The Digital Object of Desire

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Amlan Das Gupta and Subrata Sinha

 

[School of Cultural Texts and Records, Jadavpur University]

 

 

“The image that is read – which is to say, the image in the now of its recognizability – bears to the highest degree the imprint of the perilous critical moment on which all reading is founded”. (Walter Benjamin, The Arcades, N 3,1)

The paper comes out of the experience of working at the School of Cultural Texts and Records of this university. As such it reflects opinions and insights of our fellow-workers, past and present. We have worked for nearly a decade in building – along with some others – a digital archive of North Indian classical music. In a more tangential way, we are also involved with other deployments of digital technologies in the humanities: archiving, databasing, metadata creation, electronic editing, textual encoding, and so on. Archiving and editing are fairly innocuous activities in themselves: they might be thought of as useful, or at least harmless drudgery, appropriate to those of the academic persuasion. Yet as we immerse ourselves pleasantly in the minutiae of manuscript and typescript, printed book and ephemera, shellac discs and magnetic tape, photographic prints and moving images, we find that our undoubtedly disparate fields of activity are united in the single respect that we are engaged in translating these cultural entities into computer readable data.

The Humanities in the Age of their Digital Operability

Let us start by alluding to a controversial blogpost made earlier this year in the New York Times by the well-known literary scholar Stanley Fish. Fish is in general taking issue with the claims of the “digital humanities”, but his quarrel appears to be with the new umanista, not those who can just about access articles on JSTOR. Many of us find ourselves silently accepting our place within the expansive empire of DH. We did not arrive nor were we converted: we simply acquiesced. As a label DH appears to have largely supplanted “humanities computing” and taken over much of the “new media”.  But then, are there digital humanists and digital humanists?  Do we recognize ourselves in the Twitter happy  digital “insurgents” that Stanley Fish describes in his “tri(blo)gy” on the digital humanities? Fish takes a half-playful dig at humanities’ digital turn (NY Times, 26.12.2011-01.02.2012),  noting incidentally that English departments are turning out to be the new battle grounds.

[There are]  two visions of the digital humanities project — the perfection of traditional criticism and the inauguration of something entirely new — correspond to the two attitudes digital humanists typically strike: (1) we’re doing what you’ve always been doing, only we have tools that will enable you to do it better; let us in, and (2) we are the heralds and bearers of a new truth and it is the disruptive challenge of that new truth that accounts for your recoiling from us. It is the double claim always made by an insurgent movement. We are a beleaguered minority and we are also the saving remnant.

Fish’s digital humanist, thus, must be the maker rather than the user: almost none of us engaged in the academic practice of the humanities and the social sciences can escape the fact that the disciplines increasingly exist in the condition of digital operability.  But one  guesses from the way that the argument progresses, the digital humanist is more digital than humanist. The argument is about the sophistication of the tools that allow us to process and visualize. Fish’s  conclusion, however, is fairly definite:

But whatever vision of the digital humanities is proclaimed, it will have little place for the likes of me and for the kind of criticism I practice: a criticism that narrows meaning to the significances designed by an author, a criticism that generalizes from a text as small as half a line, a criticism that insists on the distinction between the true and the false, between what is relevant and what is noise, between what is serious and what is mere play. Nothing ludic in what I do or try to do. I have a lot to answer for. (NYTimes, Jan 23)

Fish is pointedly disregarding here the possibility that the deployment of digital tools might result in the perception of new problems for purely human consideration: that the near-limitless powers of aggregation and consolidation that computers provide might in fact locate another – or many – of such singularities that he bases his critical practice on.

Making and Using

Perhaps we should say that the true digital humanists are those who are makers as well as users: at any rate, not just users. The tools themselves are also in general made available for others: digital humanists (by and large) are nothing if not generous. but the nature of the tool is that it is suited to particular ends. Knives are knives and hammers, hammers: one rarely suffices to perform the task of the other. and if one finds that one really needs a stapler, then neither is of much use.  Let us give an example from music archiving. As part of our efforts, we have the unexceptionable task of converting analogue sound to a digital signal and  then storing it in a manner which facilitates cognition and access. We use commercial software packages which convert the digital signal into the appropriate storage format as demanded by internationally approved archival standards. Most of the functions of the (highly expensive) software packages (such as Adobe Audition or Sound Forge) are of little use to us as archivists of course: but in case a particularly noisy recording needs to be cleared up for some non-archival purpose, one can use a number of very broad based functions that anticipate most of the needs that one may have. There are also collaborative free-source softwares that we might have used if we were just digitizing an analogue recording for our  personal use. Instead of spending large sums of money buying an Adobe package, we could just download Audacity: here too we would have found a very large number of tools contributed by the community of users – who are also makers. Most of these tools are very specialized and were built by programmers addressing specific sound issues: a typical example might be the Nyquist limiter for live concert recordings offering exceptionally low harmonic distortions. Both the tool and the code are freely accessible. A great many high quality, small, specialized tools instead of the single large aggregative tool: perhaps in time too there will be enough of these tools to serve most practical needs. What is also likely is that we will also teach ourselves minimal tool tweaking so that we can serve our individual needs.

Ropes of Sand

In the digital chain of being, music archivists are fairly low down: they are decidedly users and often accused of a kind of perverse luddism. They are likely to be if anything hardware fetishists, and unwilling to engage with the potential of software tools. Much energy is expended in painstaking documentation, and perhaps something on methods of preservation and access: but it might make be significant to note that none of the major digital music archives in India – we could think of at least  five or six – offer significant online access. One might think that one of the natural ends of digitization is to encourage widespread access, but archivists are in fact decidedly unforthcoming in this matter. Insurgents, we are not: mindful, even subservient to the status quo. But then the more aggressive propaganda for digital humanities departments could even claim that  “because students in the digital humanities are trained to deal with concrete issues related to intellectual property and privacy,” they will be equipped “to enter fields related to everything from writing computer programs to text encoding and text editing, electronic publishing, interface design, and archive construction”  (“The Humanities and the Fear of Being Useful,” in Inside Higher Education, Paul Jay and Gerald Graff, cited Fish, loc. cit. 9 Jan 2012).  Archives – and we speak now of those located in institutional spaces – often have to disavow the pleasures of digital dissemination  purely in order to survive and continue in an oppressive intellectual property regime.

What we call progress is this storm

If archivists resolutely set their faces against two of the most significant advantages of digital data – the opportunity of using powerful tools, and that of easy dissemination, what on earth are we doing here? The answer most often given is that the option of digitization out of analogue states is the best chance of survival of much data. If the idea of having such archives are very much in the air these days, it evidently focuses attention on frightening prospect of inoperability in the analogue domain. Yet paradoxically, it is digital archivists who are often the most driven by the prospect of loss, ineffectual prophets of the need to hold on to analogue records, be they contained in shellac or paper, celluloid or bromide. . While digital technology offers a convenient solution to many problems of recording – in terms of affordability and reproducibility, it would be unwise to think that once music is digitized it is assured of uninterrupted survival. In fact, the pressure of technological obsolescence is experienced in this field at an immensely heightened form. Neither the media nor the equipment is likely to last very long in physical terms too, and the feeling among enthusiasts that it digital media can be quickly and without appreciable loss copied, must be offset by the depressing awareness that every effort needs both human will and monetary support, and these are after all factors that one cannot assume as being easy to come by. What Walter Benjamin’s angel sees is in fact our condition: “This storm drives him irresistibly into the future, to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows toward the sky. What we call progress is this storm.” [Theses on History, thesis IX,]

Archives, in the sense that we understand them, are small dustheaps, recuperated  from the detritus of history.

Collectors and Ragpickers

In his ambitious and unfinished project on the modern city – The Arcades – Benjamin repeatedly returns to the question of accumulation, the need that is pre-eminently the experience of modern living: to salvage “scraps from the wreckage of culture” to hold on to fragments of a past that we know to be irretrievable. Benjamin in fact speaks our predicament clearly in his writings: above all he was a  man whose life’s work is an archive of sorts. Peter Conrad writes in his review of the Verso volume entitled Walter Benjamin’s Archive: Images, Texts, Signs (ed Ursula Marx, 2007):

These fragments I have shored against my ruin,’ says a nameless voice in TS Eliot’s The Waste Land. The fragments are a collage of quotations, jumbled mementos of a lost world. For Walter Benjamin, this might have been the motive of cultural history: he, too, salvaged scraps from the wreckage of culture, anthologising quotes in the hope of reconstructing a past that he knew to be irretrievable.

But much of Eliot’s investment in fragments is a aesthetic stance, for Benjamin it was constitutive of identity.

Eliot’s poem was artificially fragmented by Ezra Pound. Benjamin did not have to pretend to be fabricating a ruin. Hustled by history and menaced by poverty, he scribbled his most brilliant perceptions on scraps of paper, some of which are reproduced in the Archive. Any tattered or expendable sheet would do: an opened envelope, train tickets, request forms from libraries, a prescription pad thrown away by a friendly doctor. Intriguingly, a note on the idea of aura – crucial to Benjamin’s great essay on ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’, his elegy for the idiosyncrasy that has been expunged from our mass-produced society – is scrawled on an advertisement for San Pellegrino mineral water.(The Guardian, 27 Oct 2008)

Convolute H of the Arcades is entitled “The Collector”.  Many of the ideas here are familiar from the 1931 essay “Unpacking My Library”, but they reappear thickly encrusted with quotations, comments and interjections, no longer a wise disquisition on love, death and the book: fragmented thoughts now, interspersing that which is recovered from others. The Arcades is fully, in Bakhtin’s sense, translinguistic.

Benjamin reflects on the difference  and similarity between two powerful figural types,  both in some sense engaged in the task of  bringing together the disjecta membra of quotidian life: the collector and the allegorist:

Perhaps the most deeply hidden motive of the person who collects can be described this way: he takes up the struggle against dispersion. Right from the start, the great collector is struck by the confusion, by the scatter, in which the things of the world are found. It is the same spectacle that so preoccupied the men of the Baroque; in particular, the world image of the allegorist cannot be explained apart from the passionate, distraught concern with this spectacle. The allegorist is, as it were, the polar opposite of the collector. He has given up the attempt to elucidate things through research into their properties and relations. He dislodges things from their context and, from the outset, relies on his profundity to illuminate their meaning. The collector, by contrast, brings together what belongs together; by keeping in mind their affinities and their succession in time, he can eventually furnish information about his objects.  [H4a,1]

Benjamin’s positive valuation of material possession, his celebratory warmth towards the products of mass consumer culture, have caused some concern among the more doctrinaire readers.  Hannah Arendt however notes the revolutionary potential of Benjamin’s obsession with things: “Benjamin could understand the collector’s passion as an attitude akin to that of the revolutionary. Like the revolutionary, the collector “dreams his way not only into a remote or bygone world, but at the same time into a better one in which, to be sure, people are not provided with what they need any more than they are in the everyday world, but in which things are liberated from the drudgery of usefulness” (Illuminations, 42).

But if the allegorist and the collector, are both moved by the “passionate, distraught” spectacle of dispersal and fragmentation, responding by creating material arrays, they are not the only gatherers of unconsidered trifles. As night falls on the city, the streets see two other figures sifting through the refuse of the day: the ragpicker and the poet. In the Baudelaire book, they appear as indissolubly twinned. A quotation from Baudelaire’s “Wine and Hashish” provides the key.

