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  • Susan Slyomovics — “The Ethnologist-Spy Was Hanged, at That Time We Were a Little Savage”: Anthropology in Algeria with Habib Tengour

    Susan Slyomovics — “The Ethnologist-Spy Was Hanged, at That Time We Were a Little Savage”: Anthropology in Algeria with Habib Tengour

    This essay is part of a dossier on The Maghreb after Orientalism

    Il fut pendu l’ethnologue-espion, writes poet-novelist-anthropologist Habib Tengour, En ce temps-là nous étions un peu sauvages (1976 : 131).[1] Tengour’s sly voicing of the violent indigene consigning ethnology to the gallows asks us to rethink authority and expertise in the social sciences. Tengour was born in Mostaganem in 1947, a town he registers in rhymed Algerian Arabic as vingt-sept makla we sket, “zip code twenty-seven food and silence” (2012: 36). His father Mohamed Tengour was a member of the Parti du Peuple Algérien (PPA) and head of the Organisation secrète (OS) for the Mostaganem region, both crucial entities to the formation of the Front de Libération Nationale (FLN). Twice arrested and imprisoned for nationalist political activities, Mohamed Tengour was banished from his home region. Forced to relocate to France, he resumed activities on behalf of an independent Algeria and brought his family to Paris.[2]

    Figure 1. At his father’s tomb, 2015. Habib Tengour (front left), his uncle Ghali (front right) and uncle’s friend (back). Photo by Mansour Benchehida. Reproduced by permission of Mansour Benchehida and Habib Tengour

    Raised and educated between Algeria and France, Habib Tengour will crisscross the Mediterranean Sea calling himself Ulysses, another consummate ethnographer whose life depends on fieldwork and literature in a quest for a restoration to homeland and identity (Yelles 2012): “My name is Ulysses I am 22 years old and I am doing sociology because I failed law” (Je m’appelle ULYSSE j’ai vingt-deux ans je fais de la sociologie parce que j’ai echoué en Droit) (9). He returns to Algeria in 1972 to complete military service, then becomes director of the newly established Institute of Social Sciences at the University of Constantine. He resigns in 1975 in opposition to proliferating provincial university graduate programs created in the absence of trained social sciences professors, each new one producing “a parody of Lin Biao! Encircling the cities by the countryside. That’s a little how the University of Algiers was gradually encircled by provincial universities” (1995: 71-72).

    A year before Tengour’s homecoming, Mohammed Seddik Benyahia, a member of Algeria’s first provisional government and minister of higher education and research from 1971-77, declares that ethnologie, “contaminated by colonialism,” must be “submitted to a process of decolonization.”[3] A forerunner document to Benyahia’s call was the Tripoli Plan of 1962 elaborated by the National Council of the Algerian Revolution (CNRA) on the eve of independence. Dismantling former European settler colonial structures called for more appropriate post-independence measures of redress and reconstruction than ethnology imparts:

    French colonialists undertook, by war, extermination, looting and confiscation, to systematically destroy the Algerian nation and society. More than a mere colonial conquest to ensure control of the country’s natural wealth, this enterprise sought, by all means, to substitute foreign settlement for the autochthonous people. (Colonna 1972: 260)

    The French conquests of Algeria in 1830, Tunisia in 1881, and Morocco in 1912 also resulted in France establishing journals, institutes, scholarly organizations and universities instigated by metropolitan exigencies over its overseas colonies. France was the preeminent social scientific model for the Maghreb and the Maghreb contributed to shaping French social sciences (Slyomovics 2013). The Commission Scientifique de l’Algérie (1839-41), modeled on Napoleon’s scientific expedition to Egypt, was created to map Algeria’s culture and geography, as were the 1904 Mission Scientifique to Morocco and the creation of the French institute in Cairo in 1909. In 1925, the Institut d’Ethnologie in Paris established by Marcel Mauss, Lucien Lévy-Bruhl, and Paul Rivet arrived on the social science scene at the apogee of close to one hundred years of research on the native following in the wake of military officers and colonial civil servants whom Bourdieu calls ethnologues spontanés, “spontaneous ethnologists” (Mammeri 1985: 8). Engaged in ethnology, folklore, and collecting on behalf of metropolitan museums, Tengour’s legions of ethnologist-spies were effective in spoliating native material and intangible cultures.

    Anthropology, according to Talal Asad (who prefigured Edward Said’s critique of the West’s Orientalism), is an intellectual agent of colonialism inevitably embedded in hegemonic and imperial power relations because “the world also determines how anthropology will apprehend it” (1973: 12). And that ethnographic world of inquiry ended, dissipating the colonial regime of Francophone scientific researchers in the Maghreb enraptured by North African ethnology (Slyomovics 2014). It is not surprising, therefore, that postcolonial theory owes a debt to Maghreb-based thinkers. Among them on any list are Abdelkebir Khatibi, Albert Memmi, Abdelmalek Sayad, Paul Sebag, Abdelkader Zghal, Habib Tengour, Jacques Derrida, Pierre Bourdieu, and Frantz Fanon, all “provincializing” Europe (Chakrabarty 2000) from the Mediterranean’s North African shores.

    Following Benyahia’s call to boycott ethnology, debates swirled around a post-independence anthropology inquiring, in fact, what is to be done? Would linking the identity of the indigenous social scientist to the discipline of anthropology produce more relevant, less universalizing, unbiased “Arab social science”? Or another intellectual path, should Islamic and Arab sources reanimate social theories derived from the fourteenth-century Maghrebi thinker Ibn Khaldun? (Morsy et al. 1991: 81-115). What if decolonizing the social sciences in Algeria became the means to hijack and manipulate the path of Arabization (ta’rib), thereby blocking progressive movements such as student or Berberophone rights, as Tengour suggests? (1995: 68) In contrast to tortuous attempts throughout the Arab world to reconcile nascent academic social sciences with Western Orientalist anthropology, at least on the official level, Algerian authorities said no. Ethnology was banned outright at the twenty-fourth International Conference of Sociology in Algiers in March 1974:

    Ethnology fully participated in the colonial system. Created by colonialism, it accepted its presuppositions. You might even say it served as an ideology for this system. . . . Decolonization has scientific aspects. The rejection of ethnology as a discipline of study specific to developing countries is one of them. As a method and an ideology, it has developed a logic and thus it constitutes a scientific danger, an ideological screen between the social reality of third world countries and those who want to study them. (L’ethnologie a participé totalement du système colonial, dont elle est la création et dont elle a accepté les présupposés. Elle tenait même lieu à la limite d’idéologie à ce système. . . . La décolonisation a des aspects scientifiques. Le rejet d’ethnologie comme discipline d’étude propre aux pays en voie de développements en est un. . . . Comme méthode et comme idéologie elle a développé une logique et par là même elle constitue un danger scientifique, un écran idéologique entre la réalité sociale des pays du tiers monde et ceux qui veulent les étudier. (Mammeri 1989 : 18))

     

    A Detour

    It is worth recalling that one of the largest colonial resettlement programs occurred in wartime Algeria (1954-62), merely a dozen years before Benyahia spoke out. To dismantle peasant support for independence fighters, approximately one quarter of the indigenous rural population was displaced. The French military process of forcible removal was overseen by the army’s Specialized Administrative Sections (Sections Administratives Spécialisées, SAS). Officers apprenticed in so-called Muslim sociology were charged with the study of villagers before and after resettlement. Social science was implicated, as early as Émile Durkheim’s The Division of Labor in Society that depicted an Algerian traditional Kabyle society frozen in premodernity: “The Hebrews remained in it [segmentary social organization] to a late date and the Kabyles never passed beyond it” (Durkheim 1997 [1893], 175-178). The French army, attentive to lessons in Durkheimian sociology on tribal solidarities, imbibed Orientalist perversions of fourteenth-century thinker Ibn Khaldun in which forced sedentarization and relocation consolidated their state power (Mamdani 2017). French Algeria’s wholesale destruction of a rural agrarian world through land dispossession was updated to align with wartime scorched earth policies, then cynically relabeled modernization. A significant portion of Algerian society endured internal exile and immiseration on a vast scale as victims of controlled experiments to discover the viability of the so-called pacification programs in regroupement camps that were never more than outdoor prisons (Omouri 2001; Henni 2018). The recurring figure of the embedded anthropologist within the military is not new. Moreover, it could be said that Benyahia was operating well within Durkheimian paradigms: in France, ethnology and sociology were intertwined, thus eerily presaging Benyahia’s judgments about ethnologie versus sociologie despite Durkheim’s attempts to distinguish sociology as meta-theorizing from ethnology’s empirical data-driven practices:

    The customs, beliefs, institutions of peoples are matters too profound to be judged like this, so lightly. This is why sociology must focus its research primarily on societies that can be studied from genuine historical documents, while ethnographic information should be used only to corroborate and, to a certain extent, illuminate precedents. (Durkheim [1895] 1975, 1: 76-81)

    Presciently, this Algerian post-independence rejection of ethnology, understood by Benyahia as a body of knowledge predicated on the colonizer’s description to better police the population, had been foretold by Albert Memmi. Refusal is a rite of decolonization:

    We then witness a reversal of terms. Assimilation being abandoned, the colonized’s liberation must be carried out through a recovery of self and of autonomous dignity. Attempts at imitating the colonizer required self-denial; the colonizer’s rejection is the indispensable prelude to self-discovery. That accusing and annihilating image must be shaken off; oppression must be attacked boldly since it is impossible to go around it. After having been rejected for so long by the colonizer, the day has come when it is the colonized who must refuse the colonizer. . . . Henceforth, the colonizer adopts a negative approach. . . . He does without tobacco if it bears the colonialist’s stamp! These are pressure methods and economic sanctions, but they are, equally, sacrificial rites of colonization. (Memmi 1965: 172-173)

    Benyahia maintained an equipoise between rejecting colonial ethnology and establishing a comprehensive pedagogical program from kindergarten to conservatory and an advanced research institute for the study and preservation of Algeria’s magnificant heritage of Arab-Andalusian music. His advocacy for “decolonizing the social sciences” along with the rise of critical reissues of colonial-era ethnography, which led to reassessing Algeria’s colonial-era anthropology, cast Bourdieu, whose Algeria writings continue to be published posthumously to this day, as a key figure. Bourdieu founded an Algerian association of research in demography, economy and sociology; he collaborated and coauthored important studies with his colleague Abdelmalek Sayad; and his military experiences in wartime Algeria for the information services of the French army and the French government statistics office in Algiers led to discussions about instrumentalizing ethnographic research. Bourdieu and Sayad’s angry depictions of French Algeria’s wartime forced dislocations resulted in a publication ban of their book, Le déracinement (The Uprooting) that lasted until after the Algerian War of Independence. They describe the pauperization of Kabyle farmers herded into “regroupment” camps by the French military, “as if the colonizer instinctively found the ethnological law in which the reorganization of the habitat, a projection of the most fundamental structures of culture, leads to a generalized transformation of the cultural system. . . . The politics of regroupment, a pathological response to the deadly crisis of the colonial system, brings to light the pathological intent that inhabits the colonial system” (Comme si le colonisateur retrouvait d’instinct la loi ethnologique qui veut que la réorganisation de l’habitat, projection des structures les plus fondamentales de la culture, entraîne une transformation généralisée du système culturel. . . . La politique de regroupement, réponse pathologique à la crise mortelle du système colonial, fait éclater au grand jour l’intention pathologique qui habitait le système colonial (Bourdieu and Sayad 1964 : 26-27)). While describing the army’s strategies to coerce, supply, and rehearse informants in camps, Bourdieu takes note of the natives, perennially under investigation, who resisted their French questioners despite an “atmosphere of police inquisition and psychological action” (Bourdieu 1963: 261). Defying the social scientist under colonialism transforms into a fixation against ethnology.

    Bourdieu himself began as an ethnologist later announcing a switch to sociology. Reductively speaking, physical anthropology was “anthropologie” while empirical fieldwork research in the human sciences was “ethnologie” in France, its analogue in England “social anthropology” and “cultural anthropology” in the US. In many Anglophone academic environments, the latter two melded into “sociocultural anthropology.” Even in France, Georges Balandier, among the founders of the Centre d’études sociologiques (Center for studies in sociology) in 1946, called for more convergences (Balandier 1948; Siebaud 2006).

     

    “The Poetic Discovery of the Real”

    If the terms ethnology, sociology, folklore and anthropology are often deployed interchangeably, in turn, Tengour’s poetic discovery of the real (1985: 13) and deadpan black humor play with the overlapping homophony of the word “social.” In This Particular Tartar 2 (1997–1998), his sociologist persona is mistaken for a social worker by a Tartar stranded in Paris. The Tartar, a recurring protagonist in the Tengourian corpus, becomes the exonym for Western social science in its petty bureaucratic actualizations; he is coded the migrant perennially flooding Europe like his fierce ancestral hordes, “invaders from the East whom they called, without distinction, Tartars” (2010: 122):

    The city planning bureau asked me to interview him in the context of a study on gypsies and other travelers.

    This particular Tartar distrusts sociologists. I think he confuses us with social workers.

    My interview was limited to brief questions/answers.

    I didnʼt succeed in getting a serviceable life story out of him.

    I had read up on the Tartars beforehand, to help me establish contact.

    He didnʼt appreciate my empathy. (130)

    Unlike long-standing Orientalist studies from anthropology, folklore and ethnology about so-called “primitive” non-European peoples, languages and customs, sociology in Algeria was considered less tainted by the colonizer’s cultural depredations (Ben Naoum 2002). Mobilized on behalf of practical socioeconomic and political orientations and marching to state-inflected parameters on proletarianization, pauperization, unemployment, and shantytowns, post-independence Algerian sociology was brought to bear on topics such as development, detribalization, migration, newly launched agricultural programs, urbanization and industrialization (Madoui 2007).

    In 1985, the year Tengour obtained a French doctorate in ethnology, Algeria was in the midst of state-mandated programs ensuring university teaching in Modern Standard Arabic, MSA (al-‘arabiya al-mu‘asira), no one’s native tongue and as yet linguistically lesser in the face of Algerians’ trilingual usage of Algerian Arabic (darija), French, and Amazigh/Berber languages. More government interventions followed the ban on ethnology and mandated Arabic in university social sciences faculties. Algeria’s Minister of Higher Education Abdelhak Rafik Brerhi, following a recommendation of FLN chief Mohamed-Cherif Messadia, proposed an addendum to mandated FLN party membership for state employees. A 1985 directive added a provision that professors disrespecting the regime’s political choices were liable to court actions and lawsuits, followed by decrees not only mandating MSA’s preeminence but attempting to substitute English for French. Although research conducted within Algeria has never been isolated from Western paradigms, political sociologist Lahouari Addi concludes that because university critics of the regime like himself were either in exile or teaching outside the country, government strictures on political and linguistic allegiances became moot in the face of the brain drain of Algerian intellectuals (Addi 1991 and 2002: 71-77 and Ayoub 2000).

    Likewise, ethnographic studies of the tribe were taboo in Algeria during decades of the FLN single-party state (1962-89). Although tribal values were admired, the tribe as a social institution was deemed archaic and divisive. Research on Algeria’s tribes shows that despite interventions through mass education and compulsory army service, the tribe is not in opposition to the Algerian state but remains an important sociopolitical entity, hence a worthy object of study (Hachmaoui 2012; Ben Hounet 2008; Tengour 1980: 1985). In his own way, Tengour intervenes in the debate about what is to be done with ethnology in his doctoral thesis on the Beni Zeroual tribal confederations of the Chlef plain surrounding his Mostaganem home region. His ethnological propositions move away from static social science categories about la tribu towards a complex story of doubled and parallel origins, one in which the Beni Zeroual tribe’s history counterintuitively does not reside in the powerful eponymous founding ancestor figure. Unlike Algerians in Paris whose connections to any tribal group solidarity has melted away in the world of the banlieues (housing projects on the outskirts of French cities where migrant workers were concentrated), Tengour’s hypothesis is instead that, in Algeria, this fabled past was and is sustained by the local patron saint, the marabout. As Tengour unfolds generations of tribal formations, he recounts the inevitable subdividing of the tribe (qabila) into the fraction (ferqa), then further devolving into sub-fractions, clans and extended households. For him, only the last stage exhibits genuine value in terms of economic, social, and affective kinship. This means that if the tribe exists in name through reference to their eponymous ancestor Zeroual, it does so primarily to attach descendants to imagined Arab and Arabian peninsular origins. Intervening disruptive factors in the Maghreb’s history were long-standing, fluid pre-colonial affiliations and cross-border tribal movement frozen by subsequent French colonial insistence on naming, registering and refashioning tribal structures (1985: 139-142). Such factors lead Tengour to place the tribe’s memory, history, and very soul in the hands of the non-tribal marabout. These saintly spiritual leaders, whose descendants to this day transmit the tribe’s written history orally, are uniquely able to trace origins to Arab progenitors and wandering Sufi adepts, all the while ministering to the Beni Zeroual, who are in fact not Arabs, according to Tengour, but rather Arabized Berbers (1982). Taken to its conclusion, Tengour’s thesis reconfigures the marabout as an imaginative storyteller, religious leader, and tribal ethnologist, the one who does not belong to the tribe, irrespective of the tribe as imaginary traditional system or colonially distorted institution. The marabout does so by preserving written history, thereby keeping alive publicly and orally for the tribe its own genealogy and origins. Finally, the question is not if tribal lineages are socially imagined and culturally invented, but rather who tells the tale of segmenting lineages and who listens. Writing and history, story and voice, tribe and tribal memory, storytelling and identity are structurally and productively inverted. Most of all, nothing memorable is lost in Gens de Mosta, Tengour’s hometown chronicles where his concept of cultural memory is on offer to his younger, skeptical narrator by another storyteller, Allal, the venerable mujahid, communist, and International Brigade fighter:

    Figure 2. Tengour home in Tigditt neighborhood, Mostaganem, June 20, 2018. Photo by Susan Slyomovics

    Open your ears wide and remember what you are told. And learn to tell a story … a people never forgets what’s essential to its being. No people can be fucked all the time! Memory is a very complicated thing. In fact nothing ever is really lost. Memory works in the shadows. It loves secrecy. Apparent forgetfulness is its refuge during hard times. It waits for its hour to come and while the stomach is rumbling it does not stop digging. There isn’t only what’s written down that remains. Spoken words also leave traces. (2011 [1997]: 214)

    Collective embodied forms of recognition, acceptance, and transmission that are performatively enacted by the storyteller need not entirely align with official social worldviews of the Algerian nation-state, but artfully circumvent them while giving narrative pleasure to the listener.

     

    Doubling and Exile: Both Ethnologist and Novelist

    Tengour turned back to France in the early nineties to teach at the University of Evry until his retirement in 2017, believing that “there exists a divided space called the Maghreb but the Maghrebian is always elsewhere. And that’s where he makes himself come true” (2011: 262). His departure from the Algerian academy coincided with the onset of the “Black Decade” (decénnie noire) and internal strife beginning in the early 1990s. Tengour’s “elsewhere” highlights cultural hybridity and ambivalence, métissage and dichotomy, rupture and orphanhood, schizophrenia and doubles that continue to bind and underpin those who engage simultaneously in literary and ethnographic writings about the Maghreb. Such doubling and multilingual heritages are historically conjoined to displacement and exile for Algerian writers. As Maghrebi intellectuals move between the homeland and the metropole of the former colonizer, familiar tropes of splitting and separation emerge: Malek Chebel invokes “Algerian schizophrenias” (1995: 287) reminiscent of Albert Memmi who, three decades earlier, picked at the “painful discord within oneself” (le douloureux décalage d’avec soi), a cleavage that measures the self in relation to a colonizer forever deemed the model or its antithesis (1965: 140). Abdelkebir Khatibi seems to solve these conundrums of the formerly colonized writer from the Maghreb region by evoking an initial positive role as producers of the “ethnographic novel. . . . The novel as a witness to its era, in a period of oppression and the absence of a free press, the novel plays the role of informant” (le roman ethnographique . . . un témoignage sur une époque ; en période d’oppression et en l’absence d’une presse nationale non officielle, il peut jouer le rôle d’informateur (Khatibi 1968 : 28)). While Khatibi sees the ethnographic novel genealogically as a necessary early literary stage, Réda Bensmaïa argues powerfully against any continued tendency to view Maghrebi works not as literary creations worth considering for their innovative style and language but as “ethnographic evidence” extraneous to some hypothetical French literary canon (Bensmaïa 2003: 7). For literary critic Zineb Ali Benali, it seems that the evident richness of post-independence studies in linguistics, sociology, and history from and about the Maghreb results in studies that do not reach beyond local North African university circuits to wider publics. Consequently, “the novel is more than an informant” writes Ali Benali returning to Khatibi’s famous formulation, “it is the nation’s archivist. . . . We can then say that fiction is a sort of an archivoir for a story not yet, or insufficiently, unlocked” (Le roman, cet archiviste de l’histoire. . . . On pourra alors dire que la fiction est une sorte ‘d’archivoir’ pour une histoire non encore, ou insuffisamment, déverrouillée (Ali Benali 2003)).

    Does that mean that literary realism is the vehicle for the native just as scientific inquiry into the life of the native is for European ethnographers? Through poetry, performance, and prose as well as anthropology, Tengour belongs to a stellar lineage in which generations of Algerian novelists and poets consider contemporary social science topics even as they conduct fieldwork in ethnology and oral literature. Assia Djebar, for example, appears as an ethnologist of the intimate, everyday interior worlds of women, visually documenting stories, festivals, and songs of women in her film, La nouba des femmes du Mont Chenoua (The Nouba of the Women of Mount Chenoua) (1977). Other notable ethnologist-novelists are Mouloud Mammeri and Mouloud Feraoun. A recent literary phenomenon is Amara Lakhous, novelist and anthropologist trained at the Sapienza University of Rome. His book, Clash of Civilizations over an Elevator in Piazza Vittorio was originally published in 2003 in Arabic, Kayfa tarda min al-ziba duna ‘an tawdak (How to Be Breastfed by a She-Wolf Without Being Bitten). Recast by the author into Italian, it is now widely read in English translation (2008). When asked about his writing process, the multilingual self-translating Lakhous explains how he moves from right to left on the page just as he maintains a south-to-north cross-Mediterranean presence:

    I wrote the first version of Divorzio all’Islamica a viale Marconi (Divorce Islamic Style)which was published in 2010, in Italian (I work on multiple versions — for example, Clash of Civilizations . . . had about twenty versions). When I finished — as you know, in Arabic you write from right to left — I divided the file and made two tables: Italian text on the left and Arabic text on the right. I have a multi-language keyboard, so I can go from one language to the other. And I would look at the Italian text, and write in Arabic, and if I found something that seemed more convincing as an image in Italian, I would change it. So the two texts were born together, and published within a month of one another: the Arabic text was published in August and the Italian text in September. They’re twins. (Ray 2014)

     

    Ethnographic Surrealism

    Looking back thirty years on a career in ethnology and literature, Tengour reflects on his “taste for fieldwork” and “listening to the other” combined with “poetic impetus” and “discipline and rigor essential to grasp things”: “Je me suis spécialisé en anthropologie par goût du terrain et aussi pour être à l’écoute de l’autre. Il y a dans la posture de l’anthropologue un maintien qui permet l’élan poétique tout en obligeant le regard à une discipline et une rigueur indispensables à la saisie des choses” (Agour 2008). His lifelong engagement with anthropology emphasizes local and historical terrains that do not confine him to the role of informant or mere chronicler of his Algerian interlocutors. He navigates the spaces of social science with exceptional autonomy and surrealist subversion, by turns wildly innovative and corrosively comic. Tengour’s influential manifesto “Maghrebin Surrealism” (2011 [1981]: 261-269) is intertextually alive to surrealist antecedents. He layers a “homage” to André Breton embedding the latter’s definition of surrealism in italics in his own text to guide him to “the actual functioning of thought. Dictated by thought, in the absence of any control exercised by reason, exempt from any aesthetic or moral concern” (Breton 1924 in Tengour 1981: 269). This practice finds echoes in anthropology exemplified in the concept of “ethnographic surrealism” as defined by James Clifford:

    To state the contrast schematically, ethnographic humanism begins with the different and renders it (through naming, classifying, describing, interpreting) comprehensible. It familiarizes. A surrealist practice, on the other hand, attacks the familiar, provoking the irruption of otherness—the unexpected. The two attitudes presuppose one another; both are elements within a complex process that generates cultural meanings, definitions of self and other (1981: 562).

    Tengour’s ethnographic attitude is shaped by surrealism and shapes it in turn. Consider that his initial fieldwork and teaching forays were framed by Benyahia’s illocutionary speech act against ethnology. That an academic field was made off limits is surely as surrealist as any Breton manifesto. Beyond ill-conceived, widely disregarded nation-building diktats by higher education bureaucrats, Tengour’s arguments about ethnographic participant-observations are infused with “the unbearable limits of a dailyness so difficult to bear.” Besides, he notes that given Algeria’s post-independence trajectories, who needs writers to chase after fictional madmen to populate their Maghrebi novels?

    I council the reasonable man to go sit by the river and he will see pass by all the madmen he ever wanted to meet; provided that he live long enough. All Maghrebians know the subversive power of madness; their artists (with rare exceptions) know it less well than they do, as shown by the sugary and lukewarm use they make of it in their works trying to compel the unbearable limits of a dailyness so difficult to bear.

    The madman, the mahbûl, the medjnûn, the dervish, the makhbût, the msaqqaf, the mtaktak, etcetera, belongs to folklore, alas. This reduction reveals the narrowness of the outlook. . . . The Algerians in particular — are seduced by the image of the madman: he is thought to speak what had been silenced. In most cases we are dealing with postcard-madmen (colonial exoticism was fond of this sort of postcard), boring and pompous. (Tengour 2011 [1981]: 263)

    Tengour follows through with a multitude of research and writing projects in which Maghrebi Sufism is where “surrealist subversion asserts itself . . . there where the exterior observer sees only heresy, sexual dissoluteness, coarse language, incoherent acts, etcetera.” All that might be labeled spiritually heterodox or ethnographically unworthy – the particularity of North African Sufism, the textures of his childhood Tigditt Mostaganem neighborhood, Algeria’s magnificent gut-wrenching rai music – these are Tengour’s fields of inquiry. While Breton’s manifesto ends with “existence is elsewhere,” Tengour’s remake of a modernist rhetorical genre will posit “that despite my perverse attachment to art, it is ‘elsewhere’ that I hope to sojourn,” a narrative flourish that enticed him toward ethnography. 

    Susan Slyomovics is Distinguished Professor of Anthropology and Near Eastern Languages and Cultures at the University of California, Los Angeles. Her current research
    project is on the fates of French colonial monuments in Algeria. She is editor of several
    volumes and the author of How to Accept German Reparations (2014), The Performance of Human Rights in Morocco (2005), and The Object of Memory: Arab and Jew Narrate the Palestinian Village (1998).

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    https://journals.openedition.org/insaniyat/7320

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    Breton, André. 1972 [1924]. Manifestoes of surrealism. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.

    Chebel, Malek. 1995. “Schizophrénies algériennes,” Peuples Méditerranéens 70-71 : 287-92.

    Clifford, James. 1981. “On Ethnographic Surrealism,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 23, no. 4: 539-64.

    Conseil national révolutionnaire algérien (CNRA). 1962. “Projet de Programme pour la réalisation de la révolution démocratique populaire.” Congress of Tripoli, June: http://www.el-mouradia.dz/francais/symbole/textes/tripoli.htm

    Colonna, Fanny. 1972. “Une fonction coloniale de l’ethnographie dans l’Algérie de l’entre deux-guerres: La programmation des élites moyennes,” Libyca 20: 259–67.

    Djebar, Assia. 1977. La nouba des femmes du Mont Chenoua. The Algerian Television; written and directed by Assia Djebar. Distributed by New York : Women Make Movies, 115 minutes.

    Durkheim, Émile. 1997 [1893]. The Division of Labour in Society. New York: Free Press.

    —. 1975 [1895]. “L’état actuel des études sociologiques en France.” In Textes, vol. I, 73-108. Paris, Éditions de Minuit.

    Hachmaoui, Mohamed. 2012. “Y-a-t-il des tribus dans l’urne?” Cahiers d’études africaines 205: 103-63.

    Henni, Samia. 2018. Architecture of Counterrevolution: The French Army in Northern Algeria. Zurich: gTa Verlag.

    Khatibi, Abdelkebir. 1968. Le Roman maghrébin. Paris: Maspero.

    Lakhous, Amara. 2008. Clash of Civilizations over an Elevator in Piazza Vittorio. Translated from the Italian by Ann Goldstein. New York: Europa.

    Madoui, Mohamed. 2007. “Les sciences sociales en Algérie. Regards sur les usages de la sociologie,” Sociologies pratiques 15, no. 2 : 149-60.

    Mamdani, Mahmood. 2017. “Reading Ibn Khaldun in Kampala,” Journal of Historical Sociology 30: 7-26.

    Mammeri, Mouloud. 1985. “Du bon usage de l’ethnologie: entretien avec Pierre Bourdieu,” Awal: Cahiers d’Études Berbères 1: 7-29.

    —. 1989. “Une expérience de recherche anthropologique en Algérie,” Awal: Cahiers d’Études Berbères 5: 15-23.

    Memmi, Albert. 1965 [1957]. The Colonizer and the Colonized. Translated by Howard Greenfeld. New York: Orion Press.

    Morsy, Soheir, Cynthia Nelson, Reem Saad, and Hania Sholkamy. 1991. “Anthropology and the Call for Indigenization of Social Science in the Arab World.” In The Contemporary Study of the Arab World, edited by Earl T. Sullivan and Jaqueline S. Ismael, 81-115. Edmonton, Alberta: The University of Alberta Press.

    Omouri, Noara. 2001. “Les Sections Administratives Spécialisées et les sciences sociales: Études et actions sociales de terrain des officiers SAS et des personnels des Affaires algériennes.” In Militaires et guérillas dans la guerre d’Algérie, edited by Jean-Charles Jauffret and Maurice Vaïse, 383-98. Paris: Éditions Complexe.

    Ray, Meredith K. 2014. “Interview with Amara Lakhous.” Full Stop:
    http://www.full-stop.net/2014/04/09/interviews/meredith-k-ray/amara-lakhous/

    Siebeud, Emanuelle. 2006. “Ethnographie, ethnologie et africanisme: La ‘disciplinarisation’ de l’ethnologie française dans le premier tiers du XXe siècle.” In Qu’est-ce qu’une discipline? edited by Jean Boutier, Jean-Claude Passeron, and Jacques Revel, 229-45. Paris: Éditions de l’EHESS.

    Slyomovics, Susan. 2013. “State of the State of the Art Studies: An Introduction to the Anthropology of the Middle East and North Africa. In The Anthropology of the Middle East and North Africa: Into the New Millennium, edited by Sherine Hafez and Susan Slyomovics, 3-22. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.

    —. 2014. “Algerian Women’s Būqālah Poems: Cultural Politics, Oral Literature and Anti-Colonial Resistance,” Journal of Arabic Literature 45: 145-68.

    Tengour, Habib. 1976. Tapapakitaques. Paris: Oswald.

    —. 1980. “L’Ancêtre fondateur dans la tradition orale maghrébine,” Peuples méditerranéens 17: 67-75.

    —. 1980. “La notion de tribu en Algérie.” Cirta 4: 2-6.

    —. 1981. “Le surréalisme maghrébin,” Peuples méditerranéens 17: 77-81.

    —. 1985. “Spatialités maghrébines traditionelles, Étude d’un cas: les Béni-Zéroual.” PhD dissertation, University of Paris VII.

    —. 1995. “Le fourvoiement des élites: entretien,” Intersignes 10: 67-78.

    —. 1997. Gens de Mosta. Arles: Actes Sud / Sindbad.

    —. 2010. “This Particular Tartar.” Translated by Marilyn Hacker. Virginia Quarterly Review 86, no. 3: 122–31.

    —. 2011. “Exile is my Trade”: The Habib Tengour Reader. Translated by Pierre Joris. Boston: Black Widow Press. https://issuu.com/pjoris/docs/exile_is_my_trade

    —. 2012. Dans le soulèvement: Algérie et retours. Paris: Éditions de la Différence.

    Yelles, Mourad. 2003. “Introduction.” In Habib Tengour ou l’ancre et la vague, edited by Mourad Yelles. Paris: Karthala.

    —. 2012. “‘Personne, voilà mon nom’: jeux de masques et fictions identitaires chez Habib Tengour,” Expressions maghrébines 11, no. 1: 43–58

     

    [1] For texts not translated into English, translations are mine. Otherwise, in-text references are to English translations by Pierre Joris (Tengour 2011) or Marilyn Hacker (Tengour 2010), neither year reflecting Tengour’s original publication dates.

    [2] Habib Tengour, personal communication with the author, July 1, 2018, and Archives nationales d’outre-mer, 5H1 106 Oranie.

    [3] Until E. E. Evans-Pritchard’s The Sanusi of Cyrenaica (1949), Anglophone anthropology of the Middle East and North Africa had been equally castigated as “folklorism and trait distribution surveys of a more naïve anthropology” (Slyomovics 2013: 9).

  • Gretchen Soderlund — Futures of Journalisms Past (or, Pasts of Journalism’s Future)

    Gretchen Soderlund — Futures of Journalisms Past (or, Pasts of Journalism’s Future)

    Gretchen Soderlund

    Journalists might be chroniclers of the present, but two decades of books, conferences, symposia, interviews, talks, special issues, and end-of-year features on the future of news suggests they are also preoccupied with what lies ahead. Still, few of today’s media workers are as prescient as William T. Stead, the English journalist and amateur occultist who came close to predicting the 1912 Titanic disaster twenty years before he died in it. In his 1893 short story, “From the Old World to the New,” a transatlantic ocean liner collides with an iceberg and erupts in flames, leaving the vessel’s desperate passengers clinging to a sheet of ice. Unlike the Titanic, everyone in the story lives. Two passengers on a nearby ship receive telepathic distress signals. One has haunting visions of the accident in her sleep, and the other finds a written plea for help in the handwriting of a friend travelling aboard the sinking ship. The clairvoyants relay this information to their captain, who steers a perilous course through the icebergs and rescues the shipwrecked passengers. In 1893 wireless telegraphy, the early term for radio, did not yet exist (even if, as an idea, it electrified the Victorian imagination). By the time of the Titanic’s maiden voyage, radio was a standard maritime communication device. The technology helped, but was no panacea: the closest ship to receive the Titanic’s SOS signals arrived too late for Stead and many of his fellow passengers.

