to create community and sustainability through the image of a single pot of ashure. It is important that Shafak uses such a common myth and equally as important that she edits it to pinpoint a singular cultural event involving food. This shared history allows the story’s transcendence into a mythopoetic form. Instead of the biblical story of the flood, the myth transforms into one through which readers will experience struggle, survival and salvation in terms of these two families. Barthes writes, “Unlike the form, the concept is in no way abstract: it is filled with situation. Through the concept, it is a whole new history which is implanted in the myth” (119). In this case, Noah’s ark models an entire narrative that involves flood, famine, hardship and salvation. Rain signifies growth, change, and transfer and links the three major events of this novel: Zeliha’s rape, Zeliha’s abortion and Mustafa’s death.

The Kazanci family represents a marginalized portion of Turkish culture and history, evidenced by the oddities of Mustafa’s burial. The women in this novel deal with the dead body in a very unique manner, mixing both fairy tale and tradition and finally dipping into myth. The family chooses not to bury the body immediately, which is rare in Turkish society.  Instead, Mustafa’s body is washed, prepared for burial and transported back to the Kazanci household for a viewing, despite numerous religious objections.

 The body was cleansed with a bar of daphne soap, as fragrant and pure as the pastures in paradise are said to be. It was scrubbed, swabbed, rinsed, and then left to dry naked on the flat stone in the mosque-yard before being wrapped in a three-piece cotton shroud, placed in a coffin, and despite the adamant counsel of the elderly to bury it on the same day, loaded in a hearse to be driven directly back to the Kazanci domicile. (338)

The Kazanci women blend and bend the rules of Islam depending on their emotional needs. They determine that the body should remain visible to family and friends, but more importantly, to the reader. It is significant that the novel ends with Mustafa’s body resting within the Kazanci household, unburied, shrouded, in much the same role as his entire life: surrounded by women, silent, lifeless and yet, significant. The women circle around Mustafa’s shroud, creating a new space and a new ritual.

The irregular treatment of Mustafa’s shrouded body allows the story to assume mythological properties. As the body is prepared for burial, the narrator notes, “[I]t started to drizzle; sparse, reluctant drops, as if the rain too wanted to play a role in all of this but just hadn’t taken sides yet” (338).  Once again, the presence of rain alerts the reader of the story’s framework, and of the underlying mythology. Noah’s flood has begun to trickle into a modern era, blending old with new, at play with chronological time. Not only does water fall from the sky, but soccer fans flood the streets. These fans interrupt the funeral procession, a fact that becomes relevant when discussing the intersection of myth and fairy tale. Mary Douglas claims, “Just as it is true that everything symbolises the body, so it is equally true (and all the more so for that reason) that the body symbolises everything else” (122). The reader literally follows the frame of the story through the watery streets of Istanbul, flooded with the modern noise, people and cars. Disgusted with the soccer fans, the driver of the hearse asks Armanoush and Asya, “Aren’t they Muslim or what?” (345). Attempting to show his disgust at the lack of respect for religious customs he sees in the soccer fans, this comment actually solidifies the transformation of fairy tale into myth. Shafak is asking the reader to answer this question. Are the people in this novel Muslim? Are they modern? Are they traditional? And where is the line between the two drawn?

The story of Zeliha’s rape follows closely on the heels of Banu’s retelling of Noah’s ark and ashure. The story begins, “But the day Auntie Zeliha was raped was not a rainy day” (307).  The absence of rain highlights the physical divide, the rupture of time and of nature. As Armanoush, the youngest of the Armenians, and a second generation Armenian-American, begins to comprehend the differences that exist between the two cultures, she notes, “For the Armenians, time was a cycle in which the past incarnated in the present and the present birthed the future. For the Turks, time was a multihyphenated line, where the past ended at some definite point and the present started anew from scratch, and there was nothing but rupture in between” (164-5). Void, anger, avoidance and isolation fill the current ‘rupture’. In a similar way, Zeliha and Mustafa begin their lives within this void. Brought up as witnesses to and products of the estrangement of their cultures, the rape only confirms the existence of a hyphenated line. The absence of rain during the violent event obviates the discord between time and nature.

In this novel, there are two events that interrupt the natural flow of life:  Zeliha’s rape and the Armenian genocide. Shafak explores the events of the Armenian genocide through the story of Hovhannes Stamboulian, an Armenian author and intellectual. The reader sees only his march to prison, an unfinished children’s story upon his desk. Guards demand that he leave his desk mid-story while writing a myth that relies heavily upon culturally significant objects, such as the pomegranate. This is the beginning of the genocide, the rupture of time and nature. After his death, most of Hovhannes’ sons and daughters move to the United States to begin again, removed from the painful location of persecution.  Hovhannes’ daughter, Shushan, marries into the Kazanci family, which is Turkish, and remains in Istanbul for a short time. She ultimately abandons her Turkish family to rejoin the Armenian family in the United States. Shushan begins a new life and from there is mother to a wholly Armenian family inside America. The family that she has abandoned, purportedly Turkish, assumes a family curse. Something of the unnatural and evil sentiments reflective of the fear involved in the persecution remains hidden among the Kazanci men, and it is said that they are fated to die before their fiftieth birthday. Ignorant of this, Shushan left the Kazanci family for America, and married again, becoming a mother to an Armenian-American family in addition to the Turkish family she left behind. Armanoush, the youngest of the Armenian-Americans, notes the “mordant gap between the children of those who had managed to stay and the children of those who had to leave” (254). The silent past affects both Turks and Armenians, but without addressing the issues, the gap between two cultures widens. In much the same way, the two families’ histories unexpectedly intertwine and this is to Shafak’s purpose of creating space to discuss cultural taboo.

Mustafa cannot entirely bear the blame for his impulsive, irrational, angry conduct. Raised by women who pampered him, raised to be a prince, raised to be the man who breaks the family curse, Mustafa has little chance of finding his own voice in life. Instead, in an act of pure rage, Mustafa rapes and unknowingly impregnates Zeliha’s body which then assumes the weight of repression and the fallen woman. Zeliha’s body physically becomes larger with motherhood in direct opposition to Mustafa’s emaciated body and literal absence. Asya’s arrival as a bastard is important because she will be the key piece which forces dialogue in the end. As Barthes claims, “[I]ts [the myth's] point of departure is constituted by the arrival of meaning” (123). The presence of both Zeliha and her daughter, Asya, at Mustafa’s death allows them to hold a discussion about past events. Mustafa’s death creates space for the rejection of taboos, such as incest and rape, and replacement of myth with the conceptual neologism of future inclusivity. His death removes Zeliha from mythology and places her solidly back into a future of unruptured time, a future in which she has overcome the cultural difficulties placed upon women in Turkish society.