“Here we have a man whose job it is to gather the day’s refuse in the capital. Everything that the big city has thrown away, everything it has lost, everything it has scorned, everything it has crushed underfoot he catalogues and collects. He collates the annals of intemperance, the capharnaum of waste. He sorts things out and selects judiciously: he collects like a miser guarding a treasure, refuse which will assume the shape of useful or gratifying objects between the jaws of the goddess of Industry”.

and goes on to add:

This description is one extended metaphor for the poetic method, as Baudelaire practiced it. Ragpicker and poet: both are concerned with refuse”.  (The Writer of Modern Life, Harvard, p.108)

In Convolute H of the Arcades there is a further amplification: “Flaneur  The flaneur optical,  the collector tactile”. [H2,5]

Already Always

The digital surrogate is hardly an object even in the attenuated sense that that those in the foul rag and bone shop of the ragpicker’s inhabitation. Archivists of course are not even ragpickers, for where even the ragpicker chooses what is of value (“objects of quality or of delight”), the archivist is bound to the task of bounded exhaustiveness. Nothing within the collection can be left out: nothing that was not part of it can be included without creating a fresh archive. The archive documents the process of survival. The question of usefulness one might say is finally excised, in the hope that this excision itself becomes the source of value. In practical terms this often accounts for the choice of the digital domain. The inherent sense of instabilility, the terror of obsolescence, the spectrality of being that characterises the digital field is partly at least offset by its promise of virtual limitlessness: it appears to be capacious enough to contain whatever we may choose to commit to it. What we may have gained is the sense the digital archive enables us to undertake the task of archiving the quotidian, the ordinary, the unexceptional.

But what of the digital surrogate itself? Without form or lineament, existing outside memory and affect, it can be nevertheless be endlessly simulated, visualized, auralized and replicated – and in many cases added to or subtracted from. As a condition of preservation of cultural material,  this may seem unprecedented, a new realm of the marvellous. Lisa Gitelman, in a study of the new media, speculates on the peculiarity of  digital inscription:

Digital media inscribe too, and they do so in what are mysterious new ways. (Mysterious to me, at least, and anyone else without an engineering background.) I see words written on my computer screen, for instance, and I know its operating system and other programs have been written by programmers, but the only related inscriptions of which I can be fully confident are the ones that come rolling out of the attached printer, and possibly the ones that I am told were literally printed onto chips that have been installed somewhere inside. At least inscriptions like printer output and microprocessor circuits share the properties of tangibility, portability, and immutability. The others? Who knows? I execute commands to save my data files—texts, graphics, sounds—but in saving them, I have no absolute sense of digital savability as a quality that is familiarly material.

But then materiality is also, as Gitelman goes on to say,  a matter of getting used to things.

I have tended to chalk this up to the difference between the virtual and the real, without stopping to ponder what virtual inscriptions … could possibly be. Like the mysteries surrounding the inscription of recorded sound onto surfaces of tinfoil and then wax at the end of the nineteenth century, the mysteries surrounding the virtual inscription of digital documents are part of the ongoing definition of these new media in and as they relate to history.

In the historical perspective, then, as Gitelman’s book suggests, the newness of the new media is in the condition of being “already always” new.

sctr-music archive

The Digital Object of Desire

All archives – not merely digital ones – are founded on certain conscious choices, no matter whether such choices are practical and utilitarian, or ludic and rebellious. One might choose to archive collections of great poetry, or cheap chapbooks: in fact the centre at which we work has both. The digital object however is peculiarly founded. Collectors develop, as we all know, a physical tactile relationship with the objects of their love that often exceeds normal cognitive parameters. A music collector is reputed  to have been able to distinguish the smell of individual carriers; a professor at a university in our city – near the end of his life and totally without sight – was known to be able to distinguish editions of early Bengali books by merely touching them. Such anecdotes of affect are common in companies of collectors and archivists, and undoubtedly tell us something about the intensity of desire that cultural objects can produce. Can the digital surrogate be located in the circuit of desire? One might argue in extension of an earlier argument that the experience of the archived material – game, film, music, image or text – remains largely the same: all consumption of cultural data is determined by a specific state of technology.

Desire may seem a dangerous idea to bandy about in the context of the archive. Collections, we know, are built around desire:  archivists are tied in the strong coils of necessity, often not of their own making. The collection recognizes only one user: the collector herself. But archives, even the slightest of them, have constantly to bear in mind the desire of the future users. What we do know is justified only in the image of that shadowy and unimaginable figure of the future. How can we speak of the desire of that user? The archive – and we will speak here of the digital archive – are founded upon an act of faith, that what we collect in the here and now will somehow endure  till the time that it enters into the retrospective desire of a community of users, perhaps today or tomorrow or perhaps a few years hence.  But it takes courage, not to say foolhardiness, to think of the future at all in the digital domain.  If the digital archive is born as a counter to the inhospitability of the present to the past, the future to which it looks may be in fact an illusion.  It can hardly be otherwise: some digital archives will endure and others will not, adding to the frighteningly large pile of digital debris that the storm, that we call progress, drives us towards. The Internet is a veritable graveyard of dead archives, still present in some ghostly abstract form, but beyond access and experience.

The digital surrogate, exists then, in what we might feel a radical state of alienation, its lack of tactility, its dissociation from material presence. It is probably true that a similar sense of estrangement is experienced at other critical moments of technological change: the printed word, for instance, or recorded sound. But at every stage the problem of cognition is posed anew. If by a process of habit the physical book becomes more and more indistinguishable from what it contains, the affect for the song is sited in the shellac disc, it is as yet difficult to think how we may conceive of digital content outside of the moment of experiencing it. To be able to use it, we must first be able to know recognize it: cognition as always determines access. This brings us at the end of this brief reflection to the question of metadata. Whatever metadata  we provide today is on the basis of what we are able to articulate about the digital surrogate, which again must be part of our strategy of committing it to the future. Whatever we say about it now is the state of the archivist’s knowledge, here and now: we can only strive to push towards that horizon of uncertainty where it will collide with the interrogation of the future. What questions will the future user put to the archive? What form will her interest take? The problems faced by archives of non-verbal material are considerably more complex here. In the current state of knowledge the image or sound file can be defined only with verbal tags: one cannot as yet define a sound as Ali Akbar Khan and use it to define a search. But it is not an illegitimate question for any committed listener to Indian classical music would take only a few seconds to recognize the sound of the master’s instrument, from any time in the artist’s career, and irrespective of the state of the recording.  Perhaps content defined searches are one of the tools we may hope to have in the not too distant future. But until such time, all searches are dependent on how we as archivists wrap the naked digital entity in a envelope of tags and markers, and thus make it cognizable.

The experience of digital archiving teaches us that collections tend to grow very fast. The pressure of accumulating content leads one fears to a kind of minimalism in metadata creation, especially in those for front-end use. More energy expended in metadata creation would mean less data processed: for those of us who have worked almost entirely on time-bound project funding, the trick is to figure out a reasonable compromise. A collector friend – who carries his catalogue entirely in his head – asked us recently how many nawab-pasand gats our archive had. When we confessed that we really had no idea, he asked us what the use of having such an archive could possibly be! It is here that one might think of the possibility of devising a more interactive – or dialogic – database, not just one in which there is scope for correcting existing errors or supplies missing information: but one in which both the questions and answers of  future users might find a place.

Anybody associated with the archiving of performing arts would know that a large pool of data about a collection – ranging from the collection itself to the history of a particular piece of recording within the collection –is actually stored in the folklore that is held within the archival community . They do not find their way into the database primarily because much of it cannot really be accommodated within the rigid categories of the catalogue structure.  One might well say that the recognition  and recording of these anarchic pieces of anecdotal information, the metadata of the metadata,  have no place at all in the archivist’s world. But when considers the fact that the primary concern of the actual content in an audio-visual archive is not informative, but aesthetic, we might wish to pause and think. Can we think of the task of the archivist directly at odds with the object of cataloguing – in procedure, even if not in intention?. The multitude of the formative aspects of the aesthetic product remains outside the scope of the catalogue. The catalogue‘s overwhelming preoccupation with the taxonomical location of the product ignores the process of its making.

Performed music in India – we are thinking here of the collections of concert performances of Hindustani classical music from the 1950s to the 1970s that form the speciality of our archive – has an important collective identity. Whatever the status in law of ownership of music, it appears to be well accepted that the music that was performed recognized the existence of web of relationships. Not just the accompanists, but patrons, organizers, other musicians present, the lay audience, technicians and recordists, had a stake in the music that was made. Then also the musical content was traditional and reflected to the knowledge of  other musical communities. Collectors – those with access to recording technology – were often the custodians of the music, and by and large seem to have played their role scrupulously and with efficiency. It is to their mediation, often attended with considerably personal sacrifice, that we owe the survival of a large corpus of musical sound. Thus the recordings themselves often call for a supplement: of community knowledge, folklore, gossip, scandal, anecdote: listening to these recordings in informed company elicits unexpected – and often invaluable – results.

Sound archivists in particular habitually profit from the queries and responses of users. In our cases, we often have mislabelled artists, misrecognized ragas, wrongly transcribed bandishes: we have also sought to correct earlier errors of attribution and description.  We have looked to the experience of use for both correction and validation. But what would be perhaps even more valuable is to think of the catalogue as incorporating a space not only for information but an excavation of those layers of experience from which the recorded song in the act of archiving: the nature of digital space might make us want to think of the possibility not only about cataloguing of a digital content, but also about digital cataloguing of archival contents. The digital domain, as we can note from the experience of textual scholarship,  is good at juxtaposing verbal variations, if not at making sense of those differences. Can we, in that case, think of a prospect of polyphony in the catalogued space?

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Explaining Neo-Malthusianism?

Mohan Rao

Introduction

Politically correct, influential people in policy making circles in the First World do not, any more, talk of the yellow peril, or use phrases such as population explosion, or metaphors like the population bomb. Nevertheless, neo-Malthusian thinking frames other policy discourses, those on welfare, immigration and the environment being prominent ones.  Soon after the London riots last year, commentators were talking of the undeserving poor, whose council housing should be razed if their children had participated in the riots. The children themselves were referred to as vermin, who needed to be dealt with firmly, with real bullets. At the same time, partly due to the very reach and influence of such doomsday demographic discourses emanating from the West in the past, and the modified ones today, the elites and the middle classes in much of the Third World remain convinced that the cause of social and economic problems in their countries stem primarily, if not only, from population growth.

It is also clear that there is an anxiety among elites in our country about population growth, the belief that this lies at heart of a range of social and economic problems that we face. This belief enjoys widespread appeal in the media and among middle class professionals, including of course doctors. What explains the enormous appeal of this argument? Is it propaganda over the last 50 years, initially stemming from the West, but now deeply internalized in our country?[i]

Many of these beliefs are sanitised in public pronouncements, made acceptable, and yet it is undeniable they represent powerful undercurrents of thinking in an astonishingly wide range of areas. This paper, preliminary and tentative in nature, attempts to explain what seems to be inexplicable. Do these ideas stem from other atavistic anxieties, about tribe and race? This too was evident after the London riots when commentators spoke of a Caribbean culture of violence and laziness taking over the streets of London. Do they arise from their evident simplicity in explaining a deeply fractured world?  Why are they such overwhelming tropes in the discourse of fundamentalisms of various sorts? Does neo-liberalism provide them with impetus?  Why are they entangled with other anti-feminist discourses? How do issues of identity, currently au courant, get imbricated in this?

I begin, then, with the almost irrelevant, if achingly tantalizing, question: what explains this abiding and widespread belief in neo-Malthusianism?  This question, though terribly moot, is difficult to answer with any certainty, since it involves feelings, opinions and prejudices that are not always easily explicable. How does one, for example, explain racism? Or, in India, the profound hold of casteism, the hatred and distaste for the lower castes, especially dalits? Or, the recent growth of suspicion, anxiety, and indeed, hatred and fear, for anything to do with Islam? There are many and complex reasons, some inter-linked. Is it primarily about with economic factors?  It is obviously not only to do with economic factors, although these are no doubt contributory. There are many more reasons, and population arguments also feed into this: the creation and hardening of prejudices, and of fear. In neo-imperial times, creation of fear is a growth industry (Lipschutz and Turcotte 2005)[ii] with sometimes utterly transparent political ends.