    Stead was at the forefront of thinking about new technologies as well as his own demise. He also had a keen interest in journalism’s future, one shared by many of today’s news workers. Even people who failed to predict the collision of twentieth-century news models with the Web are now regularly called upon to forecast the profession’s future. Answering the future-of-news question requires experts to project past experience and current knowledge onto a forthcoming period of time. But does this question have a history of its own? Did earlier news workers prognosticate as often and with the same urgency? What anxieties or opportunities provoked past future thought? To answer these questions, I explore some future-oriented predictions, assessments, and directives of nineteenth and twentieth-century reporters, editors, and media entrepreneurs in the United States and England. Their claims about the future of journalism serve as windows into the relationship between technology and news work at different historical moments and offer insights into today’s prognoses.

    The Current Crisis

    In the U.S., mainstream news agencies have been dealt a series of technological, economic, and political blows that have changed the way news is written, distributed, consumed, funded, and understood. Anxiety about the future can be understood in light of three interrelated challenges to the post-World War II information order: twenty years of digital technological disruption, the 2008 economic crisis, and politically and economically motivated challenges to the industrial news media.

    By now it is a truism that screen-based digital technologies have transformed journalism. Newspapers, in particular, have experienced an advertising and readership decline more existentially threatening than the threat posed to print from radio in the 1920s or from television in the 1950s. The net presented a challenge to print media even before it became a major platform for news; in the mid-1990s, Craigslist disrupted the long-standing classified ad revenue streams of daily papers and newspapers (Seamans and Zhu 2013). The incorporation of print news functions into the digital has only intensified since then. Internet saturation in U.S. households is at 84 percent and climbing (Pew Research Center 2015). News consumers are no longer tethered to a small set of news organizations; sixty-two percent read disparate stories they happen across on social media and Twitter feeds and do not subscribe to a single newspaper or news magazine (Gottfried and Shearer 2016).

    Newspapers were already on shaky ground when the 2008 financial crisis struck. Economic downturn coupled with technological displacement led to a crisis of near Darwinian proportions for an industry that had seen outsized profit margins for much of the twentieth century. Closures, bankruptcies, and mergers ensued. Historic papers like the Rocky Mountain News and Ann Arbor News shut their doors, and many other dailies and weeklies reverted to web-only formats (Rogers 2009). Over a hundred papers ceased publication between 2004 and 2016 (Barthel 2016). Papers that endured the techno-economic struggles of the 2000s had to rethink the nature of the news enterprise from the ground up, devising survival strategies in a new Mad Max-style advertising and subscriber-depleted media terrain.

    Journalism never regained its footing after the financial crisis. As a Pew Research Center study suggests, “2015 might as well have been a recession year” for the traditional news media (Barthel 2016). The study paints a grim picture of the news industry. In 2014 and 2015, the number of print media consumers continued to drop. Even revenue from digital ads fell as advertisers migrated to social media sites like Facebook. And full-time jobs in journalism continued their steady decline: today there are 39 percent fewer positions than there were two decades ago. News consumption also began to shift from personal computers to mobile devices. Readers increasingly access news items on their phones, while standing in line, waiting at red lights, and at other spare moments of the day. In a metric-driven world, mobile news consumption has a silver lining: many sites are receiving more visits than before. However, the average mobile-device reader spends less time with each article than they did on PCs (Barthel 2016). Demand for news exists, albeit in ever-smaller and dislocated chunks.

    At the same time, insurgent news entrepreneurs have altered the media field by leveraging weaknesses in the system and taking advantage of emerging technological possibilities. Just as the most successful nineteenth-century “startups” were enabled by new technologies like the steam press that sped up and lowered the cost of printing,[1] today’s media insurgents – people like Matt Drudge, Steve Bannon, the late Andrew Brietbart, and others – moved straight to digital news and data formats without prior institutional baggage. Since initial start-up costs on the Web are low and news production and dissemination is relatively easy, they were able to offer a trimmed-down model of news production that did not require reporting in the strict sense.

    Some of these insurgents imagine a future for news unfettered by past or existing structures. They claim they want to take a sledgehammer to old media, but it really serves as their foil. In the current context, the terms old media, establishment media, and mainstream media are thrown around by new media players jockeying for position in a changing media field. The White House is currently engaged in a hostile yet mutually beneficial battle with mainstream news outlets, and it echoes the position that the news media is a liberal monolith that censors alternative positions.[2] At the same time, establishment journalism is enjoying a period of unpredicted growth due to the Trump bubble, and has been reinventing and reimagining itself as the Fourth Estate in the wake of the 2016 election.

    Future-of news experts reduce professional and public uncertainty in times of flux (Lowery and Shan, 2016). But it is important to note that not all contemporary observers are worried. The late David Carr, for instance, believed Web startups like Buzzfeed would eventually become more like traditional news outlets. “The first thing they do when they get a little money is hire some journalists,” he said in 2014. He was confident news audiences had an intrinsic desire for quality and that the business end of things would eventually sort itself out.

    Similarly, people who express anxieties about the state of journalism are more likely to have experienced journalism as a stable and predictable field, and to have lost something when the old model collapsed. Those who are concerned worry that a digital-age business model will never arise to solve journalism’s funding problem. They worry that automation will replace journalists. They fear ideological bubbles and distracted audiences. They lament eroding legitimacy and credibility in an era of so-called fake news. And they hope prognosticators possess special knowledge or have more crystalline vision than others in the profession. But did past reporters and editors worry about the fate of their profession in the same way?

    The Nineteenth Century

    In the nineteenth century, journalism was a wide-open, experimental field on both sides of the Atlantic. Literacy rates were climbing. Print technologies had improved. Paper was cheaper to produce than ever before. Newspapers, book publishers, and the public were experiencing the power of mass dissemination. By the second half of the nineteenth century, newspapers’ social standing had improved. Some observers believed they were institutions on the ascent that would eventually play a social role on par with educators, clergy, or government officials.

    However, concerns about the accelerated pace of newspaper work, the constant demand for “newness,” and the unremitting imperative to scoop rival papers were refrains in nineteenth-century journalistic commentary. In his biography of Henry Raymond, the journalist and author Augustus Maverick characterized news work in 1840s New York as an unceasing “treadmill”:

    Only those who have been placed upon the treadmill of a daily newspaper in New York know the severity of the strain it imposes on the mental and physical powers. ‘There is no cessation,’ one newsman explained. ‘A good newspaper never publishes that which is technically denominated ‘old news,’ – a phrase so significant in journalism as to be invested with untold horrors. All must be daily fresh, daily complete, daily polished and perfect; else the journal falls into disrepute, is distanced by its rivals, and, becoming ‘dull,’ dies. (1870, 220)

    I will return to the issue of acceleration later in the paper. For now, it is important to note that perceptions of speedup and fears of being outmoded were embedded in the experience of journalism as early as the 1840s.

    Despite journalism’s daily stresses, Maverick felt the quality and legitimacy of papers was on the rise. The press had successfully overcome early-nineteenth century threats to credibility like partisanship and the sensationalism of the penny press, which printed fantastical, fabricated stories like the New York Sun’s Great Moon Hoax. Maverick believed this progress would continue unabated:

    Accepting the promise of the Present, the prospect of the Future brightens. For, as men come to know each other better, through the rapid annihilation of time and space, they will be plunged deeper into affairs of trade and finance and commerce, and be burdened with a thousand cares, – and the Press, as the reflector of the popular mind, will then take a broader view, and reach forth towards a higher aim; becoming, even more than now, the living photograph of the time, the sympathetic adviser, the conservator, regulator, and guide of American society. (1870, 358)

    Maverick envisioned a future in which the press would both facilitate and temper the social changes wrought by connectivity (changes that he analyzed in his 1858 book on the telegraph).

    The same year Maverick predicted a role for the press as guide and advisor in an increasingly complex and interconnected world, William T. Stead began his career as a fledgling reporter. Few journalists tested, challenged, and wielded the power of the press quite like Stead. In his essay “The Future of Journalism” (1887), he envisioned radical and expansive new plans for the press. His own journalistic experiments had convinced him that editors “could become the most permanently influential Englishmen in the Empire.” But to ascend to this level one had to become a “master of the facts – especially the most dominant fact of all, the state of public opinion.” Editors guessed at public opinion, but had no way of gauging it. To remedy this, Stead suggested journalists be allowed twenty-four hour access to everyone “from the Queen downward.” His news workers of the future would be intimately connected to public opinion across the social system. They would have unfettered access to powerful people, which would diminish the unquestioned authority and privacy of the aristocracy.

    Since the system Stead imagined would be impossible for one person to manage, it would be held in place by travelers who would preach the importance of journalistic work with a missionary zeal. The travelers would eventually be “entrusted the further and more delicate duty of collecting the opinions of those who form the public opinion of their locality.” Stead was certain the enactment of his plan would result in the greatest “spiritual and educational and governing agency which England has yet seen.”

    “The Future of Journalism” demonstrates a keen awareness of print’s power in an era of mass distribution and rapid news diffusion. It was grandiose because it imagined a far greater political role for journalists than they would ever possess. In some respects, though, Stead was a superior prognosticator. In 1887, the communications field was undifferentiated. His journalistic travelers and major-generals would ultimately manifest themselves in the twentieth century as pollsters, social scientists, and public relations specialists. But the editor would not sit at the helm, overseeing these efforts. Instead, journalist/editors would report their findings and beliefs, and serve as conduits in the flow of ideas between these professionals and the public. Despite their inadequacies, Stead’s writings on the future were more prescriptive and imaginative than many of today’s commentaries on the topic.

    Twentieth-Century Futures

    Nineteenth-century commentators on the news profession lamented acceleration, railed against partisanship, and decried certain forms of sensationalism, but they also believed in progress. This changed in the twentieth century. Frank Munsey’s career began by selling low-cost magazines and pulp fiction. In 1889 he launched the popular general-interest magazine Munsey’s Magazine, and he went on to amass a fortune between 1900 and 1920 purchasing and selling ten different newspapers, including The New York Daily News, The Boston Journal, and The Washington Times. He was a businessman first and journalist second. Munsey’s contemporaries viewed him as journalism’s undertaker: his very appearance on the scene heralded a newspaper’s demise. His contemporary, Oswald Garrison Villard, described him as “a dealer in dailies – little else and little more” (1923, 81).[3]

    Munsey’s “Journalism of the Future” appeared in 1903 in Munsey’s Magazine. In it, he suggests that the common editors’ refrain about “lack of good men” misses the real problem. The threat facing journalism is not a lack of well-trained workers, but the size of daily papers. Newspapers, which had been expanding since the 1890s, contained more sections, lengthier features, and larger Sunday editions than ever before. As papers grew, readers became rushed. The problem with news circa 1903 was that there was too much to write about and too much to read. Because they had to absorb so much, readers’ attention was at all all-time low (a concern that resonates with today’s news producers). For Munsey, the solution to the problem of the rushed and inattentive reader lay in condensation and conglomeration. Predicting extreme media consolidation long before it occurred, Munsey speculated that within four years (i.e., by 1907) the entire media field would be whittled down to three or four firms that would publish every newspaper, periodical, magazine, and book:

    The journalism of the future will be of a higher order than the journalism of the past or the present. Existing conditions of competition and waste, under individual ownership, make the ideal newspaper impossible. But with a central ownership big enough and strong enough to encompass the whole country, our newspapers can afford to be independent, fearless, and honest. (1903, 830)

    For Munsey, consolidation, quality, and independence are linked through the efficiency and scope of large-scale production and the nationalization of mass audiences. He does not foresee problems caused by monopolization or threats to newspapers from radio. He imagines technology only as it relates to its effects on the productive capacity of print news, which he thought was fettered by local ownership.

    Writing during World War I, Willard Grosvenor Bleyer, founder of the University of Wisconsin journalism school and advocate of professional training, took a more modest view of journalism’s future. His primary concern was wartime press censorship and the spread of propaganda through semi-official news agencies. However, he considered these developments temporary deviations from the normal function of the press in a democratic society: eventually the profession would return to its pre-war normalcy. “The world war,” he wrote, “has given rise to peculiar problems, none of which, however, seems likely to have permanent effects on our newspapers” (1918, 14). Wartime austerity, especially the high price of paper, posed problems for the news industry. But there was a bright side. People wanted news from Europe, so the higher cost of newspapers had not decreased circulation rates.

    Some early-twentieth century observers were concerned about sensationalism and editorial independence or the effects of war on the press, while others worried about the future of democracy in the context of Munsey-wrought newspaper industry mergers. Oswald Villard, writer for The Nation and The NY Evening Post, founder of the American Anti-Imperialist League, and the first treasurer of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, argued that consolidation threatened democracy. Most newspapers lacked commercial independence and were beholden to advertisers who limited what they could publish. He was also concerned about the political implications of audience fragmentation: “Not today can one, no matter how trenchant their pen, be in a garret and expect to reach the conscience of a public by seventy millions larger than the America of Garrison and Lincoln.” Villard, however, held out hope that the views of ‘great men’ would find an audience, even if it meant bypassing the press. He did not predict new media forms, but looked back at old ones: “the prophet of the future will make his message heard, if not by a daily, then by a weekly; if not by a weekly, then by pamphleteering in the manner of Alexander Hamilton; if not by pamphleteering then by speech in the market-place” (1923, 315).

    After World War II, journalism experienced a period of stability that gave it an aura of permanence, as if media institutions were constants amidst other economic, social, and cultural changes. Future concerns during this period centered on issues of technology and media consolidation. In 1947, for example, the Hutchins Commission on Freedom of the Press predicted that newspapers would soon be sent from FM radio stations to personal facsimile machines. These devices would print, fold, and deposit them in the hands of U.S. householders each morning (34-45). News workers and industry analysts predicted that technologies as diverse as citizens band radio, cable TV, camcorders, and CD ROMS would, for better or worse, alter the production or consumption of news and either enhance or impede democratic processes (Curran 2010a). In the 1980s and 90s, journalists and media critics pointed to the pernicious effects of monopolization in national and regional markets. They feared the one-newspaper town and the absorption of local newspapers by media franchises. Michael Kinsley recalls that, in the pre-Internet period, “at symposia and seminars on the Future of Newspapers, professional worriers used to worry that these monopoly or near-monopoly newspapers were too powerful for society’s good” (2014).

    Time, Space, and Journalism

    Time is not a natural resource that springs from the Earth, but a cultural and social construct imagined and experienced in multiple ways (Fabien 1983).[4] Some social theorists argue that the sensation of rapid acceleration is a key feature of the modern experience of time (Crary 2013; Rosa 2013). Harmut Rosa, for example, has argued that time compression has reached a point where the hamster wheel or treadmill has become an apt metaphor for modern life. Work speedups and technological immersion are necessary just to maintain social stasis, without the possibility of advancement or breaking free (Rosa 2010). For Rosa and other accelerationists, acceleration leaves you mired in the present, anticipating the future with a sense of dread. The reality is that there is no uniform experience of time; our experience depends upon our position within circuits of information and capital (Sharma 2014). But when it comes to technological and economic speedup, journalism may be the canary in the mine. Reporters like Maverick experienced this treadmill effect as early as the 1840s. In 1918, Francis Leupp described the quickening pace of news work in the electric age:

    We must reckon with the progressive acceleration of the pace of our 20th century life generally. Where we walked in the old times we run in these; where we ambled then, we gallop now. In the age of electric power, high explosives, articulated steel frames, in the larger world; of the long-distance telephone, the taxicab, and the card-index, in the narrower. The problem of existence is reduced to terms of time-measurement. (39)

    Like Maverick, Leupp experienced the dynamism of modern life and the dual pressures of accuracy and speed in journalism.

    It makes sense that journalism would experience the present this way. As the quintessential modern form, news embodies planned obsolescence (Schwartz 1999). Journalism has undergone two centuries of shrinking intervals of newness and relevance: six-months, a week, a day, an hour. With the rise of social media and Twitter, the intervals between news cycles have grown even shorter. In the twentieth century, edition release times and broadcast schedules helped carve the day into identifiable units with firm deadlines. But in a context where news can be posted around the clock and updated every minute, the clock is no longer a structuring device for journalism. Minutes, seconds, and the calendar click-over from one day to the next are the only salient units of time. News stories that were relevant and new last week often seem ancient a week later. A newsworthy event like President Trump pulling out of the Paris climate agreement can feel as distant as the Vietnam War the following week. New communication forms like Twitter coupled with strategies of disinformation and the routinization of scandal shatter perceptions of continuity. What we are experiencing now is not the death of history, as was proclaimed after the fall of the Berlin Wall, but the death of the present. In news, rapid acceleration has amnestic effects, similar to the experience of sleep deprivation.

    If the main time/space vectors in journalism used to be deadlines and beats, the latter may also be losing their importance, giving way to a more fluid cut-and-run style of journalism. For example, the Washington Post’s Chris Cilizza suggests that young reporters should not decline stories saying, “that’s not my beat” (2016). Rather, in a context of dwindling opportunities, journalists should pursue any story available, whether or not it fits into the old-fashioned logic of beat work or the range of competence of individual journalists.[5] But while traditional beats may be losing their cogency, reporters must add a new online “beat” to their repertoire that entails close surveillance of social media and online news, a dynamic that some critics have argued creates a house of mirrors effect in the news industry (Reinemann and Baugut 2013).

    Technology and Uncertainty in the Professions

    Journalism may be the paradigmatic case of a profession imperiled by a new technology, but its concerns about time and technological displacement cannot be generalized to other spheres. Take lawyers, social workers, and physicians. Uncertainty within the legal profession is largely unrelated to the digital. It was caused by the recent financial crisis coupled with the overtraining of new professionals. Jobs for newly minted JDs evaporated during the recession, leading to a decline in the number of law school applicants after 2010. With enrollment down, the future of smaller law schools became uncertain, and many schools lowered admission standards to stay afloat (Olson 2015; Pistone and Horn 2016). The profession has been in crisis, but not because of the Internet, and there is even some evidence that law positions are coming back (Solomon 2015). Uncertainty for social workers began even earlier, when the Clinton administration began dismantling the welfare state. Despite the obvious need for such professionals, government, non-profit, and other social service jobs have seen a quarter-century decline because of deep budgetary cuts that began in the 1990s (Reisch 2013).

    Physicians seem least concerned with the future. They worry more about burnout than they do the fate of their profession. The future is typically invoked in discussions about labor shortages and descriptions of new developments at the intersection of medicine and technology. Articles on the future of medicine routinely tout new developments like 3D printers that can form living cells into new organs (Mellgard 2015). Digitalization has changed many aspects of medicine: electronic medical records and charting alters the way nurses and physicians access information, for instance. But it has not led to credible speculation about replacing physicians with bots. Contrast this with some news workers’ worries about replacement by computer programs like Automated Insight’s narrative generation system, Wordsmith. The Associated Press now employs Wordsmith to do its quarterly earnings reports and other stories, and has become so confident in these auto-generated stories that it runs many of them without prior vetting (the rare human-edited AI story is said to have had “the human touch”) (Miller 2015). Nor have drones been proposed as a viable alternative to human physicians, as they have been for newsgatherer/photojournalists (Etzler 2016).[6]

    In none of these other cases is technology the primary motor of destabilization. The character of future angst in the professions, therefore, is occupation dependent. And journalism, it seems, is uniquely sensitive and vulnerable to technology. Every widely-adopted communications technology – the steam press, radio, the net – has restructured news and led to audience expansion or contraction. In this sense, there is nothing new to journalist’s dependence on and transformation by technologies. The one constant is that journalists work in a field of technological contingency.

    Conclusion: Euphoria and Dysphoria in Journalism

    Visions of the future are also statements about the present. Political and economic conditions, labor concerns, and beliefs about the nature of time are contained within predictive thought. The future of journalism has been asked when a number of possibilities are on the table and when fewer options are imaginable. Sometimes predictions are made when a journalist has a stake in seeing a particular vision enacted. There was no social stasis or treadmill for Munsey, who saw conglomeration as the key to good journalism, or for Stead, who imagined himself as the heroic journalist proselytizer. Both saw themselves as leaders of the free world. Feelings of euphoria and dysphoria, therefore, come and go and are not unique to one era. Nineteenth-century journalists like Stead and Maverick imagined their field’s future and the journalist’s future roles in society. Both were “feeling it,” riding high on the wave of mechanization.

    William T. Stead, 1909 (image source: https://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Thomas_Stead, https://giphy.com/gifs/3XH3YqPpfwmPMxx5Xr)
    William T. Stead, 1909 (image source: Wikipedia and GIPHY

    Social roles are also embedded within occupational visions of the future. Will tomorrow’s journalists be tellers of truth, interpreters of data, shapers of public opinion, informers of policy makers, imaginers of social utopias? Some commentators insist that news must change to remain relevant in the digital age. In a world of abundant facts, reporters should be master interpreters, explaining the “what” and “how” to the public rather than reciting basic information (Cilizza 2016; Stephens 2014). As older models of journalism become outmoded, either by the Web or by computer programs, the hope is that professional journalists will find a niche explaining events. A similar impulse lies behind data-driven journalism, but in this case the journalists refashion themselves as computer workers, scraping the Web for reams of data, interpreting it, and presenting it to audiences in visually and narratively compelling ways. In solutions-based journalism, the reporter is a meta-social worker or public policy specialist, proposing potential solutions to local social problems based on what other locales have found successful.

    There is also an emerging patronage system in which billionaires, foundations, and small donations prop up capital-intensive journalistic forms like investigative journalism. This is a good stopgap measure, and much of the work that has been supported by tech giants like Jeff Bezos, Pierre Omidyar, and others has typically been of high quality. But it begs the question: can journalists write exposés today about the very people and their tech companies who are sponsoring our journalism the way the Ida Tarbell wrote about Standard Oil?

    The social roles future of news experts imagine might come to pass, but not always in the way they expect. Stead’s call for government by journalism, for instance, is certainly embodied in a figure like Breitbart’s Steve Bannon. Although Stead would disagree with his political vision and journalistic practices, Bannon is also “feeling it,” envisioning a future of infinite possibilities.

    Occupational forecasting serves both psychological and pragmatic ends: it reduces anxieties at the same time that it identifies trends to guide present-day action. Because the future is speculative and can only be imagined or modeled, not recreated from memory, artifact, or written record, prediction-based advice runs a high risk of misdirection. We can safely assume that prognosticators will not determine the actual future of journalism. If Stead were really clairvoyant, the Titanic would have been spared and journalism saved. As Robert Heilbroner suggests, prediction is an exercise in futility. It is better to “ask whether it is imaginable… to exercise effective control over the future-shaping forces of Today” (1995, 95). It is only in this sense that discussions of the future and the social experiments they generate do, in fact, transform the field.

    _____

    Gretchen Soderlund is Associate Professor of Media History in the University of Oregon’s School of Journalism and Communication. She is the author of Sex Trafficking, Scandal, and the Transformation of Journalism, 1885-1917 (University of Chicago Press) and editor of Charting, Tracking, and Mapping: New Technologies, Labor, and Surveillance, a special issue of Social Semiotics. Her articles have appeared in such journals as American Quarterly, Feminist Formations, The Communication Review, Humanity, and Critical Studies in Media Communication.

    Back to the essay

    _____

    Acknowledgments

    The author would like to thank Patrick Jones for his comments on an earlier draft of this essay.

    _____

    Notes

    [1] The tremendous success of nineteenth-century self-made owner-editors like Benjamin Day or S.S. McClure can be attributed to innovations in content and funding models. In the 1830s, Day lowered the cost of his newspaper to only a penny, making it affordable to more New Yorkers, and made up for the decreased revenue by selling more advertising space. McClure did the same thing for magazines in the 1890s, selling his publication for a nickel instead of the standard quarter while increasing ad revenue. In doing so, both took advantage of untapped opportunities to reshape the news field in their respective eras.

    [2] Before the 2016 election, this rhetoric united the libertarian left and the right. In a 2014 interview on Democracy Now that, not coincidentally, got positive play in the rightwing media, Glenn Greenwald lambasted Washington Post editors as, “old-style, old-media, pro-government journalists… the kind who have essentially made journalism in the U.S. neutered and impotent and obsolete” (Watson 2014).

    [3] Villard also said of Munsey: “There is not a drop of the reformer’s blood in him; there is in him nothing that cries out in pain in response to the travails of multitudes” (1923, 72).

    [4] The representational features of future thought are also culturally and historically specific (Rosenberg and Harding 2005).

    [5] This more mobile, targeted approach to news production with fewer fixed duties or beats may offer a more varied work experience. But it has labor implications as well: it edges toward freelancing and it may be difficult to say no for reasons beyond beats. Further, reporters may find themselves over their heads in reporting on topics around which they can claim no expertise.

    [6] Indeed, the FAA changed its policy on August 29, 2016 so that journalists do not need pilot’s licenses to fly drones, which will precipitate the increased use of the tool in the future (Etzler 2016).

    _____

    Works Cited

    • Barthel, Michael. 2016. “Newspapers: Fact Sheet.” Pew Research Center (Jun 15).
    • Carr, David. 2014. “NYT’s David Carr on the Future of Journalism.” Youtube interview.
    • Cilizza, Chris. 2016. “The Future of Journalism Is Saying ‘Yes.’ A Lot.” Washington Post (May 23).
    • Crary, Jonathan. 2013. 24/7: Late Capitalism and the Ends of Sleep. Brooklyn, NY: Verso.
    • Curran, James. 2010. “Technology Foretold.” In Natalie Fenton, ed., New Media, Old News: Journalism and Democracy in the Digital Age. London: Sage.
    • Etzler, Allen. 2016. “Exploring the Use of Drones in Journalism.” News Media Alliance (Sep).
    • Fabien, Johannes. 2002. Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object. New York: Columbia University Press.
    • Friedhoff, Stefanie. 2015. “David Carr on Teaching and the Future of Journalism.” Boston Globe (Feb 13).
    • Gottfried, Jeffrey and Eliza Shearer. 2016. “News Use Across Social Media Platforms 2016.” Pew Research Center (May 26).
    • Heilbroner, Robert. 1995. Visions of the Future: The Distant Past, Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
    • Kinsley, Michael. 2014. “The Front Page 2.0.” Vanity Fair (Apr 10).
    • Lowrey, Wilson and Zhou Shan. 2016. “Journalism’s Fortune Tellers: Constructing the Future of News.” Journalism. 1-17.
    • Maverick, Augustus. 1870. Henry J. Raymond and the New York Press for Thirty Years: Progress of American Journalism from 1840 to 1870. Hartford, CT: A.S. Hale and Company.
    • McCaskill, Nolan. 2017. “Trump Backs Bannon: ‘The Media is the Opposition Party.’Politico (Jan 27).
    • Mellgard, Peter. 2015. “Medical 3 D Printing Will ‘Enable a New Kind of Future.” The World Post (Jun 22).
    • Miller, Ross. 2015. “AP’s ‘Robot Journalists’ are Writing their own Stories Now.” The Verge (Jan 29).
    • Munsey, Frank. 1903. “Journalism of the Future.” Munsey’s Magazine 28. 823-830.
    • Neel, Patel V. 2015. “Dronalism is the Future of Journalism: The End of Privacy Cuts Both Ways.” Inverse (Sep).
    • Pew Research Center. 2015. “Americans’ Internet Access: Percent of Adults 2000-2015.”
    • Olson, Elizabeth. 2015. “Study Cites Lower Standards in Law School Admissions.” The New York Times (Oct. 26).
    • Pistone, Michele and Michael Horn. 2016. Disrupting Law School: How Disruptive Innovation will Revolutionize the Legal World. Clayton Christenson Institute.
    • Reinemann, Carsten and Philip Baugut. 2014. “German Political Journalism Between Change and Stability.” In Raymond Kuhn and Rasmus Kleis Nielson, eds., Political Journalism in Transition: Western Europe in a Comparative Perspective. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.
    • Reisch, Michael. 2013. “Social Work Education and the Neo-liberal Challenge: The U.S. Response to Increasing Global Inequality.” Social Work Education 32. 715-733.
    • Rescher, Nicholas. 1998. Predicting the Future: An Introduction to the Theory of Forecasting. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press.
    • Rogers, Tony. 2009. “A Timeline of Newspaper Closings and Calamities.” About.com.
    • Rosa, Harmut. 2010. “Full Speed Burnout? From the Pleasures of the Motorcycle to the Bleakness of the Treadmill: The Dual Face of Social Acceleration.” International Journal of Motorcycle Studies 6:1.
    • Rosa, Harmut. 2013. Social Acceleration – A New Theory of Modernity. New York: Columbia University Press.
    • Rosenberg, Daniel & Sandra Harding. 2005. In Daniel Rosenberg and Sandra Harding, eds., “Introduction: Histories of the Future.” Histories of the Future. Durham, NC:Duke University Press.
    • Seamans, Robert & Feng Zhu. 2013. “Responses to Entry in Multi-Sided Markets: The Impact of Craigslist on Local Newspapers.” Management Science 60. 476-493.
    • Sharma, Sarah. 2014. In the Meantime: Temporality and Cultural Politics. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.
    • Schwartz, Vanessa. 1999. Spectacular Realities: Early Mass Culture in Fin-de-Siécle Paris. Oakland, CA: University of California Press.
    • Solomon, Steven Davidoff. 2015. “Law Schools and Industry Show Signs of Life Despite Forecasts of Doom.” The New York Times (Mar 31).
    • Stead, William. 1887. “The Future of Journalism.” Contemporary Review 50. 664-679.
    • Stead, William. 1893. “From Old World to New: or, A Christmas Story of the Chicago Exhibition.” Review of Reviews.
    • Stephens, Mitchell. 2014. Beyond News: The Future of Journalism. New York: Columbia University Press.
    • Villard, Oswald Garrison. 1923. Some Newspapers and Newspaper-Men. New York: Alfred A. Knopf.
    • Watson, Steve. 2014. “Greenwald Slams ‘Neutered And Impotent and Obsolete Media.’Infowars.
  • Annemarie Perez — UndocuDreamers: Public Writing and the Digital Turn

    Annemarie Perez — UndocuDreamers: Public Writing and the Digital Turn

    Annemarie Perez [*]

    The supposition [is] that higher education and schooling in general serve a democratic society by nourishing hearty citizenship.
    – Richard Ohmann (2003)

    What are the risks of writing in public in this digital age? Of being a “speaking” subject in the world of public cyberspace? Physical and legal risks are discussed in work such as Nancy Welch’s (2005) recounting of her student’s encounter with the police for literally posting her poems where bills or poems were not meant to be posted. Weisser recounts a “hallway conversation” about public writing as “shared work, shared successes, and, occasionally, shared commiseration” (2002, xii). Likewise, in writing about blogging in the classroom, Charles Tryon writes about the way blogging with interactions from the public provokes “conversations” about the “relationship between writing and audience,” one that can, at times, be uncomfortable (2006, 130). There is an assumption that when discussing the “risks” of writing in public here in the United States, we instructors are discussing the risks of exercising the rights of citizenship, of first amendment disagreement and discord. Yet the assumption that the speaking subject has first amendment rights, that they possess or can express citizenship, is one which nullifies the risks some students face when they write in public, especially in digital spaces where the audience can be a vast everyone. What is the position of one who writes in public literally without the possibility of citizenship? In the absence of US citizenship, their taking the position of subject, and offering testimony about their situation, protesting it as unjust can provoke not simply abuse, which is disturbing enough, but to threats of legal action against them. Public writing opens them and their families up to threats of reporting, detainment and possible deportation by the government. Given these very real risks, I question whether from a Chicanx studies pedagogy we should be advocating for and instructing our students to express their thoughts on their positions, on their lives, in public.[1] This question feels especially urgent when, given the digital turn, to write in “public” can mean a single tweet results in huge consequences, from public humiliation to the horror of doxxing. To paraphrase Eileen Medeiros, who writes about these risks in another context, “was it all worth a few articles and essays” or, to make it more contemporary, is the risk worth a few blog posts or ‘zines? (2007, 4).

    This said, I was and am convinced about the power and efficacy of having students write in public, especially for Chicanx studies classrooms. Faced with the possibilities offered by the Internet and their effects on the Chicanx studies classroom, my response has been enthusiasm for the electronic, for electronic writing, of their making our discourse public. Chicanx pedagogy is, in part, based on a repudiation of top-down instruction. As a pedagogy, public writing instead advocates bringing the community into the classroom and the classroom into the community. Blogging is an effective way to do this. Especially given the relative lack of Chicanx digital voices on the ‘net, I yearn for my students to own part of the Internet, to be seen and heard. This enthusiasm for having my Chicanx studies students write for the Internet came first out of my final year of dissertation research when I “discovered” that online terms from the Chicano Movement like “Aztlán,” “La Raza” and so on were being used by reactionary racists to (re)define and revise the history of the Chicano Movement as racist and anti-Semitic and were wildly distorting the goals, philosophies, and accomplishments of revolutionary movements. More disturbing, these mis-definitions were well enough linked to appear on the first few pages of search results, inflating their importance and giving them a sense of being “truth” merely by virtue of their being oft repeated. My students’ writings, my thinking went, would change this. Their work, I imagined, would be interventions in the false discourse, changing, via Google hits, what people would find when they entered Chicanx studies terms into their browsers. Besides, I did my undergraduate degree at a university in the midwest without a Chicanx or Latinx studies department. My independent study classes in Chicanx literature were constructed from syllabi for courses I found online. I was, therefore, imagining our public writing being used by people without access to a Chicanx studies classroom to further their own educations.

    Public writing, generally defined as writings for an audience beyond the professor and classroom, can be figured in a variety of ways, but descriptions, especially those in the form of learning objectives and outcomes, tend toward a focus on writing centered around social change and the fostering of citizenship. This concept of “citizenship” is often repeated in composition studies as public writing is discussed as advocacy, as service, as an expression of active citizenship. Indeed the public writer has been figured by theorists as expressions of “citizenship” and an exercise in and demonstration of first amendment rights. Public writing is presented as being, as Christian Weisser wrote, the “discourse of public life,” further writing of his pride in being “a citizen in a self-reforming constitutional democracy” (xiv). Public writing is presented as nurturing citizenship and therefore we are encouraged to foster it in our classrooms, especially in the teaching of writing. Weisser also writes of the teaching of public writing as a “shared” classroom experience, sometimes including hardships, between students and instructors.