Throughout the novel, Shafak plays with time and place. She moves seamlessly between past and present, the United States and Istanbul. She carefully highlights the weakness and lifelessness of the present day, Americanized Mustafa so that, when looking back at the time continuum of historical events, one understands the origination of the puppet strings he wears. Mustafa is a creation of his heritage, nothing more, nothing less. Due to family pressures, family heritage and political upheaval, he could not have been other than what he was. He could not have acted differently. The weight and complexity of the intersections of his particular identity did not allow for tools that would enable atonement. Instead, he seeks silence, distance and avoidance. Because he is male, Mustafa achieves this separation without question. Most importantly, Mustafa’s silence and virtual departure from his family create a different kind of form from Zeliha’s. Like his ancestor, Hovhannes Stamboulian, Mustafa’s absence generates the space where story unravels.

Mustafa’s destined path began generations before his birth, with the imprisonment and death of the Armenian intellectual, Hovhannes Stamboulian. As guards lead him to prison, Hovhannes recalls a passage from Rousseau’s Social Contract: “Man is born free but everywhere is in chains. In reality, the difference is that the savage lives within himself while social man lives outside himself and can only live in the opinion of others, so that he seems to receive the feeling of his own existence only from the judgement of others concerning him” (235). And generations later, Mustafa arrives to prove Rousseau’s point and link himself to Hovhannes’ story. Mustafa is the product of secrets, of pain and of tragedy.   His attempt at a life of silence obviates the need for healing. Mustafa’s form allows the two families access to their painful, personal history. Likewise, Mustafa’s death opens the door for a discussion of taboo, rape, incest and genocide. The narrator explains: “In time he had learned to appreciate the desert, its infinity soothing his fear of looking back, its tranquility easing his fear of death. At times like this he remembered, as if his body reminisced on its own, the fate awaiting all the men in his family. At times like this he felt close to committing suicide. Finding death before death found him” (269). Mustafa’s weakness prevents him from confronting his own past, which he escapes as long as he can. However, upon his return to Istanbul, he finally accepts that he is not a prince and no longer wishing to live a lie, he succumbs to his fated destiny. Aware that Auntie Banu had poisoned his ashure, he eats anyway.

Using Auntie Banu’s voice, Shafak incorporates traditional fairy tales into the story. The popular fairy tale style introduction “Once there was; once there wasn’t” frames the novel, a verbal signifier that allows for a different sort of reality. The story of two families, then, transcends its reality by accessing the framework of fairy tale. Mary Douglas writes, “There can be thoughts which have never been put into words. Once words have been framed the thought is changed and limited by the very words selected. So the speech has created something, a thought which might not have been the same” (64). In this case, the introduction of “Once there was; once there wasn’t” offers a comfortable prop in the form of accessible, obvious forms, much in the same way that Shafak labels characters in a way that reflects their personalities.

Both Asya and Armanoush interact with social groups named for their attributes. Armanoush belongs to an online chat room where everyone has given themselves labels, such as hers: Madame My-Exiled-Soul. Likewise, Asya often visits a cafe in Istanbul where her friends are labeled, but not named. For example, she dates the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist. Framed by their titles, the characters in this novel outline basic cultural stereotypes.

These cultural identifiers function in much the same way as theater props. Only necessary in staged environments, props serve as a means to an end. In this novel, Shafak utilizes the djinni, magical and mischievous deities, as a sort of prop. Fairy tales involve magic and enchantments, so in a culture where djinni are perceived to be real, the fairy tale drifts into myth. As is often the case, this family is full of secrets, rigidity and rebellion. Auntie Banu relies upon djinni to tell her of historical events. These voices build a bridge over the ever-widening gap created by war, incest and rape.  The two victims, Zeliha and Mustafa, have only one verbal exchange throughout the novel, during the rape scene. Banu, the eldest sister, relates the story of Zeliha’s rape at the hands of her older brother, Mustafa, to the reader through the invention of djinni.

In order to access the images of a specific mythology, the reader needs to identify with the symbols. Layers of complexity exist within each image and as it sheds the specific unique identity, it gains a concrete, culturally accessible value. Barthes explains the way that the signified comes to be known through the signifier within a system of mythology. Barthes’ metalanguage, or mythology, arrives when one utilizes a group of forms as a place of global sign. The original bodies lose their individuality and instead come to represent a larger notion. Only when the reader understands the historical links between characters can each character of The Bastard of Istanbul represent the larger ideology of myth as described by Barthes. In this created society, forms of oppression interrelate to create a system of oppression, reflecting multiple layers of discrimination in much the same way as contemporary societies. As Auntie Banu continues to investigate the past and relay it to the reader with the help of the djinni, she obviates layers of discrimination. Kimberlé Crenshaw writes, “[T]he failure to embrace the complexities of compoundedness is not simply a matter of political will, but is also due to the influence of a way of thinking about discrimination which structures politics so that struggles are categorized as singular issues. Moreover, this structure imports a descriptive and normative view of society that reinforces the status quo” (“Demarginalizing the Intersection of Race”48). Therefore, Auntie Banu’s narration in addition to the elements of mythology and cultural stereotypes all enable the transcendence of Mustafa’s death from the death of an individual into a redemptive, healing space, one that overcomes taboo and secret. Again, Barthes explains, “When it [meaning] becomes form, the meaning leaves its contingency behind; it empties itself, it becomes impoverished, history evaporates, only the letter remains” (117). Mustafa is now a mere form, a key word, set out to assist the reader decipher the remaining signs of the text. Mustafa’s absence speaks more powerfully than his presence.

Mustafa as the form, or the signifier, cannot be the sum total of the story. A form must be utilized in order to speak about structure. Therefore, he becomes an actual, physical space over which Zeliha feels able to tell Asya the truth about her father. Asya, being the ‘bastard’, was unprepared to hear that Mustafa, her uncle, was also her father. Zeliha notes that this discussion must take place at his death, that the time for discussion is fleeting. She says to Asya, “’I finally realized, I owed you an explanation. And if I don’t make it now, there will be no other time” (353). She means, of course, that the family curse, the political history, the rape and the family history all the way back to Hovhannes Stamboulian can be laid to rest. As Barthes noted earlier, the unnatural occurrences in this story and within history, have led the characters to precisely this spot. They transcend their spatio-temporal plane, enabling their bodies to represent larger issues in the cultural context. Mustafa is the prop that results in a cultural neologism. And the ‘bastard’ is no longer a bastard.