II

I begin this paper attempting to explain the neo Malthusian appeal by examining the astonishing case of Anders Behring Breveik. On the 22nd of July 2011, following the setting off of bombs in central Oslo, this young white man cold bloodedly killed 69 young men and women attending a youth camp organized by the ruling Labour Party at the island of Utoya, not far from Oslo. He wanted to draw attention to the dystopia that awaited Norway because of the appeasement of Muslims by what he called, with utterly no irony, “multi-cultural Marxists”.

When the bombs went off in Oslo, the New York Times reported, and everyone assumed, that this was the handiwork of Muslim terrorists. When the terrorist was identified as a White supremacist, the explanations quickly proffered were the familiar: while not all Muslims were terrorists, most terrorists were Muslim. But of course this is equally untrue. In 2007, two out of a total of 581 terrorist attacks in Europe were carried out by Muslims; in 2008, not one of the 441 documented terrorist attacks was by a Muslim. In 2009, there were 294 terrorist attacks, out of which one was committed by a Muslim. The vast majority of terrorist attacks (237 out of 297) were perpetrated by White, non-Muslim separatist groups mainly in Spain and France ( Europol 2010).[iii]

What is interesting is that Breveik, a Right wing Christian fundamentalist, has left a 1500 page manifesto entitled 2083: A European Declaration of Independence, an event he was attempting to usher in by his barbaric act. The year 2083 that he chose is also symbolically interesting: it represents the 400th anniversary of the Battle of Vienna in 1683 where the invading troops of the Ottoman empire suffered a defeat, ensuring that most parts of Europe did not come under Islamic rule. It is equally interesting that a Polish king took part in that holy battle. Today of course Poland, ruled by extreme Right wing twins, is seen as the heart of pro-family values, a Catholic nation besieged in a Europe that is awash with feminists, pro-abortion and gay- rights people, together emasculating Christianity as much as the Christian male. Poland, it is believed, is the last bastion of pro-family values that will rescue Europe from demographic doom that awaits it if women refuse to breed. The 2008 World Congress of Families was held in Warsaw, where the film Demographic Winter was screened (Posner 2011).[iv] The film, echoing Mark Steyn’s bestselling book America Alone: The End of the World as We Know It, predicts the death of European civilizations and the extinctions of her races “too self absorbed to breed” as they are engulfed by tides of Muslim immigrants, leading to the transformation of Europe into Eurabia. This will, it is argued, lead to the paradoxical situation in the future when European feminists will be ruled by Islamic patriarchy, robbing them of reproductive choice that they now exercise to weaken the family, the nation and the race. One other bestselling book is Leon J.Podle’s Church Impotent: The Feminisation of Christianity. Breivik has a solution to the problem posed by Podle. The issue of the hyper-masculine Muslim male and over-fertile oppressed Muslim female is of course familiar to us, immured to long years of saffron demography. I will come back to this later.

Breveik believed that Norway would be a Muslim majority country by the year 2050 since her spineless elites had, in a multi-cultural fit, succumbed to permit endless Muslim immigration.  The fact of the matter is that on the basis of the current population growth rates, Norway will have a Muslim population of seven per cent in 2050, but mad imaginations are not based on facts and reasoning.

Like many White supremacists and Christian fundamentalists, Breveik was a staunch supporter of Zionist Israel, which he saw as an island of Western values in a dark sea of Muslim barbarism. Christian Zionists, said to number 45 million in the USA, of course believe that a Second Coming is only possible if Jerusalem is ruled by Jews. But for Breveik, Israel needed to be supported for another reason: demographic war being waged on it by Muslims, even as Israel goes out to undo the Oslo accord through illegal settlements. The connection to Oslo, again.  Breveik is a new anti-Semite, pro-Zionist and fiercely anti-Arab. This position too entwines with that of the Hindu right in India, of which he was a great admirer. In a curious case of replay of old tropes, Israel is now considered the land of the free and tolerant – to gays, in marked contrast to supposedly homophobic Muslims, even as Israel in a far-reaching PR exercise starts funding various gay pride marches ( Puar 2010).[v]

It is not surprising that each year the VHP organizes summer camps both in Norway and Denmark where Islamophobic speakers of Indian origin hold forth (Kaur 2011).[vi] Breviek’s manifesto devotes a special chapter to India and what he calls the “Hindu Holocaust”. This was the Hindu Kush mountains where Hindus were apparently slaughtered during the medieval “Islamisation” of the subcontinent. This is based on the claims of a Belgian supporter of Hindutva, Koenraad Elst, who is also known for the advice to the West on making life for Muslim minorities so difficult that they will either give up Islam or go back to where they came from! “ If the name Hindu Kush relates such a horrible genocide of Hindus, why are Hindus ignorant about it?”, asks Breveik. He attributes it to the Muslim appeasement policies of the government of India and the rewriting of history under its behest. “The victimization of Hindus, thus not only took place historically at the hands of Muslim aggressors, but now they are doubly victimized by “cultural Marxists” as well who control government” (cited in Kaur 2011:28).[vii] His admiration for the RSS, the BJP and the VHP, is clearly related to their anti-Muslim violence: “the only positive thing about the Hindu right wing is that they dominate the streets. They do not tolerate the current injustice and often riot and attack Muslims when things go out of control, usually after the Muslims disrespect and degrade Hinduism too much” (ibid). What he does not remark upon is saffron demography that so fits in with his own demographic anxieties. Not surprisingly BJP MP B.P.Singhal endorsed Breveik’s ideas (ENS 2011).[viii]

Here we have then the coming together of the extreme Right-wing Christian fundamentalism, anti-feminisms, racisms and demographic anxieties about the dying European race. Early twenty-first century echoing early twentieth century fears, tied now to Islamophobia and global politics of oil.

III

Racism is of course linked with neo-malthusianism, and not just because they emerged together. But we must begin, then, with a brief genealogy of neo-Malthusianism. Genealogies are fundamentally about accepted, legal, marriages and births. The late nineteenth century marriage of colonial anthropology with craniometry and the “science” of “race” produced the “science” of eugenics. Framing these disciplines, it must be noted, was the reality of colonialism that mid-wifed and nurtured these disciplines. Eugenics, of course, is a parent of neo-Malthusianism and of socio-biology. The American anthropologist D.G. Brinton argued, in praise of anthropometry:

The adult who retains the more numerous fetal, infantile or simian traits is unquestionably inferior to him whose development has progressed beyond them. Measured by these criteria, the European or white race stands at the head of the list, the African or Negro at its foot. (Brinton, 1890 cited in Gould 1981: 116).[ix]

Thus anthropology taught us, and anthropometry and craniometry quantified, the following: natives and savages were child-like, effeminate, instinctive, sensual, unreflexive, irrational, less intelligent, and in thrall of customs and traditions. Strangely, they were also hyper-sexual and thus tended to breed too much. In Kipling’s words, half-devil and half-child, these sullen new-caught people.[x] They were of course to be The White Man’s Burden, incapable of self-rule. This was of course evident from the position of women in these societies.

At the same time psychology also showed us that “the metaphysical character of women was very similar in nature to those which men exhibit at an early stage of development. The gentler sex is characterized by a greater impressibility, warmth of emotion, submission to its influence rather than that of logic” (Gould 1981: 117).[xi] Blandly stated, racism, anti-feminisms and colonialism come promiscuously together, with the colonizer to send forth the best he breeds to quell the sullen natives.[xii]

Armed with these insights, eugenics set out to improve the human race through two policy prescriptions: decreasing unwanted populations through negative eugenics, i.e. not permitting populations that exhibited undesirable characteristics to breed; and providing incentives to the best and brightest to breed through positive eugenics. The victims of negative eugenics have been the “feeble minded”, the tubercular, the alcoholic, the “indigent”, the “congenital criminal”, the mentally retarded, the insane, lepers, epileptics, the “feeble minded”, the “degenerate”, immigrants and of course the poor, who apparently bred all these characteristics especially if they were black or coloured. All this, with the supreme imprimatur of science, like theology, unquestionable, since this was truth. Benjamin Franklin noted, “I could wish their numbers were increased. Why increase the sons of Africa, by planting them in America, where we have so fair an opportunity, by excluding all blacks and tawneys, of increasing the lovely white and red?” (cited in ibid: 32).[xiii],[xiv]

According to Francis Galton, eugenics would breed out the vestigial barbarism of the human race, manipulating evolution to bring the biological reality of man into consonance with his lofty moral ideas of what mankind could, and indeed should be. He thus argued, “what nature does blindly, slowly, and ruthlessly, man may do providently, quickly and kindly” (Galton, cited in Kevles 1995: 12)[xv] Eugenics was thus a scientific substitute for the orthodoxies of the church, a secular religious faith. Eugenics was also tied to the destiny of the imperial nation. Such a nation, it was felt, required much more than merely economic and military power. It also demanded an efficient way of ensuring that its population was kept fresh, energetic, efficient and productive by ensuring that its fresh flow of population is mainly recruited from the “better stock” ( Rao 2004).[xvi] Indeed, this was one strong impetus to introduce maternal health programmes in many countries (Oakley 1986).[xvii]

A prominent eugenist in Germany wrote:

Because the inferior are always numerically superior to the better, the former would multiply so much faster—if they have the same possibility to survive and reproduce—that the better necessarily would be placed in the background.  Therefore a correction has to be made to the advantage of the better.  The nature (sic) offers such a correction by exposing the inferior to difficult living conditions which reduce their number.  Concerning the rest the nature (sic) does not allow them to reproduce indiscriminately, but makes a relentless selection according to their strength and health conditions ( Hilter, cited in Bondestam 1980: 16).[xviii]

The “correction” he offered to nature’s lethal ways was called the Final Solution.  Adolf Hitler included, among others, Jews, communists, gays and gypsies in his grand design. What is not well known is that the Holocaust would not have taken the ghastly toll it did had the US immigration laws not been changed earlier to keep out certain races not Nordic. Jews seeking to immigrate were of course excluded ( Brunius 2006).[xix] Indeed, that the eugenic laws in Nazi Germany were framed along laws in the USA.

It was this, the Final Solution, that discredited eugenics, although the ideas underlying it were widely shared. Indeed, the liberal US Supreme Court Justice Holmes found eugenic sterilisation constitutionally valid for the general good of the population. Further, as Brunius shows us, eugenic laws, framed by racism, were widely welcomed by the medical profession, the media, and by law-makers. But similar attitudes, similar feelings come to surface in many new avatars, all too distressingly frequently. In other words, it is the current political context that this idea appears to address, as it waxes and wanes, sometimes shrill, sometimes subdued, but at all times invariably, inextricably, linked to contemporary politics. Numbers of the Other, provide the frisson.

As the eminent German poet Enzenberger notes, the proportion of foreigners in Germany at the end of the twentieth century – when vicious anti-immigrant ideologies came to the fore, often accompanied by brutal attacks on “foreigners”– was well below that in the Germany before the First World War, when there was no such xenophobia. In Germany, itself a country of migrants, of many “races”, “The Aryan was never more than a risible construct” (Enzenberger 1992:38 ).[xx] Enzenberger adds:

It is of course no accident that the image of the life-boat recurs in the political discourse about immigration, usually in the form of the assertion, ‘The boat is full’. That this sentence is inaccurate is the least that can be said about it. A look around is enough to disprove it, as those who use it know. But they are not interested in its truthfulness; they like the fears it conjures up (ibid: 24) (emphasis mine).