    However, this discussion of “citizenship” and the idea of creating it through teaching to me rather disturbingly echoes the idea of assimilation to the dominant culture, an idea that Chicana/o studies pedagogy resists (Perez 1993, 276). Rather than a somewhat nationalistic goal of creating and fostering “citizenship” Chicana/o studies, especially since the 1980s publication and adoption of Gloria Anzaldúa’s Borderlands, has been for a discourse that “explains the social conditions of subjects with hybrid identities” (Elenes 1997, 359). These hybrid identities and the assumption of the position of subjecthood by those who resist the idea of nation is fraught, especially when combined with public writing. As Anzaldúa writes, “[w]ild tongues can’t be tamed, they can only be cut out” (1987, 76). The responses to Chicanx and Latinx students speaking or writing their truth can be demands for their silence.

    My students and my use of public writing via blogging and Twitter was productive through upper division classes I taught on Latina coming of age stories, Chicana feminisms and Chicana/o gothic literature. After four courses taught using blogs created on my WordPress multisite installation with author accounts created for each student, I felt that I had the blogging with students / writing in public / student archiving thing down. My students had always had the option to write pseudonymously, but most had chosen to write under their own names, wanting to create a public digital identity. The blogs were on my domain and identified with their specific university and course. had been contacted by authors (and, in one case, an author’s agent), filmmakers and artists, and other bloggers had linked to our work. My students and I could see we had a small but steady traffic of people accessing student writing with their work being read and seen and, on a few topics, our class pages were on the first pages of a Google search. Therefore, when I was scheduled to teach a broader “Introduction to Chicana/o Studies” course, I decide to apply the same structure: students publicly blogging their writings on a common course blog on issues related to Chicanx studies, to this one hundred level survey course. Although, in keeping with my specialization, the course was humanities heavy with a focus on history, literature and visual art, the syllabus also included a significant amount of work in social science, especially sociology and political science, forming the foundations of Chicanx studies theory. The course engaged a number of themes related to Chicanx social and political identity, focusing a significant amount of work on communities and migrations. The demographics of the course were mixed. In the thirty student class, about half identified as Latina/o. The rest were largely white American, with several European international students.

    As we read about migrations, studying and discussing the politics behind both the immigrant rights May Day marches in Los Angeles and the generations of migrations back and forth across the border, movements of people which long pre-dated the border wall, we also discussed the contemporary protest writings and art creations by the UndocuQueer Movement. In the course of class discussion, sometimes in response to comments their classmates were making that left them feeling that undocumented people were being stereotyped, several students self-disclosed that they were either the children of undocumented migrants or were undocumented themselves. These students discussed their experience of not being citizens of the country they had lived in since young childhood, the fear of deportation they felt for themselves or their parents, and its effect on them. The students also spoke of their hopes for a future in which they, and / or their families, could apply for and receive legal status, become citizens. This self-disclosure and recounting of personal stories had, as had been my experience in previous courses, a significant effect on the other students in the class, especially for those who had never considered the privileges their legal status afforded them. In the process the undocumented students became witnesses and experts, giving testimony. They made it clear they felt empowered by giving voice to their experience and seeing that their disclosures changed the minds of some of their classmates on who was undocumented and what they looked like.

    After seeing the effect the testimonies had in changing the attitudes of their classmates, my undocumented students, especially one who had strongly identified with the UndocuQueer movement (in one case, the student had already participated in demonstrations), began to blog about their experiences, taking issue with stereotypes of migrants and discussing the pain reading or hearing a term like “illegals” could cause. Drawing on the course-assigned examples of writers Anzaldúa and Cherríe Moraga, they used their experiences, their physical bodies, as both evidence and metaphor of the undocumented state of being in-between, not belonging fully to any country or nation. They also wrote of their feelings of invisibility on a majority white campus where equal rights of citizenship were assumed and taken for granted. Their writing was raw and powerful, challenging, passionate and, at times, angry. These student blog posts seemed the classic case of students finding their voices. As an instructor, I was pleased with their work and gave them positive feedback, as did many of their classmates. Yet as their instructor, I was focused on the pedagogy and their learning outcomes relative to the course and had not fully considered the risk they were taking writing their truth in public.

    As part of being instructor and WordPress administrator, I was also moderating comments to the blog. The settings had the blog open to public comments, with the first from any email address being hand moderated in order to prevent spamming. However, for the most part, unless an author we were reading had been alerted via Twitter, comments were between and among students in the course, which gave the course blog the feeling of being an extension of the classroom community, an illusion of privacy and intimacy. Due to this closeness, the fact the posts and comments were all coming from class members, the students and I largely lost sight of the fact we were writing in public, as the space came to feel private. This illusion of privacy was shattered when I got a comment for moderation from what turned out to be a troll demanding “illegals” be deported. Although it was not posted, what I read was an attack on one of my students, hinting the poster had done (or would do) enough digging to identify the student and their family. Not only was the comment was abusive, the commenter claimed to have reported my student to ICE.

    I was reminded of the comment and the violent anger directed at undocumented students, however worthy they might try and prove themselves, again in June 2016 when Mayte Lara Ibarra, an honors high school student in Texas, tweeted her celebration of her status as valedictorian, her high GPA, her honors at graduation, her scholarship to the University of Texas and her undocumented status. While she received many messages of support, she felt forced to remove her tweet due to abuse and threats of deportation by users who claimed to have reported her and her family to Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE).

    When I received this comment for moderation, my first response was to go through and change the status of the blog posts testifying about being undocumented to “drafts” and then to contact the students who had self-disclosed their status to let them know about the comment and the threat. I feared for my students and their families. Had I encouraged behavior–public writing–that made them vulnerable? I wondered whether I should I go to my chair for advice. Guilty self-interest was also present. At the time I was an adjunct instructor at this university, hired semester-to-semester to teach individual classes. How would my chair, the department, the university feel about my having put my students at risk to write for a blog on my own domain? Suddenly the “walls” set up by Blackboard, the university’s learning management software, that I had dismissed for being “closed,” looked appealing as I wondered how to manage this threat. Much of the discourse around public writing for the classroom discusses “risk,” but whose risk are we talking about, and how much of it can students take, and, as their instructor, what sort of risks can I be responsible for allowing them to take? Nancy Welch discusses the “attention toward working with students on public writing” as an expression of our belief as instructors that this writing “can matter in tangible ways” (2005, 474), but I questioned whether it could matter enough to be worth tangible risk to my students’ and their families physical bodies at the hands of a nation-state that has detained and deported more than 2.5 million people since 2009 (Gonzalez-Barrera, and Krogstad 2014). While some of the students in this class qualified for Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA), giving them something of a shield, their parents, and other members of their families did not all have this protection.

    By contrast, perhaps not surprisingly, my students, all of them first and second year students, felt no risk, or at least were sure they were willing to take the risk associated with the public writing. They did not want their writing taken down or hidden. My students felt they were part of a movement, a moment, to expressly leave the shadows. One even argued that the abusive comment should be posted so they could engage with its author. We discussed the risks. Initially I wanted them to be able to make the choice themselves, did not want to take their voice or power from them. Yet that was not true—what I wanted was for them to choose to take the writing down and absolve me of the responsibility for the danger in which my assignments had placed them. On the other hand though, as I explained to them, the power and responsibility rested with me. I could not conscience putting them at risk on a domain I owned, for doing work I had assigned. They agreed, albeit reluctantly. What I find most shameful in this, it was not their own risk, but their understanding mine, of my position in the department and university, that made them agree I needed to take their writing down. We made their posts password protected, shared the password with the other students for the duration of the class, and the course ended uneasily in our mutual discomfort. Nothing was comfortably resolved at this meeting of immigration law with my students’ bodies and their public writing. At the end of the course, after notifying them so they could save their writing if they wished, I did something I had never done before. I removed the students’—all of the students’—blogging from the Internet by archiving the course blog and removing it from public view.

    As I began to process and analyze what had happened, I wondered what could be done differently. Was there a way to allow my students to write in public yet somehow shield them from these risks? After I presented and discussed this experience at HASTAC in 2015, I was approached with a number of possible solutions, some of which would help. Very generously, one was to allow my next course blog to be on the HASTAC site where commenting requires registration. This was a partial solution that would protect against trolling, but I questioned whether it could it protect my students from identification, from them and their families being reported to the authorities. The answer was no, it could not.

    In 2011, Amy Wan examined traced and problematized the idea of creating citizens and expressing citizenship through the teaching of literacy, a concept which she traces through composition pedagogy, especially as it is expressed on syllabi and through learning objectives. The pedagogy on public writing is imbued with the assumption of citizenship with the production of citizens as a goal of public writing. Taken this way, public writing becomes a duty. Yet there is a problem with this objective of producing citizens and this desire for citizenship when it comes to students in our classes who lack legal citizenship. Anthropology in the 1990s tried to work around and give dignity to those without “full” citizenship by presenting the idea of “cultural citizenship” as a way to refer to shared values of belonging among people without legal citizenship. This was done as a way of trying to de-marginalize the marginalized and reimagine citizenship so no one’s status was second class (Rosaldo 1994, 402). But the situation of undocumented people belies this distinction, however noble and well rooted in social justice its intention. To be undocumented in the United States is to be dispossessed not only of the rights of citizenship, but to have the exercise of either the rights or responsibilities of citizenship through public speaking or writing be taken as incitement against the nation state, with some citizens viewing it as a personal assault.

    This problem of the exercise of rights being seen as incitement is demonstrated by the way the display of the Mexican flag at protests for immigrant rights is seen as a rejection of the United States and refusal of US citizenship, despite the protests themselves being demands or pleas for the creation of a citizenship path. The mere display of Mexico’s flag is read as a provocation, an action which, even when done by citizens, destabilizes citizenship, seems to remove protester’s first amendment rights, and prompts cries that they should “Go back to Mexico,” or, more recently, for the government to “Build a wall.” Latinxs displaying national flags are accused of wanting to conquer (or reconquer) the southwest, reclaiming it from the United States for Mexico. This anxiety about being “conquered” by the growing Latinx population is, perhaps, displaying an anxiety that the southwestern states (what Chicanxs call Aztlán) are not so much a stable part of the conquered body, but an expression of how the idea of “nation” is itself unstable within the US borders. When a non-citizen, a subject sin papeles, writes about the experience of being undocumented, they are faced with a backlash of those who believe their existence, if they are allowed existence in the United States at all, is one without rights, without voice. Any attempt to give voice to their position brings overt threats of government action against their tenuous existence in the US, however strong their cultural ties to the United States. My students writing in public about their undocumented status, are reminded that their bodies are not citizens and, that the right to free speech, the right to write one’s truth in public is one given to citizen subjects.

    This has left me with a paradox. My students should write in public. Part of what they are learning in Chicanx studies is about the importance of their voices, of their experiences and their stories are ones that should be told. Yet, given the risks in discussing migration and immigration through the use of public writing, I wonder how I as an instructor should either encourage or discourage students from writing their lives, their experiences as undocumented migrants, experiences which have touched, every aspect of their lives. From a practical point of view I could set up stricter anonymity so their identities are better shielded. I could have them create their own blogs, thus rather passing the responsibility to them to protect themselves. Or I could make the writing “public” only in the sense of it being public in the space of the classroom by using learning management software to keep it, them, behind a protective wall.

    _____

    Annemarie Perez is an Assistant Professor of Interdisciplinary Studies at California State University Dominguez Hills. Her area specialty is Latina/o literature and culture, with a focus on Chicana feminist writer-editors from 1965-to the present, and digital humanities and digital pedagogy and their intersections and divisions within ethnic and cultural studies. She is writing a book on Chicana feminist editorship using digital research to perform close readings across multiple editions and versions of articles and essays..

    Back to the essay

    _____

    Acknowledgments

    [*] This article is an outgrowth of a paper presented at HASTAC 2015 for a session titled:  DH: Affordances and Limits of Post/Anti/Decolonial and Indigenous Digital Humanities. The other panel presenters were: Roopika Risam (moderator), Siobhan Senier, Micha Cárdenas and Dhanashree Thorat.

    _____

    Notes

    [1] “Chicanx” is a gender neutral, sometimes contested, term of self-identification. I use it to mean someone of Mexican origin, raised in the United States, identifying with a politic of resistance to mainstream US hegemony and an identification with indigenous American cultures.

    _____

    Works Cited

    • Anzaldua, Gloria. 1987. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. San Francisco: Aunt Lute Books.
    • Elenes, C. Alejandra. 1997. “Reclaiming The Borderlands: Chicana/a Identity, Difference, and Critical Pedagogy.” Educational Theory 47:3. 359-75.
    • Gonzalez-Barrera, Ana and Jens Manuel Krogstad. 2014. “U.S. Deportations of Immigrants Reach Record High in 2013.” Pew Research Center.
    • Medeiros, Eileen. 2007. “Public Writing Inside and Outside the Classroom: A Comparative Analysis of Activist Rhetorics.” Dissertations and Master’s Theses. Paper AAI3298371.
    • Moraga, Cherríe. 1983. Loving in the War Years: Lo Que Nunca Pasó Por Sus Labios. Boston, MA: South End Press.
    • Ohmann, Richard. 2003. Politics of Knowledge: The Commercialization of the University, the Professions, and Print Culture. Middleton, CT: Wesleyan University Press.
    • Perez, Laura. 1993. “Opposition and the Education of Chicana/os,” Race Identity and Representation in Education, ed. Cameron McCarthy and Warren Chrichlow. New York: Routledge.
    • Rosaldo, Renato. 1994 “Cultural Citizenship and Educational Democracy.” Cultural Anthropology 9:3. 402-411.
    • Tryon, Charles. 2006. “Writing and Citizenship: Using Blogs to Teach First-Year Composition.” Pedagogy 6:1. 128-132.
    • Wan, Amy J. 2011. “In the Name of Citizenship: The Writing Classroom and the Promise of Citizenship.” College English 74. 28-49.
    • Weisser, Christian R. 2002. Moving Beyond Academic Discourse: Composition Studies and the Public Sphere. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press.
    • Welch, Nancy. 2005. “Living Room: Teaching Public Writing in a Post-Publicity Era.”  College Composition and Communication 56:3. 470-492.

     

  • Anissa Daoudi – Introduction: Narrating and Translating Sexual Violence at Wartime in the Middle East and North Africa (MENA region)

    Anissa Daoudi – Introduction: Narrating and Translating Sexual Violence at Wartime in the Middle East and North Africa (MENA region)

    Anissa Daoudi

    العربية | Français

    So natural is the impulse to narrate, so inevitable is the form of narrative for any report of the way things really happened, that narrativity could appear problematical only in a culture in which it was absent – absent or, as in some domains …programmatically refused.

    Hayden White (1980), “The Value of Narrativity in the Representation of Reality”

     

    Truth for anyone is a very complex thing. For a writer, what you leave out says as much as those things you include. What lies beyond the margin of the text? The photographer frames the shot; writers frame their world. Mrs Winterson objected to what I had put in, but it seemed to me that what I had left out was the story’s silent twin. There are so many things that we can’t say, because they are too painful. We hope that the things we can say will soothe the rest, or appease it in some way. Stories are compensatory. The world is unfair, unjust, unknowable, out of control. When we tell a story we exercise control, but in such a way as to leave a gap, an opening. It is a version, but never the final one. And perhaps we hope that the silences will be heard by someone else, and the story can continue, can be retold. When we write we offer the silence as much as the story. Words are the part of silence that can be spoken. Mrs Winterson would have preferred it if I had been silent.

    Do you remember the story of Philomel who is raped and then has her tongue ripped out by the rapist so that she can never tell? I believe in fiction and the power of stories because that way we speak in tongues. We are not silenced. All of us, when in deep trauma, find we hesitate, we stammer; there are long pauses in our speech. The thing is stuck. We get our language back through the language of others. We can turn to the poem. We can open the book. Somebody has been there for us and deep-dived the words. I needed words because unhappy families are conspiracies of silence. The one who breaks the silence is never forgiven. He or she has to learn to forgive him or herself.”

    Jeanette Winterson (2011), Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?

    Narrating and Translating Sexual Violence in the Middle East and North Africa is the overarching theme of this Special Issue, which is guided by the natural impulse, to borrow White’s words, to narrate and translate knowing into telling[1].  Culturally, telling stories of violence has been linked to power struggles and therefore, not all stories could be told, particularly in authoritarian regimes.   Telling stories is an act of power around who is telling what and to whom? (Foucault, 1977).   By telling stories of what really happened, the aim is certainly not to reproduce violence, but to give a voice to the silenced Arab women to tell their stories in order to counter narrate the hegemonic discourse(s) in relation to sexual violence at wartime in the MENA region.  The contributors of this special issue; being a combination of academics from different disciplines, activists and feminists from the region and literary writers; are aware of the importance of telling stories that challenge the existing discourses and uncover layers of distortion with a view to the present and the future.   Telling is equally important what is being left out, having an eye for details, framing stores in a specific style and genre, using precise language are also as important.  Telling When we tell a story we exercise control, but in such a way as to leave a gap, an opening” as Jeanette Winterson argues.  She adds that our story is “a version but never the final one”, yet an important addition to the clusters of stories that form discourse(s).  This act of telling or writing is what constructs and produces particular versions of the world.  As Baker (2006: 28) puts it “personal stories that we tell ourselves about our place in the world and our own personal history”.  By positioning Arab women in the world, we (contributors of this volume) are, as Foucault puts, placing ourselves in the power of network (1978) and agree with   Foucault’s idea of power “we must cease once and for all to describe the effect of power in negative terms, it ‘excludes, it ‘represses’, it ‘sensors’, it ‘abstracts’, it ‘masks’, it ‘conceals’.  In fact power produces; it produces reality; it produces domains of objects and rituals of the truth” (Foucault, 1977: 194).

    This Special Issue seeks to make three valuable and original contributions.  To begin with, it is the first time the subject of rape at wartime, a topic considered as taboo, is discussed openly in relation to the MENA region by activists, academics and literary writers from the region in three languages; namely French, Arabic and English.  As our theoretical framework is based on the importance of translation as a way of challenging established discourses (Apter, 2013), it became crucial that this unique project has to appear in the three working languages of the MENA region to make information available to scholars, activists, policy makers, students locally and globally, as we believe that sexual violence in wartime is a global phenomenon.  The second originality of the papers of this issue is about the content it reveals for the first time, especially in relation to Algeria, where there is the Amnesty Law that stands as a barrier against truth.   This special issue is a call for justice and a clear rejection to the Amnesty Law (2005).  More importantly, the third point is related to the fight against silencing women and for empowering them to narrate their stories in order to write a complete version of history.   By so doing, women are not only putting the records straight, but also helping other women (locally, regionally and globally) to advance in their just fight against patriarchy, injustice and inequality and not re-invent the wheel.

    For this Special Issue, I turn to the past to understand the present and aim to take part in shaping the future.  In other words, asking the same question as Turshen’s (2002)
    what happened to Algerian women who were once active during the War of Liberation become passive in the Civil War?  She starts her article with two quotes: one referring to Mudjahidats describing a site where they planted bombs during the War of Liberation and another referring to an Algerian woman, captured by Islamists during the civil war, where she was used as a slave for sexual and other domestic jobs for ‘the Amir’ (terrorist).  The two images seem two centuries apart.  The question is indirectly asking the Mudjahidats (female war veterans) about their contributions towards the ‘grand narratives’ of the Algerian War.  It is in a way holding them responsible for not telling their stories, for not becoming role models for the coming Algerian generations and for not being agents for change in the same way they acted during the Liberation War.  This project aspires to uncover ‘layers of distortions/constructions’ to use Tamboukou’s terms (2013), not only about what did the Mudjahidats not say, but also why and how did their silencing happen.  By so doing, the eyes are not only on the past but rather, on the present and future of Algerian women.  In the following section, analysis of the reasons and the ways the silencing happened will be provided.

    I.       Gendering Violence in Algeria: the Role of Language

    Algeria, known as the country of The Three Djamilas, an Arabic name, meaning ‘beautiful’ referring to three Algerian women war veterans called (Djamila Bouheird, Djamila Boupasha and Djamila Bouazza), standing for the fighting against the coloniser during the liberation war (1954-1962).  While this metaphor ‘the Three Djamilas’ has been used and abused in the whole Arab culture, Algerian women’s contribution to the War of Liberation is present in the Algerian collective memory.  The abuse starts, as (Mehta, 2014: 48) states with the image related creation of the “land-female body equation, reducing women to abstract symbols of nation without citizenship rights”.  This motherland, as (McMillin, 2007) appears all too frequently in nationalist rhetoric.   It is the same hegemonic strategy that excludes women from taking an active part in the nation building process.  In fact, the metaphor of the land can be analysed closer based on the principle of the ‘conceptual metaphor theory’, by Lackoff and Johnson, 1980, in which the target domain is related to the image of ‘cultivation’, ‘strength’ and ‘security’.   This metaphor leaves no room for negative association with al mudjahidats (female war veterans).   However, in framing the Djamilas as ‘French’ educated ‘elite’ Algerian ‘Muslim’ girls, the ‘abuse’, to use Thomas’s word ‘cultural violence’ becomes clearer, particularly with the Algerian Arabicisation movement in post-independence in the 1970s, where the same ‘French’ educated women were sent back to the private sphere because they did not master ‘Standard Arabic’, the official language according to the Algerian constitution.  History was written by Arabophone Algerian men, leaving no room for women to narrate or archive their stories.  In 1974, Ministry of Mudjahideen (the Ministry of Veterans Affairs) reported that 11,000 Algerian women had fought for the liberation (about 3% of all fighters); Amrane Minne (1993) thinks this is a serious underestimation of women’s participation. She adds that of this number, 22% were urban and 78% came from rural areas; these percentages mirror exactly the rate of urbanization in Algeria at that time.  The Mudjahidats battle was not with the colonizer only, but was also to free women from ignorance and servitude.  Urban educated women joined the rebel forces and went to the villages where they taught illiterate peasant women, the reasons for their independence struggle. Studies reveal that after independence, many faced rejections from their societies and could not reintegrate, some for being raped, others because they had frequented men).  From those who managed to find jobs, some were forced by their husbands to return to their traditional jobs.   Assia Djebbar’s film La Nouba des femmes du Mont Chenoua (1978) is a representation of colonialism as well as her own women’s culture.  In this film, Djebbar stresses the importance of history and memory and asks questions about: whose history is Algeria’s? Who speaks it and to whom?  And in what language?  The exclusion of French educated Algerian women was not limited to Mudjahidats but also included a generation of Algerians educated in French; even decades after independence (see Chapter One).  The following section will provide an analysis of what it felt like living as a woman in the 1990s, known as the ‘Black Decade’ in Algeria.

    II.       Memories of Algerian Women in the 1990s

    The civil war has been described as one of the most brutal periods in independent Algeria.  It has been estimated that more than 200,000 people were killed and thousands “brutally wounded, displaced, abducted and sexually violated, according to the Amnesty International Report of 1996” (Mehta, 2014: 69).   Independent Algeria experienced nothing other than a one party repressive regime, where corruption, unemployment, nepotism, gender discrimination, and minority segregation were commonplace.  In the 1980’s, the country was ready for an explosion of some sorts.  The crisis was felt economically, politically, and socially and people took to the streets in what is known as ‘the bread riots’ on October the 5th 1988.  The uprising started off peacefully but soon the military brutally crushed the protestors.   The Islamists capitalised on the tensions and started to present themselves as the rescuers of the country.  They wanted to be seen as the ones to reinvent Algerian identity, which for them was still Francophone.  As Zahia Salhi (2010) argues, the military became more militarised and the Islamists engaged in armed struggle, and as a result the country was dragged into one of the most horrific moments of its history.  Civilians were the ultimate victims, particularly women.  In fact, Salhi believes that women became a deliberate target for the Islamic fundamentalists as early as the 1970s.  She explains how the discriminatory provision of the Family Code exacerbated and legitimized violence against women and made it difficult for them to deal with the consequences of widespread human rights abuses (2010). Marnia Lazreg calls 1984[2]the year of the rupture between women and their government and women and the radical questioning of the state’s legitimacy”.

    Dalila Lamarene Djerbal describes the situation:

    Physical violence on a large scale, then murders of women who do not respect the dress code or rules of conduct; assassination of female citizens charged with supporting  the authorities(le pouvoir) or women related to the members of the security services; the obligation for women and families to support the armed groups and beginnings of rape through forced marriages,  the multiplication of kidnappings, rape in the guise of what is known as zawāj mut’a[3], abductions of women, segregation, collective rape, torture, murder and mutilation of the entire territory.[4]

    The quote above captures the physical violence exercised against Algerian women, which undoubtedly left psychological scars.  It summarizes the different pretexts under which women were targeted.   The first is related to women in the public sphere and to ‘respectable’ dress code and conduct.  The concept of hijab[5] started to circulate in the mid-1970s and the beginning of the 80s, brought by Arab teachers who came to the country under the Arabisation movement and who had links with the Muslim Brotherhood movements.  Their aim was the Islamisation of Algeria which according to them was still Francophone.   A large number of Algerian women were forced to wear the hijab (the veil) and those who refused to do so receive death threats and in some cases were killed and used as examples to terrorize other women.   A Fatwa[6] legalising the kidnapping and temporary marriage of women was issued, in a very similar way to how Yazidi women are treated under ISIS rule today.  According to Islamists, hijab[7] is what distinguishes a Muslim woman from a non-Muslim one.  It is also what sets the limits between the private and public spheres.  All these strict rules justified the physical violence and the killing of women who refused to abide by the religious rule.  The first victim was the famous case of Katia Bengana, a 17 year old high school girl in Blida, who had been warned but told her mother: “even if one day I will be assassinated, I will never wear hijab against my will.   If I must wear something, it will be the traditional dress of Kabylia, rather than the imported hijab they want to force on us” (Turshen, 2002: 898).   Katia’s statement shows how defiant she was, even though, she suspected that she would be killed for her strong views.  Additionally, her Kabyle identity was more important to her.  She refers to hijab as an ideology imported and forced on Algerians from the Arabian Peninsula in reference to the Wahhabi[8] ideology.  This sentiment was shared by a large number of Algerians who claim that their Algerian Islam, under which they were brought up, had its own particularities and that they did not need lessons about Islam from any other source.

    Twenty years later, her sister writes a post on Facebook and says: “I cry, I rage against these veiled women who think they are free while they are muzzled.  Katia is a girl who decided for herself, not bend to the macho obscurantism of the Islamists.  How many Katia(s) do we so that one day these women can finally be free? Katia should be viewed as a symbol of struggle against the medieval spirits. She was courageous and and was ready to go all the way for her convictions, a free woman, a real Tamazight as was the Queen of the Aures, an example of strength and intelligence[9] (26.01.17).  At the Birmingham University Conference, October 2014 on ‘Narrating and Translating Sexual Violence in the MENA Region: the role of Language’, Mrs Wassyla Tamzali, referred to Katia’s case and stressed that she should not be remembered as Berber, instead, she should be celebrated as an Algerian woman (see article by Mrs. Tamzali in this issue).  She adds that by dividing citizens as Berbers and Arabs, Algerians fall into the colonial ideology of ‘divide and rule’.  Katia was not killed because she was Berber, but because she refused ‘political Islam’.  For Tamzali, talking on behalf of Katia is crucial and making Katia’s voice heard is just as important.  She chose to make Katia’s case a national issue because she is aware that there are more women like Katia in Algeria.   Recent reports from areas in Iraq and Syria, under ISIS control, show how women are still subjected to similar circumstances of rape, killing and sex slavery.   Thus, Tamzali’s call is of global significance and is a result of her years of working for the United Nations, dealing with the plight of Women in Bosnia.

    The second issue in Lamarene’s quote relates to the targeting of female citizens “charged with supporting the authorities (le pouvoir) or women related to the members of the security services”.  This category of women includes a large segment of the Algerian population, who are wives, sisters or mothers of men working for the security services, police force, army, called by the fundamentalists the ‘tyrants’ – in Arabic taghut[10]The latter is a word from classical Arabic that takes us immediately to the usages of the word in the distant past.  The word is mentioned in the Quran (Surat al Nahl/the Bee)[11].  In this case the ‘tyrant’ or the ruler is referred to as ‘evil’. The eradication of evil thus becomes a duty for the believer.  This conceptual metaphor can be used to explain the process by which the extermination of the non-believer becomes normalised.   Using the image of the taghut evokes various images that are directly related to Qur’an and also to the pre-Islamic period where people worshipped other forms of gods, something that differentiates the believer from the non-believer.  It recalls the image of the ‘evil’ and the ‘unjust ruler’.  The two concepts are sufficient, according to, for example, the grand Mufti (preacher) of Saudi Arabia[12] to justify the death penalty.

    Other concepts started to appear in Algerian society at this time: Dalila Lamarene Djerbal refers to Zawāj al Mut’a, a term introduced by Islamists referring to a form of temporary marriage practised by some Shi’i Muslims in the Middle East but not in North Africa.   This is unknown in Algeria, where the majority of the population are Sunnis.  Other forms of marriage also appeared with the rise of Islamism, such as zawāj al misāyr (again a temporary form of marriage accepted in the Sunni sect of Wahhabism).  Other forms of attack on women’s bodies under different terminologies started to make their way into Algerian society.  Fadhila Al Farouq’s novel, refers to the word rape in Arabic and places it in inverted commas “الاغتصاب” /al ightisāb/ as a controversial term.  Yet, she explicitly explains its etymological roots to Classical Arabic.  By so doing, Al Farouq implicitly attacks the religious institution for using ‘Islamic concepts’ as symbolic capital (see Chapter One).

    Djerbal’s quote captures the atrocities Algerian women went through during the ‘Black Decade’.  Violence was both real and symbolic against civilians, particularly women who, as indicated by Djerbal, were collectively raped, tortured and murdered in the most dramatic ways (see below the discussion on the killing of female teachers in the western part of Algeria). In the 1990s, ordinary women in Algeria took to the streets to denounce the violent discourses against them.  In 1994, the Armed Islamic Group (GIA) called for a boycott of schools.  However, in spite of numerous school burnings and murders of teachers, women still brought their children to classes in acts of defiance. Violence grew as it met resistance from government and citizens, including women.  The terrorists “stepped up their activities, establishing roadblocks and killing everyone ambushed in this way” (Turshen, 2002: 897).  Other acts directed against women included the issuing of the fatwa    legalising the killing of girls and women who did not wear the hijab.  Another fatwa legalised the kidnapping and temporary marriage of women.  According to the FIS, hijab is what distinguishes a Muslim from a non-Muslim woman.  It is also what puts the limits between the private and public spheres.  All these edicts justified the killing of women who refused to abide by the religious rules.   The next section will shed light on Algerian women’s organisations and their fight against what was happening.

    III.       The Role of Women’s Organisations in Algeria in the Black Decade: Resilience

     Algerian women were subjugated to the worst kinds of violence way before the civil war.  In public discourses by the Islamic party (FIS[13]), some women like feminists were portrayed as non-believers, westerners, immoral and therefore, there was an urgent need to bring them back to their traditional roles.  They, according to the FIS, were occupying jobs that were supposed to be for men.  Unemployed men favoured this particular discourse at the time where the economic crisis hit the country due to corruption; fall in prices of oil in a country that relied primarily on natural resources.  Algeria became more and more hostile to the presence of women in the public sphere.  Feminists were harassed, prevented from doing their jobs and even not allowed to live without a male relative (like brother, husband, son, what is called mahram. The 1984 Law, (as explained in Chapter One), did not help either.  In fact, it institutionalised violence and discrimination against women.  Ait Hamou (2004, 117); one the founding members of Réseau Wassyla argues that the Algerian government co-opted the conservatives, and later, Muslim fundamentalists, to protect their interests and stay in power. Various governments have made compromises and sacrificed women’s rights to keep peace with the fundamentalists[14] .  For example, in 1989, “conservatives within the FLN[15] colluded with Islamists to introduce measures against the emancipation of women, for instance more religious education in primary schools; making sports not compulsory for girls; and so on” (ibid).  In other words, the complicity of the FLN, in the educational system in Algeria has always been going on for years.

    Globally, when women were facing violence on a daily basis, the whole world turned a blind on what was going on.  It is, as Ait-Hamou argues, “since 11 September, the world, and particularly, the United State, seems to have suddenly realised that Muslim fundamentalism, in its extreme form of terrorism, is a real threat”.  She adds “many of us cannot help feeling bitter about such an attitude, for we fought fundamentalism and terrorism in isolation, with our bare hands for a good number of years, while fundamentalists who committed the most atrocious crimes in our countries were getting support from the same governments that are now dictating to the rest of the world how to ‘fight terrorism”.   This feeling of bitterness about being left alone with no support at all neither from their fellow Arabs nor form the rest of the world is what women and men repeat now when asked about why they did not join the so called ‘Arab Spring’.  Another striking issue that Ait-Hamou refers to is the Amnesty Law of 1999, which is to date criticised by most feminist organisations.

    The aim of the Amnesty Law was to bring closure to the Algerian Civil War by offering an amnesty for most violence committed in it. The referendum on it was held on September 29, 2005, and it was implemented as law on February 28, 2006.  Critics, however call it a denial of truth and justice to the victims of the abuses and their families.  One example of the voices against the Amnesty Law is Cherifa Keddar, the founder of Djazairouna Association, created on October 17, 1996, following the assassination of her sister and brother after a targeted attack on her family, including their mother by Islamists.   Cherifa united with the survivors of terrorism to give them a voice that denounces the Amnesty Law and asks for justice.   Bennoune gives detailed information about the work of this organization in this issue.