Ruth Benedict explains the complexity of an individual within society. She states, “In reality, society and the individual are not antagonists. His culture provides the raw material of which the individual makes his life” (251-2). Culture has indeed shaped these characters and is inseparable from them. The farther one moves from the initial event or rupture, the more it writes a narrative, transforms into myth. Barthes claims, “[W]e are no longer dealing here with a theoretical mode of representation: we are dealing with this particular image, which is given for this particular signification” (110). Mustafa’s physical purpose in the novel would be lost without the family history, and more specifically, without Zeliha’s presence at his death. Shafak assigns and specifies very concrete images to each of her characters for the purpose of obviating their cultural significance.

Mustafa’s existence in The Bastard of Istanbul can certainly be seen as marginal. Mary Douglas claims that structures are most vulnerable at their margins (121). And the Kazanci women are, without a doubt, marginalized characters in both actual, mainstream culture and within the auspices of the novel. The fact that the reader gains access to culturally significant rituals and events through the eyes, voices, actions and habits of the Kazanci women, speaks to this marginalized structure. Douglas explains:

Any culture is a series of related structures, which comprise social forms, values, cosmology, the whole of knowledge and through which all experience is mediated. Certain cultural themes are expressed by rites of bodily manipulation… The rituals enact the form of social relations and in giving these relations visible expression they enable people to know their own society. The rituals work upon the body politic through the symbolic medium of the physical body. (128)

In other words, the Kazanci women represent the margins of society and they mythologize Mustafa’s body through a blend of ritual and superstition. More importantly, societal margins often represent important but often unheard voices within society. As Douglas claims, “What is being carved in flesh is an image of society” (116). Zeliha realizes this when she designates Mustafa’s burial as the space in which to discuss the cultural taboo of at least incest, if not rape.

The marginalized, then, participate in Mustafa’s funeral in multiple ways. First, and most obvious, are the Kazanci women: mothers, daughters, wives and sisters of the fallen ‘prince’. Yet soccer fans and pedestrians participate as well, obviating the idea that this novel discusses not only familial rites, but societal ones. The narrator describes the scene of soccer fans: “Thus they all flowed along the avenue in a flood of red and yellow, amid chaos and clamor” (344). It is important to note that the people flowed, much like water. They flowed because they will be the redemptive elements of the novel, while also creating a present day mythology. Red and yellow soccer fans surround the green hearse, which carries Mustafa in a white shroud. Color symbolizes both an adherence to Islamic traditions as well as diversity and a celebration of life. These colors swirl into a pot of ashure, given at Noah’s ark, a mix of everything. Margins are everywhere present in this scene, as if replacement characters and scenarios for Noah’s ark. Instead of an ark, Shafak designs a Turkish household that grows to include an Armenian-American family member. Crenshaw notes that, “The struggle over which differences matter and which do not is neither an abstract nor an insignificant debate among women…they raise critical issues of power” (“Mapping the Margins” 1265). These families and voices become the elements that transcend their cultural identifiers, that transcend present and past in order to perform a creation myth.

The element of water moves through the text in a significant way. Rain was absent on the day of Zeliha’s rape. However, its absence may be just as significant as the presence of rain in other scenes. Events that disrupt nature must exist in order for change and growth to occur. Decades later, as the green hearse carries Mustafa towards the family house, pedestrians sing, “Let earth, sky, water listen to our voice/ Let the whole world shake with our heavy steps” (344). These pedestrians reflect the function of marginalized voices in much the same way as the Kazanci women represent modern day culture in Turkey. And they sing their importance.

What follows the end of a myth? The reader is led to believe that, as is often the case in fairy tales, there is a happily ever after to this story. Shafak’s novel begins as fairy tale, which involves magic and enchantments such as the djinni. She then melds the story into myth, in order to elucidate the way in which a society may renew itself. Though marginalized, the Kazanci family finds a way to create a vibrant future. Auntie Banu uses djinni often and retells common folklore consistent with fairy tales. In this case, genocide, rape and incest significantly rupture chronological time, which also allows the story of the bastard to enter the realm of mythology. The Kazanci family seeks and creates a new way of life through inclusion and acceptance.

Myth is laden with meaning only if the object itself loses individuality and gains universality. In other words, a physical presence must disappear allowing myth to appropriate image, laden with new meaning.  Barthes claims, “In semiology, the third term is nothing but the association of the first two” (121), meaning that The Bastard of Istanbul conveys meaning through both cultural mythology and culturally relevant signifiers. Mustafa’s body allows for a space over which Zeliha can discuss the taboo subjects of incest and rape. Mustafa’s death is a product of the unnatural rupture of time, healed only by the full disclosure to Asya about the identity of her true father.

While this novel incorporates many elements of rupture, disease and division, it also allows for healing, discussion and community. Through marginalized voices, repurposed cultural stories, and tragedy, Shafak enables discussion and proposes a reparation of time through myth. The reader feels that Zeliha’s future holds much promise as she stands apart from the shrouded Mustafa, clutching two fragile tea cups purchased at the beginning of the novel, moments before her attempted abortion. Both the teacups and the baby survived two decades of struggle. And finally, rain closes the novel, once again highlighting the fact that myth underlines this novel. Rain enables each character a function on the chronological timeline towards a modern people. The novel ends hopefully, a hodge-podge family full of once marginalized voices, now the ‘first peoples’ of a modern era.

The post Mythology, Taboo and Cultural Identity in Elif Shafak’s The Bastard of Istanbul appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

Les Troubles en Ulster sont propices à donner lieu à ce genre de pièce expérimentale comme le met en avant Ophelia Byrne, spécialiste du théâtre en Irlande du Nord : « theatre has […] had to find imaginative ways to respond to an always vital, often dangerously energised, and sometimes brutal society » (Welch 66). Dans Protestants, première pièce de l’auteur irlandais catholique Robert Welch, jouée à Belfast le 28 avril 2004, le thème abordé met en effet en lumière une tentative de (re-)définir le protestantisme. Welch fait coïncider le fond et la forme dans la mesure où la pièce monologique est également un moyen de retracer les contours du théâtre. En outre cet éloignement délibéré de la norme théâtrale sous-tend un acte de résistance à une autre norme, le colonialisme. Cette pièce aspire à démontrer qu’un détachement du joug impérial de la Grande-Bretagne sur l’Irlande du Nord est possible artistiquement.