Yet, Germany is one of only two modern states that allow its “lost tribes” a right to return. Israel is of course the only other. Two nations tied by a complex history of brutal bloodshed, both believing that nationality is in blood, both riding the tiger of fascism at various times, Germany in the past, and Israel, today.  Tying in with this idea, or sometimes even a metaphor of nationality, is the essentialism of numbers. This essentialism of numbers, is in a potent stew with the urge for the authentic and unsullied, the politics of identity, creating fears about the numbers of the Other. Again, these have a heritage in romantic Germany that so influenced the romance of a nation-in-being in India in the RSS (Nussbaum 2007)[xxi], with the military organization being borrowed from Mussolini’s brown-shirts ( Casolari 2000 ).[xxii]

There is today in neo-liberal times, a reified politics of identity, feeding into neo-Malthusian anxieties. There is a paradox here: while neo-liberalism exalts and celebrates the individual, identities are increasingly drawn in communitarian terms, and carved in heartless stone. Sen notes wryly that we have today a “discipline of identity” based on the unfounded assumption that we must have a single or principle identity that we “discover” (Sen 2005: 350).[xxiii] Of course, this discovery is most often of a spurious ethnic kind, forgetting that the ethnic, or the nativist, is only one among many claims to loyalty, and indeed that there is frequently nothing authentic either about imagined ethnicity.  Wedded here are essentialisms of various kinds: nativist post-modern, with fundamentalist neo-Orientalism, with right-wing neo-liberalism. Uniting all these essentialisms is also a fervent anti-feminism, seen as both tarnished by the Enlightenment project, anti-traditional and derivative (Sangari 2001).[xxiv] It is thus no accident that the Islamic Brotherhood in Egypt (Ali 2002),[xxv] the murderous Hindu fascists, George Bush and Anders Breveik echo each other in derivative irony. Entirely missing in these discourses is the notion of imperialism or neo-imperialism, which indeed gilds them, even as it holds them together.

The uncanny similarities between Malthusian times and the nineteen nineties have been widely noted. Both periods were characterized by a relentless drive to create free markets, “not by chance nor as a result of spontaneous development, but as an artefact of power and statecraft. In nineteenth century England it was the outcome of the project of classical political economy; now it is a monetarist project, to create a global market society largely unconstrained by public action” (Wuyts 1998: 34).[xxvi]  This new global market was to be created by the second wave of imperialist globalization enveloping the world, led by the Bretton Woods institutions, with new rules framed by the WTO. Imperialist globalisation sups comfortably at the same table with fundamentalisms; while doing so it also feeds it fresh blood. This is not only through the empirical truth that imperialism has funded fundamentalisms in various countries (Mamdani 2004),[xxvii] but also by fracturing broader identities, in a situation of a smaller cake for the masses, encourages the growth of political forces that feed on each other, along ethnic or religious lines (Patnaik 2003).[xxviii] From Yugoslavia, to Rwanda and now Iraq: the same story authored by imperialism unfolds sadly (Mamdani 2001).[xxix] Population arguments have contributed in all of them, appealing to community, to race, ideas of purity and blood. In all these cases, blood is defined by patriarchy.

What is frightening is that the atavistic appeals to blood, to tribe and to race, seem to carry so much power when we finally know there is no such thing as race. Current post-modern distrust of the modern state, and its violences, and the invocation of naive nativism feed their poison into this. Thus Algeria for the Algerians – who should not be in France! But in a world where historic revisionism is current, where new “tribal wars” are unleashed every day[xxx] with the coining of a new and frighteningly aseptic phrase to describe it, ethnic cleansing, it is eminently desirable to retrace the links between neo-Malthusianism, eugenics and the Holocaust. It is an irony of history that victims of the Holocaust, in one of the first modern countries created on the basis of religion, in order to supposedly protect their “race” are perpetrating yet another one today. Thus the population growth rate among Palestinians is frequently evoked in order to stoke fears among Israelis who are not Zionists (Avnery cited in Hartmann and Hendrixson)[xxxi]. By engendering fear and anxiety about the future, what neo-Malthusianism successfully does is evoke complicity in morally offensive policies among people.

The collapse of multi-national states as in Yugoslavia, the yearning for ethnically pure “nations of blood and ties” that caused and were a consequence of this collapse, have something tragic to teach us.  The horrible implications for huge sections of the population, ethnically cleansed into post-colonial states that have forgotten their anti-imperialist histories, is too recent to be forgotten.

Ethnic nationalism, combined with the essentialism of numbers, implies that “ one is in the grip of a love greater than reason, stronger than the will, a love akin to fate and destiny. Such a love assists the belief that it is fate, however tragic, that obliges you to kill” (Ignatieff 1993: 10).[xxxii]  History is then reworked to create the fiction of ethnic purity in the past, in which “ history is the savage play of ascriptive sympathies and antipathies, in which the ‘natural’ condition of groups of different origins is one in which they are wholly apart” (Al-Azmeh 1993:9).[xxxiii]

Thus, invoked in the rape and genocide of Muslims in Bosnia is the appeal to concocted history, to ethnic tribalism in all its gory, and ancient, essential symbols:

Miraculous Virgins make their scheduled appearance. Lurid posters show shafts of light touching the pommels of mysterious swords, or blazoning the talons of vicious two-headed eagles as more than a million Serbs attend a frenzied rally on the battle site of Kosavo where their forbears were humiliated in 1389, and hear former communists rave in accents of wounded tribalisms. Ancient insignias, totems, feudal coats of arms, talismans, oaths, rituals, icons and regalia jostle to take the field. A society long sunk in political stagnation is convulsed: puking up great rancid chunks of undigested barbarism ( Hitchens 1992 cited in Al-Azmeh 1993:10).[xxxiv]

The politics of nostalgia, of fictive identities, swirling with unresolved conflicts with neo-imperialism, create post-modern states painfully emulating the nation states imagined in Romantic Germany, as a nation of volk, of people of the soil, of primordial ties embedded in an ancient culture, in a fierce anti-Enlightenment discourse. This is of course eerily familiar to those of us in India, witness to pogroms against Muslims launched by the Sangh parivar. As Baber has shown, communalisation and racism are intertwined, often enough with cultures, to produce fictive ascriptive identities (Baber 2011).[xxxv]

The onslaught against the Muslims, is accompanied by concoction of history which is a mélange of myths and fiction, accompanied by the invention of “traditions”, the classification of Indian culture as “essentially” Hindu culture and so on. Fundamentalist demography is built upon these layered tissues of lies and populist myths to create a political community of Hindus. As with all fundamentalisms, these are also carved on the bodies of women. Internalising – with bewilderment, hurt and anger – colonial descriptions of Hindus as effeminate, the new identity that is sought to be created is virulently masculinist.[xxxvi] Along with the semitisation of Hinduism ( Jaiswal 1991)[xxxvii], there is an attempt also to make Hindu males more virile, more dangerous, more predatory, more like the allegedly Muslim male. Could this explain the huge increase in violence against females that we have also simultaneously witnessed?

As Malouf has observed, the rush for identities, to seek some fundamental allegiance, often religious, racial or ethnic, leads to murderous identities of blood. Responding to imagined atavistic fears and anxieties, we seem to be heading towards what Malouf describes as the age of “global tribes” (Malouf 2001).[xxxviii]

Imbricated in this is the celebration of the pure “community” even as ideas of the nation are scoffed at, when development is supposed to be automatically and necessarily linked to violence. This is accompanied by a deep distrust of ideas of rationality, curiously described as Western, in a bizarre reflection from Orientalist mirrors. Embedded in this discourse are spurious ideas of oneness with nature in the pre-modern past, of equally innocent ideas of the wholeness in human affairs in those golden ages, a forgetting that a tribal past was a past of constant and continuous warfare. In short, that a tribal past, an ethnic past, a past celebrating blood ties, was equally oppressive: to a large majority of women and men, the ants of these societies, put to labour and set to breed. My fear is that revocations of this past, suitably re-worked, would also mean a divestment of citizenship rights that tribal communities of course did not know about, or have any use for. For as opposed to the membership of a tribe, what is at stake is citizenship in a nation.

Sometimes, in sophisticated formulations, instead of race and tribes, what is often invoked today is “culture”, reified, petrified, timeless and endlessly frozen. As Al-Azmeh observes, “In the 1980s this relegation of the non-European world to irreducible and therefore irredeemable particularlism was officiated, with increasing frequency and clearly as a mark of bewilderment, under the title of ‘culture’, which became little more than a token for incomprehension: each ‘culture’ is represented as a monadic universe of solipsism and impermeability, consisting in its manifold instances of an essential self,” (Al-Azmeh 1993:21).[xxxix] The politics of the east is east, and the west west with never the twain meeting is played out with new tropes, new metaphors, all of which of course elide the reality of imperialism, even as they privilege the essentialisms of difference and timeless culture. The Other, thus constructed, is then ineluctably outside the human pale. And then, their numbers begin to threaten. Should we then, not fear Them, hate Them? Should we do nothing, will they engulf Us?

Being outside the human pale, is what makes their numbers threatening, and genocide possible (Mamdani 2001 ).[xl] Or the widespread use of rape and violence against women and children – from Bosnia, to Rwanda to Gujarat.

Lionel Penrose, a British physician who was one of those questioning the central tenet of eugenic thinking, the heritability of mental disorders and intelligence, was equally puzzled by the frequent assertion among the elites that feebleminded people had strong sexual drives. There was simply no empirical evidence for these claims, and yet there were frequent calls for eugenic sterilisation – although of course sterilisation is known not to decrease the libido. Penrose offered a Freudian explanation that is appealing. He wrote:

It is a well-known psychological mechanism that hatred, which is repressed under normal circumstances, may become manifest in the presence of an object which is already discredited in some way.  An excuse for viewing mentally defective individuals with abhorrence is the idea that those at large enjoy themselves sexually in ways which are forbidden or difficult to accomplish in the higher strata of society. The association between the idea of the supposed fecundity of the feebleminded and the need for their sterilization is apparently rational, but it may be emphasized by an unconscious desire to forbid these supposed sexual excesses. It is of course well known that advocates of sterilization never desire it applied to their own class, but always to someone else (Penrose cited in Kevles 1995:108).[xli]

Could this equally be an explanation for neo-Malthusian ideas about the reproductive profligacy of the poor? Could this be the explanation for the irrational communal anxieties about the Muslim rate of population growth among a section of Hindus in the country? The frequent slogan “Hum do, hamare do; Woh paanch, unke pachees” won the leader of the genocide in Gujarat in 2002 a shameful but resounding electoral victory. Does this also tie in with the trope of the alleged vegetarianism of Hindus along with the sexual rapacity of non-vegetarian Muslims?

Sarkar notes that “there is a dark sexual obsession about the allegedly ultra-virile Muslim male bodies and over-fertile Muslim female ones” (Sarkar 2002: 2874).[xlii] Recounting the unspeakable horrors perpetrated on Muslim women and children in the Gujarat genocide, she offers the following explanations. In communal violence, rape is a sign of collective dishonouring of a community; the same patriarchy that views the female body as the symbol of lineage, of community, of nation – and their purity – would besmirch an entire community as impure and polluted once “their” women are raped. There are also the calculated, and politically charged rumours spread of Muslim men luring away Hindu girls, “ a kind of penis envy and anxiety about emasculation that can only be overcome by violence”. And finally, the anxieties whipped up over generations about “Muslim fertility rates”, of their uncontrolled breeding and the dying of “the Hindu nation”, led to the brutal killing of children, the new blood of the “Muslim race”.