    Feminist organisations were fighting against fundamentalism, based on theocracy and patriarchy, as the source violence.  They all believed that the early 1980s was the start of fundamentalism in Algeria.  They agree that the Friday Sermons diffused on loudspeakers[16], focusing on women bodies, describing them as immoral for wearing for example, lipstick or going out unveiled.  University campuses were also attacked and the authorities kept a low profile.  In June 1989, a group of fundamentalists set fire in public to a house that belonged to a divorced woman, who lived with her children.  Her three children were burnt to death.  Women’s groups denounced the crime and organized the first demonstration in the streets of Algiers.  Silence complicity from the State helped Islamism to rise.  In years 1992-1993, thousands of men and women were killed and the country lived in terror.  The first woman to be murdered was Karima Belhadj, secretary in the General Office of National Security[17].  Women organisations in Algeria had little choice.  They had to strategically survive the atrocities, some wore the veil to avoid confrontations others, resisted that.  One needs to look at the Algerian society now to realise that more than help of women are veiled.  Women’s rights activists had a national strategy to combat fundamentalism by producing counter-discourse, on many occasions, they occupied the street, carrying photos of those who were killed, at a time when people were terrified.  The first public meeting was in 1993 organised by the Gathering of Algerian Democratic Women (RAFD), using mock tribunal against terrorism (Ait-Hamou, ibid).  Women’s rights organisations also denounced the American and European discourses, under the name of democracy, that the Islamists were victims, by contributing to international debates using foreign media channels and participating at international conferences. They established many women’s associations like SOS Femmes en Detresse, RAFD and RACHDA continue to combat for women’s right and for providing counter-discourse to fundamentalism.

    The history of violence on Algerian women by jihadist groups some 20 years ago now, as Bennoune argues in this issue, the way it happened, the way it was overlooked, the way in which victims were overlooked, neglected and forgotten-should spark outrage globally, as this violence on issue is not on Algerian women only but it is a global issue and understanding it, gives insights into understanding ISIS today.  Bennoune’s essay, in this issue, addresses rape in Algeria in the ‘Black Decade’ and provides a true picture of what Algeria during the Civil war was like.  She scrutinizes the ways rape was narrated by interviewing survivors, which is to date not an easy task under the Amnesty Law.  Her expertise in Law and her fieldwork research on the theme of rape in Algeria and in other parts of the Muslim world contributes to the interdisciplinary nature of this issue.   Her essay shows her knowledge of Algeria inside out and her sharp analysis of the events.

    To complement Benoune’s article, Daoudi, stresses on the cultural production of the 1990s in Algeria.  Her article entitled ‘Untranslatability of Algeria’ challenges Apter’s (2013) concept of untranslatability and presents it not as a homogenous entity but a multiple notion.  Translation as a means of disturbing discourses (Apter, 2013) is the basis of the arguments about gender roles and contribution to colonial and postcolonial Algeria.  It helps dismantling the narratives that were written by men and bring out the silenced discourses.  Through close analysis of the various gender discourses on violence in Algeria, this article shows the manipulations of discourses about Algerian women during colonial and postcolonial Algeria.  It also discusses the role of Algerian writers in giving a voice to their voiceless compatriots to help archive their history and to construct their social memory and collective.  In addition, it emphasizes the roles of language and translation in the construction of a constantly changing Algeria with an emphasis on the Civil War 1990s.

    A specialist in Gender and Islamic Studies, Amel Grami, who worked with Jihadi women in the MENA region brings out an understudied area, I find myself attentive to a number of related themes such as ‘al sabi’ and ‘jihad al-nikah’, on which Grami has published extensively.  ‘Jihad al-nikah’, in particular has been a very controversial issue in Tunisia after the Arab Spring.  Grami argues that official statements from the Tunisian Home Office declared that indeed there are groups of young Tunisian women who travelled to Syria with the purpose of ‘Jihad al-nikah’.  She brings to lights different narratives about sexual violence in Tunisia.  The purpose of narrating these stories is not to study the past but to try to understand it in the present, for example, in understanding Yazidi women’s rape in the MENA region (see article by Grami in this Special Issue).

    Algerian women’s fight against silence and fundamentalism was not restricted to women’s rights activists on the ground.  Other women; writers fought their pens.  Djebar, as a pioneer among the generation that lived colonialism and Mokadem are the core of the essay written by Imen Cozzo in this issue.  She believes that Algerian women’s silence might be an involuntary social, cultural and ideological act of resistance, a way to bury the atrocious truth and to seal it into a forgotten tomb, she says.  Silence was imposed by a colonial reality and continues to be enforced by a postcolonial tradition and society. After independence, many Algerian writers use the same coloniser’s language to resist their assimilation into a backward process or the fight over “outer” and “inner” spaces.[18] Therefore, Cozzo argues that silence becomes a political act through which women subvert the oppressors’ discourse, by retaining their secret world/word.

    Violence in the 1990s in Algerian films namely: Rachida, The Harem of Madame Osmane, and Barakat!  Is what Rym Quartsi discusses in her article.  She looks at films as another medium through which Algerian directors communicated their trauma and pain of the Black Decade.   In her essay, she explores the relationship between gender, violence and language.   The Black decade is the period when most artists fled the country after receiving death threats.  This led to the dismantling of the film industry and the films that were produced were done outside Algeria by external funding.

    In a comparative study, Bedjaoui recalls the ‘Black Decade’ through the work of the two Francophone female writers Assia Djebar and Maisa Bey.  The novels studied, centres on the violence of religious fanaticism that terrified the Algerian society in the 1990s.  Similarly, Tamzali writes a letter to katia Benghena, the girl who defied the Islamists and refused to wear the veil.  Tamzali warns of the division of the Algerian society into Berber, Arab, Francophone and Aarbophone.  She reminds us Katia is an Algerian woman and not just a Berber. In describing how it was living in Algeria during the Black decade, she says: “the country was plunging into civil war, neighbours and brothers killing each other. The pain and the fear overpowered the gaze of our mothers and our lives headed towards barbarism to the sound of heavy boots and the cries of “Allahu Akbar”. Death spread in every corner and the stench of gloomy clouds filled the air.”  Finally, a selection of literary texts by Fadhila Al Farouq and Inam Bioud is presented in the three languages.  Al Farouq is the first Algerian writer, who chose to fight with her pen, risking her life, to document cases of rape in the 1990s.  Bioud’s poem fills our heart with sadness and reminds us of the atrocities of the “Black decade.”

    IV.       Conclusion

    Violence in the recent years has intensified, or at least the advancement in Information Technology made it look intensified.  This is to say that violence has always existed but people did not necessarily hear about it and surely did not used to see it happen live.  The Internet has facilitated the movement of information, for example, the picture of the Egyptian woman in her bra who was dragged by the Egyptian police officer in Tahrir Square went viral on social media and became known as the ‘the blue bra event’.  Other events in the Arab region ‘the so-called Arab Spring/revolution’ are characterised by interesting reactions about the role of women in the fight for freedom, varying from stories about the Egyptian government subjecting female participants to ‘virginity tests’, to horrific stories about collective rape in Tahrir Square (Cairo), to calls by a preacher for sexual holy war in what is known as jihad al nikah (which is basically offering sexual services to comfort fighters against the Syrian regime), using a terminology from Classical Arabic to refer to the wholly war in the new context.  All of these stories and many more are narrated and in some cases used and abused to legitimise violent reactions.  They are also part of history, which is constructed through narrativation of layers of complex intertwined stories.  Homi Bhabha, says “tell stories that create the web of history, and change direction of its flow” (cited in Gana and Härting, 2008: 5).  This same view is also shared by Mona Baker who argues that narratives construct realities.   It is this line of thought that drive us (female academics from the region), writers, film directors… etc. to publish this issue, aiming to dismantle official narratives and give voice to the silenced narratives of the 1990s.  By so doing, we are not voicing narratives from the other who can be geographically distant but we narrate violence as a global phenomenon, as an ethical issue and more importantly as a continuous search for the truth.  Below is Tahar Djaout’s slogan that captures the spirit of this Special Issue.

    Silence means death

    If you speak out, they kill you.

    If you keep silent, they kill you.

    So, speak out and die

    Tahar Djaout

    [1] See Hayden White’s etymological definition of both words ‘knowing and telling’ in his article “the Value of Narrativity in the Representation of Reality” in Critical Inquiry, Volume 7, No 1 (Autumn, 1980) 5-27

    [2] 1984 was the year when Algeria made changes to the constitution.  “The Family Code of 1984 makes it a legal duty for Algerian women to obey their husbands, and respect and serve them, their parents, and relatives (Article 39). It institutionalised polygamy and made it the right of men to take up to four wives (Article 8).  Women cannot arrange their own marriage contracts unless represented by a matrimonial guardian (Article 11), and they have no right to apply for divorce.  While a man needs only to desire a divorce to get one, it is made a most difficult, if not impossible, thing to be obtained by women” (Salhi, 2003: 30). http://www.artsrn.ualberta.ca/amcdouga/Hist247/winter_2011/resources/Algerian%20Women%20and%20the%20’family%20code’.pdf

    [3] Zawāj mut’a, also known as Nikāḥ al-mutʿah (Arabic: زواج المتعة‎‎, literally “temporary marriage”), is a type of marriage permitted in Twelver Shia Islam, where the duration of the marriage and the dowry must be specified and agreed upon in advance.  The researcher as well as feminists consider this marriage and its equivalent in the Sunni sect  (zawāj al misyār) as forms of religiously sanctioned prostitution.

    [4] All translations are by the author.

    [5] Hijab: consists of wearing a scarf that hides the hair and neck as well as a full length robe.

    [6] Fatwa is a religious commandment based on scholarly legal decision.

    [7] For more information about the veil, see Marnia Lazreg’s book Questioning the Veil:
    Open Letters to Muslim Women
    (2011).

    [8] Wahhabi, in Arabic / al-Wahhābiya(h). Wahhabism is named after an eighteenth-century preacher and scholar, Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhab (1703–1792).  It is a religious movement or branch of Sunni Islam, which started in Saudi Arabia.  It is an extremely conservative form of Islam.  For more information, see: David Commins (2006) book: Wahhabism and Saudi Arabia (I. B. Taurus).

    [9] See, https://www.facebook.com/Chkovein/?hc_ref=SEARCH

    [10] Taghut: an unjust ruler who does not follow God’s rules.

    [11]

    وَلَقَدْ بَعَثْنَا فِي كُلِّ أُمَّةٍ رَّسُولًا أَنِ اعْبُدُوا اللَّهَ وَاجْتَنِبُوا الطَّاغُوتَ ۖ فَمِنْهُم مَّنْ هَدَى اللَّهُ وَمِنْهُم مَّنْ حَقَّتْ عَلَيْهِ الضَّلَالَةُ فَسِيرُوا فِي الْأَرْضِ فَانظُرُوا كَيْفَ كَانَ عَاقِبَةُ الْمُكَذِّبِينَ

     “For We assuredly sent amongst every People a messenger, (with the Command), “Serve Allah, and eschew Evil”: of the People were some whom Allah guided, and some on whom error became inevitably (established). So travel through the earth, and see what was the end of those who denied (the Truth)”.

    [12] In a question-and-answer programme, Al Fuzan (the grand Mufti of Saudi Arabia) was asked about whether or not the taghut is a kafir, i.e., non-believer.  The Mufti replied:

     “أنه مخير بين أن يحكم بما أنزل الله أو يحكم بغيره، أو أن الحكم بغير ما أنزل الله جائز، فهذا يعتبر طاغوتًا وهو كافر بالله عز وجل.”‏”.‏

    In English: “He (the taghut) is asked to rule using God’s words, but if he decides to disobey God’s words/rules, he then is a non-believer in God the gracious”.  The ultimate ruler here is God and his obedience is fundamental in Islam.

    [13] FIS: Front Islamique du Salut (Islamic Party)

    [14] Ait Hammou, ‘Women’s Struggle against Muslim Fundamentalism in Algeria: Strategies or a Lesson for Survival?’ p. 118.

    [15] FLN: Front de Liberation National

    [16] For more information on how loudspeakers were used, see film: Bab el Oued City https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2jKITX62qCM 

    [17] For more information, see Ait Hamou’s article: Ait-Hamou_FundamentalismAlgeria.pdf

    [18] Amel Grami, “Narrating rape in the Mena region: the role of language”, (Conference: University of Birmingham, School of Arts and Music, Department of Modern Languages, Arabic Section, UK, 10 /10/ 2014.

  • Essays

    A tribute to Katia Bengana, assassinated by a young Islamist on 28 February 1994 in Meftah, Algeria.

    Wassyla Tamzali

    I. In “Women’s Bravery” –

    Those were the days of lawlessness and faithlessness; the country plunged into strife and bloodshed as the Islamists who had been deprived of their leaders spread into the cities and the mountains like a metastatic disease, frenziedly sowing death. Under the pretext of their submission to God, they slowly turned into unrecognisable monsters before our incredulous eyes. They formed death squads, imposed their own authority and spread terror. Deprived of their electoral victory, the Islamic Front of Salvation (FIS) and its partisans set about slowly but surely unveiling their hideous disposition.

    The country was plunging into civil war, neighbours and brothers killing each other. The pain and the fear overpowered the gaze of our mothers and our lives headed towards barbarism to the sound of heavy boots and the cries of “Allahu Akbar”. Death spread in every corner and the stench of gloomy clouds filled the air.

    It was 1994; the walls were littered with posters released by the GIA, the armed wing of the FIS, threatening young girls and women with death if they failed to wear the headscarf in the streets, schools, offices, hospitals, parks, homes, in front of the mirrors and even in bed if they could. The GIA would only tolerate women, from the age of puberty to menopause, in service of their fantasies.

    1994 culminated the horror and the unspeakable. Women became the target of collective violence exacerbated by their fragile bodies and panicky gazes. The inebriated sexual instincts of the assassins gave free rein to human barbarism ensued by a long list of unspeakable crimes with the stench of femicide.

    We all lived under this menace simply because we were women, or even children and adolescent girls. Up until then, the Islamists would pick their victims for what they did, be it writing, filmmaking, thinking, or singing, and women had already been assassinated for such an ostensible reason.

    However, in 1994, the religious fanatics set about assassinating, raping and enslaving women and young girls indiscriminately, veiled or otherwise. Had those women, girls and young girls in these villages, where serial acts of barbarism were perpetrated, including rape, kidnapping, torture and disembowelment, not all been veiled?

    Those barbarians found in the religion that nurtured our childhood under the benevolent guardianship of our fathers what made their hatred of women sacred; or their hatred of the female gender should we say, since they denied us any act of compassion. They wanted to force us to wear a distinctive and segregationist sign, namely a headscarf to cover our hair; in other words a veil to unveil, mark and designate our gender before all and sundry, in a manner that reduced women to their erotic bodies and dehumanised them. Dehumanisation is the first step towards barbarism.

    But every woman who has her head uncovered while praying or prophesying disgraces her head, for she is one and the same as the woman whose head is shaved. For if a woman does not cover her head, let her also have her hair cut off; but if it is disgraceful for a woman to have her hair cut off or her head shaved, let her cover her head. For a man ought not to have his head covered, since he is the image and glory of God; but the woman is the glory of man…

    Saint-Paul Apôtre, Letter to the Corinthians.

    Those who dished out the orders sunk to the dark abyss of time. They blindly embraced the dogmas of the most reclusive sects. Acting like disciples of Saint Paul rather than their prophet Mohammed, they would erect their hair as a totem, drone out and issue fatwas on women’s hairs and secretions in order to subvert the most natural laws and allow their predatory and bestial sexuality to run riot.

    At the entrance to the opulent Mitidja Valley, Blida, the city of Roses, turned into a hotbed of barbarism. God’s madmen spread their dominion over the surrounding areas they claimed they had liberated. This is where Meftah was, so far a trouble-free small town less than 100 km from Algiers.

    However, on 28 February 1994, it was a very young Islamist, surrounded without a doubt by a mob that looked alike in every aspect, hardly older than yourself Katia, who shot you and then fled…

    You refused to wear the headscarf and you used to shout out loud and clear why. Those creatures with a deranged spirit and a barbaric soul had been convinced of their right to dictate your way of life Katia and the way of life of all those who came under their control. They were shamed by this unqualified truth that glorified their archaic sexual instincts and their rapacious desire in the name of a bloodthirsty and ruthless god, a god who would loathe women, and yet they alleged him to be the God of Islam.

    All it took was for one woman to stand up to them to make them plunge into a world of infernal ideas with the reek of blood and death that came from the hereafter, from under the living world. They were tightly knit with same the obsession, blindly serving a reinvented god and drawing from a book they did not perceive. They have sacrificed you according to their demented order.

    You defended until death the way you dressed despite the delirium of these creatures. You knew them; you used to come across them in the streets, outside the school and the shops where they would harass you. These young men had been roaming the streets for days, getting more and more persistent and menacing. “Hooligans” your dad would say. Alas, they were more than that; they were monsters indoctrinated to kill and they were biding their time to ensure the total success of their chore by starting to instil fear among the masses. They invented and imposed laws on the city and the locals chose to believe that this state of affairs would soon come to an end and all they had to do was wait and keep a low profile.

    In all the cities and all the districts, people kept a low profile. The whole country kept a low profile. Thousands and thousands kept a low profile, while those who refused to give in were soon dealt with. They would be slain as they tried to stand up and pass on to us a bit of their courage and their hopes. In Meftah, like elsewhere, men chose to lie low and leave the field clear for barbarism. In the small town of this huge country, which was known as “the country of freemen”, where did the claimed courage stop after it had made its escape? On your childlike face and your slender shoulders Katia; and in your eyes, which looked danger straight in the face and which will stay wide open as if they were a perpetual castigation for those who had seen nothing coming, who had chosen not to see and not to do anything to stop the tragedy that had been long before heading towards that town and all the other similar towns. Meftah, an inconsequential town, which your death threw into our faces on 28 February 1994.

    I have never been to Meftah and I will never go to Meftah lest I should see nothing, lest I should be once again witness of the work of time, which bit by bit smoothes our daily life, turning it into a slack sea and making us fall again into a grim and hideous “normality”, whereas we ought to keep the episode of barbarism seared into our memories, lest we should relapse.

    Your assassin shot you at point blank range with a sawn-off shotgun. I do not exactly know what sawn-off really means; nevertheless, he fired and fled, leaving you lying on the pavement in a pool of blood, red like the carnations of the wreath of carnations and white daisies that the four young men sombrely laid at your grave. They walked close to your father in this BBC documentary that circled the world and which I watched on a TV screen in the corridors of the United Nations where the diplomats were lost for words in attempting to condemn the crimes perpetrated in the name of Islam. It was the wretchedness of politics, the subjection before the inextinguishable sorrow and the victory of barbarism.

     

    “Prayer for Disaster”: Chapter from Fadhila Al Farouq’s novel Taa Al Khajal

    Translated by Anissa Daoudi

    “Time is the Arab’s wound, they would retreat to the past” and Constantine speak only the language of the past.

    I cross the street of Abanne Ramdane and the past is dispersed around me with the call for the Duhur prayer.

    Minerets seem in a dream, hugging the violets in the sky, like they were in love, people shouting: “Allah Akbar”

    People here do not disagree with what the Minarets say, even when these said:

    “Please God, prostitute their daughters”.

    People said: Amen

    Even when they said:

    “Please God make the children orphans”

    People said: Amen

    And even when minarets said:

    “Please God widow their wives”.

    They said: Amen

    They were all struck down with FIS fever, they all sang with blinded eyes the Prayer for Disaster.

    And that’s why Amina sleeps, bleeding at the University Hospital, carrying traces of change.

    And that’s why hundreds of flowers are raped, blessed by the people prayers. It should befall the people…and no one else!

    Lethal stupidity…!

    I noticed that the car nearly ran me down, and I’m trying to cut.

    Retreated back horrified, as for the driver’s insult, it had penetrated my ear sharp like a knife.

    I was almost angry, but my journey of sadness is in its early days, gazing towards the driver with a look of indifference, and merely echoing something between me and myself “poor thing. He is without moral. ”

    We can’t be poor unless we were without moral.

    Minarets subsided.

    Reduced traffic from the road.

    Two birds flying in the sky hugged each other, and Yamina’s singing in my head with her breath, she’s tired, and dreaming of seeing her family.

    And I’m all her family for now! And what a strait that caught me?

    Here’s the surprise that I didn’t wait for her, to enter the world of victims of rape not as a journalist, but as a family member, what am I going to write about Yamina? Her, laying down on a hope called ‘me’. Sleeping in the hope of receiving no more than a radio, which I will get her, for I am the family, and I am the relatives, the daughter of the tongue that united us in unexpected, and in unforeseen circumstances.

    I was thinking all the way about how to write about the topic, in which way, with which heart, in what language, with what pen? The Pens of kin don’t like to transgress.

    Pens the same blood, don’t cheat!

    So how could I betray those happy breaths of my presence? How could I betray those eyes filled with confidence?

    How can one write about a female whose virginity was stolen from her by force?

    I don’t know how to write, I no longer know colors

    I don’t know the color of the paper.

    Everything became like delirium “a novel” and “bleeding” of Yamina.

    Everything turned red. Blood. Blood. Blood.

    -I won’t write it. It’s over.

    Two leaves flew off.

    Two friends split up: Bye, Rasheed…

    Bye my dear. See you later my dear.

    I noticed that in her eyes a glimmer of hope.

    I noticed that Constantine became more beautiful.

    And the pine trees started babbling, and the air flirting with the girls’ hair. Stories here and there, among school children jogging to their homes.

    All I wanted was to be a kid. To be carried by the wind the girls’ school in Ariss, to run on that small bridge, to listen to the whispers of willows, to throw a paper airplane off the bridge and to clap when it goes higher and higher, while avoiding branches.

    My favorite game was to make pretty things with paper.

    The paper is still necessary in my life, I still make from it my beautiful stuff, and that’s why I won’t write on Yamina and won’t allow the photographer to take a picture of her grief, and covers her eyes so that nobody knows.

    There are issues that are not resolved by the cries of the newspaper.

    Issues which can only be solved through Justice, law and conscience.

    Here, … Justice is made through men’s narrow perceptions. Article 336 of the Algerian Penal Code for defilement “punish anyone who commits rape crime with imprisonment from five to ten years, and if the indecent assault against a minor who is under sixteen years old, then the penalty would be temporary imprisonment from ten to twenty years” law is not strict enough, compared with French law, which provides stricter circumstances lies in infringing on the victim of sexual assault, the penalty is 20 years. Men here, tailor Islam to their tastes.

    So, who among those know the mercy of Islam?

    No one…!

    Some rape women in his name. And some ostracize from his name too.

    And some give women compensation “trivial” from the municipality, which equates 2000 dinars ($ 20)

    And some deny that they are victims in his name, and women’s associations denounce and scream. And associations of victims of terrorism also condemn and scream.

    Only raped women know what it means to violate the body, to violate the self/ego.

    Only they know shame, homelessness and prostitution

    and suicide; only they know fatwas which have permitted ‘rape’.

    The ‘Amir’ is the one to offer her.

    Only the one to whom she was offered, who can kiss her and with the Amir’s permission.

    She would not be naked in front of brothers.

    Not be viewed with lust. Not to be hit by the brothers but only the one who to whom she was offered to, he can do as he pleases, within God’s limits.

    If a captive (sabiyya) and her mother, and you have intercourse with the mother, then it is not permissible to have intercourse with her daughter.

    If there was a sexual intercourse with a woman, it is not permissible to have an intercourse with her until she has her period. Flirting and caressing are permitted.

    Father and son cannot have sexual intercourse with the same sabiyya.

    It is not permissible to combine a sabiyya with her sister with the same with Mujahid”

    (This document was found after Bentalha and after the arrival of the army to the region of Ouled Allal, a document that regulates the rules of sexual intercourse, delivered on the 5th Muharram 1418 Hijri and the source is anonymous.

    Somehow I knew all these things, following a previous investigation. And people know, and law enforcement people know, but who knows the horror of the experience, except those flowers, living today among thorns of shame and madness?

    Will I expose Amina? Will I expose myself?

    Tomorrow, family and relatives and everyone who knows my name will say: this is Abdul Hafeez Mokran’s daughter who exposes one of us. ”

    How did things have gotten me here? How did I think this way?

    I chased all those thoughts away from my head and sat in front of the editor silent, him speaking and I don’t hear it, then approached and shouted at me:

    What’s wrong with you today?

    I stormed off and nearly said:

    How did I get here?

    Since I no longer remember how I came all the way from downtown to the press.

    I looked at him with eyes missing, he told me, pulling out a cigarette and trying to start one:

    Where are you with the investigation?

    I came back to my reality and I asked him: why don’t people pray as they used to pray before the days of “FIS” and ask for forgiveness and mercy and peace?

    (FIS: acronym for Islamic Salvation Front Party)

    He stopped moving around a little, blew out his cigarette before smoking it, and returned to his place and then said:

    What happened at the hospital?

    I came back to a more realistic world and I answered: It is a tragedy!

    -Write it then.

    -No.

    -Yes?

    -No. I won’t write anything about them?

    -You are not yourself, apparently, are you sick today? I smiled and said to him:

    -No, not sick.

    Shook his shoulders wondering:

    -Then?

    -I’ll write about prayer.

    -Which prayer?

    -Frayer of ‘FIS”, do you remember it? It was echoed in every mosque during days of strikes. The one that says “Please God, prostitute their daughters, Please God make the children orphans, widow their wives to the end of the prayer”. I will ask the people that repeated it, I will ask their conscience, I want to know their level, and did they know what they were saying? Why were they led behind the “FIS” Immams and altogether they asked a strange request as that of Allah.

    The editor interrupted me:

    Khalida, I want you to write about the experience of these girls?

    But I wrote previously, provided statistics, five thousand raped woman since 1994, said that a thousand and seven hundred woman raped outside the circle of terrorism, said that the Ministry doesn’t care, said that the law doesn’t care, said that parents don’t care, they have not accepted their daughters after their return, said they contracted madness, turned to prostitution, committed suicide. Has anyone acted, except Khalida Messoudi and her like (Khalida Messoudi is a feminist militant in Algeria has a book in French entitled “standing woman”?

    He interrupted me loudly:

    We are not the law. We are the press. I interrupted him too shouting:

    We are ridiculous.

    Hitting his fist on the table:

    -What happened to you today?

    Imagine that your daughter was kidnapped one night, raped and she conceived and gave birth to shame, and is now at the University Hospital, bleeding, and I come in as a journalist to say that this happened to so and so daughter, will you accept?

    With a Mocking laughter, he approached me:

    Since when did we mention people’s names in such cases?

    -The truth is to reveal names and surnames, nobody will believe us if we don’t write the whole truth.

    -Khalida, be brief, he said angrily.

    And I replied quietly: I won’t write about them, I’ll write about the prayer.

    He took a deep breath to restore calm and then told me, pressing on every word he says:

    -Kidnapping and rapes have become a military strategy since 1995 and an instrument of armed conflict between armed Islamic groups and the defenseless community how will the world understand what is happening here, if we don’t write about?

    I laughed with all my heart:

    You look funny. (Continued sarcastically) the world will read our newspaper which doesn’t distribute ten thousand copies at home, and does not reach up to our neighbors in Morocco and Tunisia, and doesn’t enter the Internet “come on man, focus with me,” I said it in an Egyptian accent, more sarcastic and left.

    Unpublished Poem by Iman Bioud

    She (Feminine ‘She’)

    On my lips
    sorrow dried up
    Not unlike a breach
    On a petal of rose.
    The petal slept on the breach And the breach prevailed. From night dawn
    Till dawnset,
    I wriggle
    Staring in a face I know
    I scatter like agate seeds
    Their land they forgot.
    Lost their way
    Land is deserted.
    You, Emerging lies
    Uttering a wriggled letter From a suspected lips ;
    That’s what you are.
    You, a linguistic perfection Be fluent.
    Here is a woman, here is she With a painful stress on the ‘e’ Conjugated as a weakened
    A crucified noun.
    Crucifix tool of which

    تاء التأنيث

    يبس الحزن على شفتي

    كالثلمة في بتل الورد

    نام البتل على ثلمته

    سئد الثلم

    أتلوى من فجر الليل

    إلى عصر الفجر

    أتفرس وجها أعرفه

    انفرط كحبات عقيق

    نسيت موطنها

    ضاع الحب

    وبات الموطن مهجورا

    يا أنت…

    إفك يتمخض

    يلفظ حرفا ملويا

    مشبوه المخرج

    هذا أنت

    يا ذاك الإعجاز اللغوي تفصح

    هذي امرأة

    تتوجع همزتها فوق الألف

    هذي امرأة إعربها

    (اسم ناقص مصلوب)

    وعلامة صلبه

    تاء التأنيث بآخره

    تاء التأنيث بداخله

    تقطر مزجا شهديا

    لزجا.
  • Anissa Daoudi – Untranslatability of Algeria in “The Black Decade”

    Anissa Daoudi – Untranslatability of Algeria in “The Black Decade”

    Anissa Daoudi

    العربية | Français

    مشنقتنا التي علقها اله وهمي صنعه البشر حسب نزواتهم” (ة)”

    “(ة) is our gallows, hung by an imaginary God, created by men according to their fancy” 

    The  above quotation was handwritten for me by the Algerian writer Fadhila Al Farouq  inside my copy of her novel تاء الخجل Taa al Khajal (2005)[1]. The Arabic letter ‘taa marbuta’ or ‘closed taa’ is the principal indicator of the feminine gender.  In its uncial form, it usually appears as a circle under two dots (ة).  The handwritten version by Al Farouq has two tilted lines emerging from both sides (δ[2]), making it look like a hangman’s noose.  For her (δ), represents a noose around women’s necks.  She uses ‘our’ to refer to all Arab women without exception.  She denotes this noose as an imaginary ‘man-made’ tool created according to men’s fancy to represent God or religion in general.  Al Farouq uses the ‘closed taa /ة/’ as a metaphor to refer to the closed society she lives in.  The circle constituting blockage of her society, in which people are going around in circles, not finding a way out.  There is the suggestion of an impasse, a very pessimistic view as it eliminates the possibility of hope for change.

    Al Farouq’s novel has been translated into French as La Honte au Feminin (2009)[3]. The title in French evokes questions about translatability in general and about transferring concepts, rather than words or phrases, from the source to the target text.  The translated version into French opts for ‘F’ for the French word ‘feminin’.   Only does this not have the same cognitive image of the ‘closed taa /ة/’ as a circle, but also it distorts the whole concept.  Al Farouq devotes a complete chapter to the issue of the feminine gender in the Arabic language, its symbolic significance and how it impacts gender politics.  She entitles the chapter “تاء مربوطة لا غير”, “ta’marbuta la ghaira, ‘a closed taa /ة/’ and nothing else”, which has been translated into French as, “F” fermé et rien d’autre.  The translated version into ‘F’ for ‘feminin’ is a direct alphabetical interpretation of the original language.  However, what the author wants to convey is the indirect and symbolic signification of the circle in the ‘closed taa /ة/’, referring to ‘no exit’ situation.   Al Farouq does not imply the notion of the circle as symbolic of something that is whole, complete, ideal and eternal but as something that has no ending and no beginning.  Al Farouq’s reader should understand that the intended meaning is that of the closed Algerian society.  The direct alphabetical interpretation, however, relates to the discourse about the Arabic language and feminism, highlighting the masculinity of Arabic through its grammar.  This is not a new issue: it has been addressed by scholars such as, Yousra Muqaddam[4], Zuleikha Abu Risha[5] and Abdellah Al Ghadhami[6].  They all start from within the Arabic grammatical system and its feminine indicators to deconstruct the wider patriarchal masculine system in their societies.   Al Farouq’s example and many others make up the core of this article, which discusses the ‘untranslatability’ of Algeria, to borrow Apter’s title (Apter, 2006: 94). Specifically, this article concentrates on the ‘untranslatability’ of Algeria during the 1990s, known as the ‘Black Decade’ during which the whole country descended into turmoil.  The ‘untranslatability’ of Algeria exists not only at the linguistic level, as lack of equivalence or mistranslation, but also exists in plural ‘untranslatabilities’, as I shall explain in the course of the article.

    This article provides an in-depth study of the concept of ‘untranslatability’, developed by Emily Apter (2013), and challenges its practicality in the case of Algeria, where further refinements to the concept are needed.  In her chapter on Algeria, Apter presents the concept of untranslatability as a homogenous notion and explains the reasons that are specific to the Algerian case.  This article seeks to challenge the existing framework and adds typologies that help to illustrate the idea further.  Attempts (for example, Gleeson, 2015) to propose typologies that may be used as guidelines remain within the limits of language and translation.  However, this article proposes a wider look at how language systems or language policies may contribute to types of untranslatabilities, using practical examples from various mediums such as personal interviews conducted by the researcher, novels and testimonies in the two working languages in Algeria, French and Arabic.

    While the ‘Untranslatability’ of Algeria is the overarching theme, the article deals with a phase when Algeria went under the radar for a decade.   It is a historical period about which very little is known.    More importantly, very little is mentioned about the role of women in the conflict, either as survivors or as militants.  This article has three objectives.  The first is to bring to light narratives of Algerian women from the ‘Black Decade’ through different mediums, personal interviews, and cultural production (novels, memoirs and testimonies) in the two working languages of Algeria, Arabic and French.    The second is to challenge the concept of untranslatability as a homogeneous notion, but to show, through using Algeria as a case study, that there are multiple, in some cases interrelated, ‘untranslatabilities’ and at the same time promote ‘translation’ as a way of unsettling and disquieting narratives.  The third is to engage with the global discourse of presenting women not as victims or survivors, but as “capable, active and significant participants in conflict zones” (Daphna – Tekoak and Harel – Shalev, 2016: 2).  The article will then focus on a theme that is hardly mentioned, let alone studied, and which is related to narratives of sexual violence, namely rape.   The first assumption one might make when dealing with ‘rape’, particularly in traditional conservative countries like Algeria, is that one is dealing with a case of ‘cultural untranslatability’.  However, this article challenges some stereotypes and shows that ‘rape’ as a sensitive issue, is rather a universal phenomenon and is treated as being sensitive because of its nature.