Nous nous interrogerons tout d’abord sur les raisons pour lesquelles le théâtre expérimental minimaliste de Welch est un acte de résistance au colonialisme, assis sur une conception particulière du protestantisme en Irlande, héritage du passé. Nous nous pencherons donc sur sa stratégie de résistance en appuyant notre démonstration sur les travaux de Helen Gilbert et Joanne Tompkins. L’étude des signes linguistiques et paralinguistiques nous permettra d’articuler études post-coloniales et théorie brechtienne du théâtre. En effet, la théorie du théâtre épique de Bertolt Brecht viendra nourrir notre réflexion première. L’analyse de la crise du sujet ainsi que l’étude des arts littéraires et musicaux illustreront le désir du dramaturge et nous permettront de comprendre comment le monologue devient un outil post-colonial pour l’auteur dans sa démarche de redéfinition de cette religion à travers ses multiples représentants.

1. Le poids du passé

Dans ce monologue, Robert Welch montre à quel point le passé pèse sur le présent en Irlande, thème qu’il reprend à la tradition littéraire irlandaise pour annoncer sa tendance à mêlertradition et modernité. Welch s’attache ainsi à démontrer que le colonialisme reste gravé dans les esprits en Irlande du Nord. Pourtant, s’il a intitulé sa pièce Protestants c’est précisément pour démontrer que le colonialisme est assis sur une définition erronée du protestantisme. Le protestantisme n’est pas ce que l’Histoire, notamment celle de l’Irlande du Nord, laisse apparaître. De fait, le pluriel du titre nous indique qu’il existe plusieurs façons de considérer ceux qui incarnent au mieux la religion, les Protestants, et, par conséquent, plusieurs manières de faire l’expérience du protestantisme. Il nous livre donc plusieurs autres visions, d’autres définitions. Afin de déconstruire l’image que renvoie la notion de protestantisme, l’auteur adopte une stratégie particulière, qui s’inscrit dans un double discours : celui du post-colonialisme et de l’héritage de Brecht. En d’autres termes, il articule théorie brechtienne du théâtre didactique et études post-coloniales.

Le dramaturge souhaite remonter aux origines du protestantisme et de son adéquation avec l’impérialisme. Pour mener à bien son objectif, il utilise tout d’abord les personnages que le seul acteur doit camper sur scène. Si ces derniers n’apparaissent pas dans un ordre chronologique évident, c’est avant tout pour mettre en lumière l’idée que le passé prend toute son importance. Welch convoque ainsi, dans leur ordre d’apparition, un narrateur contemporain, en réalité le seul personnage sur scène qui doit camper six autres personnages. Dans ses premières didascalies, Welch nous annonce que ce narrateur, aux allures néo-brechtiennes, doit être un Protestant de classe moyenne, la quarantaine, et résidant à Belfast. Ce personnage campe alors Elizabeth 1ère dont le règne sur l’Angleterre marqua la domination de la foi protestante.Vient ensuite un supporter de l’équipe de football des Glasgow Rangers, qui s’emporte contre les révoltes au sein de sa propre communauté. Puis l’acteur endosse le rôle de Martin Luther qui déclame son amour pour Dieu et sa haine contre les secrets des prêtres catholiques. Puis, un homme originaire de Cork, soldat dans l’armée d’Oliver Cromwell et témoin de l’exécution du roi Charles 1^er, un dresseur de serpent dans le sud des Etats-Unis qui force sa foi à vaincre sa peur ; enfin un jeune garçon observant son grand-père qui se prépare pour le défilé des Orangistes un 12 juillet dans le comté d’Armagh en Irlande du Nord. Nous constatons donc que sur les sept personnages, trois appartiennent à l’histoire de l’Europe : Martin Luther, Elizabeth 1ère et le soldat de Cromwell. Martin Luther renvoie aux origines du mouvement protestant, Elizabeth 1ère à l’affirmation de la suprématie du protestantisme sur le catholicisme en Irlande lors de la période des Plantations, et, en ce qui concerne Cromwell, Benedict Nightingale, critique littéraire pour The Times, nous explique qu’il n’est mentionné que dans la mesure où il rappelle le passé colonial de l’Irlande : « Cromwell is soon remembered, presumably to make the point that Protestantism became and perhaps remains a colonial weapon, wielded most ruthlessly against the Catholic Irish. » (Welch 76). Avec ces trois personnages se tissent donc des liens étroits entre l’impérialisme et le protestantisme.

Pour souligner à quel point le passé pèse sur le présent, le temps dominant est le présent simple. Si le présent de narration n’existe pas véritablement en anglais, il est possible de l’utiliser afin de donner une information brute sans notion temporelle, valeur que Welch semble avoir privilégiée dans cette pièce. Le passé dans la pièce est raconté, voire vécu, au présent pour montrer à quel point il marque le quotidien dans cette partie du monde. Ainsi lorsque tous ses personnages racontent leurs histoires et anecdotes, ils utilisent le temps du présent. La première stratégie que le dramaturge a choisie afin de retracer les contours du protestantisme est donc celle du brouillage des pistes temporelles. Cette stratégie a une dimension post-coloniale comme Helen Gilbert et Joanne Tompkins le soulignent dans Post-Colonial Drama lorsqu’il s’agit de définir le post-colonialisme : « history is a discourse which is ‘culturally motivated and ideologically conditioned’ in the present. » (Gilbert & Tompkins 112). Si pour ces deux auteurs le théâtre fonctionne comme une arme anti-impériale, nous constatons que Robert Welch s’approprie cette définition pour faire de sa pièce une arme contre le colonialisme. Cette stratégie lui permet également de redonner à ses personnages du pouvoir sur l’Histoire puisqu’ils en livrent leur propre version.

Nous remarquons en outre que si l’unité du temps, chère à Aristote, n’est pas respectée, celle du lieu, également aristotélicienne, ne l’est pas non plus. En effet, à cette discontinuité temporelle (le présent, qui code la continuité, est utilisé afin de raconter le passé) s’ajoute une discontinuité spatiale puisque tous les personnages ne se trouvent pas en Irlande du Nord. Si l’Ulster est le lieu que Robert Welch a privilégié, la raison en est, selon l’auteur lui-même, que l’Irlande du Nord est un lieu où les divergences passées sont toujours présentes : « Northern Ireland is one of those places, across the world, where the differences in conviction and religious practice that emerged in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in Europe still animate contemporary life. » (Welch 16). Il lui apparaissait donc plus pertinent d’inscrire sa pièce dans un contexte nord-irlandais. Pourtant, lorsqu’il le met dans la peau d’autres personnages, Welch projette aussi son personnage – narrateur dans d’autres lieux : Martin Luther se trouve en Allemagne, la reine Elizabeth 1ère en Angleterre, le dresseur de serpent dans le sud des Etats-Unis. Nous assistons donc à une fragmentation de l’espace et du temps qui n’est pas sans rappeler à nouveau la théorie brechtienne du théâtre et sa vocation didactique. Dans Bertolt Brecht, L’Homme et son œuvre, Wolfgang Jeske et Gunter Berg, rappellent que « dès 1926, Brecht proclame l’idée d’une œuvre scénique comme construction d’éléments narratifs, texte, musique et tableau, qui sont indépendants les uns des autres mais agissent les uns sur les autres, se complètent, ou se perturbent sciemment grâce à la mise en scène, empêchant dans tous les cas une action fluide, homogène » (107). La conception de la réalité est, pour Brecht, fragmentaire.