Nussbaum has argued that the creation of virulent masculinities is perhaps a part of the project of nationalisms of the European variety. Emulating this project other communities, other nations of blood and tribes, are also creating masculinities of the European sort. She notes that Israel and India are both seats of construction of this notion of virulent masculinities, both directed at Muslims, classified in colonial discourse as a “martial race”. Those scoffed at as effeminate or over-intellectual, not manly enough to command empires, set out to recreate themselves in colonial mirrors, creating a style of masculinity that is associated with the oppressors in the past, much as they recreate colonial definitions of history. This too is responsible for the horrors of Gujarat, as is the essentialism of numbers, as they wreak murder and rape, “annihilating the female” both in themselves and in the Other (Nussbaum 2007).[xliii] Linking this sadistic sexual violence with fascism, Sontag similarly argues that this was “the ideal incarnation of fascism’s overt celebration of the righteousness of violence, the right to have total power over others and to treat them as absolutely inferior…acted out in a singularly brutal and efficient manner” ( Sontag 1980:99).[xliv]

As early as 1909 U.N.Mukherji had written a book entitled Hindus: A Dying Race, which went on to influence many tracts and publications by the Hindu Maha Sabha, the parent organisation of the RSS. [xlv]  This book seemed to meet a widespread demand, going into many reprints, feeding into Hindu communalism, and helping create it. It had a special appeal to Hindu communalists at this time, anxious to create a monolithic Hindu community, in the face of demands for separate representation emanating from both Muslims and lower-castes. Whipping up anxiety about Muslims would be one way to weld together hugely diverse, and often antagonistic, castes into one community, erasing the structural divisions in caste society. Indeed it has been noted that “for Hindu communalism, it (the book, A Dying Race) had a more direct resonance as Hindu communalism was now preoccupied with numbers…the possibility of low castes declassifying themselves as Hindus was a motivating anxiety behind the origins of Hindu communalism “(Datta 1999: 18).[xlvi] Deeply riddled with inaccuracies, wild flights of prediction of the future with utterly no basis, the book nevertheless provided “demographic common sense functioning as a trope for extinction” (Datta 1999: 23).[xlvii]Also fundamentally, the Hindu communalists believed – and continue to believe – that a nation is defined “culturally” as a Hindu nation, just as Muslim communalists believed in the purity of an Islamic Pakistan. So neatly did the communalists of both religions, Hindu and Muslim, by evoking demographic fears, subscribe to colonial definitions of Indian society! The Censuses of the period also contributed (Cohn 1987).[xlviii] Although England never collected religious data in her population despite all her religious wars in the past, in India, on the other hand, following 1857, religious data on Hindu and Muslim populations were regularly collected and disseminated, from the 1872 Census onwards. Justifying this, the Census Commissioner of 1931 wrote “India is the most religious country in the world” ( cited in Bhagat 2001).[xlix] What this also did is to create homogenous Hindu and Muslim communities where none existed. We must, however, remember that this discourse emerged at an embattled political space, as colonialism was contested, as political classes were formed, as the working class was congealing, and early feminist ideas were gaining ground. None of these, of course, configure in the communalist discourse.

Charu Gupta’s work, based on examining the many tracts produced by the Hindu right-wing, providing an excellent analysis of communalization of population and its gender implications, notes one such tract, which states:

Some Hindus argue that what do we have to do with increasing our numbers? We should be more concerned with preserving the seed of our true Aryan identity. Dear, what do you mean by protection of the seed? In every census, the number of Hindus is decreasing while that of Muslims and Christians is increasing. And you are just concerned with the protection of the seed! Our aim should be to increase numbers, first and foremost ( Cited in Gupta 2004:4303)[l]

There was yet another flame stoking these fears among Hindu communalists, resentful of social reform. Emblematic here was the tragic figure of the Hindu widow.[li] Forbidden remarriage among the upper castes – now increasingly emulated by sanskritising lower castes – she was at once responsible for the dying of the “Hindu race” as she was an allurement for virile Muslim men, a danger within the sacred heart of the Hindu household, waiting to be profaned. Fitting neatly into this gendered anxiety was the communalisation of the issue of “abduction” of Hindu women. Indeed, this too was prominent in the form of epidemics of rumours before the Gujarat genocide in 2002. Thus the embedding of patriarchy, nationhood, and violence against women in discourses on numbers, inscribing on reproductive women’s bodies atavistic anxieties about the future, and the politics of genocide.

Recently we have had leaders from these groups opposing family planning among Hindus, claiming there is a “demographic war” (www.newkerala.com, 2005). [lii] The leader of the VHP enjoined Hindus not to accept family planning as their numbers were going down, even as those of Muslims were increasing. At a public meeting attended by thousands, and in the presence of the Chief Minister of Madhya Pradesh, the leader of the Madhya Pradesh unit of the RSS claimed that the Muslim population was increasing at a rapid pace, and that this, combined with infiltration of Muslims from Bangladesh, portended doom for India. Claiming that this “demographic war” was being waged across the world, he attributed the breakup of the Soviet Union, to such “demographic imbalance” (The Hindu:2005:5).[liii] The same groups have also opposed access to abortion, arguing that a disproportionate number of Hindu women utilise abortion facilities (Rao 2001).[liv] We have also had a huge and unedifying controversy erupting  when the Census Commissioner announced the religion-wise data from the 2001 Census, forgetting to add that these could not be compared to previous figures since the 1991 Census had not been conducted in Kashmir, a Muslim majority state ( Jayaraj and Subramaniam 2004).[lv] The Hindu right created an uproar about “them” out-numbering “us” in our own country, with a lot of help from the national media. This was despite clarifications issued by the Census Commissioner, despite figures showing that the rate of decline of the Muslim growth rate was substantial and indeed sharper than among Hindus. Indeed what has come to be called “saffron demography” has come to stay, “a set of pernicious myths” masquerading often as “common sense” (Jeffery and Jeffery 2005:447).[lvi]

In an extraordinary work, Anandhi reveals how neo-Malthusian concerns were transforming upper-caste anxieties about the lower castes, now asserting themselves, in Tamil Nadu (Anandhi 1998).[lvii] She notes the ease with which the upper class neo-Malthusian agenda interweaves with the upper caste agenda of Brahminical Hinduism to reduce women to merely reproductive bodies requiring male control, in a reimbrication of patriarchy. A number of men, predominantly Brahmin, involved in the early debates on birth control, members of the Neo-Malthusian League in Madras in the early twentieth century, invoked Brahminical texts that apparently regulated the sexuality, and thus the birth rate, among Hindus. Thus is achieved the seamless welding of “Hindu” with upper-castes, the conflation of upper caste practices and norms as Hindu ones. Thus Krishnamurthy Ayyar, noted that, in the case of Hindus, the Code of Manu imposed certain marriage practices that were anti-natal, although curiously he does not mention a deeply embarrassing topic of debate, namely the situation of widows in upper-caste Hindu society. This apparently prevented over-population of Hindus, while conversely creating over-population of those communities not similarly guided by the code of Manu. He also added that the upper caste dietary code of vegetarianism was perfect for regulating reproduction by dampening sexual appetites:

Taking the people of India, the birth rate among the Brahmins, particularly those of Madras and other purely vegetarian communities is the lowest except among the Parsees.[lviii] The Mohammedans who partake of animal foods have increased from 1881 to 1921…the Brahmins, who are purely vegetarian, there was no increase between 1891 and 1921, but a fall (cited in Anandhi 1998:143).[lix]

What was central to the arguments here were the reproductive excesses of the lower castes (and of the Muslims), their unbridled sexuality, the need therefore for upper caste normative control – defined in terms of desexualizing lower caste bodies. As Chakravarty has argued, what Brahminical patriarchy feared, indeed what was supposed to have brought on Kaliyuga, was miscegenation, “the purity of women has a centrality in brahminical patriarchy, because the purity of caste is contingent upon it” (Chakravarthi 1993: 579).[lx]  In short, the lower castes had to practice birth control both to improve the Hindu race and to emulate the upper castes who supposedly practiced continence except for reproductive purposes.[lxi]

As Ayyar observed:

As long as the germ cells belong to the race and human beings are their trusted custodians, birth control should not be resorted to unless it is for considerations of health or economic conditions. If it is practiced with the view to shirk responsibility and to lead a life of merely carnal pleasure, it is committing a crime towards the race (Ayyar cited in Anandhi 1998: 144).[lxii]

What is curious, and indeed striking, is that although there is anxiety about the sexuality of the lower castes, Hindutva does not seem to reveal obvious anxieties about the numbers of the lower castes. On the one hand, as the experience of Gujarat indicates, this could be related to the fact that Hindutva anxieties are largely focused on the growth rates of Christians and Muslims and that they see the dalits and the lower castes as foot soldiers in their fratricidal war. On the other, this could be related to their obvious role as perhaps the sole producers of value. The statement of a landlord in Tamil Nadu to Human Rights Watch illustrates this:

In the past, dalits enjoyed the practice of untouchability…the women enjoyed being oppressed by men. Ladies would boast that my husband has more wives. Most dalit women enjoy relations with men. They enjoy upper caste community men having them as concubines. Anything with dalits is not done by force….Without dalits we cannot live. We are landholders. We want workers for the fields. Without them we cannot cultivate or take care of our cattle. But dalit women’s relations with other men are not out of economic dependency. She wants it from him. He permits it. (Human Rights Watch 1999: 31).[lxiii]

In Conclusion

“Most Americans Want Immigration Drastically Reduced” reads a full-page advertisement in Harper’s of October 2004 (Vol.309, No.1853: 19), put forth by Negative Population Growth. It goes on to argue about the “catastrophic effect of overpopulation on our environment, resources and standard of living.” Neo-Malthusian underpinnings are evident in some of the security discourses on refugees, and are at the heart of dominant global discourses on the environment. We only need to remember that as soon as elections are announced in the U.K., immigration becomes an issue, not just for the Conservatives, but also for the New Labour of Tony Blair. At the same time, a sub-discipline of “strategic demography” has emerged, that seeks to locate the growth of Islamic fundamentalism in the “youth bulge theory, ” i.e. that population growth in Islamic countries, characterized by a high proportion of youth, spells political hazards, not just to democracy in their own countries but to the so-called free world (See Hendrixson, Anne (2004), Angry Young Men, Veiled Young Women: Constructing a New Population Threat, Cornerhouse Briefing No.34, December). This does not explain the rise to dominance of fundamentalism in the United States, which of course has no youth bulge, but such matters of truth or rigour rarely troubled demographic discourses in the past, and obviously do not, today. In other words, the population growth argument remains compelling, explaining just about everything, and thus of course explaining nothing.

The issue of population is of course a field where a rational and historical examination of facts is often clouded, occluded, rendered opaque.  Neo Malthusian arguments are truly protean, they are like Vishnu’s avatars, taking myriad forms: that poverty in our country primarily persists due to population growth; that the poor do not know what is good for them and for society as a whole, behave irrationally, and thus need to be educated; that population growth among religious communities is because some religious groups seek to outbreed and take over “our” country; the belief that affirmative action for the dalits presents a threat to social well-being and indeed that all welfare schemes represent a waste of productive investments; that “we” as a nation are in a bind, and, having tried everything, the only way out is that the poor can and indeed must be coerced to control their numbers; that population growth represents the main threat to the environment; that population growth in Third World countries can act as a security threat to the interests of freedom and democracy in the world and so on. Now of course, with the global war on terror, youth bulge theories have contributed to, and drawn sustenance from, global Islamophobia. Lurking at the heart of all these discourses, crazily, simplistically, is the idea of neo-Malthusianism, a simple arithmetical one.

At the most obvious level as to why people believe what they do, it is true that many people have, for hundreds of years, believed in something simply because this is “common sense”. The belief that the earth is flat and that it is at the center of the universe is one such belief that lasted centuries, and still apparently has followers. This, of course, begs the question as to what is common sense and how this is created, or indeed constructed.