    Algeria is a country, which had lived through violence of all sorts under the French colonial system, where women were sexually abused by the coloniser.  However, in the 1990s, the perpetrator was not the French, but the Algerian ‘brother’.  This so-called ‘brother’ raped, tortured and killed according to a different ideology, an ideology which translates ‘rape’ as is known in this modern time into ‘sabi[7], a term used in the Crusade, permitting the act of sexual violence against women of different faith, captured in war.  The lack of accountability for the time factor is crucial for this article as it explains further what Apter refers to as ‘sacral or theological untranslatability’.  For her, “the difficulty remains concerning how to take sacral untranslatability as its word without secularist condescension.  I make no pretense of resolving the issue, only to ensuring that it is to be recognized as the major heuristic challenge for the interpretive humanities” (Apter, 2013: 14). This is a well-known phenomenon, which some Arab thinkers spent their lives throughout history researching and providing answers to.  For example, projects by Al Jabiri, Al Aroui, Arkoun and many others in the Nahdha period such as Al Tahtawi[8].

    The concept of untranslatability is frequently used in the literature of translation theory in a homogeneous way.  Classifying a range of untranslatabilities, not necessarily in any order, advances the concept further and opens further discussion.   It also responds to a lack of precision related to the concept.  The ideas and examples discussed within each section act as suggestions as to how one can understand and classify untranslatabilities.  The discussion draws on the areas of linguistics, semantics, theories of language and power, and literature to explore texts where untranslatability is present.  The five categories presented do not all answer the question as to why Algeria is untranslatable, but give account of the most relevant reasons for untranslatability.  Linguicide, as one of the reasons for untranslatability is challenged by bringing out one crucial element, which is the elimination of the Algerian dialect and how it played a crucial role in the silencing of the population as well as the eruption of the conflict between Arabophone, Francophone and Berberophone.  Intellocide, which is the targeting and killing of Algerian intellectuals in the 1990s, is supported with personal interviews, testimonies, novels and films to give concrete examples that challenge official narratives.  Linguicide and intellocide in Algeria are presented as interrelated motives for untranslatability, which are also direct reasons for why external untranslatabilities happen in the case of this country.  The point of emphasising the various classifications of the concept of untranslatability is to facilitate a clearer understanding both in theory and in practice.

    I.       Theoretical Context

    Much of the recent discourse in translation studies is about the issue of ‘untranslatability’ (Apter, 2013).  Discussions range from ‘everything is translatable and transferred from one language into another (Bellos and Jean-Jacques Lecercle) who claim that in the end nothing is untranslatable’, to all translation is necessary but doomed to failure because of the ‘unachievable nature of the task’, (Barbara Cassin) to everything is ‘untranslatable’, (Apter’s book Against World Literature: On the Politics of Untranslatability, 2013).  Apter’s idea is based on rejecting the assumption that everything can “be translated, exchanged or substituted into one accessible global idiom” (Apter, 2013).  She asks her readers to consider the concept of untranslatability, referring to as she puts it “those thorny, frustrating moments of cultural dissonance and misunderstanding – as the key to translation and cross-cultural engagement” (ibid).  Apter considers words as part of a whole system in which meanings of words depend on their relationship to each other just as Ferdinand de Saussure does.  She then takes this idea further to locate significant differences in thought that are conditioned by language and culture.  For her and for Cassin, the problems faced by translators are a rich site for deeper inquiries.  ‘Untranslatability’ here is perceived as a dynamic concept and a necessary one.  It is considered as a platform from which hegemonic discourses are challenged.  Despite Apter’s attempts to provide examples of untranslatability, further work is still needed to categorise types of ‘untranslatabilities’, to avoid the assumption of the homogeneity of ‘untranslatability’ and to provide more precision.

    The theoretical framework proposed by this article is a new way of looking at the concept of ‘untranslatability’ from that used in the field of Translation Studies.  It takes the Algerian case as an example through which the concept of untranslatability could be understood and further refined.  It presents Apter (2013) with new interpretation and provides multiple ‘untranslatabilities’ on different textual and non-textual levels.  In her chapter, “Untranslatable” Algeria: The Politics of Linguicide”, Apter (2006) goes to analyse why Algeria is untranslatable without naming typologies or putting them into categories.  The article seeks to respond to this lack of precision and presents new dynamics and new types of ‘untranslatabilities’ that are specific to the Algerian case, but that may also apply to other cases of ‘untranslatabilities’.  Unusually, the article not only deals with the supposed typologies that help understand the reasons for the untranslatabilities, but also brings into discussion the different mediums through which the untranslatabilities occur, such as novels, testimonies, and personal interviews in Arabic, in Berber and in French.  This combination of languages is a hands-on case of multilingualism in Algeria that provides both theoretical ideas and also practical situations that can be helpful to translators.

    The first type of ‘untranslatability’ revolves most of the time around the linguistic aspects that make a text ‘untranslatable’ from one language into another.  The focus centres upon structural (im)possibilities of language, where words and their meanings are analysed as secondary elements.  For example, “the untranslatability of sound patterns created by phonemes, words and phrases of a text in its original language” (Gleeson, 2015: 3).  The second type is cultural ‘untranslatability’, which is the most frequently encountered by translators.  Here, the challenge is not only to find an equivalent in terms of meaning, terminology and/or idiomatic expression that equates to the target language, but sometimes goes further to the concepts that might not exist in the target language/culture or which might exist but with different connotations.  Apter locates the source of difficulty in “the deferential weight assigned by cultures to common cognates” (Apter, 2013: 35).  Cultural untranslatability for this article is supposed to start from the theme of rape/sexual violence, which is inevitably a taboo in traditional Arabo-Muslim culture.  However, the sensitivity of the theme is ‘universal’.  In other words, the cultural weight assigned to the word ‘rape’ in most Muslim cultures as well as the rest of the world can be hard to translate.   Instead, the difficulty arises from the historical connotation in Islamic societies to the word/concept of ‘rape’ as we know it now, which was allowed and encouraged in wartime as in the case of /sabi/ (see footnote 6 above).  Rape is also often associated with female virginity and is loaded with connotations, which make its translation a challenging task.  The third type is ‘theological untranslatability’ for which translating into or/and from Arabic is a good example.  Apter refers to the book by the prominent Moroccan thinker Abdelfateh Kilito, Thou Shall not Speak my Language[9], which shows that Arabic is considered a sacred language and therefore, according to Kilito[10], any attempt at translation could lead to misinterpretation and mistranslation.  Kilito’s arguments about the language and its sacredness have been the core of debate for decades in most disciplines.   While Kilito includes this type under the cultural untranslatability[11], I argue that the root is the difficulty lies in the linguistic gap between Classical and Modern Arabic.   In this article, I shall demonstrate that it is because of the sacredness of the language and the lack of language development that ‘untranslatabilities’ occur and continue to persist, despite modernity.

    Voices against the sacredness of the language have been marginalised, for example, Al-Jābirī and Laroui, who think that the way forward for Arabic to flourish and develop as is by cutting off with the ‘glorious past’ and by moving away from the close relationship of Arabic with the Qur’an.  Moustapha Safouan (2007) in his book Why Arab are the Arabs not Free?  The Politics of writing (2007: 49), demonstrates the power relationship between Classical Arabic and writing throughout the Islamic history.  He says: “We are one of the civilisations that invented writing more than five thousand years ago.  The state monopolised it and made it an esoteric art reserved for its scribes”.  He adds that: “written in a ‘higher’ if not sacred language, works about ideas were similarly constituted as a separate domain to which ordinary people had no access to.  The result was that the state could safely eliminate any writers who dared to contradict the prevailing orthodoxies, and that writers, just like the old scribes, only survived within the established order” (ibid).   This same archaic ruse of the state continues to this day (ibid).   This implies that the vernacular is seen as ‘low’ and continues to be used for spoken practices only.   Safouan (2007: 94) thinks that “one of the main disaster of the Middle East to be that it never knew the principle of linguistic humanism as reintroduced in Europe by Dante during the Middle Ages and later intensified thanks to the Reformation and to the creation of European nations”.    Along this line, the Algeria case will be presented, with examples (interviews, novels, testimonies and memoirs) of how Algerian dialect as well as Berber were put a side to silence a whole generation in postcolonial Algeria.

    ‘External untranslatability’ is related to the contextualisation that affects a text regardless of its linguistic content.  External factors may be in a soft form, related to what Toury describes for example as ‘the social role’ of the translator as “fulfilling a function specified by the community”.  Gleeson (2015) adds that ‘External untranslatability’ can be in a hard form, in other words, in a more complex form, such as what Bassnett (2002) calls  ‘uni-directional’ flows of translation.  Here, Bassnett is raising the issue of power relations between the colonised and the coloniser.  Translation was used as an instrument to colonise and to deprive the colonised of a voice.  Translation reinforces that power hierarchy (ibid, 387).  In the same vein, Venuti argues that colonial power plays an important role in maintaining hegemony in translation (Venuti, 1998: 1).  Carli Coetzee gives the example of South Africa where much translation aims to extend and affirm the monolingual privilege by translating African Languages into English (Coetzee, 2013).  She suggests a ‘reverse flow’.  In other words, Coetzee supports the refusal to translate from African languages into English in order to destabilise the hegemony of the English language.  In Algeria and other North African countries, like Tunisia and Morocco, the hegemony lies in the French language dominance over native languages.  I argue that translation into English, Berber or/and local Arabic dialect would widen readership and help dismantle the hegemonic languages in Algeria (Standard Arabic and French).  In this article, these classifications are  not in any particular order, for example, ‘linguistic untranslatability’ is argued in terms of the linguistic situation in Algeria, which goes beyond the limits of the language to analyse a broader issue that is specific to Algeria, namely, ‘linguicide’.  Linked to this is a topic known as ‘intellocide’, which, as I shall clarify below, could fit under both heads.  ‘Theological untranslatability’ and ‘external untranslatability’ can also be interrelated.  What is of importance to this article is what I call ‘untranslatability of the Unspeakable’, which is about the formulation and translation of words that can describe and transfer feelings related to sensitive and painful experiences like rape.  This inability to translate trauma into words is linked to the inability to comprehend and make sense of what goes on, as was in the case of Algeria in the 1990s.   In the following section, Algeria is taken as a case study to demonstrate the different types of untranslatabilities.

    II.       ‘Untranslatable Algeria’

    a)       Algerian linguicide

    The title of this section is borrowed from Apter’s chapter “Untranslatable’ Algeria: The politics of Linguicide” in her book:  The Translation Zone: A New Comparative Literature (2006).   I will shed light on what makes Algeria ‘untranslatable’, starting with the linguicide (ibid) and its roots, challenging Apter’s ideas by unravelling the complex layers of the language conflict Algeria and by taking her dichotomy of Arabophones versus Francophones further to include the regional dialect and Tamazight.  This will illustrate illustrating not only the effects of the ‘language question’ on the whole of post-independence Algerian society, but also other critical factors, such as the issuing of particular laws which preceded and had direct effects on the 1990s and the years that followed, contributing to the instability of the present situation in Algeria.

    In this section I will highlight the ‘untranslatability’ of a whole country through the ‘language question’ as it is always referred to in relation to Algeria (Treacy, 2013: 402).  The term comes from French and takes us directly to the point to be made about language as supposedly a unifying characteristic of any nation.  In Algeria, however, after independence in 1962, the country slipped into a battlefield of different nationalist and Islamist ideologies, some advocating the return to a strict Arab-Muslim identity, and others claiming resistance this, like the Berbers and the Francophones who needed time to adjust to the new movement of Arabisation[12].  The ‘language question’[13] was central to the various discourses in the decades that followed independence.  The country has seen multiple – and at times contradictory- attempts to police the language of the Algerian people.  While the discourses about the Arabisation project had the ingredients for success, in reality the project became a central element of disunity, as it started by marginalizing the Berbers[14], who are indigenous citizens of Algeria, as well as the vast majority of Algerians who had a Francophone education.   The French educational system, including the use of French as a medium of education, remained the only educational system for Algeria for a while before being framed and narrated by revolutionary political rhetoric as the language of the enemy that should be eradicated.  The Arabisation project was responsible for much of the ‘untranslabability’ of the newly independent Algeria and placed a generation in exile in their own country as French was seen as betraying the nationalist sentiment, known as Pan Arab Nationalism[15] which was growing not only in Algeria but also in the whole Arab region.  Ahlem Mosteghanmi’s novel Memory in the Flesh (1985) starts with the following words:

    “To the memory of Malek Haddad, son of Constantine, who swore after the independence of Algeria not to write in a language that is not his.  The blank pages assassinated him.  He died by the might of his silence to become a martyr of the Arabic language and the first writer to die silent, grieving, and passionate on its behalf”.

    Mosteghanmi, a prominent Algerian writer, chose to start her novel recalling the world of Malek Haddad, the famous Francophone writer, and many others who were victims of the linguicide that happened in post-independence Algeria.  Malek Hadad refused to write in the colonial language and died of silence.  Similarly Malek Hadded who was assassinated by the blank page, Assia Djebar’s Le Blanc de l’Algerie (1995) (The Algerian White) argues for the same blankness of the page.  The white in her title refers to the unwritten pages of Algerian history.  It refers to the failed revolution, yet to be written in a new language that is yet to be agreed upon.  The language issue has been central to Djebar who dreamt of a polylingual society that fits the very multicultural situation of Algeria.  Djebar, as Hiddleston (2005: 3) states “uses her writing to uncover the oppressed multilingualism and multi-cultural creativity of Algerian art and literature, and to create a narrative of mourning that appropriately encapsulates the intractable horrors that official and ideological discourses have tried to deny”.  Djebar used French, the presumably secular language, to fight back and to disconnect herself from the monolingual ideology claimed by the Islamists.  For her, “a nation is an entire bundle of languages and this is especially true of Algeria” (Šukys, 2004: 117).

    Anne-­­Emmanuelle Berger (2002: 72) finds Gilbert Grandguillaume’s parallel between what happened to Algerian women and what happened to the Algerian language in independent Algeria a truthful parallel.  Despite Algerian women’s remarkable contribution to the War of Liberation and the “bold steps they took, unveiled, into the public sphere (a process described by Frantz Fanon in his 1959 article ‘l’Algerie se devoile’, Grandguillaume reminds us of the multiple ways in which independent Algeria strove to send the women back ‘home’ and confine them to the domestic sphere” (Berger, 2007: 72).  The parallel is drawn between dialectal Arabic and the ‘unveiled’ Algerian women, “who, like the language they speak inside and outside the home with their fellow Algerians, are a symbol or metonymy for ‘true Algerianness’” (ibid).  Yet when it comes to the formal usage of Arabic, it is the dialectal which gets sent home, in a sense ‘veiled’, confined to the private space only.   While Standard Arabic (SA), known as fusha is the formal language for writing, regional dialects known as ’ammiya are used informally in the spoken form only[16].  This imposition of Standard Arabic in Algeria, known as the Arabisation movement, aims not only to eradicate French but also native languages like Berber.  This ideology goes back to the Association of Algerian ulama[17] movement, which started in the 1930s against colonialism and which claimed ‘Islam as the religion in Algeria and Arabic as its only language’.

    In Blue, Blanc, Vert (2006), Maissa Bey, another Francophone writer, recalls the post-independence era and narrates the linguistic situation in Algeria and its tight relationship to nationalism.  The novel challenges the Arabisation project and sees the imposition of SA as the ‘perseverance of certain colonial modes of domination’ (referring to the Frenchification[18] policy).   Ali, the main character in the novel and who belongs to the generation of Algerians who opted to stay and study in the country, says:

     “In court, the divisions are becoming more and more visible.  There are those who studied in the brother countries, Egypt, Syria, Iraq, and Jordan…  Those who, like me and thousands others, stayed in Algeria, who were taught by teachers, French for the most part, but under the guidance of an Algerian minister, and conforming to his directives.  Where’s the problem?” (Bey, 2006: 145). 

    The quote highlights complicated issues related to authenticity, nationalism and Arabness.  The country became divided into Francophones, (referred to as Hizb Fransa: French Party), and Arabophones: these were Algerians taught in ‘brother’ countries or by teachers from Arab states brought in to Arabise the country, some of whom were from Egypt and were sympathisers or active members of the Muslim Brotherhood Movement.  This linguistic division continued to affect intellectuals and artists in the uprising of the 1980s and the civil war of the 1990s who spoke out and who used French or Berber.  Fadhila Al Farouq, a Berber, Arabophone writer says in a personal interview (14/10/2014) that she feels trapped between her native Berber language and the language she uses for writing, which is Arabic.  She says: “I now started to hate Arabic…I feel trapped, I can’t publish in the language I was brought up with (Tamazight) and cannot in French either… my only medium is Arabic, which was imposed on me at a very early age, at the primary school.  I would only speak Berber privately with a friend in hiding.  I felt the pain of the ‘ablation’ from my roots in Arris[19] and my language Tamazight (Chaoui) to find myself in a new environment (school) forced to speak Arabic”.   She adds: “Tamazight, for me, was for the private sphere and represents intimacy and closeness”.  This is illustrated in her novel Taa Al Khajal where Al Farouq’s victim (Yamina) is a Berber woman from Arris and so is the narrator in the novel, who says:

    “ابتسمت لها، و اقتربت منها أكثر و حدثتها بالشاوية”     

    I smiled at her and I came closer to her and spoke to her in Chaouia” [20]

    Yamina says:

    “لو كنت من غير أهلي لما حدثتك عن شيء”

    If you weren’t from my people, I wouldn’t have told you anything

    Closeness is achieved when words are expressed in the same language of thinking.  Words come spontaneously and effortlessly.  But the language issue escalated to become a source and means of fear.  As Apter rightly argues, “fear of accusation of blasphemy and apostasy; the fear of fatwa unilaterally issued by hardline Islamists against those who would ‘literally’ interpret Koranic references; and finally, the fear of death” (Apter, 2006: 95).   Those who escaped death threats left to become political refugees in France, vacating the cultural scene in Algeria, leaving room for the extremists to implement the Islamisation of the country.

    b)       Algerian Intellocide

    Silence means death

    If you speak out, they kill you.

    If you keep silent, they kill you.

    So, speak out and die

    Tahar Djaout

    Tahar Djaout, was one of the first renowned intellectuals to be assassinated, in 1993.  Editor of the francophone newspaper El Watan, and coordinator of the review Ruptures, Djaout’s conscious decision to write in French was to rebel against the oppression of Berber identity imposed through the Arabization project.  French for him, like for Djebar, becomes a language of protest, and “Djaout explicitly divorces writing from national identity, using literature and journalism to invent new landscapes and to conceive alternative idiolects” (Hiddleston, 2005: 8).   This decision cost him and many other Francophone writers their lives in what Bensmaia (1997: 86) calls ‘intellectual cleansing’.  For the Islamists, it was clear that any opposition to their agenda would mean death, as declared by Mourad Si Ahmed, known as Djamel Al Afghani, the author of this terrible sentence: “Journalists who wage war on Islam with their pens will perish by our swords”.[21] The list includes: Tahar Djaout, Youcef Sebti, Abdelkader Alloula, Lounes Matoub and many more, who were considered infidels.   Women journalists were also targeted.   In a recent interview 15.2.2017, Salima Tlemçani a renowned journalist says:

    To find yourself on a list of journalists sentenced to death was very hard to endure and live. You get to rub shoulders with death on a daily basis and you end up admitting that you will die, your only wish is to be an immediate death. Not a suffering, throat cutting with a non-sharp knife to death or tortured, violated or whatever.  For 10 years, yes I got scared.  Fear of losing a family member, killed because of me. I lived with fear to find myself in the hands of a group this bloodthirsty and savage. I lived with fear to get to the office and to learn of the death of a colleague, murdered. When the gesture the more banal, like to go and buy some croissants next door, just there at the bottom of the house, becomes dangerous, it’s over.” [22]

    Having said that, Benoune (2013: 126) recalls Belhouchet, an outspoken journalist of El Watan (Nation) who witnessed the assassination of his fellow colleagues affirms his determination to continue to work despite the atrocities “Belhouchet decided right that, in honour of those who died at their desks, he and his surviving colleagues would get the next day’s edition out, no matter what”.  This determination and defiance is the core theme of a film by Abderahim Laloui, presented in the following section.

    As part of my data collection, I attended an event organised by Djazairouna, on the 1st and 2nd November 2016, entitled ‘Notre Memoire, Notre Lutte’ (our memory, our fight), during which three films were chosen.  ‘Mémoires de Scènes’ (2016) (Memoirs of Scenes) was one of the films selected.  It is by Abderahim Laloui  (Algerian film director).  It tells a story which takes place at the beginning of what is known as ‘the Black Decade of the 1990s’, during which Algeria had witnessed extreme violence.  The film portrays the life of Azzedine, a journalist who loves theatre and prepares an adaptation of the famous play by Molière, entitled ‘Tartuffe’.  Helped by a group of friends, all amateur actors, he began rehearsals at the theatre of the city. The Mayor of the city, a fanatic, tries to stop them.  However, Azzedine and his friends decided to stick together and ignore the threats made against them.  Yousra, Azzedine’s wife, who also plays a role in the play, tries to reassure her husband and create a climate of serenity within his family.  The story fluctuates between the ‘tartufferies’ and the daily life of this amateur theatre troupe.   After several months of preparation and rehearsals, on the performance day, while the cast looks forward to the arrival of Azzedine and his wife, the horrible news of their assassination is heard.  The play represents the atmosphere of the beginning of the 1990s by referring to the assassination of leading figures in culture, namely the journalist and writer Tahar Djaout and the film director Abdelkader Alloula. The film is played by well-known Algerian actors, such as the icon of the Algerian film, Farida Saboundji and Chafia Boudraa.   From an interview with the co- scenarist Mr. Benkamla (24.03.17), I found out that the film project started off back in 2006 and could not be realised until 2016 due to so many difficulties.

    c)       Untranslatability’ of the unspeakable

    This section focusses on another type of untranslatability, often taken for granted, which is not related to transferring one language into another.  It deals with a more complex typology, which is concerned with the act of translating trauma into words. It is about analysing texts that depict the act of translating trauma.  Translation in this context is used in its broadest sense and does not only mean the act of rendering a text from a source to a target language, but also the act of transmitting, conveying feelings and converting them into words.  When we address the act of translating trauma, a translation activity within the same language takes place; it is the act of converting the unimaginable into words in the same language.  It is dealing with the unspeakable, which is ‘not necessarily unrepresentable’ (El Nossery and Hubbell, 2013).  Therefore, representing the unspeakable is possible; but as Nietzsche and Bergson

    ‘[m]aintain that it is an illusion to believe that we can feel or even imagine pain that has not been personally experienced, and that our capacity is limited to observing it with heightened attention’ (cited by El Nossery (ibid: 11).

    The unspeakable or the ‘untranslatable,’ in other words, what could not be translated into words of one’s experience is complicated to say the least but to speak on behalf of someone else’s is illusionary, as stated above.  What is not illusionary though is the imaginative ways writers depict trauma not necessarily through pain-related lexicon but also through ‘the aesthetic of chaos’ (ibid).  Al Farouq, in her novel Taa Al Khajal (2005), considered the first novel to tackle the issue of rape in the 1990s, focuses on the polyrhythmic and polyphonic structure of bodily voices and on syntactic repetition of the traumatic event (ibid).  When she says:

    وحدهن المغتصبات يعرفن معنى انتهاك الجسد, و انتهاك الأنا.

    وحدهن يعرفن وصمة العار, وحدهن يعرفن التشرد, والدعارة

    والانتحار, وحدهن يعرفن الفتاوى التي أباحت “الاغتصاب”

    Only raped women know what it means to violate the body, to violate the self/ego.

    Only they know shame, homelessness and prostitution

    and suicide; only they know fatwas  which have permitted ‘rape’.

    Al Farouq’s style changes into a fragmented one in the above quote and is characterised by repetition and unfinished sentences.  The layout of the lines one after the other is similar to a poem rather than prose.  She opts for an ellipsis overloaded with defiant words to a culture that finds talking about prostitution a taboo, talking about virginity a taboo and defying a fatwa to articulate the unsaid about rape, a taboo. By bringing up the word fatwa, Al Farouq casts doubts on the integrity of the religious institution as such.

    As mentioned earlier, the word rape in Arabic is put between inverted commas “الاغتصاب” because it is a controversial term in Arab culture and because the writer wanted to emphasise the word as it has different connotations in Islamic terminology.  Words from Classical Arabic that allow violating women’s bodies such as  ‘sabi’, ‘jihad al nikah[23] and others have re-emerged in recent years in relation to, for example, Yazidi women captured as sex slaves and before that, in Algeria in the 1990s.  For Al Farouq, there was one word only that captures the meaning of all those terms.  It is “الاغتصاب” (rape) and not any other, as indicated in the quote above.  Al Farouq could have used other words from her mother tongues, Berber and Algerian dialect.  The use of the Standard Language aims at distinguishing it from the common language used by Algerians. In practical terms, the use of SA in most of the Arabic-speaking region is an “exclusive code mastered by only few intellectuals and not by the mass populations” (Bassiouney, 2014).  This is because it is not the spoken language and is different from the dialects.  Al Farouq’s use of Standard Arabic indicates the symbolic power the religious institution has and how it manipulates society by disguising words such as rape. Here, the ‘theological untranslatability’ (Apter, 2013) is not only due to the complexity of the language but also to the theological interpretations associated with it.

    Chapter Four of Al Farouq’s novel is called دعاء الكارثة   (Prayer for Disaster) in which she directly attacks the religious institution, more precisely the mosque, for inciting violence.  She then relates the new gender discourses that call for segregation between Algerians, between those who follow the Islamic party (Front Islamique du Salut; FIS) and the rest of the population.  She goes further by considering the FIS as the new vogue/fashion.  Al Farouq states:

    الناس هنا لا يخالفون ما تقوله المآذن حتى حين قالت:

    “اللهم زن بناتهم”.

    قالوا: آمين

    وحتى حين قالت

    اللهم يتم أولادهم

    قالوا: آمين

    وحتى حين قالت:

    اللهم  رمل نساءهم“.

    قالوا: آمين

    كانوا قد اصيبوا بحمى جبهة الانقاذ, فغنوا جميعا بعيون مغمضة دعاء الكارثة.

    She adds:

    كانت موضة جبهة الانقاذ

    People here do not disagree with what the Minarets say, even when these said:

    “Please God, prostitute their daughters”.

    People said: Amen

    Even when they said:

    “Please God make the children orphans”

    People said: Amen

    And even when minarets said:

    “Please God widow their wives”.

    They said: Amen

    They were all struck down with FIS fever, they all sang with blinded eyes the Prayer for Disaster.

    The above sheds lights on religious discourses in Algeria in the 1990s and more importantly on the ‘feminine question’ as it is referred to in Algeria (la question féminine).  The ‘othering’ speech in the prayer clearly differentiates between ‘us’ the religious people and ‘them’, the secular and sometimes implying the non-Muslims. The multiplicity of discourses regarding women in Islam is not new; there have always been those who call for the return of Sharia’ and those who call for reforms of civil law and for a clear secular ideology.  Tunisia was a notable exception where President Bourguiba banned the Sharia and applied of Civil Law in 1956.  This diversity of discourses contributes to the growth of gender-based writings.

    Women’s writing in Algeria, as opposed to the male-dominated literature, offer as Brinda (2014: 27) suggests, “gendered perspectives that feminize and complicate Algerian historicity and postcolonial subjectivity”.  She adds “Algerian authors dispel monolithic representation of women as passive victims of colonial and nationalist and religious ideology, even as they demonstrate how masculinist ethics of war have ravaged the female body and women’s history through violence, silencing and exclusion”.  After independence, female Algerian writers took on board the mission of giving voice to their fellow Algerian women who could not write, among them Assia Djebar, Malika Mokeddem, Leïla Sebbar, Maïssa Bey, Nina Bouraoui and many more.  These writers learnt the lesson that “silence is a crime” as stated by Miriam Cooke in her book Women and the War Story (1996: 8).

    The inability to translate or the ‘untranslatability’ of feelings of trauma and pain into words is tantamount to resisting comprehension of what goes on around us.  This untranslatability is not restricted to one language or another; it is universal.  Judith Herman’s book Trauma and Recovery (1992) analyses the universality of the effects of trauma and provides a language for discussing the trauma of rape.  Her work has brought to the public sphere an issue considered as a taboo for a long time.  Unlike El Nossery and Hubbell (2013), who believe, as mentioned above, that the ‘unspeakable, is ‘not necessarily unrepresentable’, trauma studies is “characterized by unrepresentability, inexpressibility, and its inability to be assimilated into narrative: for Cathy Caruth (1996), for example, trauma is known only in the way it returns to haunt the individual, often many years after the original event” (Kelly and Rye, 2009: 48).

    Confirming Caruth’s argument, it was only after nearly twenty years, when the only witness and survivor, decided to talk for the first time about the 12 teachers, from the Western part of Algeria (near Sidi Bel Abbes), who were slaughtered by Islamic Fundamentalists.  The only survivor of that carnage was the minibus driver, who was intentionally spared so that the horror could be told in detail.  The teachers were young women; the oldest was not yet forty years old.    For Sidi Bel Abbes, the case represents a profound cultural trauma.  “As opposed to psychological or physical trauma, which involves a wound and the experience of great emotional anguish by an individual, cultural trauma refers to a dramatic loss of identity and meaning, a tear in the social fabric, affecting a group of people that has achieved some degree of cohesion”.  In this sense, the trauma is not only individual but collective.  It may also be called ‘national trauma’.  Eyrman (2001: 2) states that “Arthur Neal (1998) defines a ‘national trauma’ according to its ‘enduring effects,’ and as relating to events ‘which cannot be easily dismissed, which will be played over again and again in individual consciousness’, becoming ‘ingrained in collective memory”.  The killing of the teachers has been remembered every September by some organisations such as Djzairouna, Réseau Wassyla, SOS Disparus, Observatoire Violence Femme OVIF and some few others from the Education sector, despite the Amnesty Law (1999-2005) that forbids people from commemorating the ‘Black Decade’.   In a personal interview on the 27th September 2016, the driver remembers the event and says:

    I was driving slowly, in the usual routine. Reaching the top of a slope, about 7 km from Ain Adden going to Sfisef, with 6 female and 1male teachers on board, I … came across a fake roadblock set up by terrorists, who already had arrested four more cars, including one carrying 5 teachers”.  He adds: “A terrorist ran towards me pointing his ‘Mahchoucha’ and shouted that I should park to the right. He ordered me to get off the vehicle, to hand him the keys and go join the group of people who had gathered on the other side. Then the other terrorists brought down the 5 teachers who were in the other vehicle to put them with those who were in mine, not without having robbed them of their bags and jewellery. …They initially decided to immolate them, after they had sprayed fuel on them. While some were about to prepare the fuel, one bloodthirsty man changed his mind and decided to kill them.  When they were all grouped together, Sabeur chose to attempt an escape, hopping off and heading to the forest. Unfortunately he was hit by a burst of the gunfire, and later to be slaughtered. The other assassins killed the 11 teachers pitilessly.  At that time, I did not hear the screams and cries.  The whole operation took nearly ten minutes, so that all the space was transformed into a pool of blood. I left.  Before they released us, the terrorists “preached” to us and insisted that we should absolutely not talk about the killings and especially not to vote. I took to the road, like a robot, absent minded, mentally and physically destroyed wondering if it was just a nightmare and I would wake up, or a sad reality! ” (27/09/2016). 

    The testimony by the driver, an ordinary person who was driving on a routine journey to Sfisef, a village in the North Western part of Algeria is compelling.  Twenty years on, he describes vividly the horrific incident in disbelief.  He still wonders whether the brutal incident was just a nightmare.  In a way, this disbelief stems from the inability to make sense of what happened, to digest the incident.  It is an incomprehensibility of the reality, which offers fewer words, if any, to circumvent its untranslatability.  The fact that he was the only survivor meant that he is the only witness to what had happened, which added to the burden of narrating the story and translating his pain into words.

    For Anne Whitehead, cited in Kelly and Ryle (2009: 48), though, by the very nature of its creativity, innovation, literary devices and techniques, fiction is able to represent what ‘cannot be represented by conventional historical, cultural and autobiographical narratives”.

    The killing of the teachers was translated into various forms of cultural production, such as the film (El Manara by Belkacem Hedjaj).  Djebar was among the first to respond to the killing of the teachers in her short stories Oran, Langue Morte (1997).  In a chapter called “La Femme en Morceaux” (The Woman in Pieces), Atyka, a female teacher of French at a high school decides to tell her students a tale from A Thousand and One Nights when four armed men burst into the classroom and executed Atyka in front of the children in her classroom.  Atyka is accused of teaching obscene stories to the children.   It is interesting to note that Djebar’s choice of the form of narrative as a tale of A Thousand and One Nights with Shehrazade as narrator has been used extensively in Algerian literature.   The concept of ‘return to the past’, which the Islamists proclaimed in order to oppress women, is employed by Djebar to evoke memories of violence against women through the Muslim past and the present.  Djebar portrays the untranslatable past through a similar untranslatable present to argue that there is a need to break with the tradition of violence.  More importantly, she depicts the past as ‘untranslatable’ in today’s present.  Walter Benjamin refers to this as ‘Cultural untranslatability’, which stands for the inability of translate the past in to our daily activities automatically, without questioning it.  ‘Cultural untranslatability’ in the case of Algeria relates to the failure to understand a past that denotes either a future of violence or no future at all.

    Untranslatability for Djebar is what drives her to write and translate her ideas and feelings into words by making the traumatic past representable.  She is aware that literary and visual arts can be mechanisms for transmitting what can be unspeakable or untranslatable.  Literature and the arts can bear witness for those who cannot express themselves and might help them to re-join their communities.  For Djebar, what is ‘translatable’ is recording those atrocities and preventing the ‘authority’ (le pouvoir) from writing their own history, something that was done with regard to the War of Liberation in 1962.  Aware of the importance of narrative, Djebar needed to ‘translate’ stories, moments, and feelings and to give voices, particularly to women who have been silenced throughout Algerian contemporary history.  Djebar is well aware of her mission of combining the literary with historiography.   She is conscious of the tolerance and the openness to interpretation she has over her literary texts, but at the same time she is experienced enough to know that those texts have “a certain integrity, a national inalterability, that poses a fundamental problem for paraphrase and for translation” (Harrison, 2014: 418).  This national inalterability for Djebar does not mean the official history; it simply means the national truth that had been eclipsed for Algerians for decades.  Harisson argues in in his article, ‘World Literature: What gets lost in Translation?’ (2014) that “it is not ‘translatability’ that decides what gets translated. Indeed, untranslatability, or the ‘impossibility’ of translation, clearly attracts some translators, and may help make their translation compelling creative works”.