Robert Welch montre sa résistance à nourrir l’héritage laissé par la colonisation à travers Protestants de deux manières. Il semble en effet combiner l’élément post-colonial et la résistance à la norme théâtrale afin de déconstruire la définition de protestantisme et aborder le sujet selon une approche didactique où le public aura aussi un rôle à jouer. Il part des origines de la religion, puis du lien qui fut tissé entre colonialisme britannique et protestantisme, et montre d’emblée que son objectif est de déconstruire cette adéquation. Effectivement, il y a non seulement brouillage des pistes temporelles et spatiales, mais encore brouillage d’autres codes, notamment le code vestimentaire. L’auteur écrit en effet que son acteur doit être ainsi vêtu : « bare chested, black jeans, Doc Martens » (Welch 23). Il fait donc naître une tension entre ce qu’il porte et ce qu’il doit représenter. Il évoque une nudité pour que son personnage puisse revêtir divers personnages et devenir ainsi un acteur protéiforme. Cependant il est chaussé de Doc Martens aux lacets défaits pour ancrer son existence dans le temps présent, mais aussi pour marquer une certaine marginalité. Cette tenue peut aussi refléter la difficulté qu’ont pu éprouver certains Protestants d’Irlande du Nord à définir leur identité à la fin du XXème siècle. L’arrivée des colons britanniques en Irlande a d’abord privé de leurs repères identitaires les Catholiques irlandais, puis, depuis les multiples tentatives de Westminster d’engager un processus de rapprochement entre les deux communautés en Irlande du Nord, les Protestants se sont eux aussi peu à peu sentis trahis par le gouvernement britannique au point de ne plus se considérer tout à fait comme des Britanniques. Le personnage de Welch incarne ces générations qui se sont progressivement éloignées de leurs repères identitaires, héritiers du passé colonial de l’Irlande. Joanne Tompkins et Helen Gilbert soulignent que le corps de l’acteur est un outil permettant de véhiculer le malaise lié à la perte de repères identitaires, elles considèrent le corps post colonial comme étant : « a vehicle for subverting and problematising the roles of identity, subjectivity, and corporeality that colonialism has assigned to the colonialised subject. » (Gilbert & Tompkins 1996 : 253). L’utilisation de la corporalité est ainsi un des éléments de stratégie de résistance au colonialisme sur lequel Welch prend appui.

Cette pièce repose donc sur de nombreuses tensions qui mettent en évidence une certaine absence de cohésion et de linéarité, un manque de repères et qui corroborent par la même occasion l’enjeu de l’écriture du monologue, c’est-à-dire la crise, et plus particulièrement celle d’un sujet en proie aux questionnements autour de son identité.

2. Lacrise du sujet

Cette crise d’identité est due à la violence et aux dissensions balayant l’Irlande du Nord à la fin du XXème siècle, période durant laquelle les Républicains nord-irlandais (catholiques) luttaient contre le pouvoir britannique dans l’espoir de s’en affranchir. Ces hommes et femmes qui n’avaient jamais accepté le contrôle des Britanniques (et par conséquent des Protestants) en Irlande, souhaitaient un rapprochement géopolitique avec la République d’Irlande. Ces troubles affectèrent aussi bien la communauté catholique que la communauté protestante. Aussi, dans un article intitulé « ‘Am I talking to Myself ?’ Men, Masculinities and the Monologue in Contemporary Irish Theatre », Brian Singleton considère que la culture nord-irlandaise en est ressortie profondément abîmée. Il explique que cette crise affecte les hommes plus que les femmes, précisément à cause de la relation qui lie la violence au pouvoir masculin en Ulster. Il s’agit donc pour Welch de retrouver la définition gâtée de cet homme protestant en crise, et s’il convoque une femme, la reine Elizabeth 1ère, ce n’est que pour en souligner les traits masculins puisqu’il lui fait dire : « I’ll show them whose daughter I am. The daughter of the great lion of England and terror of Spain. I have, I know, his lion heart even though it’s stuck in this woman’s body. » (Welch 25). Eckart Voigts-Virchow & Mark Schreiber écrivent ensemble que le monologue est un genre qui se prête particulièrement à l’expression de la masculinité en détresse en s’éloignant de la théorie aristotélicienne :

In rejecting the Aristotelian stage interaction, the male narrators have, both in terms of form and content, been transformed from men of action to static wordmongers, who tell their stories with varying degrees of confidence in the cathartic healing this limited congress with an audience may afford. The monologue, this much is clear, is an excellent means in expressing masculinity in crisis. (Wallace 296)

Dans Protestants, la crise du sujet masculin est indubitablement liée à la crise que la religion traverse en Irlande du Nord pendant la période des Troubles. Cette crise est à la fois politique et sociale et héritée du colonialisme. Welch utilise le monologue afin de mettre en exergue la violence du colonialisme qui prend son origine dans une définition erronée du protestantisme, marquée dans le corps, dans l’esprit et dans le discours de l’acteur sur scène. Une analyse de l’utilisation de l’espace scénique, de la kinésique et de la proxémique nous permet de constater que l’acteur, qui doit incarner le protestantisme au mieux, tente d’investir toute la scène.