Neo-Malthusianism offers a simple ordering of a complex, fractured and frightening world. In this ordering of the world, God is indeed in His heaven and all would be well had it not been for the predilection of the poor, the Them, to breed quite so incontinently. It is a profound alchemy of the mind that endows society with biological characteristics, all the better to control and recreate it. It allows us to think of the world without dangerous ideas of re-ordering a deeply unjust social order, indeed blaming victims, the “them”, who would otherwise threaten “us” with their demands for equality and justice. It is not only a beguilingly simple explanation of the world, this explanation has also the imprimatur of the state and all powerful organs of dissemination of knowledge and information, constantly reiterated and restated in any number of ways. Indeed, it might perhaps not be an exaggeration to state that more resources have been spent on creating this common sense over more than a hundred years than any other such idea in the world. Lurking below the surface, these ideas have always a strange way of resurfacing in what are perceived by some as incomprehensibly apocalyptic times, when the world as we know it stands threatened, or is changing too fast for our liking, when we yearn for a prelapsarian age of innocence and glory, when things were said to have been so much simpler. Thus the re-invention of tradition (Hobsbawm and Ranger 1983)[lxiv], the entirely understandable fear of the heartless immorality of the modern, indeed of the demands of the hitherto dispossessed – which is also fundamentally part of this modernity.

Yet another factor is the ease, or the appeal, of linear or closed system thinking. It is thus not surprising that so many biologists, equating human societies with agglomerations of mango-flies or other instinctive creatures, frequently offer doomsday scenarios of population growth, as if humans are not reflexive, learning, reacting, eternally changing.

Nothing perhaps is more appealing to crude “common sense” than the many images of humankind such thinking creates: the image of human societies as crawling, over-breeding insects in a finite jar, or of organisms in a petri dish. But the imagery is not always crude, appealing to the most insentient in us. Most such images of the population question undoubtedly appeal to the altruistic: the images of starving children, hungry mothers, eyes powerfully accusing, along with the message of over-population. Indeed we are then exhorted to do something about it by contributing to population control in Third World countries. What many of these images also appeal to is the immediate, the un-reflexive, thus a-historical, in a world profoundly troubled by history and impatient with it.

Writing quite innocently about the communalization of population in India several years ago, I was utterly astonished, indeed frightened – which, I suspect was the intention – by the responses I received, in the form of many many postcards. I was labeled anti-Hindu, and many of the writers hoped that I would move to Pakistan, where they said my wife would get raped. A decade later websites run by Non Resident Indians in the USA, anxious about their Hindu-ness, while they had forsaken their country, repeated similar venom. This too could be inexplicable, indeed unthinkable: here are the self-proclaimed best and brightest, at the acme of their professional careers in the land of milk and honey, writing what can only be described as pornography.

How does one explain this? What this essay has attempted to do is to understand how ideas of population, of neo- Malthusianism, are re-configured, re-constructed and moulded by other ideas, of race, of gender, of community, and indeed nationhood. It does not seem to matter at all that neo-Malthusian ideas are repeatedly shown to be historically and empirically shallow. They bafflingly gild many disconnected discourses, giving the politics of numbers contemporary bite and pungency.

The novelist Julian Barnes, similarly baffled by the appeal of Thatcher, notes that her achievements were truly remarkable. She revealed that it was possible at times to do the truly unthinkable. She taught us that:

You could survive while allowing unemployment to rise to levels previously thought politically untenable. You could politicize hitherto unpolitical public bodies, and force the holy principles of the market into areas of society presumed sacrosanct. You could sharply diminish union power and increase employer power… You could make the rich richer and the poor poorer until you had restored the gap that existed at the end of the last century…. You could do all this and in the process traumatize the opposition …and even manage to get votes from the unemployed” (Barnes 1999: 546).[lxv]

How did she manage this? One, alas all too banal way, was, of course, by appeals to demagoguery and chauvinism. The second was what Barnes calls the “gut appeal to nature. ” But of course a nature modeled on capitalism, of nature red in tooth and claw, much as Darwin did with talk of the survival of the fittest. [lxvi]  Thus natural is constructed to mean the celebration of supreme and un-curtailed self-interest of the rich, and competitiveness in society.

If nature was indeed this way, who were we to intervene? Perhaps it is hubris to intervene? Nature, in other words, appears to tell the listener that the poor and other victims of the system are merely reaping what they sow, just as the rich and the privileged do.  What Thatcher did, much as Malthus did before her, was to argue that the poor had no moral right therefore to welfare. What she also did was to reduce the enormous complexities of social life to simple homilies, replacing hesitation and questioning with granitic certitudes, set in cold stone. In short, the success of neo-Malthusianism is the reduction of unpredictabilities, of uncertainties of life, of the political with the hard givens of Malthusian arithmetic, thus depoliticising politics. The success is precisely in naturalizing the social and therefore the contingent, giving it a timelessness, a timelessness as fragile as anything carved on stone.

As the new wave of globalisation, sharpens inequalities, accentuates the rate of exploitation, and the dispossession, of the poor globally, increases the transfer of resources from the poor to the rich countries, neo-Malthusian discourses serve to both naturalise these processes, as provide natural explanations for sharp political conflicts over resources, natural, social and intellectual. Fundamentalisms, anti-feminisms, and racisms are congealed into this.


[i] Often the same organizations, today arguing for reproductive health and rights, were involved in creating the population explosion concept. They have the same attached academics and NGOs. Recently, of course, their numbers – and reach – have dramatically increased, in response to increasing NGO-isation of the health system, most often in response to donor/lender demands. What needs to be sufficiently explored, and it hasn’t been, is why and how these donor/lender agencies command so much clout, given their relatively small contribution to India’s health budget.

[ii] Lipschutz, Ronnie D. and Turcotte, Heather (2005), “Duct Tape or Plastic? The Political Economy of Threats and the Production of Fear” in Betsy Hartmann, Banu Subrmaniam and Charles Zerner (Eds), Making Threats: Biofears and Environmental Anxieties, Rowman and Littlefield, Lanham.

[iii] Europol (2010), “ EU Terrorism Situation and Trend Report” accessed at
http://www.consilium.europa.eu/uedocs/cmsUpload?TE-SAT%202010.pdf
on 23rd September 2011. I am grateful to Mukul Kesavan for this reference.

[iv] Posner, Sarah (2011), “Breivik’s Demographic Warfare and the American Right’s Demographic Winter”, accessed at
http://www.newage
islam.com/New AgeIslamMuslimsAndIslamophobia on 27th July 2011.

[v] Puar, Jasbir (2010), “Israel’s Gay Propaganda War”, The Guardian, 1st July 2010, accessed at
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/jul/01/israels-gay-propaganda-war
, accessed on 20th September 2011.

[vi] Kaur, Ravinder (2011), “The Intimate Enemy”, Economic and Political Weekly, Vol.XLVI, No.35, 27th August.

[vii] Kaur, Ravinder (2011), Ibid.

[viii] Express News Service” (2011)” The Norwegian Killers Ideas are not Entirely Wrong: BJP MP, B.P.Singhal”, 27th July.

[ix] Gould, Stephen Jay (1981), The Mismeasure of Man, W.W.Norton and Co., New York.

[x] Rudyard Kipling (1899), The White Man’s Burden
                    Take up the White Man's burden
                    Send forth the best ye breed
                    Go bind your sons to exile
                    To serve your captives' need;
                    To wait in heavy harness,
                    On fluttered folk and wild
                    Your new-caught, sullen peoples,
               Half-devil and half-child.

[xi] Gould, op cit.

[xii] These tropes hang heavy and loom over neo-Malthusian discourses in contemporary times, when we are enveloped in the second wave of globalisation.

[xiii]  Gould, op cit.

[xiv] For how eugenic ideas, fused with Evangelical Christianity, about the Other influenced US soldiers in their many wars in South America, see Greg Grandin (2006), Empires Workshop: Latin America, the United States and the Rise of a New Imperialism, Metropolitan Books, New York..

[xv]Francis Galton, cited in Kevles, Daniel J. (1995), In the Name of Eugenics: Genetics and the Uses of Human Heredity, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Mass.

[xvi] Rao, Mohan (2004), From Population Control to Reproductive Health: Malthusian Arithmetic, Sage, New Delhi.

[xvii]  Oakley, Ann (1986),The Captured Womb: A History of Medical Care of Pregnant Women, Basil Blackwell, London.

[xviii] Adolf  Hitler in  Mein Kampf, cited in Bondestam, Lars and Bergstrom, Staffan (Ed)(1980), Poverty and Population Control, Academic Press, London.

[xix] Brunius, Harry (2006), Better for all the World: The Secret History of Forced Sterilisations and America’s Quest for Racial Purity, Alfred A.Knopf, New York.

[xx] Enzenberger, H.M. ( 1992 ), “The Great Migrants”, in Krauts, Granta 42, Penguin London.

[xxi] Nussbaum, Martha (2007), The Clash Within: Violence, Hope and India’s Future, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Mass.

[xxii] Casolari, Marzia (2000), “Hindutvas Foreign Tie-Up in the 1930s: Archival Evidence”, Economic and Political Weekly, Vol.XXXV, No.4, Jan 22nd.

[xxiii] Sen, Amartya (2005), The Argumentative Indian: Writings on Indian History, Culture and Identity, Penguin, New Delhi.

[xxiv] Sangari, Kumkum (2001), Politics of the Possible: Essays on Gender, History, Narratives, Colonial English, Tulika, New Delhi.

[xxv] Ali, Kamran Asdar (2002), Planning the Family in Egypt: New Bodies, New Selves, University of Texas Press, Austin.

[xxvi] Wuyts, Marc (1998), Malthus, Then and Now: The Novelty of Old Ideas on Population and Economy, Dies Natalis Address, Institute of Social Studies, The Hague.

[xxvii] Mamdani, Mahmood (2004), Good Muslims, Bad Muslims: Islam, the USA and the Global War Against Terror, Permanent Black, Delhi.

[xxviii] Patnaik, Prabhat (2003), The Retreat to Unfreedom: Essays on the Emerging World Order, Tulika, New Delhi.

[xxix] Mamdani, Mahmood ( 2001), When Victims Become Killers: Colonialism, Nativism and the Genocide in Rwanda, Princeton University Press, Princeton.

[xxx] For a critique of this concept, and how they are framed by both colonialism and imperialism, see Mamdani (2001).

[xxxi] Uri Avneri (2002), “ A Jewish Demographic State”, cited in Betsy Hartmann and Anne Hendrixson “Pernicious Peasants and Angry Young Men”, in Hartmann, Subramanian and Zerner (Eds), op cit.

[xxxii] Ignatieff, Michael (1993), Blood and Belonging: Journeys into the New Nationalism, Penguin, London..

[xxxiii]  Al-Azmeh, Aziz (1993), Islams and Modernities, Verso, London.

[xxxiv] Christopher Hitchens (1992), “Appointment in Sarajevo” cited in Al-Azmeh, ibid.

[xxxv] Baber, Zaheer (2004), “’Race’, Religion and Riot: The ‘Racialisation’ of Communal Identity and Conflict in India”, Sociology, Vol.38, No.4.

[xxxvi] Anand Patwardhan’s documentary of 1995, “The Father, Son and Holy War “ explores this theme with its trenchant – and sharp- documentation of the Hindu right-wing’s project.

[xxxvii] Jaiswal, Suvira (1991), “Semitising Hinduism: Changing Paradigms of Brahminical Integration”, Social Scientist, Vol.19, No.12, December.

[xxxviii] Malouf, Amin (2001), In the Name of Identity: Violence and the Need to Belong, Arcade Publishing, New York.

[xxxix] Al Azmeh (1993), op cit.

[xl] Mamdani (2001), op cit. Mamdani notes the ease with which over-population arguments were used to explain the genocide in Rwanda, even as he shows how the colonial constructions of race, carried over into post-colonial institutionalisation of citizenship, were both powerful factors in the genocide at Rwanda, but to carry this out, the victims were first to be denied humanity. See also Greg Grandin (2006), Empires Workshop: Latin America, the United States and the Rise of a New Imperialism, Metropolitan Books, New York. Grandin shows us that the much earlier genocide in Latin America, indeed the genocides in the Americas, was possible only because Indians were deemed not human, not fit for redemption into humanity.

[xli] Kevles, Daniel J. (1995), op cit.