    As mentioned, the atrocities lived in Algeria in the 1990s were unimaginable.  In her novel les Nouvelles d’Algerie (1998), Maissa Bey in the chapter entitled ‘Corps indicible’ ‘indescribable body’ finds it impossible to find words that can describe the horrors of the young girl.  She says:

    C’est ça faire sortir de moi les mots pour dire.  Mais je ne peux plus parler.  J’ai perdu ma voix’.  This is making words come out of me to say. But, I can no longer speak.  I lost my voice.’  She adds: “Ya plus que ces mots en moi qui viennent dans ma tête s’entrechoquent me font mal faut les arrêter c’est ça dresser un barrage pierre a pierre une à une ajoutée les empêcher de pénétrer’ (110).

    “There are more than these words in me coming into my head, colliding, hurting; I have to stop them through building one stone dam, stone after another, preventing them from penetrating”.

    The impossibility of finding words, of completing sentences, finishing an idea is expressed in Bey’s novels.  The narrative voice is voiceless, it is rendered silent.

    In the same vein, al Farouq, says:

    “طوال الطريق و أنا أفكر كيف سأكتب في الموضوع, بأية صيغة, بأي قلب, بأي لغة, بأي قلم؟ أقلام القرابة لا تحب التعدي”.

    I was thinking all the way about how to write about the topic, in which way, with which heart, in what language, with what pen?  The Pens of kin don’t like to transgress.

    She adds:

    “كيف هي الكتابة عن أنثى سرقت عذريتها عنوة؟”

    “How can one write about a female whose virginity was stolen from her by force?”

    In the next section, I will go beyond the language situation in Algeria, the translation of trauma, and the local dynamics of the country to discuss the untranslatability of Algeria globally.  In other words, I will try to answer the question: how is Algeria translated or untranslated in the world?

    d)        External ‘untranslatability’

    The low visibility of Algeria in the global market of translation is very similar to other Arabic-speaking as well as French-speaking countries.  In fact, the uneven nature of global market forces is a topic that needs further investigation.  The visibility “depends firstly on the position of its country of location and language in the world market of translation (central versus peripheral), secondly on its position within the linguistic area (central versus peripheral; for instance the United States versus India in the Anglophone area), and thirdly on its position within the national field (temporally and/or symbolically dominant versus dominated) (Gisèle Sapiro, 2015: 22).   In the case of Algerian literature, belonging to two linguistic sources (Francophone as well as Arabophone) does not really help to enhance its chances of being included among those literatures being translated globally.  According to Sapira, between 1990 to 2003, while French literature by French writers reached 858 translations; only 16 titles were by Algerian writers.  Among the 16 titles, only authors like Assia Djebar, Kateb Yassine, Rachid Mimmouni, Mouloud Feraoun, Mohamed Dib and a few others are translated into English.   In other words, the first generation of writers largely is the one that got translated. The same applies to Arabic literature as a whole, where the most translated writers are the well-known ones like the Egyptian Nobel Prize Laureate Najib Mahfouz, the Sudanese Tayib Saleh and a few others.  The Algerian Tahar Wattar has been translated into English together with others from the first generation of Algerians writing in Arabic.   Ahlem Mosteghanemi has recently been translated into English.  As far as literature of 1990s Algeria is concerned, despite the boom of writing, the number of titles translated is very limited, if not to say non-existent. Emily Apter (2006. 2013), Wail Hasan (2006) and a few other scholars have written about the ‘untranslatability’ of Arabic Literature and about the visibility of the same few names who “are universally acclaimed, excellent writers” (Apter, 2006, 98).   In fact, when we talk about ‘untranslatable’ Algeria in terms of its low visibility, one could say that this problem exists not only in relation to translating into the dominant language (centre and periphery) but it is also relevant to translation into Arabic from French, due to the gulf between Arabophone and Francophone writers.  In other words, Algerian Francophone writers, even well-known ones like Assia Djebar, are not translated into Arabic.  It is only after her death, that the Algerian Ministry of Culture has commissioned Djebar’s books for translation into Arabic.  In other words, the ‘untranslatability’ of Algeria is not only external but also internal.  A related issue is the gap of knowledge between academic literature written in Arabic and in French, which is fragmentary due to disciplinary constraints and to the complexity of the linguistic situation in Algeria.  This is why academic work on, for example, Francophone writers do not give the full national picture due to the nature of the divisions between the languages studied in academia.

    III.        Conclusion

    Although there has been a boom in fictional writing in both Arabic and French, research on the 1990s in Algeria (the Black Decade) dealing with the issue of sexual violence/rape is scarce. This is largely due to the Amnesty Law (1999, 2005), which forbids people from looking into that past period.   These limitations highlight the unusual nature of the research in this article.  What is interesting to note is that fictional writing about the 1990s has seen a boom in recent years in both Arabic and French.

    In this article, I provide an extensive study of the concept of ‘untranslatability’ (Apter, 2013) from both theoretical and practical perspectives.  While Apter presents the concept of untranslatability as a homogenous notion, I expand it by adding typologies that help to illustrate the idea further. This is done using practical examples from various mediums such as personal interviews conducted by the researcher, novels and testimonies in the two working languages in Algeria, French and Arabic.  For example, when analysing the language situation in Algeria, the issue of untranslatability is not only confined to the linguistic battle between Arabophones, Berberophones or Francophones, but also is used to illustrate the dynamics of silencing in postcolonial Algeria.  By this I mean, that the language politics in Algeria elucidate the manipulations done under the Arabisation movement in for example silencing one group or another.  The silencing is a form of untranslatability linked directly to the linguicide in the country.  Under the Arabisation movement motive, a number of Francophone and Berberophone intellectuals were killed and others sought refuge in France, which helped emptying the country from its elite in what is known as ‘intellocide’.  Theological untranslatability is another type discussed in this article, which is related to the relationship between the theological concepts and their translations in the present time (see the example of sabi discussed above).  In fact, the theological interpretations exacerbated a violence regarding what and how concepts are translated or untranslated. In other words, the relationship between what can be translated is not an easy one when one gets to how it can be translated, bearing in mind the historicity as well as the temporality of concepts. The untranslatabilities of Algeria are also intensified by external factors due to the low visibility of Arabic literature in general and Algerian in particular.  This low visibility does not only concern writings in Arabic, but also in French (Francophone literature).  Among the writers translated, only the first generation ones such as, Tahar Wattar (from Arabic into English) and Kateb Yassine (from French into English).   The case of Algeria represents one example of the ‘imposed’ untranslatability’ is inflicted by unequal power relations in the world.  The hegemony of English, which Bassnett describes ‘as uni-directional’ plays a big role in the case of untranslatability.  Finally, an important type of untranslatability, which is central to this article, is the complexity of translating feelings of trauma into words.  Words used to represent and describe the unspeakable, such as rape in a culture like Arabo-Muslim. The ‘social role’ of the translator (Toury, 1993) is connected to the writer’s intricacy of translating themes like ‘rape’.  By this I mean, that the translator is in a similar situation to the writer in that he/she may deem the text untranslatable.

    Classifying a range of untranslatabilities, not particularly in any order, advances the concept further and opens further discussion.  The ideas and examples discussed within each section act as suggestions as to how we can classify untranslatabilities.  Here, untranslatability is recognised as a dynamic concept, which may change and may include other areas.  The discussion draws on the areas of linguistics, semantics, theories of language and power, and literature to present texts where untranslatability is present.  The point of emphasising the various classifications of the concept of untranslatability is to facilitate a clearer understanding both in theory and in practice.   The concluding remarks of this article is that the concept of untranslatability is an organic concept that affects all languages and a number of disciplines and any attempt to raise discussions on how to develop it will only enhance it.

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    [1] .   In an interview on (14/10/2014), the author mentions that most of the events are not fiction, they are based on testimonies she collected when working as a journalist.

    [2] This sign is the nearest I found to represent the ‘closed taa’ and at the same time gives the impression of a noose.

    [3] تاء الخجل Taa al Khajal (2005) published by Riad El-Rayyes Books in Arabic was translated into French  La Honte au Feminin (2009), published by Editions El-Ikhtilef and Arab Scientific Publishers, Inc.

    [4] Yusra Muqaddam  (2010) Al Harim al lughawi.  All Prints.com

    [5] Zuleikha Abu Risha  (2009) Untha al lugha. Ninawa Print.

    [6]Abdellah  Mohamed Al Ghathami (2005) Ta’nith al qasida wa al qari’ al mukhtalif.  Arab Cultural Centre.

    [7]  For more information about the concept of sabi, see Amal Grami’s article in this issue.

    [8] For more information, see Tariq Sabry (2013): Cultural Encounters in the Arab World: On Media, the Modern and the Everyday. I. B. Tauris.

    [9] Kilito, A. (2008) Thou Shall not Speak my language. Translated from Arabic by Wail S. Hassan.

    [10] When Kilito mentions Arabic, he refers to the Standard form (SA).

    [11] For a closer understanding, Hassan argues that “Kilito highlights the problem of cultural translation as an interpretive process and as an essential element of comparative literary studies. In close readings of al-Jahiz, Ibn Rushd, al-Saffar, and al-Shidyaq, among others, he traces the shifts in attitude toward language and translation from the centuries of Arab cultural ascendancy to the contemporary period, interrogating along the way how the dynamics of power mediate literary encounters across cultural, linguistic, and political lines”.

    [12] Arabisation (Arabic: تعريب‎‎ taʻrīb) is part of the wider movement of decolonisation in Algeria. It aims to impose standard Arabic at the expense of French and other local languages such as Tamazight. This language policy reflected a wider vision of Arab/Muslim leaders, who wanted to break from the colonial past and start afresh while forging alliances with Arab/Muslim states.

    [13] For more information about the language question, see: Language Conflict in Algeria by Mohamed Benrabah (2013). Multilingual Matters.

    [14] Berber languages, the languages of the indigenous people in North Africa, are called Tamazight; there are variations within the Berber language, such as Tashelhit and Taqbaylit.

    [15] Pan Arab Nationalism (Arabic: القومية العربية‎‎ al-Qawmiyya al-`arabiyya) is a nationalist ideology celebrating the glories of Arab civilization, the language and literature of the Arabs, calling for rejuvenation and political union in the Arab world.

    [16] This phenomenon is what is referred to as diglossia, which is a linguistic situation where two varieties of the same language exist to fulfil different social functions and are used in the same speech community.  For more information about Arabic sociolinguistics, Reem Bassiouney gives a sketch of the main research trends about Diglossia, language contact and language change in her book: Arabic Sociolinguistics (2009), Edinburgh University Press.

    [17]Association of Algerian ulama Founded in 1931 by Abd al-Hamid ibn Badis and other religious scholars to educate Algerians, promote the Arab-Islamic culture and national identity of Algeria and to revive and reform Islam.  Most importantly, its aim was to protest against colonialism.

    [18] Frenchification is the linguistic policy imposing the use of the French language in political, administrative, legal, and educational institutions and relegating Arabic and Berber to the status of a second language.

    [19] Arris is a Berber town in the Eastern part of Algeria (Chaouia region)

    [20] Chaouia is a variety of the Berber language spoken in the Aurès region (Berber: Awras) of eastern Algeria and surrounding areas.

    [21] For more information, see: http://www.humanite.fr/retour-sur-le-massacre-huis-clos-des-journalistes-algeriens-564025

    [22] Salima Tlemçani, 15th Febrauary 2017.  For more information, see: http://www.valledaostaglocal.it/2017/02/15/leggi-notizia/argomenti/voix-du-monde/articolo/salima-tlemcani-etre-femme-journaliste-en-algerie.html

    [23] Jihad al nikah (جهاد النكاح‎‎) refers to the claimed practice in which Sunni women, sympathetic to the Salafi jihadism, travel to the battlefields and are allegedly voluntarily offering themselves to rebels, fighting for the creation of the Islamic Caliphate.  They are expected to be repeatedly in a temporary marriage, serving sexual comfort roles to help boost the fighters’ morale.  The practice in modern states is referred to as legalising ‘prostitution’.

  • Tom Eyers – The Matter of Poetry: A Review of Nathan Brown’s “The Limits of Fabrication: Materials Science, Materialist Poetics”

    Tom Eyers – The Matter of Poetry: A Review of Nathan Brown’s “The Limits of Fabrication: Materials Science, Materialist Poetics”

    by Tom Eyers

    The Limits of Fabrication: Materials Science, Materialist Poetics
    New York: Fordham University Press, 2017

    If there is a million dollar question in contemporary theory, it is that of materialism. To declare oneself a materialist remains an attractive proposition, and this despite the tangled confusions that have attended the term since the Ancients. There is something dashing about its implications, although any core definition, even any vaguely related set of appropriate objects or applications, remains stubbornly elusive. Materialism, especially in our flighty anxious present, promises something hard-edged, impatient of airy abstractions – the irony being, of course, that this most apparently earthy of terms seems able only to generate ever more windy attempts to pin it down. Historically, it is most often defined according to what it is not, and this is appropriate enough. There has always been something suspiciously thrusting, positive and hubristic about the idealisms, with their over-eager willingness to propose and impose system upon system, and the various materialisms have most often taken shape in flinty opposition to just such empire building.

    This is not to say that materialist philosophers have lacked ambition. Karl Marx, the most recognizable and influential materialist in history, came close to proposing an all-embracing schema for interpreting the general movements of human history, scolding Hegel for downplaying the inconveniences of economy and physicality to human history-making, but reproducing the latter’s theoretical capaciousness all the same. If it is fairly easy, if not without controversy, to identify what the ‘material’ in Marxism is – in shorthand, the historically variable productive processes that shape how human beings live and labor – it is rather more difficult to imagine a ‘materialist poetics’. While poetry may aspire to capture something of the density of living matter within the looser folds of literary language – think, among many other possible examples, of the Romantics’ wrangling with the apparently imperturbable autonomy of nature, of Ponge’s poetics of mid-sized objects – it is less clear that the ‘stuff’ of poetry, figural language, can in any non-analogous sense be considered ‘material’.

    Of course, materialisms have rarely been concerned only with matter understood as more or less synonymous with the physical. Materialists have more often located characteristics one usually associates with the material in domains that cannot entirely be reduced to the latter. Marx finds in the manner in which human beings perpetually become through labor a combination of historical permanence and flexibility, one that equally characterizes the physical stuff upon which they work, and through which they are able to achieve a kind of relative autonomy. Viewed from such a vantage, the elusive linguistic compressions that make up modern and contemporary poetry seem evanescent, impermanent, allusive, if not quite ‘ideal’. Nathan Brown’s superb and energizing first book is not the first to attempt to square this circle, of course. There are those for whom deconstruction at its most fastidious approached something like a literary materialism, insofar as it trained its gaze on those aspects of meaning-making in literature that seemed most intransigent, those moments of figural contradiction that refused to yield to any smooth or final translation of non-sense to sense. Marxist literary theory would seem another fruitful source. Since Althusser, and especially since Pierre Macherey provided the elaborated Althusserian literary theory that Althusser never quite did, Marxist critics have been wary of too quickly reading the sturdiness of the economic base into the apparently more ephemeral products of literary culture. Instead, and cannily, the likes of Jameson and Eagleton have found in literary form itself intimations of historical conflict that might more conventionally be sought in political-economic contextualizations of literary content. It is dismaying, given this rich history, that recent, ostensibly Marxist literary-critical readings of, say, the neoliberal, have tended toward just such vulgar historicisms, so wary of a caricatured-in-advance aestheticism that they neglect the very matter of their chosen object of study, literary language itself.

    To his credit, Brown largely leaves such polemics to one side, preferring to immanently build a poetics of fabrication from the ground up, tracing suggestive parallels between 20th and 21st century avant-garde poetry and materials science. It would do this book a disservice to describe it as a creative reinvention and defense of close reading, not least because the latter has more often obscured the material density of the words on the page than it has illuminated it. Nonetheless, the hard theoretical labor of reading that Brown performs, sweeping from the granular to the scalar, should come to place in stark relief the reigning common sense in literature departments, where the too-easy task of doing history badly has proven far more attractive than any knotty reckoning with the density of the literary signifier. In a virtuosic account of the cross-cutting history of nanoscale carbon chemistry and Ronald Johnson’s ‘architectural’ long poem ARK, Brown quotes the following capitalized line of Johnston’s: “TO GO INTO THE WORDS AND EXPAND THEM”. (142) If a pithy summation of Brown’s practice of reading were possible, it would read something like this: ‘go into the words’, not to extract any pre-ordained ideality of sense, and neither to dwell nostalgically on their ‘literariness’, but rather to expand them, to identify their intersections with practices of fabrication that might at first blush seem entirely unrelated.  To read materially in this way is not just to recognize the constructedness of poetry, its crystals and nanotubes and grains, although this is crucial enough, but also to expand such a materiality through creative articulation with other sites of construction.

    To be clear, such articulations very rarely occur in this book by means of any simple, contextualist, or symmetrical glomming of literature onto historical or scientific correlates. Instead, this is a book that takes mediation seriously, that resists the now-commonplace assumption that literary artifacts must by default have everything to do with whatever contemporaneous historical event or framework the scholar has decided to foreground. What brings Johnson and carbon chemistry into agonistic dialogue, for instance, is the ambiguous and complicating intervention of a third figure, Buckminster Fuller. Those familiar with Johnson’s poetry will recognize the affinity – the poet has described his verse as “literally an architecture…fitted together with shards of language, in a kind of cement music”. (Johnson quoted in Brown, 99) But there is more at stake here than the mere recognition of a common architecturality across science and recent avant-garde poetry. Brown is equally attuned to the evasive ideologies that couple with these constructions: “At the center of this story”, Brown writes in his chapter on Johnson, “will be the concept (the ideology, in fact) of ‘design’ and its relation to a certain idealist concept of ‘nature’ and the ‘nature poem’”. (99) While idealized conceptions of nature significantly predate even the Romantics, the adhesion of such notions to the ideologeme of ‘design’, itself a trope that in its (post)modern guise tends to be assiduously scrubbed of anything so messy as manufacture, is rather more recent. Brown locates one root of this problematic in Buckminster Fuller’s writings, where design is figured as eternal, as universal, and as exemplarily accessible. He then traces an opposing trend also emerging from Black Mountain College, that of Olson’s ‘objectism’. If Fuller understands the materials of fabrication as being “just exactly where they want to be” (112), the poet instead affirms the ‘proper confusions’ of objects, their giving out onto a fragmentation resistant to the universal. Johnson, in turn, insists on similar tensions between “whole systems and the materials of which they are composed”. (131)

    If these intertwined histories of fabrication and the production of ideology are compelling in their own right, Brown is at his best when he registers the materialities of sound and inscription that are particular to poetry, the better to reveal with due emphasis what the matter of poetry does, over against other forms of materiality. There are times reading this book when the particular curvature and atomicity of poetic materiality is rather lost in the mix, as Brown offers example after example of how one practice – nanotechnology, say – accords with, or helps reorient, our understanding of another – poetry. Some of these case studies could profitably have been left in the archive. But for all that, Brown is a strikingly inventive reader, and there emerges across his book a powerful, if largely implicit, theory of materialist reading that rivals the accompanying account of materialist poetic and scientific practice. Take, for instance, the reading of Emily Dickinson that appears in the book’s Prologue. A line of Dickinson’s poem ‘I cannot live with You’ catches Brown’s eye. The line reads ‘You there – I  – here –‘.

    One finds, of course, those characteristic Dickinsonian dashes, but more than this, “[the poem] is composed entirely of deictic terms, or shifters. The dash is a minimal graphemic unit – pen touching down on paper with an instant’s pressure, leaving the barest trace of furtive contact. Shifters are the piezoelectric transducers of grammar – minutely sensitive to the voltage of voice, expanding to generate an apparent fusion of body, language, world at the interface of the tongue’s tip: ‘there’”. (5).  Gradually, the substantiality of that ‘I’ and that ‘You’ seem less important than what Brown refers to as the ‘paragrammatic’, and, one might add, insistently material transformations at the level of the line:

    In Dickinson’s line, the paragram operates on a scale below that of even the letter and the phoneme – indeed, below the level of the grapheme. The second half of the line, ‘-I – here – ‘, might be taken to emerge from the subgraphemic elements of ‘there’. Dickinson’s ‘t’ transforms into ‘I’ as the crossbar of the former splits in half to form dashes that both separate and conjoin the vertical stroke of ‘I’ with the remainder of this rupture, ‘there’”. (10).

    Ultimately, “grasping this potential significance of the line demands that we read an invisible, subgraphemic dimension of writing operating prior to signification”. (10) These ostensibly invisible elements of transformation are what, for Brown, link materialist poetics to materials science; “to situate these at the limits of fabrication is to open a space between ‘there’ and ‘here’ in which we are approached by bodies and words, in which the poetic image gives way onto invisible structures, wherein text passes over into texture”. (10)

    While Brown’s claims here have something in common with all that became bound up with the slogan ‘the materiality of the signifier’, fanning out from French theory of the 1960s, it is rare indeed to see the stakes of the claim unfolded with such finesse and to the fullest of its consequences. It is rarer still to encounter reading pitched at this level of granularity and sensitivity, impervious to the lures of over-contextualization or the widespread fetish for content over form. One wants to know, nonetheless, what the rapid zooms in and out of multiple scales here, from close-ups of the poetic line to widescreen trans-historical tracings, would look like were the question of causality explicitly asked, not at the level of shared metaphors or suggestive parallels but rather according to the very different ontological properties that inhere in the vastly divergent materials that capture Brown’s attention.

    From one angle, this is the very question that animates the book, and Brown provides the reader with numerous examples of the transformations of space that the sciences and literature alike are able to induce. Moreover, the problem has an irreducibly political charge. If, as Joshua Clover has claimed, Language poetry and other recent avant-gardes bought their meticulous attention to the minutiae of language at the expense of thinking the ramifications of political totality[1], Brown is concerned to locate a poetics that would be both micro and macro, nano and cosmological. In a bravura chapter on Shanxing Wang’s 2005 collection ‘Mad Science in Imperial City’, Brown finds in its attempted “mathematical formalization of historical processes” (217) a poetic suturing of time and space, drawing together the urban imaginaries of Beijing circa Tiananmen Square and New York following 9/11. More than this, Wang’s collection takes up other oppositions that its initial concern with divergent scales opens up, most pertinently for Brown those between intellectual and manual labor, between the abstract and the concrete – these, one infers, to be understood as implicated in the contrast between the infinitesimally small and the yawningly vast that materials science is especially concerned to explore. Ultimately, Sohn-Rethel’s extension of Marx’s concept of ‘real abstraction’ provides a lens through which Brown is able to historicize the shift in spatial and material imaginaries that Wang’s history-spanning poetry pictures.

    And yet, the materialities that compose urban geographies, the nanomaterial, poetry, or collectivities of labor, are anything but equivalent. If one of the characteristics that different forms of matter, in all of their variant forms, may be said to share is a certain resistance, a capacity to elude attempts at their refabrication or repurposing, it may be this most common aspect of materiality that is unwittingly minimized in Brown’s account. To fully foreground this would be to ponder just how that resistance is overcome; how it is that the very different forms of matter in question resonate upon one other or, just as likely, how they are ultimately fated not to do so. The dialectical peculiarity of this logic should not be lost: the characteristic that unites different manifestations of the material, that of resistance, is also that which singularizes, which precludes the formation in material actuality of the very totality that one is nonetheless rightfully enjoined, in theory, to map. One would, in brief, have liked at the level of this book’s concept-production a little more of the spatial noise and constitutive resistance suggested in these lines by Charles Olson, a signal source for Brown:

    In the five hindrances men and angels
    stay caught in the net, in the immense nets
    which spread out across each plane of being, the multiple nets
    which hamper at each step of the ladders as the angels
    and the demons
    and men
    go up and down
    (‘As the Dead Prey Upon Us’ in The Collected Poems of Charles Olson: Excluding the ‘Maximus’ Poems, (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 389).

    Leaving aside the post-theistic, ghostly metaphysic that shapes these famous lines, we find a numerical order and a structured kind of spatial disorder in combination here, such that vertical nets and horizontal ladders both enable and disable one another. The nets within which men and angels are caught are immense, and yet somehow limiting; a different order of space, the ladders upon which angels, demons and men ascend, intersects the nets while also being hampered by them. Hindrance and expansiveness; hindrance, perhaps, as expansiveness. Such limitations to possibility are also, potentially, conditions of possibility, and they are not given a sufficient shake in Brown’s otherwise capacious, sometimes too capacious, attention to the movements between various domains of material construction.

    For all that, Brown’s practice of reading is tuned to detect precisely such contradictions and aporias, and he often does so beautifully at the level of the line. Nonetheless, the vaulting ambition that supercharges his historical claims occasionally renders artificially smooth what are, one suspects, rather rougher and more incomplete moments of connection and disconnection between the scientific and the poetic, between the minute and the gargantuan. At any rate, this is one of the very finest works of speculative poetics to emerge in quite some time, and one hopes that its highly creative deviations from the historicist-contextualist hegemony in literary studies will spark equally incandescent acts of theoretical disobedience in its wake.

    [1] Brown cites this claim on page 222, and takes it seriously. There is certainly something to it, but the argument risks ignoring the over-determined imbrication of historical-political archival work and formal alchemy to be found, for instance, in the Language poetry of Ron Silliman, all the better to boost more recent, performatively militant verse as uniquely and purely radical. I have tried to situate the ambiguous but powerfully formalized political imaginary of Silliman and others in the fifth chapter of my Speculative Formalism: Literature, Theory, and the Critical Present, (Evanston, Il.: Northwestern University Press, 2017). The danger, of course, is any recrudescent nostalgia for modernist, pseudo-formalist invocations of literariness, something that the Language poets, admittedly, were often prone to.

    Tom Eyers is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Duquesne University.

  • Pierre Joris – A Nomad Poetics Revisited: Poetry and Translation in a Global Age

    Pierre Joris – A Nomad Poetics Revisited: Poetry and Translation in a Global Age

    by Pierre Joris

    [presented as keynote address at the International Poetry Seminar

    Moving Back and Forth between Poetry as/and Translation:  Nomadic Travels and Travails with Alice Notley and Pierre Joris

    on 7-8 November 2013, Université Libre de Bruxelles, convened by Franca Bellarsi & Peter Cockelbergh.]

     

    1. “Who among us has not had his promised land, his day of ecstasy and his end in exile?” — signed: Amiel (with one “m” — the one with 2 “m”s will come in later). Thus begins or rather pre-begins Joseph Conrad’s novel Almayer’s Folly: A Story of an Eastern River (1895). The epigraph comes from Henri-Frédéric Amiel’s collection of poems & prose meditations Grains de Mil (Grains of Millet) (Paris 1854). This exergue stands at the head of, or, more accurately, stands before his first novel, thus before the vast oeuvre to come. Introïbo ad altarem Conradi.

    The world-weary and wandering sailor from Poland I often confuse with my own grandfather, Joseph Joris, also a sailor, though in the early parts of his life & of the 20C when Conrad had already abandoned ship to take up the pen. Joseph Joris’ writings — mainly a large correspondence with major scientists & politicians of his era, or so my father told me, and some notations of which only one 3 by 4 scrap of astrological calculations remains — went up in flames during the Rundstedt offensive when his house in Ettelbruck, Luxembourg — living quarters plus confiserie fine plus the ineptly, for its time, named Cinéma de la Paix — was shelled & burned out by advancing US troops liberating us from the Germans. Joseph didn’t live to see this: he had died 2 years earlier from an infected throat — but that is another story.

    So why do I begin here? Because this epigraph I came across a few days ago as I sat down to redact this “keynote” (more on that word in a minute) came into my mind — maybe because as I was thinking about what to say today I was looking out of my window, idly, and through the red & falling autumn leaves saw the flowing waters of the Narrows, where Hudson river and East river (tho not Conrad’s “Eastern River” — & yet?) mingle with the encroaching ocean in a daily tug-of-war, ebb & flood, riverrun riverrun — if I wanted to link elsewhere in modernism, but I don’t want to right now.

    So, Conrad’s epigraph was suddenly there & I saw it not as something that stands before one book, but as something that stands before, above, in front of a whole oeuvre, a life’s work. A door all of a sudden — a gate, as in Kafka’s story. (Though Kafka, remember, couldn’t go to sea as my two Josephs did, but maybe he didn’t need to do so, for as he puts it in his Journals, he had the experience of being “seasick on firm land.”) This door or gate is not one to be waited in front of, as it is open & indeed meant for who is in front of it, & thus meant to be walked, strode through, though the crossing of this door’s threshold is something fierce & fearsome because as Amiel points out, the promised land is in the past. (“n’a pas eu…:” in the original, even if Ian Watt in his excellent comment on the novel translates — or uses someone’s version who translates this as — “who among us does not have a promised land…” present tense. Even Conrad in the 1895 first edition misquoted the lines from memory as “Le quel de nous n’a sa terre de promission, son jour d’extase et sa fin dans l’exil,” though he corrected it for the 1914 edition).

    Thus: promised land in the past, while ecstasy may be back there too or in the present — let’s keep that ambiguity going & locate ecstasy also in the present day’s labor leading (after the promised land has long vanished) into the exilic future — through the gate, the door, the pre-text, that is the text — yes, I’ll own up to it — through writing, the act thereof. Writing is this exile, h.j.r, hejr, hejira, Hagar, she, me, wandering in desert or city, that nomadicity. I am certainly staying with that concept, or better, that process.

    And so I’m home again, in the present-future (thus not the future perfect or futur antérieur of the French), no, in the present-future that is the tense of writing, an ecstatic-exilic tense. I am formulating it this way now & wouldn’t mind leaving it at that, but this is a keynote, so let me go there now.

    1. A note on “keynote,” and then a look at 10 years after. A keynote, says my wikipedia, “is a talk that establishes the main underlying theme… (&) lays the framework for the following programme of events or convention agenda; frequently the role of keynote speaker will include the role of convention moderator. (No way, Josè!) It will also flag up a larger idea – a literary story, an individual musical piece or event.” Okay, I’ve already told a “literary story,” & the events I’d like to flag are the poetry readings, which is where the work comes most alive for me. As to “an individual musical piece,” well, my love for etymologies immediately drove me to locate the origin of “keynote” in the practice of a cappella, often barbershop singers, & the playing of a single note before singing, that determines the key in which the song will be performed. I know that Ornette Coleman wrote & once told me face to face that “there is no wrong note,” but as I do not like the concept of one note setting the agenda, I will not play any such note; happily Alice Notley will also give a keynote, which will thus already make it at least two notes, maybe already a chord, & then I’ll leave the singing of many notes arranged in what they call music up to Nicole Peyrafitte later on in the program.

    But I can’t resist to play a bit more with this notion of “key” — what does a key do, as it can do at least two things, something & its opposite, open or close? Of course at the beginning of an occasion the image will be of opening the proceedings, the door, maybe the gate mentioned earlier. And yet, a key does both open and close — maybe it does both at the same time! Who knows? My time is measured today, so let me just open-close this specific Pandora’s box via a poem by, you guessed it, Paul Celan:

    WITH A VARIABLE KEY

    With a variable key
    you unlock the house, in it
    drifts the snow of the unsaid.
    Depending on the blood that gushes
    from your eye or mouth or ear,
    your key varies.

    Varies your key so varies your word
    that’s allowed to drift with the flakes.
    Depending on the wind that pushes you away,
    the snow cakes around the word.

    So the word is there, variable, but needs to be spoken & I’ll take a further suggestion on how to go about this from Celan who writes:

    Speak —
    But do not separate the no from the yes.
    Give your saying also meaning:
    give it its shadow.

    Give it enough shadow,
    give it as much
    as you know to be parceled out between
    midnight and midday and midnight.

    Look around:
    see how alive it gets all around —
    At death! Alive!
    Speaks true, who speaks shadows.

    1. And so it is now “ten years after.” After what? One of the rock groups I liked in the 60s supposedly took that name from an event that had taken place ten years earlier, namely Elvis Presley’s breakthrough year of ’56. Lines from one of their songs still play in my mind from time to time: “Tax the rich, feed the poor / Till there are no rich no more.” And then the defeatist refrain: “I’d love to change the world / But I don’t know what to do / I’ll leave it up to you.” Has anything changed?

    Ten years ago I published a volume of essays under the title A Nomad Poetics, core to which was the piece of writing called “Notes Toward a Nomad Poetics,” which — though the central concern had been with me even longer, much longer — I had started giving expression to even before 1993 & which had been published in an earlier form as a chapbook called Towards a Nomad Poetics by Allen Fisher’s Spanner Books. Note the tentative titles: “towards a…” & for the final version even just “Notes towards a Nomadic Poetics.” I said “piece of writing” purposefully just now, because one of the small misunderstandings regarding A Nomad Poetics I have encountered from time to time is that this piece of writing has been called a “manifesto” — with all the stern-brow seriousness & raised fist ardor the term suggests. I would like, 10 years after, to nuance this take a bit.

    The manifesto, I’ve written elsewhere, is indeed one, if not the only new literary genre of the 20C, & I do draw on it to some extent — but I am very conscious of the fact that what I am trying to do is to write propositions for the 21C & to find a form that is both open & collaborative, that is culturally & politically critical, but not ideologically over-determined, as manifestos tend to be. It is neither an anonymous revolutionary pamphlet (as many of the Situationist manifestos were at a certain time), nor a synthetic piece with a number of signatures attached to it (from Marx & Engels, via the Surrealists, say, to the Manifeste des 120, for example, no matter how much I may like these). The proposition is different: it is a piece of writing I take full responsibility for, but to which I invite people to contribute — few have bothered to do so, though the 1993 text has at least the exemplary contribution of Brian Massumi, the excellent Deleuzian scholar & thinker.

    But — & I can only briefly mention it in this context — the idea of collaboration has opened up since then in a different manner & place,  namely as what Nicole Peyrafitte & I call “Domopoetics” & which finds its expression in performances that involve the two of us, in a combination of poetry, reflection (with it’s propositional moves, such as extensions of my rhizomatic moves & Nicole’s more “seepage” based processes), music & visuals, a project that also touches on something I will come to a bit later, ecology, be it as in Domopoetics, centered on the “household,” or in a wider in- & out-side sweep.