Nous avons vu précédemment que la scène ne représentait pas seulement l’Irlande du Nord mais aussi d’autres lieux. Dans une volonté de redéfinition du protestantisme, il semblerait que le principe émis par Eamonn Jordan dans « ‘Look Who’s Talking, Too’ : the Duplicitous Myth of Naïve Narrative’ » à savoir « dislocation, rather than location » (Wallace 153) est important chez Welch. En effet, c’est à travers la multiplication des lieux, la fragmentation de l’espace, que l’expérience du protestantisme doit être faite. L’analyse du déplacement de l’acteur dans ce décor minimaliste montre qu’il commence debout sur l’estrade à gauche pour terminer, sept scènes plus loin, en bas de l’estrade à droite, après avoir investi le centre de l’espace scénique. Etant donné que les enjeux du colonialisme furent fondés sur un conflit territorial dont le Protestant nord-irlandais a hérité et qu’il ne veut pas perdre, il est possible de souligner que cette tentative de réinvestissement de l’espace scénique symbolise la tentative de reprendre toute sa place dans l’espace, et par extension dans l’Histoire. Notons par ailleurs, l’utilisation d’une estrade sur la scène, pour ajouter à la prise de possession de l’espace horizontal, une prise de possession verticale, qui peut en outre symboliser le rapprochement direct de l’homme et de Dieu (et rappelle qu’il n’y a pas besoin de médiateur pour les Protestants). L’utilisation d’une échelle corrobore cette idée. Cette estrade et cette échelle, comme les quelques accessoires utilisés par l’acteur, ont donc un sens bien précis.

Dès la première page de son œuvre, l’auteur nous livre la liste des objets dont se servira l’acteur. Ainsi Welch cite-t-il le tuyau d’une pompe à essence, une échelle en aluminium, une scie, une chaîne en fer, un télescope, un seau en métal, un pentacle (ou une étoile de David selon l’auteur lui-même en didascalie, qui brouille encore une fois les pistes). Chaque objet, associé à un personnage, est destiné à avoir une utilisation particulière. A propos du télescope que le jeune garçon de descendance orangiste manipule, Welch nous dit:

The boy is given as prop a telescope hinting at the play’s attempt to bring up close for scrutiny what lies far off; and also at the spirit of scientific inquiry that accompanied the Reformation’s stress on the individual mind’s capability to appraise evidence for itself, free of the dictates of dogmatic authority (Welch 19).

Si l’utilisation du télescope est à la fois pragmatique et symbolique, en revanche, les autres accessoires ont une fonction détournée. Donnons pour exemple la scie circulaire qui devient la collerette royale de Elizabeth 1ère ou encore le tuyau qui se transforme en un serpent. Ce détournement des objets dans leur fonction peut s’inscrire dans la stratégie de résistance au colonialisme de Welch dans la mesure où il semble faire écho au détournement de la définition du protestantisme. A travers ces accessoires et leur utilisation détournée par l’acteur, Welch met en lumière la définition erronée du protestantisme et s’en insurge. En effet, Michael Portillo, critique littéraire pour The Spectator, remarque: « one by one, Hickey [c’est le nom de l’acteur] tosses the props from the stage, as though angry with these symbols of prejudice and hate » (Welch 78). L’acteur doit incarner le protestantisme, ce que la religion a subi à travers les siècles, et son discours vient accompagner les mouvements de son corps afin de redéfinir la notion de protestantisme. Ses propos ont une résonance post-coloniale mais aussi didactique puisqu’ils doivent provoquer la réaction du public.

3. L’art pour redessiner les contours du protestantisme

Lorsqu’il évoque les origines de sa pièce, l’auteur, catholique, livre également la définition suivante du protestantisme :

It was in fact an engraving by Blake, “the Traveller makes haste towards evening” that provided a unifying thread for the play. Blake’s traveller became the narrator, a figure setting out on a journey, towards evening, leaving the comfort and security of the known and the familiar, the suburban, the gravelled pathways, the lamps being switched on as dark falls, to head into the uncertainty of memory and the fragmented recollection of history. The journey is one into what I imagined to be Protestant freedom and solitude, because it seems to me, rightly or wrongly, that one of the great discoveries of Protestantism was the terrifying isolation of the mind and the personality when confronted with the complex mystery of being (Welch 18).

A la lecture de ces explications, nous comprenons mieux pourquoi l’auteur a choisi la pièce monologique comme forme théâtrale (il s’est ainsi senti libre de rejeter la norme)mais aussi pourquoi le champ lexical de la peur est omniprésent. Néanmoins, les nombreuses répétitions de mots tels que « fear » et  « panic » sont contrebalancées par le discours de paix délivré par Martin Luther, technique qui rappelle la vocation dialectique du théâtre de Brecht selon laquelle des éléments de nature différente sont confrontés afin de faire naître un questionnement chez le spectateur. Welch souhaite ainsi mettre en évidence le fait que si le Protestant, et en particulier Martin Luther au moment de sa scission avec l’Église catholique romaine, éprouve un sentiment de peur, il ne doit pas la susciter, comme il en est trop souvent le cas en Irlande du Nord. La pièce de Welch repose ainsi sur cette évolution détournée, déformée de la religion en Irlande du Nord où la violence des colons protestants, puis de leurs héritiers, a pu effrayer. En outre, le discours de Martin Luther n’est pas au début mais au cœur de la pièce, alors que selon un enchaînement chronologique, il devrait ouvrir la pièce. L’expérience de Martin Luther se voit ainsi encadrée par celle des autres personnages. La structure de Protestants met donc une fois de plus en évidence l’importance des origines du protestantisme et la nécessité de les retrouver afin de mieux les comprendre, en comprendre l’évolution pour les déconstruire. Le monologue, et en particulier cette multitude de personnages qu’un seul acteur doit incarner lui permet, dans un second temps, de retrouver le message central de Martin Luther, précisément par le recentrement sur l’individu, la prise de conscience du personnage sur son individualité ; il lui permet ainsi de mettre en lumière l’évolution du protestantisme au fil des siècles.

Ces pistes de réflexion doivent provoquer la réaction du public, qui intervient et participe activement à la pièce. En effet, la fragmentation, le brouillage des pistes, les tensions entre linéarité et absence de linéarité, entre tradition et modernité, le discours dialectique de Welch, doivent susciter l’attention du spectateur, qui à son tour peut retrouver la chronologie, la fluidité et la continuité de ces éléments éclatés, des scènes juxtaposées. Pour le metteur en scène, Rachel O’Riordan, la forme et le contenu participaient à l’intervention du public : « the monodrama, and that format deeply affected the way in which the show was received. By communicating to the audience without character interplay the subject of the piece was thrown into the spotlight without any of the easy familiarities of naturalism. » (Welch 62). L’absence de naturalisme combinée à l’intervention du public fait écho à la théorie brechtienne du théâtre didactique. Pour Brecht, le théâtre doit susciter l’intervention du spectateur qui prend conscience d’un besoin de changement. Brecht écrit : « with the learning-play, then, the stage begins to be didactic. The theater becomes a place for philosophers, and for such philosophers as not only wish to explain the world but wish to change it. If there were not such entertaining learning, then the entire theatre would not be able to instruct. » (Brecht 80). De la même façon, la réception brute du message par le public est prépondérante pour Welch, elle fait partie intégrante de la pièce. En effet, des tables rondes et discussions furent organisées après chaque représentation pour recueillir les questions et réactions des spectateurs mais aussi pour échanger leurs points de vue.