[xlii] Sarkar, Tanika (2002), “ Semiotics of Muslim Terror: Muslim Children and Women in Hindu Rashtra”, Economic and Political Weekly, Vol.XXXVII, No.28.

[xliii] Nussbaum, Martha (2007), The Clash Within: Violence, Hope and India’s Future, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Mass.

[xliv] Sontag, Susan (1980), “Fascinating Fascism” in Under the Sign of Saturn, The Noonday Press, N.Y.

[xlv] Curiously Sidney Webb wrote his tract The Decline of the Birth Rate at about the same time. He was concerned the English were committing “race suicide” with the population of England becoming increasingly Jewish and Irish (Jayal, Niraja Gopal (ed) (1987), Sidney and Beatrice Webb: Indian Diary, OUP, Delhi.). The Webbs, Wells and Shaw, were all fervent believers in eugenics.

[xlvi]Datta, Pradip Kumar (1999), Carving Blocs: Communal Ideology in Early Twentieth Century Bengal,O.U.P., Delhi.

[xlvii] Ibid.

[xlviii] Cohn, Bernard S.(1987), “The Census, Social Structure and Objectification in South Asia”, in An Anthropologist Among Historians and Other Essays, Oxford University Press, New Delhi.

[xlix] Bhagat, R.B (2001), “ Census and the Construction of Communalism in India”, Economic and Political Weekly, Vol. XXXXI, No. 47, November 24th, 2001. What Bhagat also shows us is the enormous problems the census faced in classifying people they enumerated.

[l] Gupta, Charu (2004), “Censuses, Communalism, Gender and Identity: A Historical Perspective”, Economic and Political Weekly, Vol.XXXXIV, No.39, Sep 25th.

[li] It is interesting that it was the semiotics of this image that was conjured up by some women members of the BJP, protesting the possibility of Sonia Gandhi exercising her citizenship rights to the Prime Ministership of the country.  These MPs threatened to tonsure their heads if Ms.Gandhi was elected the PM. A tonsured head is of course the sign of an upper caste widow in Hindu society. The matter, they argued, was not of rights and the Constitution, but Hindu emotion that over-rode these rights. Thus is wedded anti-feminism to communalism, with women BJP members making a patriarchal bargain. While the appeal of course is to the timeless, and to culture, albeit upper-caste ones, what was being fought over was much more quotidian.

[lii] 
http://www.newkerala.com/
(30 December 2004),” VHP Supremo Asks Hindus to give up Family Planning”.  The PTI reported from Rohtak on December 29th that the VHP president Ashok Singhal said Hindus should give up family planning so that their population does not
go down. Speaking at the inaugural session of VHP’s joint meeting of the international board of trustees and the central management committee, he said population of minorities, especially Muslims, had been rising at “such a fast pace” that it would be 25 to 30 per cent of the total population in 50 years. Singhal said it would be “suicidal” for Hindus if they did not raise their population. He said that it was essential to build a Ram temple at Ayodhya for ‘dharmik azadi’ (religious freedom) of the Hindus. Further, at the Margadarshak Mandal, its apex body meeting in February 2005, a resolution was passed calling upon Hindus to follow the ideal family size set by Lord Krishna’s parents and “contribute constructively towards increasing the Hindu population” (“VHP asks Hindus to Abandon Two Child Norm”,The Statesman, Wednesday 16th February 2005). The resolution also called for checking Bangladeshi infiltration and preventing Hindu girls from marrying Muslim boys. Krishna, the resolution pointed, out was the eight child of his parents as was Netaji Bose, and Rabindranath Tagore, the ninth!

[liii] Staff Correspondent (2005), “RSS sees ‘demographic war’”, The Hindu, 24th January 2005.

[liv] Rao, Mohan (2001),“Female Foeticide; Where Do We Go?”, Issues in Medical Ethics, Vol.IX, No.4, October.

[lv] Jayaraj, D. and Subramaniam, S. (2004), “Manufacturing Hysteria: On Census-Inspired ‘Nationalism’”, Economic and Political Weekly, Vol. XXXIX, No.39, Sep 25th.

 24. Jeffery, Roger and Jeffery, Patricia (2005), “Saffron Demography, Common Wisdom, Aspirations and Uneven Governmentalities”, Economic and Political Weekly, Vol.XL, No.5.

[lvii]Anandhi, S. (1998), “Reproductive Bodies and Regulated Sexuality: Birth Control Debates in Early Twentieth Century Tamilanadu” in Mary E.John and Janaki Nair (ed), A Question of Silence? The Sexual Economies of Modern India, Kali for Women, Delhi.

[lviii]This sentence is riddled with minefields, defeating his own argument, since he notes that non-vegetarian Parsees also had low birth rates. Nevertheless there is a curious, and entirely incorrect, characterisation of Brahmins as strictly vegetarian. Indeed the Brahmins of Kashmir, who consider themselves the Brahmins of Brahmins, are non-vegetarians, as also the Brahmins of Bengal and South Kanara. But today at the height of Hindutvavadi resurgence it is being asserted that all Hindus are essentially vegetarian in a move to deny beef to the dalit and Muslim communities.

[lix]Anandhi, S. (1998), op cit.

[lx] Chakravarthi, Uma (1993), “Conceptualising Brahminical Patriarchy in Early India: Gender, Caste, Class and State”, Economic and Political Weekly, Vol.XXVIII, No.14.

[lxi] This indeed was Mahatma Gandhi’s position on birth control.

[lxii] Anandhi, S. (1998), op cit.

[lxiii] Human Rights Watch (1999), Broken People: Caste Violence Against India’s ‘Untouchables’, Books for Change, Bangalore.

[lxiv] Hobsbawm, Eric and Ranger, Terence (Eds), The Invention of Traditions, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

[lxv]Barnes, Julian (1999), “Mrs.Thatcher Remembers” in Ian Hamilton (Ed), The Book of Twentieth Century Essays, Fromm International, New York.

[lxvi] Tennyson might well be turning in his grave if he knew how his famous line “Nature red in truth and  claw” inspired not just Thatcher and the Bushes, pere and fils, but also the Hindu right and the Islamic Brotherhood and indeed all those who favour the current  neo-liberal world order.!

—————————————-

A medical doctor, specialised in public health, Mohan Rao is Professor at the Centre of Social Medicine and Community Health, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. He is the author of From Population Control to Reproductive Health: Malthusian Arithmetic(Sage, 2004) and has edited Disinvesting in Health: The World Bank’s Health Prescriptions (Sage, 1999) and The Unheard Scream: Reproductive Health and Women’s Lives in India (Zubaan,2004), and, with Sarah Sexton, Markets and Malthus: Population, Gender and Health in Neoliberal Times (Sage 2010)

Accidental Insights Into Reading

Manash Bhattacharjee

The new Seminar issue, ‘A Country of Our Own’ (April 2012), became an interesting prospect when I saw Nauman Naqvi’s name among the contributors. I started reading his essay the night I got the issue, but other matters intervened and I kept it for later. The next day I took the issue with me to read on my way to JNU. I opened the Nauman essay and began to read earnestly.

Before I began to read, I vaguely remembered Nauman mentioning in the beginning a “repetitive writer” named Intizar, but I had turned the first page which I had already read, and was eager to go on from the second. I read about Nauman’s summer holidays in his native village in Barabanki where he was joined by Pakistani cousins. He mentioned how as children they were invariably divided into Pakistani and Hindustani groups and teams in discussions and games involving the partitioned countries. A few “Indian cousins” would support Pakistan in the cricket and hockey matches to not only stamp their displeasure against Indian Muslims being discriminated against but also from a fear of Islam being under threat in India. When it came to hockey matches, the same cousins would desire that Zafar Iqbal and Mohd. Shahid score goals for India, but that Pakistan win in the end. Nauman slowly realised, in his gradual visits to Pakistan, there being more to Partition than the Hindu–Muslim divide.

When he visited Pakistan after the Sikh riots, Nauman found Muslims having relinquished Hindustani for Punjabi, with a majoritarian refrain against the migrant Urdu speakers. Nauman then recollects how his own family was divided between the two nation-states during Partition and how the matter was more complex than children’s games. Nauman pauses to see how even those games as children were coloured in turn by what happened during Partition. With interesting tales about the difficulties of visas to Pakistan, Nauman ends by pointing to the ridiculous problems thrown up by the nation and seriously questioning its legitimacy.

I finished reading the essay, glad to know much more about Nauman’s life, and felt a little more enriched. But the moment my eyes drifted towards the next essay, I read: ‘A Secret South-Asian Meta-utopia’ by Nauman Naqvi. Needless to say, I was flabbergasted. I turned back the pages to find out whose essay I had been passing off in my head as Nauman’s. The essay titled ‘Family Chronicles’ bore the name Jamal Kidwai. I had met Jamal at a party once, and knew he was from Aman Trust. But I had never read him before. I had never read even Nauman before, though I had heard his video lecture on ‘A Muslim Meditation on Violence’. Nauman, I knew, was from Karachi. So how could I have glossed over the fact that the account I was reading was of an “Indian” Muslim? How could such an error happen?

Anyway, an error is simply an error, and all I had to do was re-structure my rational sensibilities, acknowledge the Jamal story as Jamal’s, forget the associations I had made of the story with Nauman, and move ahead to read Nauman’s piece with a better hold on error-prone possibilities. I did read Nauman’s piece finally. I did not, finally, take the rational line of editing out the writing titled ‘Family Chronicles’ from the associations I had developed from it with Nauman Naqvi. In other words, I did not hold my error of reading as an error of judgement or an error of ethics. I found my error simply circumstantial and not burdened by the discourse of truth or truth-reading. I was not reading into any truth; I was reading a narrative signed by a person whose name I merely misplaced. But does that misplacement amount to an aesthetic or ethical crime regarding the author and the author’s name/signature? To my understanding, it is not, because the author, alive or dead, is a singular register only because his name is NOT another name. Nauman is NOT Jamal. At least that part of the error was, willy-nilly, “rectified”. I couldn’t do much about it, but I still wanted to read Jamal’s story with Nauman’s presence in it, as if it was Nauman’s story. And I looked for reasons about why it is possible to do so and take this erroneous reading further. I wanted to see where an error-prone road could take me. Is there anything as a wrong road in a journey where the destination wasn’t chosen in the first place? How to read the signposts then? I decided to go ahead.

Does it really matter, in the first place, if Nauman is from Karachi and Jamal from Delhi or Lucknow? The narrator of ‘Family Chronicles’ was moving in and out of India and Pakistan, having family members in both the countries, and it didn’t matter whether he was an Indian moving in and out of Pakistan or a Pakistani moving in and out of India. Jamal’s story is obviously capable of being told in reverse (with slightly different anecdotes) by a Pakistani. The story of Partition was a mix-up of lives and habitats, of lives and histories getting in the way of each other, of memories getting in the way of each other. In this scenario, why couldn’t Jamal’s story be Nauman’s and vice-versa? Jamal’s story accidentally got misread as Nauman’s, but the rational error also gained a larger perspective, as a larger and more complex sensibility got added in the process of thinking about reading, the author’s name/signature, and the relationship between the two.

The context being Partition, Jamal and Nauman are two names of Partition, partitioned names, moving in and out of two countries like a name halved into two slices of history. How much did Nauman find himself in Jamal’s story? Maybe he did find a few things, if not in common, in a familiar un-commonness. After all, Jamal was Nauman’s other half, the half who lived in India and visited Pakistan. Maybe their relatives in Pakistan met, or knew of those who met. If anyone did a field research, maybe certain meetings, if not connections, can be found in the story. And the two stories will finally connect into a larger story of partitioned people. Without my error, which mixed up Jamal’s story with Nauman’s, the essence of Partition’s story would have been missed. I had grasped the crux of the matter.