    Now, in that core essay I do make “manifestish” moves, like the über-title, THE MILLENNIUM WILL BE NOMADIC OR IT WILL NOT BE, a tournement of a well-known citation leading back to Foucault & Deleuze; then there are the various definitions of concepts & the oracular pronouncements… but if you take these together with the willed heteroclite manner of the piece that ends with the (possibly incongruous) inclusion and commentary on a translation of a pre-Islamic ode, you may also note the tongue-in-cheek, not to say cheekiness of the collage (more dada than surrealist manifesto, playfulness is meant to trump, no not trump, that’s wargame talk, — is meant to poke fun at and possibly deflate dour revolutionary literary ardor). What I wanted was in fact to create a new genre, post-manifesto, something I did then call the “manifessay.” I don’t know if I succeeded beyond giving expression to my own poetics, i.e., if it, the form, has become available or is of any possible use beyond me. I’ll return to the notion of a new genre or of post-genre writing toward the end of this talk.

    1. I now want to address two or three points that I opened up but probably not enough in the 2003 manifessay, & that, it seems to me, need either clarification or extension. The first one of these arises from a quote by Muriel Rukeyser who writes: “The relations of poetry are, for our period, very close to the relations of science. It is not a matter of using the results of science, but of seeing that there is a meeting place between all the kinds of imagination. Poetry can provide that meeting place.” So, this notion that science & poetry can, have to connect, that, in fact, “open-field” poetry may be the ground where those two discourses can enrich each other. Unhappily that was the only occasion “science” came up in the 2003 version to which I had given the version number 4.0. In a 4.1 version I would insert more reflections concerning this matter, as it seems to me to be getting more & more urgent (see the next section). To begin with I would quote Robert Kelly’s take of:

                                                 a scientist of the whole
    the Poet
              be aware from inside comes
                     the poet, scientist of totality,
                            specifically,
              to whom all data whatsoever are of use,
    world-scholar

    Which means that all data not only can but should enter the arena of the poem. Each poet can of course only bring her own knowledges & experiences into that field —  though the understanding that such a wide open field of possibilities does exist, right there in front of us, on the page or screen, with no restrictions imposed by pre-existing notions of form or content,  an understanding that has to function as a major incentive & goad.

    Scientific data as such, & in suspension with other information, would be central here as unhappily we have returned to an area where science is not only rightfully questioned for its excesses (in medicine, food-“science,” or its 19C underlying ideology of “progress,” etc.) but is also challenged in totally asinine but extremely dangerous ways by what may be the most disastrous unfolding event, namely the violent return of the religious (from the various US evangelical Christian fascisms to the Islamic totalitarianism of its Fundamentalist movements & beyond) & its denials of any scientific data, be that Darwinian evolution, the genetic egalitarianism of races, or what have you. This “return of the repressed” can however not be addressed by the same pious & self-righteous means used by positivist 19C determinism & traditional “atheistic” formulas.

    An investigative poetics (& that is one mode of a nomadic poetics) addressing this problem could well start with thinking through the rather odd but useful book by Peter Sloterdijk, You Must Change Your Life (note that the title is a quote from a poem!). For example, one may have to rethink certain poetic practices after reflecting on the following from early on in the book, where Sloterdijk has been talking about Rilke’s poem “Archaic torso of Apollo:”

    That this energized Apollo embodies a manifestation of Dionysus is indicated by the statement that the stone glistens ‘like wild beasts’ fur’: Rilke had read his Nietzsche. Here we encounter the second micro-religious or proto-musical module: the notorious ‘this stands for that,’ ‘the one appears in the other’ or ‘the deep layer is present in the surface‘ — figures without which no religious discourse would ever have come about. They tell us that religiosity is a form of hermeneutical flexibility and can be trained.

    Unhappily there have been rather few poets who have worked along those lines, i.e. bringing scientific discourse into the field of poetry to test & extend its possibilities. Of my generation, except for the use of scientific, mainly mathematical concepts in formal decisions, such as the great oeuvre of Jackson MacLow, or the OULIPO poets or, say, Inger Christensen or Ron Silliman using the Fibonacci series as formal compositional procedures,  I can only think of two poets deeply involved in that way & bringing actual scientific data into the work: Allen Fisher & Christopher Dewdney. The latter has put his relation to science very clearly. “My poetry,” he says, “is warped out of science. I think I’m a frustrated scientist in poetry and a frustrated poet in science. A lot of poets have an anti-science bias, a vision of themselves as romantics in a tower, but I don’t. I’m a naturalist, I believe that science and nature are one, that science is a perceptual tool which allows us to define nature more specifically. Science has to incorporate and mythologize as it happens. All poetry deals with information, finally.”

    Concerning Allen Fisher, I did say enough, I believe, in version 4.00, but let me re-quote a bit from his Introduction of Brixton Fractals::

    Imagination and action. My knowledge of the world exists validly only in the moment when I am transforming it. In this moment, in action, the imagination functions, unblocks passivity, refuses an overview. Discontinuities, wave breaks, cell divisions, collapsed structures, boundaries between tissue kinds: where inner workings are unknown, the only reliable participations are imaginative. The complex of state and control variables. The number of configurations depends on the latter: properties typical of cusp catastrophes: sudden jumps; hysteresis; divergence; inaccessibility. Boiling water’s phase change where the potential is the same as condensing steam. Random motion of particles in phase space allows a process to find a minimum potential. What is this all about? It’s a matter of rage and fear, where the moving grass or built suburbia frontier is a wave prison; where depth perception reverses; caged flight. With ambiguous vases it’s as if part of the brain is unable to reach a firm conclusion and passes alternatives along for a decision on other grounds. The goblet-and-face contour moves as it forms in your seeing.

    The result of which is a poetry of use, though the uses be not your usual aesthetic jouissance and/or socio-political alibis:

    Brixton Fractals provides a technique of memory and perception analysis. It can be used to sharpen out-of-focus photographs; to make maps of the radio sky; to generate images from human energy; to calculate spectra; to reconstruct densities; to provide probability factors from local depression climates. It becomes applicable to reading; to estimate a vector of survival from seriously incomplete or hidden data, and select the different structures needed. It can provide a participatory invention different from that which most persists.

    Among a younger generation, I fear I have not come across much work incorporating the discourse of science. This may be my own lack, the fact that I can no longer keep up with the incredible avalanche of poetry coming down on us. But I do want to mention at least one of the younger poets, namely James Belflower, who after a brilliant first book, Commuter, has just published a second book The Posture of Contour, rich in exactly those materials & thinking involving science & scientific discourse. This is excellent explorative work that is truly experimental without being gimmicky or surface “avant-gardist.” Belflower, by the way, is also presently at work on a translation of a book by our next presenter, Jan Baetens’s rewriting of a Jean-Luc Godard’s script, for which he has also corralled  Peter Cockelbergh help. But let me move on.

     

    1. The one word or concept I now see as most grievously underdeveloped is that of ecology. I do think of it as present in version 4.00, however, in that it is inherent if unspoken in the vision of a nomadic figure: the nomad’s life is based on a clear and sharp perception and discrimination of environmental factures. (I had first written “fractures” — which might be the right word). For the desert inhabitant it is of course a matter of survival. In the same way nomadic art is an eminently environment-conscious art: portable, spare, it clings to or arises from the everyday objects of perusal: embroidered & engraved saddles or bridles, painted portable utensils or inscribed, i.e. tattooed parts of the body; the core elements of the dwelling: rugs and carpets — all these are pure expressions of art, & the most formal and richest artifact is also the lightest as behoves a continuous traveler: the poem, no matter it’s size or weight, carried in mind or, as they say, by heart. A nomadic poetry was thus, for me, an obviously highly environment-conscious art.

    My own sense of the ecological question goes back to the late sixties  and, in poetry, the discovery of Gary Snyder’s work as poet and essayist.  It was clear back then already that environmental problems needed to be thought & written about, & indeed they were, even if as yet mainly or only  in the underground press, & entered into one’s daily practice in terms of food (first organic food movements, macrobiotic diets & restaurants, etc.) clothing, and as a political direction to be incorporated into any progressive ideology.

    But it is now clear, “ideology” or rather ideology-critique, though necessary, also became a hindrance later on. During those years (70s into 90s) of the “postmodern”, that stance entailed the deconstruction of what Jean-François Lyotard & others called the “grand narratives,” from Christianity to Communism, i.e. all single-centered soteriological utopian systems. The fervent yet cool-headed desire was: never again such eschatological, transcendental movements in the pursuance of whose aims all means are justified and thus all crimes permissible, from the grand medieval inquisitions to the Stalinist & Nazi exterminations. Politics, we now thought, have to become local, momentary, situationist, etc. What Félix Guattari & others called Micropolitics. Under this premise, one angle, one line of flight, one momentary territorialization of our space would be or could concern itself with the environmental problem.

    I’m putting all this very schematically as I don’t have the time to develop it in detail, but it now seems clear to me that the time has come to make ecology (oeco-logos, the logic of the house, of our house earth, of our earth-house-hold, to use Snyder’s term), to make ecology the engine of a new grand narrative. Such a grand narrative would differ from the old ones (& thus hopefully avoid the disasters provoked by human hubris that thought of this world as, or tried to force it into a scheme of the anthropocentric). It would not be anthropocentric, human-centered (as the Christian or Communist one were) but anchored, or come from, outside the human sphere, the earth, & thus restate, refocus,  the human in relation to the world it lives in. A world in a new age, an age that has come to be called the “anthropocene” to point to the overwhelming influence human actions now have on the earth. A non-transcendental, immanentist situation that does not have future perfection (paradise in heaven or on earth) as its aim but survival of life in all its rich & diverse forms (with the human only one such, and important only as the major danger to survival) in the contingent environment of this planet. Which also entails, despite the fact that the name of us, “anthropos” now glows radioactively in the age’s name, to start from the realization that homo sapiens (that misnomer!) is not outside, beyond creation; there is not a “nature” outside or surrounding us nature is us & the rest, the world with us included. “Nature” is everywhere, as Spinoza said of god.

     

    One way into this would be through a book I’d like to draw your attention to, namely Michel Deguy’s Écologiques, the quatrième de couverture of which states: “Geocide is in process; not “a” geocide, but “the geocide:” there will not be two. Ecology, a ‘logie’ [thought, word, saying] of the oikos [house, dwelling, terre des hommes] is not optional. If it is not radical, it is nothing.” This book, a series of small essays, notations, reflections, he himself calls it “a sort of witnessing,” is also formally fascinating in that the urgency & radicalness demanded eschew the scriptural “manifesto” form of the old grand narratives, but belongs exactly to the extrême contemporain in its assemblage form (& contains reflections on that form). Here are a few hints (in my translation):

    Another romantic leitmotiv, and thus to be transposed for us, come down to us from Hölderlin through Heidegerrian conduit — can it help — for a long time translated as “What remains is what the poets create.” [“Was bleibet aber stiften die Dichter”] and that our era (this mutation of “the crisis,” if you want) forces us to read thus: “the remains, art plays them again.” Even better to understand it thus: the remains we are left with, the relics, is it possible that the artists, those who work in language, philosophers and writers together with all those who work in other “arts,” including those that technique has added, will relaunch them. …Is a last chance called ecology?

    The poet Edward Dorn pointed out some few years back that one of our problems is that “we do not even yet / know what a crisis is.” Interestingly, Deguy in this books develops a notion of “crisis” that may answer Dorn’s slight, when he writes “this exercise in thinking (this ‘experience in thought’) has to rise to ‘its last consequences,’ in its hyperbolic paradoxical amplification,” where it will risk this: “…what is called the crisis offers the chance of a parabolic ‘rebroussement,’ a parabolic turning back. [Note that “rebroussement” is a term also used in geology where it means the ‘Torsion localisée des couches, due au frottement le long d’un contact anormal et montrant le sens du mouvement /torsion localized in the strata, caused by friction along an anormal contact and showing the direction of the movement/’ (Fouc.-Raoult Géol. 1980). Further in math it refers to the point where a curve changes direction; you also speak of an ‘Arête de rebroussement.’”

    How to translate this last phrase? “Arête” immediately rhymes for me with the Greek “arete” — & I’ll come to that soon enough. But interesting to note how problematic the translation from natural language to another, French to English here, a concept in mathematics, a so-called “universal” language can be. As a footnote on page 435 of Augustus de Morgan’s The Differential and Integral Calculus puts it:

    One sound writer on this subject (and perhaps more) has attempted to translate the words arête de rebroussement into English by edge of regression, which seems to me a closer imitation of the words than of the meaning. Many words might be suggested, such as the ligature of the normals, or their osculatrix, or their omnitangential curve. Also with reference to the developable surface, the arête, &c. might be called the generatrix, or the curve of greatest density, &c.

    Deguy concludes by defining it as “la ligne formée par les points d’intersection des génératrices rectilignes consécutives de la surface / the line formed by the intersection points of successive rectilinear generatrices of the surface.”

    So Deguy’s rebroussement is not a simple turning back on itself, not a return to the past, but another, a further, torque. He goes on: “A politician is someone who cannot understand, admit, that the crisis, from Hesiod to Husserl, from Sophocles to Valéry, names historicity itself. It is crisis forever. The ‘solution’ of the crisis is a new critical phase, of sharing — of the relation in general, of societies among themselves, of one society in relation to itself, of one subject to himself.”

    Deguy sees three movements in the overcoming, the coming out of the crisis: “an uprising, a revolution, reforms.” Which he then calls “by one of its great names, utopia.” And to suggest that “précisément l’utopie aujourd’hui, c’est l’écologie. / Utopia today is precisely ecology. There is no other one.” Fascinating too, how Deguy begins usefully to think through other rebarbative aspects of our relation to world. He thus suggests that “ecology does not concern the environment, literally what environs, what surrounds, (the “Umwelt” of the ethnologues) but the “world” (the “Welt” of the thinkers). It is the difference between those two that needs to be rethought from the bottom up, he suggests, because of the profound oblivion into which the world and its things (les choses), or “the oecumene” have fallen. Thus globalisation (in French la “mondialisation”) would be in truth an end of or to “le monde,” the world, a loss of world, because “the world worlds in things and its ‘worlding’ has to be entrusted not to technoscience, but to the philosophers and the artists — to all the humans in the arts (les hommes de l’art), and, specifically to the poetics of the works.”

    These formulations not only show the importance of Deguy’s writings in Ecologiques and thus the need for its translation — but also the difficulty this translation entails given the nomadicity between his philosophical logos & the poetics, which you can glimpse in the needed and relished neologisms above. And now, beginning to run out of time, let me turn to certain questions in regard to translation that have been haunting me since the publication of version 4.00 of the manifessay.

    1. And thus to the second Ammiel — but this one with two m’s — I mean Ammiel Alcalay and some parallel thinking we have been doing on the subject of translation. In the Nomad Poetics manifesto, the work of translation is only liminally mentioned when in fact it has been central to my endeavors from the beginning — though obviously it gets more thought & analysis in other essays in the Nomad Poetics volume. What I would like to add in a putative 4.1 version (why putative? — this is that version, probably) is an exploration of the limits of translation.

    Why limits? A strange term to use for someone who has always equated translation & writing itself, who has claimed (& stays with this claim) that all writing is translation & that therefore the traditional differences between the two have to be abolished as they are false “class” barriers. Over the last 10 years, I have been involved in two major but very different translation projects: first, the translation of the historico-critical edition of Paul Celan’s The Meridian, a volume that gathers all the various drafts, versions, notes, scraps, letters, even a radio-play, with all the (carefully reproduced) strike-outs, inserts, marginal marks & so on, that we have between the moment Celan was informed that he had been given the Georg Büchner prize and the date on which he had to give his acceptance speech.  The original editors, Bernard Böschenstein and Heino Schmull did an incredible job gathering these materials & devising a book structure to contain them. If I have one doubt about the book, it is this one: the book opens with the 18-page essay in its final, definite form, then proceeds backwards through the various drafts to the earliest scrap of paper. This makes for a very attractive book, though I now wonder if it wouldn’t have been more instructive to build the volume in the genetic sense, i.e. from the first idea to the final essay, so that a reader would be able to witness the creation of context & text in its / as a historical process. Be that as it may, the essential thing this translation taught me was the importance for a deeper textual understanding of involvement with and thus knowledge of its contexts, its process.

    During the years I put together Poems for Millennium vol 4: The UCP book of North African Literature, or Diwan Ifrikiya as I prefer to call it, the question of how to present over 2000 years of a literature to a major part unknown to Western readers (I first wrote “raiders” — which is also an accurate way of describing what the West did & still does to the Maghreb), that question came up, of course. Happily the “grand collage” format elaborated by Jerome Rothenberg & myself in the early volumes of the Poems for the Millennium series — chronological galleries, thematic “books,” individual commentaries, intros to all the sections, etc. — allowed for a presentation of actual contextual matters, from maps to alphabets, from images to amulets, that serve as a matrix for the poems. For example, the second diwan, El Adab or the invention of prose, endeavors to gather texts from historical literary treatises, history & geography manuals, philosophical meditations, erotic manuals etc.

    Despite what I think of as a rather successful if incomplete handling of these matters of context, I do agree with Ammiel Alcalay when he writes, after bringing up such different events as 9/11 & the ensuing sudden interest in Arab matters & translating from that language, followed by the Iraq war & the ‘official’ writing that has ensued from that catastrophe:

    How are those of us involved in transference and translation to respond to such circumstances? What is our role in the politics of imagination and transmission? Have we reached a point where NOT translating, providing access to, handing down works from the Arab world might be more legitimate? When we decide to participate, how do we insulate and protect such works and ourselves, not merely from assimilation, but from collaboration… Writers and translators often wind up playing someone else’s game, and become complicit, perpetuating the same rules with new players.

    Which leads Alcalay to conclude that no act of transmission is innocent and therefore demands utmost vigilance, a kind of vigilance, he goes on, “that recognizes, as the American poet Jack Spicer once put it, that ‘there are bosses in poetry as well as in the industrial empire.” As writers, translators, commentators in the area of what Michel Deguy called “le culturel,” — to be differentiated from “la culture,” but inescapable as the sphere in which we as ‘travailleurs du symbolique’ labor today — we have to be aware that, for example, translating a major novel by a third world author wrenches that work out of its natural habitat, plops it into an environment where it can only be read according to the latter’s rules (say, Kateb Yacine’s Nedjma, in relation to William Faulkner’s narrative universe, etc.) Or, more viciously as in the case of my translation of Abdelwahab Meddeb’s essay THE MALDAY OF ISLAM which was nearly hijacked by DC rightwing think tank people when Daniel Pipes asked the NY publisher for first serialization rights and the right to “subedit” the extracts — I managed to fight this off after investigating who those people were.

    So, there is also a need, a duty to provide contextual materials, to try to change the very framework of the translation activity, so that the act of translating can be “an act, a way of erecting a picket line against the bosses,  to reclaim some part of our suppressed and isolated humanity and participate in it in new ways.” Alcalay concludes that “ to protect against assimilation and collaboration requires more than fitting newly introduced and revived texts into existing frameworks. Defining what information is for us, where it comes from, and where to find it becomes an essential survival kit.”

    Thus part of such a watchful & critical process of translation is also what I like to call an ‘investigative nomad poetics,’ because ideological cons can go so far as to actually corrupt the very language. Take the example of the so-called “Confucius Institutes” which are under the supervision of the Chinese Language Council International (known as Hanban). These Institutes teach Chinese language and culture after setting up shop in Universities in the West. I’m drawing on an excellent investigative article by Marshall Sahlins that appeared in this week’s Nation. Hanban is an instrument of the PRC’s party apparatus operating as an international pedagogical organization. This means that its agreements with the foreign, including many American, institutions of higher learning, include non-disclosure clauses, making the terms of the agreement secret. US universities sign on to this— which is most likely totally illegal under US law — eager as they are to get an all-paid for “Confucius Institute” & the ensuing prestige. Besides such basic no-nos as being prohibited to mention the Tiannamen Square massacre, or Tibet, the Dalai Lama, or human rights, etc. the actual core problem, if you look closer, are the language teaching methods, in fact the very language taught. This looks innocent enough according to the bylaws, which state: “The Confucius Institutes conduct Chinese language instructions in Mandarin using Standard Chinese characters.” But, as Sahlin details, this is the “simplified script officially promulgated by the PRC as a more easily learned alternative…” This means that what is available in this script & thus what the CI students are taught to read are only those texts or revised texts the PRC allows you to read & has prepared & altered, and thus for example no Chinese texts from other parts of the world, Taiwan, or even Hong-Kong can be deciphered by people trained in the CI’s! Totalitarian censorship effected via creating & imposing a new language allowing for the rewriting of all cultural documents… 

    1. Finally, I’d like to speak to my current practice: what I want to do from now on is continue to some extent with nomadizing my writing as much as nomadizing in my writing, while moving toward some new trajectories, other complex meandering orbitals. You see, when I sit down & let the process of writing happen, it tends to come out as a recognizable “poem,” & I am by now somewhat bored by this. Ah, I say to myself, here’s another poem — couldn’t it be some another critter, somealien, unknown form? I guess the familiarity of recognizing the poem under hand has some comforting sides (it is comforting to recognize your own face in the mirror when you get up in the morning), & I enjoy detecting a new move, or rhythm or color or line or sound in the poem-matrix, and yet, and yet. (Thinking here of a poet I admire tremendously, John Ashbery, whose production into old age — John is 86 — has gone unabated, but whose yearly new volume seems to me to have the same poem rearranged again & again, a tremendous life-long flow, flood, or maybe better ribbon of writing Ashbery snips off bits to make into books & cuts those into smaller bits to make poems — it’s tremendous & astounding & a true feat, but I have to confess that my pleasure in the work by now has become mainly aesthetic recognition rather than discovery of anything new, thought, rhythm, music, form — or maybe better, it is absolutely wonderful comfort food I can cuddle up with in my armchair when the umpteenth rerun of my fav TV series, Law & Order, is too boring. And comfort is something we absolutely need in our lives, for sure. But.)

    A more serious reason to escape “the poem” (between quotation marks) is something I have to plead guilty to, that Frankenstein monster called “creative writing” which for part of my life provided the income that permitted me to read & write. But in the US we now create something like 3 to 6000 professional diploma’ed “poets” a year who are turning out hundreds of thousand “poems” day in day out — there are now at rough glance something close to half a million published poets in the US. Now, I prefer that to be the case rather than those kids having wandered off & joined the military or the evangelical troops. At the risk of sounding elitist, I want to suggest however that most of this work does not have what my third grandfather of the day, grand-pa Ezra called the “arete,”  which he translated as “virtue”, though for the Greeks the word actually probably meant something closer to “being the best you can be”, or “reaching your highest human potential”, & which I like to mistranslate further as “arête,” as in a French fish, though not as a French stop sign, or, better even, as the arresting quality of something with spine.

    So, what do I want? In my notebooks I found this entry, as I was preparing to envisage the writing to be done now, after I stopped teaching, & with several major projects out of the way:

    “…write something that is unrecognizable as a poem, write ‘books’ [never a, one, book, always the plural] but so that they are not beholden to that late 19C form of the book so elegantly proclaimed by Mallarmé & taken up under various guises by the 20C avant-garde. This here now is the 21C. Everything — pace Mallarmé — is not meant to end up in a book, even if as we screw up the planet more & more everything that will be left of us may end up in a book if one as heat resistant as the new climate requires can be devised, once we have become extinct on this gone planet veering from blue to red. No. The books or the writing I envisage are open books that have their prolongations, their links, within the ever more tenuous world that surrounds us, but not a writing that mimetically reflects the outside (which would only increase the heat by mirror-effect & in the cave of this non-platonic book we cannot have fires heating up) but one that proposes a range of coolants —”

    To put it another way, work seems to leak — out of the book and into the world, and from the world into the book. Nicole Peyrafitte’s notion of “seepage” (see her recent writings in her book bi-valve ) enters here to play with & off & extend the rhizomes & lines of flight of my nomadics. What is at stake here is circulation: of reading that turns into writing and vice-versa, but also of people, of words, of love, of blood — printer’s bleed but also terrorists’ victims’ blood, terrorists everywhere, from the US Congress & my gun-crazed co-citoyens, to the mad mujahiddin of Daech & AQIM. These books of multiple narratives & troubled typographies, which “may be incompletely / confused” (as the young poet James Belflower puts it), asks you to be a (not so innocent) active performer as much as a reader. Take the risk —

    How to come to this writing beyond genre is of course the question I have been groping with for some time now. I can only start from what I know, i.e. from the grand-collage century I come from, some specific realizations of that century, those for example I have spent years gathering with Jerome Rothenberg & Habib Tengour in our Millennium anthologies, others too. Here is a 20C quote to go forth with into our already quite entamé (nicked, gouged out, gored, gashed, i.e. wounded) 21C. It is a quote you will know as it is well-known, often used, that I would like to put again at the head of any such new writings, thus as an epigraph here, to bring to a close the keynote that started with a 19C epigraph that led into our 20C. It comes from Robert Duncan’s HD Book, from the chapter “Rites of Participation,” a chapter that begins “The drama of our time is the coming of all men (and women) into one fate, ‘the dream of everyone, everywhere.’”  First published in Caterpillar # 1 in fall of 1967 (a month after I first set foot on the American continent) it was written a few years earlier, I believe, so dates from the mid-sixties. Half a century later it holds a more ominous, less optimistic note, given the ecologistic aspects of the new grand narrative of that “single fate.” But here is the quote I was thinking of exactly, which happens a page or so later in Duncan’s ‘book,’ after he has been talking about Plato’s Symposium:

    The Symposium of Plato was restricted to a community of Athenians, gathered in the common creation of an arete [ah, that word again!], an aristocracy of spirit, inspired by the homoEros, taking its stand against lower or foreign orders, not only of men but of nature itself. The intense yearning, the desire for something else, of which we too have only a dark and doubtful presentiment, remains, but our arete, our ideal of vital being [ah! there’s another good definition!], rises not in our identification in a hierarchy of higher forms but in our identification with the universe. To compose such a symposium of the whole, such a totality, all the old excluded orders must be included. The female, the proletariat, the foreign; the animal and vegetative; the unconscious and the unknown; the criminal and failure — all that had been outcast and vagabond must return to be admitted in the creation of what we consider we are.

    I would only like to add to Duncan’s list the orders of geology and water & air, and to amend ever so slightly the last sentence to read: “all that had been outcast and vagabond must be joined by us out there to help in the nomadic creation of what we consider we are.”

     

    SOURCES

    Conrad, Joseph. Almayer’s Folly: A Story of an Eastern River (T. Fisher Unwin, London 1895).

    Amiel, Henri-Frédéric. Grains de Mil (Joël Cherbuliez, libraire-éditeur, Paris 1854).

    Watt, Ian. Conrad in the Nineteenth Century. Vol. 1, footnote #6 p.66 (University of California Press, 1979.

    Celan, Paul. “With a Variable Key” & “Speak, You Too,” in Paul Celan, Selections, edited by Pierre Joris, p. 51 & 54. (University of California Press, 2005.)

    _________. The Meridian. Final VersionDrafts—Materials. Translated by Pierre Joris. (Stanford University Press, 2011)

    Joris, Pierre. A Nomad Poetics (Wesleyan University Press, 2003.)

    _________, editor (with Habib Tengour). The University of California Book of North African Literature (vol. 4 in the Poems for the Millennium series, UCP, November 2012)

    Rukeyser, Muriel. The Life of Poetry. p. XI (Ashfield, Mass.  Paris Press 1996.)

    Kelly, Robert. In Time, p. 25 (Frontier Press, 1971)

    Sloterdijk, Peter. You Must Change Your Life (Polity, 2014)

    Fisher, Allen. Brixton Fractals. (Aloes Books, London 1985)

    Belflower, James. The Posture of Contour. (Springgun Press, 2013)

    Deguy, Michel. Écologiques, p.23. (Hermann, Editeur, 2012)

    Dorn, Edward, Recollections of Gran Apachería, n.p. (Turtle island                      Foundation, 1974)

    De Morgan, Augustus. The Differential and Integral Calculus. (Baldwin and           Cradock, London, 1842)

    Alcalay, Ammiel. “Politics & Translation,” in: towards a foreign likeness bent : translation, durationpress.com e-books series. http://www.durationpress.com, n.d.

    Sahlins, Marshall. China U. Confucius Institutes censor political discussion and restrain the free exchange of ideas. The Nation, October 30, 2013  https://www.thenation.com/article/china-u/

    Snyder, Gary. Earth House Hold. (New Directions, 1969)

    Lyotard, Jean-François. The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge. (University Of Minnesota Press, 1984.)

    Guattari, Félix & Deleuze, Gilles.  Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. (University of Minnesota Press, 1987)

    Meddeb, Abdelwahab. The Malady of Islam. Translated by Pierre Joris. ( Basic Books,2003.)

    Peyrafitte, Nicole. Bi-Valve: Vulvic Space / Vulvic Knowledge. (Stockport Flats, 2013).

    Duncan, Robert. The H.D. Book. (University of California Press, 2011.)

  • David Sweeney Coombs: Dickens’ Resonance

    David Sweeney Coombs: Dickens’ Resonance

    by David Sweeney Coombs

    This essay was peer-reviewed by the editorial board of b2o: an online journal.

    Within the lexicon of contemporary criticism, “resonance” is a term that is often marshaled to designate a loose, heuristic sort of presentism. For an example, look no further than the critical blurbs promoting recent editions of Bleak House, where A. A. Gill declares the novel “one of the few [Dickens] stories that has modern resonance: the tale of a never-ending court case can be seen—if you squint—as the precursor of Kafka and Orwell.”[i] We don’t need to agree with this judgment to note how the acoustic register of resonance gives way to the visual here at just the moment that the sentence moves from the airy declaration that Bleak House is still relevant to the specification of a literary genealogy to substantiate that claim. The virtue of resonance is typically understood to lie in that airiness. We use the term to posit unspecified or as yet mostly speculative connections between apparently very different objects—like an 1853 novel and the legal black sites of the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. Resonance, that is, lets us say that we feel the reverberations when we still can’t say exactly why. Hence the term appears rarely in articles and monographs, which aspire to rigor and precision, but frequently in the more informal discussions at scholarly conferences. Despite its informality, resonance, I want to suggest, offers us a potentially precise way of thinking about the form of Bleak House and the way the novel and our readings of it fold together different temporalities.

    Bleak House famously combines antithetical narrative modes, most signally by alternating between third-person narration in the present tense and first-person narration in the past tense.[ii] One of the effects is a torsion between the formal boundedness of Esther’s first-person narrative, centered in a single character retrospectively relating the events that shaped her life’s development (and thus the process by which she came into being as narrator), and the open-endedness of the third-person narration, which jumps from place to place and character to character in a present tense filled with all the present’s sense of ongoing possibilities.[iii] With uncanny prescience, Bleak House in this way overlays two theories of the novel: the (then still soon-to-emerge) Victorian physiological novel theory described by Nicholas Dames, which conceived of the novel as a temporal unfolding akin to music; and the Jamesian novel theory of Percy Lubbock and the New Critics, which understood the novel instead as a sculptured, well-wrought whole. While Bleak House’s third-person narrator unfolds a stream of events, Esther’s task as narrator is to sort and arrange her own fugitive impressions retrospectively in a way that strikingly resembles the work of Lubbock’s critical reader, who, having finished reading a novel, must similarly put together a stable, clearly outlined form out of the “moving stream of impressions, paid out of the volume in a slender thread as we turn the pages” (1921: 14).

    Esther, Lubbock might say, has to turn music into sculpture, but Bleak House figures Esther’s activity and its own formal division using a different analogy: the acoustics of houses. Consider the description of Lady Dedlock’s reaction to the news that Esther, her secret illegitimate daughter taken away at birth, is still alive. Shouldn’t her anguished cry rock the foundations of the Dedlock estate, Chesney Wold, the novel melodramatically asks before concluding, “No. Words, sobs, and cries, are but air; and air is so shut in and shut out throughout the house in town, that sounds need be uttered trumpet-tongued indeed by my Lady in her chamber, to carry any faint vibration to Sir Leicester’s ears; and yet this cry is in the house, going upward from a wild figure on its knees” (1996: 433). Here, aerial waves carry Lady Dedlock’s words, but the wave-form carries Dickens’ words too. Published and read in installments, the form of Dickens’ novel is, like a wave, defined by sequence and periodicity.[iv] In Bleak House, however, the wave-form’s diffusive circulation also takes on a more ominous quality, operating as a pattern of dispersal in the disclosure of Lady Dedlock’s secret and the confusion and entropic disorder propagated by Chancery, including the miasmic spread of disease (likewise through the air). Houses, on the other hand, can shut in and shut out waves more or less artfully, and the novel’s canniest household artist is its signature domestic woman, Esther, who is not only an angel but also an actual housekeeper. As her jingling keys continually remind us, Esther the housekeeper regulates flows within Bleak House like a veritable Maxwell’s Demon. What if we understood Esther’s narration in a similar way, not as transforming a music-like sequence of events into a static visual form, but as a kind of acoustic sorting that amplifies and silences (shutting in and shutting out) by turns?

    Among other things, we might then pick up on the ways that Bleak House resonates with a major scientific reassessment of the nature of musical tones then underway, one that complicates Dames’ (2007: 10-11) suggestion that physiological criticism understood the novel exclusively in terms of musical sequence, of melody or rhythm as opposed to harmony. In the early 1830s, Gustav Hällstrom began experiments with a siren, a new instrument emitting pulses of air through a series of holes on a rotating disk. While each pulse is separately audible when the disk is rotating slowly, at increased speeds the pulsations run together into a continuous tone. Hällstrom’s work led scientists to reduce tones to pure periodicity—pure sequence—but by the time Bleak House appeared, this theory was on the verge of being demolished by Hermann von Helmholtz in the single most influential scientific text on music in the nineteenth century, On the Sensations of Tone as a Physiological Basis for the Theory of Music. Helmholtz was convinced that the particular quality of a tone (its timbre) is determined by the superposition of several soundwaves with different frequencies. Starting in 1855, he had devised a series of special resonators that vibrated with just one frequency of a tone, prolonging that one particular wave in a compound wave-form while silencing the others. In this way, Helmholtz’s resonators made it possible for him to perform a fine-grained analysis of sound. “Resonance,” Stephan Vogel (1993:281) notes, “became the fundamental concept in Helmholtz’s research program.”[v] His experiments with resonators, including, evocatively, the human mouth as a resonant cavity, led him to his famous resonance theory of hearing, which conceived of hearing as the result of thousands of platelets in the ear each vibrating in response to one frequency across the spectrum of audible sound. Both an experimental method and an explanatory theory, resonance shifted the science of acoustics from melody to harmony, from a theory of music as periodic succession—one damn pulse after another—towards a theory of music as constituted by the layering of different temporalities.