Il s’agit donc de retrouver une définition plus juste de ce que représente le Protestant après avoir soumis à la fragmentation les critères qui le définissaient jusque là. Clare Wallace démontre en effet que le monologue dramatique permet de mettre en lumière la perception de l’Homme comme un produit fragmenté qui a subi les pressions des forces sociales et historiques :

Dramatic monologue enables the poet to inhabit a range of personae that may, as opposed to the confidential, earnest lyric ‘I’, open a space for doubt and ambivalence around the speaker. […] The perception of the self as ‘not autonomous, unified or stable, but rather the unfixed, fragmented product of various social and historical forces’, is fundamental to the emergence not only of this poetic genre, but also to the later development ofmodernist aesthetics (Wallace 10).

Ainsi, l’acteur, qui, dans une performance vocale incroyable, doit adopter les divers accents des personnages qu’il campe tour à tour dans un souci de cohérence physique et vocale, doit également, à travers son discours, montrer que la définition du protestantisme n’est pas immuable et figée, et qu’elle peut encore évoluer, qu’il faut la faire évoluer. La stratégie de Welch a, ici encore, une dimension post-coloniale et une vocation didactique. Il a recours à l’intertextualité, à la transgression des frontières littéraires et à la musique, code non-verbal dont le dessein n’est pas d’illustrer la scène mais de la compléter.

Welch renvoie à de nombreux auteurs avant lui, il cite les œuvres d’autres dramaturges irlandais tels que Brian Friel, ou Samuel Beckett. Les thèmes qu’il a choisis renvoient à de nombreux égards à la pièce de l’auteure nord-irlandaise, Marie Jones, A Night in November, mais il se réfère aussi à d’autres œuvres d’auteurs internationaux tels que George Steinbeck. Lorsqu’il s’agit de (re-)-définir les identités, de nombreux chercheurs en études post-coloniales considèrent que l’intertextualité permet d’assurer à d’autres langues d’être exprimées. Dans le cas de Protestants, il ne s’agit pas de langages, mais plutôt de points de vue. Ici, Welch rend hommage à ses prédécesseurs, mais les utilise à des fins modernes et expérimentales qui permettent à sa pièce de s’inscrire dans un mouvement littéraire nouveau à vocation didactique et de faire valoir son œuvre parmi celles d’autres auteurs.

L’auteur s’autorise aussi à transgresser les frontières littéraires, et mélange les genres pour montrer cette absence de figement et d’immanence, et au contraire, la possible mobilité et l’évolution de la définition du protestantisme. Ainsi, sa pièce devient un poème, regorgeant d’allitérations, d’assonances comme à l’occasion de cette réplique du narrateur où les termes thrill (frisson) et fizz (pétillement) sont juxtaposés : « and nothing else matters but the thrill, the fizz, of grinding someone else down » (Welch  29). Il est intéressant de rappeler ici que Robert Welch est également un poète. Il a écrit de nombreux recueils de textes poétiques tels que Muskerry (Dublin: Dedalus, 1991); Secret Societies (Dublin: Dedalus, 1997) ; Blue Formica Table (Dublin: Dedalus, 1999). Welch n’hésite pas non plus à conférer des titres à ses scènes, afin de mettre l’accent sur l’absence de linéarité et d’enchaînement chronologique d’une scène à une autre (un autre des principes brechtiens en rupture totale avec la pièce dite classique), mais aussi dans un but de transgression des frontières littéraires, car ces titres ne sont pas sans faire écho au genre du roman.

Enfin, le dramaturge incorpore chants et musique à son œuvre, comme pour rendre hommage aux origines du théâtre, mais il les utilise dans une perspective nouvelle, à la fois post-coloniale et didactique. En effet, selon Gilbert et Tompkins, « musical signification generates cultural meanings in its own right » (193). Ainsi, pour les chercheurs en études post-coloniales, la musique et les chants peuvent être des outils de résistance au colonialisme :

Song also affects the agency of language, altering the way that it ‘means’, while silence on stage can be a forceful and effective manner in/through which to express a post-colonial discourse of alterity, difference, and autonomy. The careful redeployment of linguistic signifiers – such as tone, rhythm, register, and lexicon – can generate as much political resistance as the rewriting of history or the introduction of politically embedded properties to a stage (Gilbert et Tompkins 168).

Si une étude sur le silence se révèlerait être impertinente dans Protestants du fait de sa rareté dans l’œuvre, l’analyse de la musique à portée post-coloniale s’avère plus riche. A l’étude de la pièce, il ne nous aura point échappé la sensibilité de Welch pour l’art musical, notamment le gospel, le bluegrass, le blues et la musique country. En effet, l’auteur a choisi de ponctuer les interventions de son narrateur par des interludes musicaux, sans leur donner une fonction structurale particulière. Ainsi, si certaines chansons annoncent la scène suivante, ce n’est pas le cas pour d’autres. En revanche, les titres qu’il cite, directement inspirés de la musique afro-américaine pour la plupart, mettent particulièrement en lumière une volonté de se détacher des thèmes musicaux traditionnels d’Irlande du Nord. De la même façon, les instruments de musique qu’il nomme, tel le banjo (47), ne sont point les flûtes et tambours utilisés par les Orangistes protestants d’Ulster pour commémorer la victoire de Guillaume d’Orange sur les Catholiques. Cette stratégie répond donc à la nécessité de se détacher des représentations du protestantisme qui évoqueraient la violence. A travers cette insertion, Welch montre que le protestantisme est capable de transcendance musicale et d’ouverture.

Dans l’œuvre de Welch, la musique est également utilisée à des fins didactiques si l’on adopte un point de vue brechtien. Pour Brecht, la musique, qui n’illustre pas les scènes mais fait partie intégrante de l’action, a une résonance didactique dans la mesure où elle apporte découpage et fragmentation à l’œuvre afin de créer un effet de distanciation pour le spectateur. Brecht explique sa démarche expérimentale dans laquelle la musique occupe une place fondamentale en ces termes :

Another series of experiments that made use of theatrical effects […] led to the ‘Lehrstücke’, for which the nearest English equivalent I can find is the ‘learning-play’. [This includes] the use of music and of the chorus to supplement and vivify the action[s] on the stage […] so as to call for a critical approach, so that [the actions] would not be taken for granted by the spectator and would arouse him to think; it became obvious to him which were right actions and which were wrong ones. The learning play is essentially dynamic; its task is to show the world as it changes (and also as it maybe changed). (Brecht 79).

C’est pour cette raison que l’auteur inclut dès le début de la pièce la chanson de Van Morrison « Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child » parmi d’autres mélodies de musique country, bluegrass et de gospel dont il ne cite pas les titres de manière systématique. Cette chanson, dont le titre rappelle l’importance des origines, thème dominant de Protestants, est interprétée par un musicien nord-irlandais dont les performances sont réputées pour être expérimentales. Ce titre peut jouer le rôle de fil conducteur au sein de la pièce dans la mesure où il évoque la spiritualité (il était un chant spirituel des noirs américains) et où il reprend le thème principal de la pièce sans l’illustrer. Un autre exemple pertinent dans le cadre de notre démonstration : l’inclusion d’une mélodie irlandaise, dont le titre est en gaélique, au beau milieu de l’intervention de Elizabeth 1ère. Welch incorpore  « Ag Scaipendh na gCleiti » de Sean O Riada dans cette scène afin de créer un effet d’étrangeté, d’inattendu, visant à marquer la surprise du spectateur qui devra réagir. La musique est pour Brecht une façon de « faire sortir le spectateur du cours de l’intrigue, de dévoyer son attention. » (Banoun : 349). C’est ainsi que Welch l’utilise.

Le texte de Welch repose donc sur de multiples tensions. Le sujet ouvre la voie à la polémique, et la forme donne lieu au questionnement. Pourtant, le fond et la forme coïncident : ainsi nous trouvons de la cohérence au-delà des tensions et contrastes. L’objectif de l’auteur n’est pas de donner une définition du protestantisme. Selon Jane Coyle dans the Irish Times : « Protestants is not an end in itself. It is a provocative, mischievous spring board to wider discussion and debate, comparison and analysis » (Welch 73). C’est pourquoi, l’impact sur le public est très fort, la participation du public est vivement requise. Si l’expérience du protestantisme se fait de manière solitaire, la redéfinition de l’homme protestant doit se faire à l’aide du public pour Welch; la performance devant le public devient ainsi une technique de redéfinition à la fois du contenu et du théâtre. Ophelia Byrne considère que l’Irlande du Nord est entrée dans une nouvelle ère, post-conflit, annonciatrice de changements : « it is perhaps only now as Northern Ireland is beginning to move away from conflict that plays like this can perhaps be staged here, and that there is the space for them to emerge. » (Welch 69). Il est désormais possible d’inventer de nouvelles normes théâtrales inspirées de divers mouvements et théories pour le XXIème siècle en Irlande du Nord ; c’est pourquoi ces pièces expérimentales qui s’inscrivent au carrefour d’un discours post-colonial et néo-brechtien foisonnent aujourd’hui.

The post Au Carrefour du didactisme brechtien et de la résistance post-coloniale : Protestants (2004) de Robert Welch appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

You are a body that needed a home / now you are ruins and home is wound

Why I left when I did and could not say goodbye:

The prison cell of memory / the decade of letters to the boy in Brooklyn/ the bleached bones / the runway of nightmare / the parched stillness echoed in hospital rooms / the clenched fists / the shivering night sky / the shattered glass in balconies on three continents / the silence/ the pity/ the rage in bones / the “I feel butchered / like someone / cut and cut and cut / all the humanity/ left nothing but rage”

The mother outside morgue paralyzed by grief / cries “I am not sorry for the martyr in you” / the revisionist history / the it did not happen / the they said it was different / so it was different / no one ever asked how or why / the sea of tents / the echo of lifeless / the limelight vertigo/ the blood soaked streets / the it did not happen / the revisionist history / my children will one day ask about

You are a body that needed a home/ now you are ruins and home is wound

The stillness of the midnight sky / before tear gas climbs down staircase of metro station the bodies start falling like thunder/ like applause / like paralyzed mind/ waiting to be jolted by lightning

The I do not sleep / the I wake for memory / the close my eyes and all I hear is gunfire / tilt head back and exhale for quiet / instead I am falling / falling / falling / into the broken teeth of this city / with blood-crusted fingernails / bruised knuckles/ and burnt bodies sketched with charcoal on the back of my eyelids/ the letter this week is about losing myself

You are a body that needed a home / now you are ruins and home is wound

The arms wrapped around blanket during October sunrise / no map / no mercy / no melody / only cloud as corpse to guide the way / the unwritten letters

The months go by/ the I do not recognize myself/ overdose on pills /as shrapnel fills throat/ asleep with the intimacy of loss / resting on my side table/ with yesterday’s coffee grains / the trying to remember to forget / and always forgetting to not remember / the I do not write to him for 64 days

The count to five and breathe / the 1-2-3-4-5 exhale / close my eyes and /all I see is ornament of burial shroud / sunset painted with massacred veins / city of lanterns with purple haze / marketplace of sorrow/ glass shards meet concrete / another balcony / the unkempt hair / the midnight walks / the hollowed out / clawed out / the rotting and ripe presence / of batons and blockades / and another and another and another / letter from prison cell / the are you okay? / the are you happy?/ the before I sleep I am still talking to your silhouette on walls

You are a body that needed a home / now you are ruins and home is wound

Suez is burning / Sinai is burning / Port Said is burning / Maspero is burning / Ittahadeya is burning / Tahrir is burning / my world is burning and all I can do is write / to the boy in Brooklyn / who taught me how to be / the hollow frame of a body / in spite of the flames

The aftermath/ the mayhem of survival/ the mayhem of empty/ the mayhem of the broken hymn / of the hundredth goodbye

The I left when I did / nothing familiar / about myself / left / I left the letters behind / box full / overflowing / of handmade paper / flowers pressed between the map to the morgue and memory overflowing of / nothing but hollow

You are a body that needed a home / now you are ruins and home is wound

The I still write to him / the I still write to him / not of hollow / not of loss / not of adventure / or defeat / or love / but of finding a way out / of lifeless and love in spite of loss / of starting over / of lifeless and love in spite of loss / of leaving / of lifeless and love in spite of loss

You are a body that needed a home / now you are ruins and home is wound
You are a body that needed a home / now you are ruins and home is wound

The you can walk away / the you can always say enough / the you can always say today / I will watch the world burn / from another balcony

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