    Bleak House layers temporalities in a way that is attuned with the temporal complexity of resonance. Helmholtz’s resonators revealed the complexity of tones by isolating one part of it, extending that one wave while letting the rest fall silent. His resonators thus functioned very much like the musical technique of suspension, where one note in a chord is prolonged into the next chord of a piece’s harmonic development. The resonance of Bleak House asks us to do something similar—to mark through our own reverberations the continuity as well as the discontinuity between past and present. Dickens’ resonance, that is to say, invites us to read as strategic presentists.

    References

    Agathocleous, Tanya. Urban Realism and the Cosmopolitan Imagination in the Nineteenth Century. 2011. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

    Dames, Nicholas. The Physiology of the Novel. 2007. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

    Dickens, Charles. Bleak House. 1996. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

    Levine, Caroline. Forms: Whole, Rhythm, Hierarchy, Network. 2015. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

    Lubbock, Percy. The Craft of Fiction. 1921. London: Jonathan Cape.

    MacDuffie, Allen. Victorian Literature, Energy, and the Ecological Imagination. 2014. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

    Picker, John. Victorian Soundscapes. 2003. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

    Vogel, Stephen. 1993. “Sensations of Tone, Perceptions of Sound, and Empiricism.” In Hermann von Helmholtz and the Foundations of Nineteenth-Century Science, edited by David Cahan, 259-287. Berkeley: University of California Press.

    Von Helmholtz, Hermann. 1954. On the Sensations of Tone as a Physiological Basis for the Theory of Music. Translated by Alexander J. Ellis. New York: Dover.

    Notes

    [i] Gill’s blurb appears in several different online iterations of promotional materials for the novel. For one example, see “Bleak House Editorial Reviews.” Random House Books Australia. http://www.randomhouse.com.au/books/charles-dickens/bleak-house-9780099511458.aspx (accessed February 10, 2016).

    [ii] But this is not the only way it does so. Tanya Agathocleous, for instance, observes that the novel combines the techniques of the panorama with those of the sketch to present a “kind of time-elapsed panorama,” an overview of Victorian London accumulated through momentary glimpses rather than seen instantaneously (2011: 111).

    [iii] This torsion goes some way towards explaining the divided critical opinions on the coherence of Bleak House, which tend to see the novel as either ultimately formally bounded and enclosed or impossibly diffusive. In a recent instance, we can see readings of the novel by Caroline Levine and Allen MacDuffie fall out on this question even as both conceptualize the novel as a network. Levine (2015: 130) reads Bleak House as embodying all the radical open-endedness of the network-form while MacDuffie, reading the eventual emergence of the network-form over the course of the novel as a conservative retreat from the scathing environmental critique that opens it, remarks disappointedly that “what initially looked like an overwhelming sea of people turns out to be a large, but manageable network” (2014: 112).

    [iv] Further, Dickens had a lifelong interest in Charles Babbage’s theories of sound waves as circulating endlessly through the air, which, John Picker (2003: 15-40) suggests, promised Dickens a kind of indefinite circulation for his own authorial voice.

     

    CONTRIBUTOR’S NOTE

    David Sweeney Coombs is assistant professor of English at Clemson University. He is currently at work on a book examining the Victorian literary response to the distinction drawn between sensation and perception by the nineteenth-century human sciences. 

     

     

  • Ending the World as We Know It: Alexander R. Galloway in Conversation with Andrew Culp

    Ending the World as We Know It: Alexander R. Galloway in Conversation with Andrew Culp

    by Alexander R. Galloway and Andrew Culp
    ~

    Alexander R. Galloway: You have a new book called Dark Deleuze (University of Minnesota Press, 2016). I particularly like the expression “canon of joy” that guides your investigation. Can you explain what canon of joy means and why it makes sense to use it when talking about Deleuze?

    Andrew Culp, Dark Deleuze (University of Minnesota Press, 2016)

    Andrew Culp: My opening is cribbed from a letter Gilles Deleuze wrote to philosopher and literary critic Arnaud Villani in the early 1980s. Deleuze suggests that any worthwhile book must have three things: a polemic against an error, a recovery of something forgotten, and an innovation. Proceeding along those three lines, I first argue against those who worship Deleuze as the patron saint of affirmation, second I rehabilitate the negative that already saturates his work, and third I propose something he himself was not capable of proposing, a “hatred for this world.” So in an odd twist of Marx on history, I begin with those who hold up Deleuze as an eternal optimist, yet not to stand on their shoulders but to topple the church of affirmation.

    The canon portion of “canon of joy” is not unimportant. Perhaps more than any other recent thinker, Deleuze queered philosophy’s line of succession. A large portion of his books were commentaries on outcast thinkers that he brought back from exile. Deleuze was unwilling to discard Nietzsche as a fascist, Bergson as a spiritualist, or Spinoza as a rationalist. Apparently this led to lots of teasing by fellow agrégation students at the Sorbonne in the late ’40s. Further showing his strange journey through the history of philosophy, his only published monograph for nearly a decade was an anti-transcendental reading of Hume at a time in France when phenomenology reigned. Such an itinerant path made it easy to take Deleuze at his word as a self-professed practitioner of “minor philosophy.” Yet look at Deleuze’s outcasts now! His initiation into the pantheon even bought admission for relatively forgotten figures such as sociologist Gabriel Tarde. Deleuze’s popularity thus raises a thorny question for us today: how do we continue the minor Deleuzian line when Deleuze has become a “major thinker”? For me, the first step is to separate Deleuze (and Guattari) from his commentators.

    I see two popular joyous interpretations of Deleuze in the canon: unreconstructed Deleuzians committed to liberating flows, and realists committed to belief in this world. The first position repeats the language of molecular revolution, becoming, schizos, transversality, and the like. Some even use the terms without transforming them! The resulting monotony seals Deleuze and Guattari’s fate as a wooden tongue used by people still living in the ’80s. Such calcification of their concepts is an especially grave injustice because Deleuze quite consciously shifted terminology from book to book to avoid this very outcome. Don’t get me wrong, I am deeply indebted to the early work on Deleuze! I take my insistence on the Marxo-Freudian core of Deleuze and Guattari from one of their earliest Anglophone commentators, Eugene Holland, who I sought out to direct my dissertation. But for me, the Tiqqun line “the revolution was molecular, and so was the counter-revolution” perfectly depicts the problem of advocating molecular politics. Why? Today’s techniques of control are now molecular. The result is that control societies have emptied the molecular thinker’s only bag of tricks (Bifo is a good test case here), which leaves us with a revolution that only goes one direction: backward.

    I am equally dissatisfied by realist Deleuzians who delve deep into the early strata of A Thousand Plateaus and away from the “infinite speed of thought” that motivates What is Philosophy? I’m thinking of the early incorporations of dynamical systems theory, the ’90s astonishment over everything serendipitously looking like a rhizome, the mid-00s emergence of Speculative Realism, and the ongoing “ontological” turn. Anyone who has read Manuel DeLanda will know this exact dilemma of materiality versus thought. He uses examples that slow down Deleuze and Guattari’s concepts to something easily graspable. In his first book, he narrates history as a “robot historian,” and in A Thousand Years of Nonlinear History, he literally traces the last thousand years of economics, biology, and language back to clearly identifiable technological inventions. Such accounts are dangerously compelling due to their lucidity, but they come at a steep cost: android realism dispenses with Deleuze and Guattari’s desiring subject, which is necessary for a theory of revolution by way of the psychoanalytic insistence on the human ability to overcome biological instincts (e.g. Freud’s Instincts and their Vicissitudes and Beyond the Pleasure Principle). Realist interpretations of Deleuze conceive of the subject as fully of this world. And with it, thought all but evaporates under the weight of this world. Deleuze’s Hume book is an early version of this criticism, but the realists have not taken heed. Whether emergent, entangled, or actant, strong realists ignore Deleuze and Guattari’s point in What is Philosophy? that thought always comes from the outside at a moment when we are confronted by something so intolerable that the only thing remaining is to think.

    Galloway: The left has always been ambivalent about media and technology, sometimes decrying its corrosive influence (Frankfurt School), sometimes embracing its revolutionary potential (hippy cyberculture). Still, you ditch technical “acceleration” in favor of “escape.” Can you expand your position on media and technology, by way of Deleuze’s notion of the machinic?

    Culp: Foucault says that an episteme can be grasped as we are leaving it. Maybe we can finally catalogue all of the contemporary positions on technology? The romantic (computer will never capture my soul), the paranoiac (there is an unknown force pulling the strings), the fascist-pessimist (computers will control everything)…

    Deleuze and Guattari are certainly not allergic to technology. My favorite quote actually comes from the Foucault book in which Deleuze says that “technology is social before it is technical” (6). The lesson we can draw from this is that every social formation draws out different capacities from any given technology. An easy example is from the nomads Deleuze loved so much. Anarcho-primitivists speculate that humans learn oppression with the domestication of animals and settled agriculture during the Neolithic Revolution. Diverging from the narrative, Deleuze celebrates the horse people of the Eurasian steppe described by Arnold Toynbee. Threatened by forces that would require them to change their habitat, Toynbee says, they instead chose to change their habits. The subsequent domestication of the horse did not sew the seeds of the state, which was actually done by those who migrated from the steppes after the last Ice Age to begin wet rice cultivation in alluvial valleys (for more, see James C Scott’s The Art of Not Being Governed). On the contrary, the new relationship between men and horses allowed nomadism to achieve a higher speed, which was necessary to evade the raiding-and-trading used by padi-states to secure the massive foreign labor needed for rice farming. This is why the nomad is “he who does not move” and not a migrant (A Thousand Plateaus, 381).

    Accelerationism attempts to overcome the capitalist opposition of human and machine through the demand for full automation. As such, it peddles in technological Proudhonism that believes one can select what is good about technology and just delete what is bad. The Marxist retort is that development proceeds by its bad side. So instead of flashy things like self-driving cars, the real dot-communist question is: how will Amazon automate the tedious, low-paying jobs that computers are no good at? What happens to the data entry clerks, abusive-content managers, or help desk technicians? Until it figures out who will empty the recycle bin, accelerationism is only a socialism of the creative class.

    The machinic is more than just machines–it approaches technology as a question of organization. The term is first used by Guattari in a 1968 paper titled “Machine and Structure” that he presented to Lacan’s Freudian School of Paris, a paper that would jumpstart his collaboration with Deleuze. He argues for favoring machine to structure. Structures transform parts of a whole by exchanging or substituting particularities so that every part shares in a general form (in other words, the production of isomorphism). An easy political example is the Leninist Party, which mediates the particularized private interests to form them into the general will of a class. Machines instead treat the relationship between things as a problem of communication. The result is the “control and communication” of Norbert Wiener’s cybernetics, which connects distinct things in a circuit instead of implanting a general logic. The word “machine” never really caught on but the concept has made inroads in the social sciences, where actor-network theory, game theory, behaviorism, systems theory, and other cybernetic approaches have gained acceptance.

    Structure or machine, each engenders a different type of subjectivity, and each realizes a different model of communication. The two are found in A Thousand Plateaus, where Deleuze and Guattari note two different types of state subject formation: social subjection and machinic enslavement (456-460). While it only takes up a few short pages, the distinction is essential to Bernard Stiegler’s work and has been expertly elaborated by Maurizio Lazzarato in the book Signs and Machines. We are all familiar with molar social subjection synonymous with “agency”–it is the power that results from individuals bridging the gap between themselves and broader structures of representation, social roles, and institutional demands. This subjectivity is well outlined by Lacanians and other theorists of the linguistic turn (Virno, Rancière, Butler, Agamben). Missing from their accounts is machinic enslavement, which treats people as simply cogs in the machine. Such subjectivity is largely overlooked because it bypasses existential questions of recognition or self-identity. This is because machinic enslavement operates at the level of the infra-social or pre-individual through the molecular operators of unindividuated affects, sensations, desires not assigned to a subject. Offering a concrete example, Deleuze and Guattari reference Mumford’s megamachines of surplus societies that create huge landworks by treating humans as mere constituent parts. Capitalism revived the megamachine in the sixteenth century, and more recently, we have entered the “third age” of enslavement marked by the development of cybernetic and informational machines. In place of the pyramids are technical machines that use humans at places in technical circuits where computers are incapable or too costly, e.g. Amazon’s Mechanical Turk.

    I should also clarify that not all machines are bad. Rather, Dark Deleuze only trusts one kind of machine, the war machine. And war machines follow a single trajectory–a line of flight out of this world. A major task of the war machine conveniently aligns with my politics of techno-anarchism: to blow apart the networks of communication created by the state.

    Galloway: I can’t resist a silly pun, cannon of joy. Part of your project is about resisting a certain masculinist tendency. Is that a fair assessment? How do feminism and queer theory influence your project?

    Culp: Feminism is hardwired into the tagline for Dark Deleuze through a critique of emotional labor and the exhibition of bodies–“A revolutionary Deleuze for today’s digital world of compulsory happiness, decentralized control, and overexposure.” The major thread I pull through the book is a materialist feminist one: something intolerable about this world is that it demands we participate in its accumulation and reproduction. So how about a different play on words: Sara Ahmed’s feminist killjoy, who refuses the sexual contract that requires women to appear outwardly grateful and agreeable? Or better yet, Joy Division? The name would associate the project with post-punk, its conceptual attack on the mainstream, and the band’s nod to the sexual labor depicted in the novella House of Dolls.

    My critique of accumulation is also a media argument about connection. The most popular critics of ‘net culture are worried that we are losing ourselves. So on the one hand, we have Sherry Turkle who is worried that humans are becoming isolated in a state of being “alone-together”; and on the other, there is Bernard Stiegler, who thinks that the network supplants important parts of what it means to be human. I find this kind of critique socially conservative. It also victim-blames those who use social media the most. Recall the countless articles attacking women who take selfies as part of self-care regimen or teens who creatively evade parental authority. I’m more interested in the critique of early ’90s ‘net culture and its enthusiasm for the network. In general, I argue that network-centric approaches are now the dominant form of power. As such, I am much more interested in how the rhizome prefigures the digitally-coordinated networks of exploitation that have made Apple, Amazon, and Google into the world’s most powerful corporations. While not a feminist issue on its face, it’s easy to see feminism’s relevance when we consider the gendered division of labor that usually makes women the employees of choice for low-paying jobs in electronics manufacturing, call centers, and other digital industries.

    Lastly, feminism and queer theory explicitly meet in my critique of reproduction. A key argument of Deleuze and Guattari in Anti-Oedipus is the auto-production of the real, which is to say, we already live in a “world without us.” My argument is that we need to learn how to hate some of the things it produces. Of course, this is a reworked critique of capitalist alienation and exploitation, which is a system that gives to us (goods and the wage) only because it already stole them behind our back (restriction from the means of subsistence and surplus value). Such ambivalence is the everyday reality of the maquiladora worker who needs her job but may secretly hope that all the factories burn to the ground. Such degrading feelings are the result of the compromises we make to reproduce ourselves. In the book, I give voice to them by fusing together David Halperin and Valerie Traub’s notion of gay shame acting as a solvent to whatever binds us to identity and Deleuze’s shame at not being able to prevent the intolerable. But feeling shame is not enough. To complete the argument, we need to draw out the queer feminist critique of reproduction latent in Marx and Freud. Détourning an old phrase: direct action begins at the point of reproduction. My first impulse is to rely on the punk rock attitude of Lee Edelman and Paul Preciado’s indictment of reproduction. But you are right that they have their masculinist moments, so what we need is something more post-punk–a little less aggressive and a lot more experimental. Hopefully Dark Deleuze is that.

    Galloway: Edelman’s “fuck Annie” is one of the best lines in recent theory. “Fuck the social order and the Child in whose name we’re collectively terrorized; fuck Annie; fuck the waif from Les Mis; fuck the poor, innocent kid on the Net; fuck Laws both with capital ls and small; fuck the whole network of Symbolic relations and the future that serves as its prop” (No Future, 29). Your book claims, in essence, that the Fuck Annies are more interesting than the Aleatory Materialists. But how can we escape the long arm of Lucretius?

    Culp: My feeling is that the politics of aleatory materialism remains ambiguous. Beyond the literal meaning of “joy,” there are important feminist takes on the materialist Spinoza of the encounter that deserve our attention. Isabelle Stengers’s work is among the most comprehensive, though the two most famous are probably Donna Haraway’s cyborg feminism and Karen Barad’s agential realism. Curiously, while New Materialism has been quite a boon for the art and design world, its socio-political stakes have never been more uncertain. One would hope that appeals to matter would lend philosophical credence to topical events such as #blacklivesmatter. Yet for many, New Materialism has simply led to a new formalism focused on material forms or realist accounts of physical systems meant to eclipse the “epistemological excesses” of post-structuralism. This divergence was not lost on commentators in the most recent issue of of October, which functioned as a sort of referendum on New Materialism. On the hand, the issue included a generous accounting of the many avenues artists have taken in exploring various “new materialist” directions. Of those, I most appreciated Mel Chen’s reminder that materialism cannot serve as a “get out of jail free card” on the history of racism, sexism, ablism, and speciesism. While on the other, it included the first sustained attack on New Materialism by fellow travelers. Certainly the New Materialist stance of seeing the world from the perspective of “real objects” can be valuable, but only if it does not exclude old materialism’s politics of labor. I draw from Deleuzian New Materialist feminists in my critique of accumulation and reproduction, but only after short-circuiting their world-building. This is a move I learned from Sue Ruddick, whose Theory, Culture & Society article on the affect of the philosopher’s scream is an absolute tour de force. And then there is Graham Burnett’s remark that recent materialisms are like “Etsy kissed by philosophy.” The phrase perfectly crystallizes the controversy, but it might be too hot to touch for at least a decade…

    Galloway: Let’s focus more on the theme of affirmation and negation, since the tide seems to be changing. In recent years, a number of theorists have turned away from affirmation toward a different set of vectors such as negation, eclipse, extinction, or pessimism. Have we reached peak affirmation?

    Culp: We should first nail down what affirmation means in this context. There is the metaphysical version of affirmation, such as Foucault’s proud title as a “happy positivist.” In this declaration in Archaeology of Knowledge and “The Order of Discourse,” he is not claiming to be a logical positivist. Rather, Foucault is distinguishing his approach from Sartrean totality, transcendentalism, and genetic origins (his secondary target being the reading-between-the-lines method of Althusserian symptomatic reading). He goes on to formalize this disagreement in his famous statement on the genealogical method, “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History.” Despite being an admirer of Sartre, Deleuze shares this affirmative metaphysics with Foucault, which commentators usually describe as an alternative to the Hegelian system of identity, contradiction, determinate negation, and sublation. Nothing about this “happily positivist” system forces us to be optimists. In fact, it only raises the stakes for locating how all the non-metaphysical senses of the negative persist.

    Affirmation could be taken to imply a simple “more is better” logic as seen in Assemblage Theory and Latourian Compositionalism. Behind this logic is a principle of accumulation that lacks a theory of exploitation and fails to consider the power of disconnection. The Spinozist definition of joy does little to dispel this myth, but it is not like either project has revolutionary political aspirations. I think we would be better served to follow the currents of radical political developments over the last twenty years, which have been following an increasingly negative path. One part of the story is a history of failure. The February 15, 2003 global demonstration against the Iraq War was the largest protest in history but had no effect on the course of the war. More recently, the election of democratic socialist governments in Europe has done little to stave off austerity, even as economists publicly describe it as a bankrupt model destined to deepen the crisis. I actually find hope in the current circuit of struggle and think that its lack of alter-globalization world-building aspirations might be a plus. My cues come from the anarchist black bloc and those of the post-Occupy generation who would rather not pose any demands. This is why I return to the late Deleuze of the “control societies” essay and his advice to scramble the codes, to seek out spaces where nothing needs to be said, and to establish vacuoles of non-communication. Those actions feed the subterranean source of Dark Deleuze‘s darkness and the well from which comes hatred, cruelty, interruption, un-becoming, escape, cataclysm, and the destruction of worlds.

    Galloway: Does hatred for the world do a similar work for you that judgment or moralism does in other writers? How do we avoid the more violent and corrosive forms of hate?

    Culp: Writer Antonin Artaud’s attempt “to have done with the judgment of God” plays a crucial role in Dark Deleuze. Not just any specific authority but whatever gods are left. The easiest way to summarize this is “the three deaths.” Deleuze already makes note of these deaths in the preface to Difference and Repetition, but it only became clear to me after I read Gregg Flaxman’s Gilles Deleuze and the Fabulation of Philosophy. We all know of Nietzsche’s Death of God. With it, Nietzsche notes that God no longer serves as the central organizing principle for us moderns. Important to Dark Deleuze is Pierre Klossowski’s Nietzsche, who is part of a conspiracy against all of humanity. Why? Because even as God is dead, humanity has replaced him with itself. Next comes the Death of Man, which we can lay at the feet of Foucault. More than any other text, The Order of Things demonstrates how the birth of modern man was an invention doomed to fail. So if that death is already written in sand about to be washed away, then what comes next? Here I turn to the world, worlding, and world-building. It seems obvious when looking at the problems that plague our world: global climate change, integrated world capitalism, and other planet-scale catastrophes. We could try to deal with each problem one by one. But why not pose an even more radical proposition? What if we gave up on trying to save this world? We are already awash in sci-fi that tries to do this, though most of it is incredibly socially conservative. Perhaps now is the time for thinkers like us to catch up. Fragments of Deleuze already lay out the terms of the project. He ends the preface to Different and Repetition by assigning philosophy the task of writing apocalyptic science fiction. Deleuze’s book opens with lightning across the black sky and ends with the world swelling into a single ocean of excess. Dark Deleuze collects those moments and names it the Death of This World.

    Galloway: Speaking of climate change, I’m reminded how ecological thinkers can be very religious, if not in word then in deed. Ecologists like to critique “nature” and tout their anti-essentialist credentials, while at the same time promulgating tellurian “change” as necessary, even beneficial. Have they simply replaced one irresistible force with another? But your “hatred of the world” follows a different logic…

    Culp: Irresistible indeed! Yet it is very dangerous to let the earth have the final say. Not only does psychoanalysis teach us that it is necessary to buck the judgment of nature, the is/ought distinction at the philosophical core of most ethical thought refuses to let natural fact define the good. I introduce hatred to develop a critical distance from what is, and, as such, hatred is also a reclamation of the future in that it is a refusal to allow what-is to prevail over what-could-be. Such an orientation to the future is already in Deleuze and Guattari. What else is de-territorialization? I just give it a name. They have another name for what I call hatred: utopia.

    Speaking of utopia, Deleuze and Guattari’s definition of utopia in What is Philosophy? as simultaneously now-here and no-where is often used by commentators to justify odd compromise positions with the present state of affairs. The immediate reference is Samuel Butler’s 1872 book Erewhon, a backward spelling of nowhere, which Deleuze also references across his other work. I would imagine most people would assume it is a utopian novel in the vein of Edward Bellamy’s Looking Backward. And Erewhon does borrow from the conventions of utopian literature, but only to skewer them with satire. A closer examination reveals that the book is really a jab at religion, Victorian values, and the British colonization of New Zealand! So if there is anything that the now-here of Erewhon has to contribute to utopia, it is that the present deserves our ruthless criticism. So instead of being a simultaneous now-here and no-where, hatred follows from Deleuze and Guattari’s suggestion in A Thousand Plateaus to “overthrow ontology” (25). Therefore, utopia is only found in Erewhon by taking leave of the now-here to get to no-where.

    Galloway: In Dark Deleuze you talk about avoiding “the liberal trap of tolerance, compassion, and respect.” And you conclude by saying that the “greatest crime of joyousness is tolerance.” Can you explain what you mean, particularly for those who might value tolerance as a virtue?

    Culp: Among the many followers of Deleuze today, there are a number of liberal Deleuzians. Perhaps the biggest stronghold is in political science, where there is a committed group of self-professed radical liberals. Another strain bridges Deleuze with the liberalism of John Rawls. I was a bit shocked to discover both of these approaches, but I suppose it was inevitable given liberalism’s ability to assimilate nearly any form of thought.

    Herbert Marcuse recognized “repressive tolerance” as the incredible power of liberalism to justify the violence of positions clothed as neutral. The examples Marcuse cites are governments who say they respect democratic liberties because they allow political protest although they ignore protesters by labeling them a special interest group. For those of us who have seen university administrations calmly collect student demands, set up dead-end committees, and slap pictures of protestors on promotional materials as a badge of diversity, it should be no surprise that Marcuse dedicated the essay to his students. An important elaboration on repressive tolerance is Wendy Brown’s Regulating Aversion. She argues that imperialist US foreign policy drapes itself in tolerance discourse. This helps diagnose why liberal feminist groups lined up behind the US invasion of Afghanistan (the Taliban is patriarchal) and explains how a mere utterance of ISIS inspires even the most progressive liberals to support outrageous war budgets.

    Because of their commitment to democracy, Brown and Marcuse can only qualify liberalism’s universal procedures for an ethical subject. Each criticizes certain uses of tolerance but does not want to dispense with it completely. Deleuze’s hatred of democracy makes it much easier for me. Instead, I embrace the perspective of a communist partisan because communists fight from a different structural position than that of the capitalist.

    Galloway: Speaking of structure and position, you have a section in the book on asymmetry. Most authors avoid asymmetry, instead favoring concepts like exchange or reciprocity. I’m thinking of texts on “the encounter” or “the gift,” not to mention dialectics itself as a system of exchange. Still you want to embrace irreversibility, incommensurability, and formal inoperability–why?

    Culp: There are a lot of reasons to prefer asymmetry, but for me, it comes down to a question of political strategy.

    First, a little background. Deleuze and Guattari’s critique of exchange is important to Anti-Oedipus, which was staged through a challenge to Claude Lévi-Strauss. This is why they shift from the traditional Marxist analysis of mode of production to an anthropological study of anti-production, for which they use the work of Pierre Clastres and Georges Bataille to outline non-economic forms of power that prevented the emergence of capitalism. Contemporary anthropologists have renewed this line of inquiry, for instance, Eduardo Viveiros de Castro, who argues in Cannibal Metaphysics that cosmologies differ radically enough between peoples that they essentially live in different worlds. The cannibal, he shows, is not the subject of a mode of production but a mode of predation.

    Those are not the stakes that interest me the most. Consider instead the consequence of ethical systems built on the gift and political systems of incommensurability. The ethical approach is exemplified by Derrida, whose responsibility to the other draws from the liberal theological tradition of accepting the stranger. While there is distance between self and other, it is a difference that is bridged through the democratic project of radical inclusion, even if such incorporation can only be aporetically described as a necessary-impossibility. In contrast, the politics of asymmetry uses incommensurability to widen the chasm opened by difference. It offers a strategy for generating antagonism without the formal equivalence of dialectics and provides an image of revolution based on fundamental transformation. The former can be seen in the inherent difference between the perspective of labor and the perspective of capital, whereas the latter is a way out of what Guy Debord calls “a perpetual present.”

    Galloway: You are exploring a “dark” Deleuze, and I’m reminded how the concepts of darkness and blackness have expanded and interwoven in recent years in everything from afro-pessimism to black metal theory (which we know is frighteningly white). How do you differentiate between darkness and blackness? Or perhaps that’s not the point?

    Culp: The writing on Deleuze and race is uneven. A lot of it can be blamed on the imprecise definition of becoming. The most vulgar version of becoming is embodied by neoliberal subjects who undergo an always-incomplete process of coming more into being (finding themselves, identifying their capacities, commanding their abilities). The molecular version is a bit better in that it theorizes subjectivity as developing outside of or in tension with identity. Yet the prominent uses of becoming and race rarely escaped the postmodern orbit of hybridity, difference, and inclusive disjunction–the White Man’s face as master signifier, miscegenation as anti-racist practice, “I am all the names of history.” You are right to mention afro-pessimism, as it cuts a new way through the problem. As I’ve written elsewhere, Frantz Fanon describes being caught between “infinity and nothingness” in his famous chapter on the fact of blackness in Black Skin White Masks. The position of infinity is best championed by Fred Moten, whose black fugitive is the effect of an excessive vitality that has survived five hundred years of captivity. He catches fleeting moments of it in performances of jazz, art, and poetry. This position fits well with the familiar figures of Deleuzo-Guattarian politics: the itinerant nomad, the foreigner speaking in a minor tongue, the virtuoso trapped in-between lands. In short: the bastard combination of two or more distinct worlds. In contrast, afro-pessimism is not the opposite of the black radical tradition but its outside. According to afro-pessimism, the definition of blackness is nothing but the social death of captivity. Remember the scene of subjection mentioned by Fanon? During that nauseating moment he is assailed by a whole series of cultural associations attached to him by strangers on the street. “I was battered down by tom-toms, cannibalism, intellectual deficiency, fetishism, racial defects, slave-ships, and above all else, above all: ‘Sho’ good eatin”” (112). The lesson that afro-pessimism draws from this scene is that cultural representations of blackness only reflect back the interior of white civil society. The conclusion is that combining social death with a culture of resistance, such as the one embodied by Fanon’s mentor Aimé Césaire, is a trap that leads only back to whiteness. Afro-pessimism thus follows the alternate route of darkness. It casts a line to the outside through an un-becoming that dissolves the identity we are give as a token for the shame of being a survivor.

    Galloway: In a recent interview the filmmaker Haile Gerima spoke about whiteness as “realization.” By this he meant both realization as such–self-realization, the realization of the self, the ability to realize the self–but also the more nefarious version as “realization through the other.” What’s astounding is that one can replace “through” with almost any other preposition–for, against, with, without, etc.–and the dynamic still holds. Whiteness is the thing that turns everything else, including black bodies, into fodder for its own realization. Is this why you turn away from realization toward something like profanation? And is darkness just another kind of whiteness?

    Culp: Perhaps blackness is to the profane as darkness is to the outside. What is black metal if not a project of political-aesthetic profanation? But as other commentators have pointed out, the politics of black metal is ultimately telluric (e.g. Benjamin Noys’s “‘Remain True to the Earth!’: Remarks on the Politics of Black Metal”). The left wing of black metal is anarchist anti-civ and the right is fascist-nativist. Both trace authority back to the earth that they treat as an ultimate judge usurped by false idols.

    The process follows what Badiou calls “the passion for the real,” his diagnosis of the Twentieth Century’s obsession with true identity, false copies, and inauthentic fakes. His critique equally applies to Deleuzian realists. This is why I think it is essential to return to Deleuze’s work on cinema and the powers of the false. One key example is Orson Welles’s F for Fake. Yet my favorite is the noir novel, which he praises in “The Philosophy of Crime Novels.” The noir protagonist never follows in the footsteps of Sherlock Holmes or other classical detectives’s search for the real, which happens by sniffing out the truth through a scientific attunement of the senses. Rather, the dirty streets lead the detective down enough dead ends that he proceeds by way of a series of errors. What noir reveals is that crime and the police have “nothing to do with a metaphysical or scientific search for truth” (82). The truth is rarely decisive in noir because breakthroughs only come by way of “the great trinity of falsehood”: informant-corruption-torture. The ultimate gift of noir is a new vision of the world whereby honest people are just dupes of the police because society is fueled by falsehood all the way down.

    To specify the descent to darkness, I use darkness to signify the outside. The outside has many names: the contingent, the void, the unexpected, the accidental, the crack-up, the catastrophe. The dominant affects associated with it are anticipation, foreboding, and terror. To give a few examples, H. P. Lovecraft’s scariest monsters are those so alien that characters cannot describe them with any clarity, Maurice Blanchot’s disaster is the Holocaust as well as any other event so terrible that it interrupts thinking, and Don DeLillo’s “airborne toxic event” is an incident so foreign that it can only be described in the most banal terms. Of Deleuze and Guattari’s many different bodies without organs, one of the conservative varieties comes from a Freudian model of the psyche as a shell meant to protect the ego from outside perturbations. We all have these protective barriers made up of habits that help us navigate an uncertain world–that is the purpose of Guattari’s ritornello, that little ditty we whistle to remind us of the familiar even when we travel to strange lands. There are two parts that work together, the refrain and the strange land. The refrains have only grown yet the journeys seem to have ended.

    I’ll end with an example close to my own heart. Deleuze and Guattari are being used to support new anarchist “pre-figurative politics,” which is defined as seeking to build a new society within the constraints of the now. The consequence is that the political horizon of the future gets collapsed into the present. This is frustrating for someone like me, who holds out hope for a revolutionary future that ceases the million tiny humiliations that make up everyday life. I like J. K. Gibson-Graham’s feminist critique of political economy, but community currencies, labor time banks, and worker’s coops are not my image of communism. This is why I have drawn on the gothic for inspiration. A revolution that emerges from the darkness holds the apocalyptic potential of ending the world as we know it.

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    _____

    Alexander R. Galloway is a writer and computer programer working on issues in philosophy, technology, and theories of mediation. Professor of Media, Culture, and Communication at New York University, he is author of several books and dozens of articles on digital media and critical theory, including Protocol: How Control Exists after Decentralization (MIT, 2006), Gaming: Essays in Algorithmic Culture (University of Minnesota, 2006); The Interface Effect (Polity, 2012), and most recently Laruelle: Against the Digital (University of Minnesota, 2014), reviewed here in 2014. He is a frequent contributor to The b2 Review “Digital Studies.”

    Andrew Culp is a Visiting Assistant Professor of Rhetoric Studies at Whitman College. He specializes in cultural-communicative theories of power, the politics of emerging media, and gendered responses to urbanization. His work has appeared in Radical Philosophy, Angelaki, Affinities, and other venues. He previously pre-reviewed Galloway’s Laruelle: Against the Digital for The b2 Review “Digital Studies.”

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