There is a term in Greek called hamartia. It refers to an injury committed in ignorance. It is a term developed by Aristotle in his Poetics. The word hamartia is rooted in the notion of missing the mark (hamartanein) and covers a broad spectrum that includes ignorant, mistaken, or accidental wrongdoing, as well as deliberate iniquity, error, or sin. My act of reading, seen through hamartia, would then try and propose such an act of missing the mark as a necessary—albeit accidental—way of re-cognising the missing-marks, the accidents, the errors and the wrongdoings of history. This hamartian reading of Jamal’s text, by replacing the name of the author, gets nearer to what the story of Partition meant to everybody who suffered it: stories which are impossible to individualise, because the subject of that story can no longer affirm his subject-hood without falling prey into the fractured subject-making discourse of the nation. The subject of Partition, in order to free his subject-hood from power, has to flee the name and look for a pseudonym, to become another, the way Manto becomes Toba Tek Singh. Toba Tek Singh helps Manto flee his own story and find refuge in the madness of his character. It is a deliberate act of fictionalising one’s subject-hood in order to re-appear as mad in the guise of another character.

But in my case, it wasn’t Jamal or Nauman who faced the possibility of madness, but myself, the reader. The accidental act of reading created a schizophrenic moment where I could not go back to the original moment of the accident and found myself split into two: much like a post-Partition subject reading on Partition. I could had to save my madness by simply rationalising the act, which I did not end up doing. I wanted to face the depth of this accident and see what strange conclusions I would find there. The first relation I could deduce from it was that just like Partition was a catastrophe, my reading was a catastrophe within that catastrophe.

The past, Nauman writes in his ‘correct’ text, is “no longer a clear and determined relation” but a “bundle of relations, whose tips come into their grasp only to slip away, and nor are they convinced of the truth of these relations”. If the clear and determined relations of the past slip away at the tip, there is no relapse into a relation-less sphere but those relations being replaced by the unclear and undetermined relations of the world. The moment the ‘truth’ of relations vanishes, the hamartia of relations begins. There is no other way to re-enter history unless through an original hamartia that catastrophically mimics the other catastrophe, history, and refuses to part with that relationship of everlasting death and remembering.

As a reader who turns interlocutor, I marked a relationship between Jamal and Nauman, which strikes at the heart of the secret South Asian meta-utopia. The secret is perhaps the error of reading itself, of finding itself error-prone in the reading of loss and its relationship with one’s past and one’s world, forever ruminating at the vanishing tip where those near leave and those afar draw near, and the variety of loss overwhelms its subjects.

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# I am indebted to my friend Rajarshi Dasgupta for insightfully adding to my direction of thought.

(The author is a political science scholar and writer, living in Delhi)

Fairly Directly to Death


Prasanta Chakravarty

Stanley Cavell’s magisterial memoir Little Did I Know, Excerpts from Memory (Stanford University Press, 2010) begins by telling us that his will be a story of the detours on the human path to death: “…accidents avoided or embraced, strangers taken to heart or neglected, talents imposed or transfigured, malice insufficiently imposed, love inadequately acknowledged.” These he has authorization to speak of.

In a way it is a story of embracing a certain blindness—like the agnostic philosopher and musicologist Vladimir Jankelevitch who would not listen to German music or mention German philosophy. It is like keeping one’s eyes closed and moving through a familiar room in order to imagine what it would be like to be blind so that one is able to tiptoe back and forth between remembering and forgetting.

Forgetting and acceptance does not mean that the disagreements with the alleyways of life are now agreed with: it means finding a further life—in the practice of philosophy. Philosophy then, is often an abstraction of autobiography. So, Cavell reminds us, how Wittgenstein would habitually think and share ordinary language, not advance theses in philosophy. Philosophy, like autobiography must be for everyone and no one—as Emerson in his notebooks or Wordsworth in The Preludes allude to us.

This attitude, this discriminating posture, would seem pretentious to those who write out of a sense of a history of oppression. Not enough representative of culture or race or sex, it would seem. What then is Cavell doing as a Jew? His Jewishness—always marked a tinge sharper in America, in growing up in the East side of Atlanta and then in Sacramento, in his obligations to Semitic purity, his explorations of the subtle biases in European philosophical tradition, are not matters of cultural identity, he tells us, but “identities compacted in my existence.” As he thinks about identities and scruples of purity he simultaneously wonders about his sedation and isolated concentration of lights in the midst of a complicated recent heart procedure, and speculates, might we not all be headed for exciting interplanetary travel? And yet Cavell humbly underlines that his words can be at best excerpts from an American academic’s life—alternating between the common and the singular.

In a book peppered with dazzling encounters with some of the sharpest minds of the 20th century, two men stand out. One is the philosopher J.L. Austin. And the other, Cavell’s father: “We see our fathers naked. We men,” Cavell would confide,  as he painstakingly details his old man’s  ruthless melancholia and acutely vulnerable Jewish relationship to a new country and what he has bequeathed to the junior—dispassion and attachment in equal measure. A bereft and incoherent professor, unsure in things he ought to be an authority on, as we espy quite early. But beneath the raw murmurings and unbridgeable rancor also lie a subtle bond of empathy, like when the unschooled, pawnshop-owner father takes the son to a manufacturer of academic robes when Cavell prepares to defend his doctoral dissertation. It was a private ceremony and the rigorous philosopher, from a distance, wonders about the requirement of such ceremonies in our lives: “Ceremony in human existence is no more measurable by its utility, though philosophers seem to sometime argue otherwise, than the possession of language is, or living in common; you might as well argue the utility of possessing a human body.”  And once, when Cavell asked his mother why she ended up marrying his father, she replied, “He is a serious man.” Her silences, Cavell tells us, when not terrifying, were often golden. At its profoundest, this journey of a book is about silences and postponement and the price we willingly, knowingly pay for these decisions. It is a mad world, my masters!

And it is these that have always driven Cavell to his readings.  The kaleidoscope of subject positions and the inexhaustible joy in trying to relate to those take Cavell to intellectual inquiries. He wonders about Thoreau acquiring wood for his new cabin by destroying the old shack and recalls a particular passage from Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations. ‘our investigation seems only to destroy everything important,’ but insists that he is ‘destroying nothing but houses of cards.’ But if the world remains, as it is, pointlessly, what counts as defense against another’s moods?

Between these bouts of inwardness, Cavell narrates some exuberant and universal teenage moments too—his awkward awe and sleeplessness at spying a local beauty, naked in a local performance rehearsal, his brave 1935 apple-green Oldsmobile coupe, high school bowling matchups—sometimes played for money, his music band and music album collection that he so treasured and then let go. There is this hilarious anecdote about his own precociousness as a kid as his teachers tested him on skipping him to the second grade a year earlier. After the teachers finished testing Cavell with a string of questions and making him do things with blocks, he shot back: “You have asked me a lot of questions. Now I am going to ask you a question. What is the difference between a hill and a pill?” To his bemused teachers who had no clue whatsoever, after a brief pause, Cavell coolly informed—“A hill goes up and pill goes down.” When he came out, he told his mother that his question was not good enough since a hill could both go up and down. There is a sense that this precociousness, and a keen sense of it, was both a source of pride and perpetual misery to him and to his close ones.

While in the hospital after a road accident he felt like Proust’s narrator describing his stages of awakenings! Are accidents, unlike events, disproportionate to causal causes, of threads forever lost? But then he wonders whether accidents, encounters, excuses and misses could at all happen after cell phones. O yes, they could indeed, “what if the cell phone melts or a goat eats it.” Things will continue to happen comically, at unripe times, in the wrong tempo. It is in these circumstances that Cavell recalls one of his rich and admired uncles who gave some worldly-wise advice: “Don’t concern yourself with what you hear about anti-Semitism. Just be three times better than your competition and you’ll be all right.”

Music is a religion, outlasting Judaism and Socialism. (There are two other religions in this book—Eros and Philosophy). But he spends a lot of time narrating his interest in the extraordinary ordinariness of music—a metaphysical world that suffuses his material conditions of living. Helps him keep his head above water. Outside of academe. But sometimes with academe. A young miner in the North of England, Cavell recalls, became enamored of classical music and would whistle snatches of it as he went to work. An old miner provided him with a further education: “You ought not to whistle Beethoven when you go to the mine. You hear the whole orchestra when you whistle. What the rest of us hear is only your whistling.”  And Ernest Bloch in Berkeley gives Cavell and his graduate classmates a glimpse of what it meant to be an intellectual and an artist at the same time. There is a touching exercise in the economy of music when Bloch tells his class and then goes on to demonstrate how conducting is just clapping when the conductor gives the clue. The rest is detailing. Years later, during the political upheavals of the sixties, Cavell remembers that the same Bloch had said to his class: “When the city of San Francisco, for my seventieth anniversary, dedicated a day to me and gave a large luncheon in my honor, I began my speech by saying: ‘This is the unhappiest day of my life.’ ” Such was the stoic power of equitable utopia in music.

Cavell sketches the impetus for his own formidable oeuvre as a part and parcel of his growing up days. The Claim of Reason, for instance, was written from a fear of inexpressiveness and over expressiveness and to discover the role of therapy in philosophy. No wonder, then, that a despairing isolation and bouts of intellectual ecstasy joust for primacy in each of Cavell’s works. One of the important personal and poignant sections of the book is Cavell’s observation of how Jewish pawn-brokers (not unlike Dickens in the blacking factory?)  like his father would often read Chapter 24 of Deuteronomy from the Torah in which laws of usury are promulgated, requiring respect from those who have borrowed along with the law against gleaning, to confess the knowledge that once that whole community was enslaved.  This taught them to take the pledge of pawning almost as a therapy. This poetry of uneasy redemption and grace are the first suggestions that lead to many others about the deeply therapeutic role of philosophy—and Cavell is not sure whether philosophy is supposed to provide you with any answers.  But it is for this spiritually divided selfhood that young Cavell got attracted to Thoreau’s Walden, as he wondered how a work so clearly and incessantly written to highlight the economic dimension of human existence is also so deeply reflective. Was the writer of Walden influenced by German idealism, then?

Pawn shops and old school salesmanship also meant a knowledge of elaborate codings and decodings, before the days of computers, and that meant a spirit of the wanderlust—driving him towards riddles and poetry in philosophy. This double vision of philosophy, sometimes competing—between moral claims and the wandering/wondering spirit—leads to a certain discomfort as Cavell encounters two books( A.J. Ayer’s Language, Truth and Logic and Charles Stevenson’s Ethics and Language) early on,  that ‘reasonably’ claimed that moral judgment is, at its best, an expression of emotion meant to move and persuade. Is this like reporting a lost and found dog—the aim of moral philosophy? And what about wonder—how do we learn to inject desire and disturbance in reflection? Wonder means something opposite to teaching and instruction—and Cavell wonders about the point of speaking altogether. Is it worth it, to open one’s mouth? This question suffuses the opening essays of Cavell’s first book—Must We Mean What We Say? And he acknowledges his divided allegiance to moral philosophy and its uselessness at various points: “Perhaps this texture of fear and constricted knowledge, with its anticipatory echo of the endowed Chair of Aesthetics and the Theory of Value I occupied at Harvard during my last decades of teaching amounts only to some private joke certain lesser gods are reduced to telling one another.” Once his teaching assistant remarked that when logic got really interesting and powerful it left natural language quite behind, which was too hopelessly vague and ambiguous to serve as a medium of serious philosophical analysis. Cavell was disappointed. Academia is also another form of nomadism as one evolves and shifts gear, and also as one’s students get dispersed to the winds after companionable labour and nourishing conversations. Consequently, Stanley Cavell’s universe is marked by a certain restiveness (what he calls ‘random extravagance’) along with intense philosophical professionalism. So, we see someone who consistently argues for an ethical compass jumping headlong into music and performance in the black Tougaloo college in Jackson, Mississippi during the restive sixties and transfiguring Harvard philosophy classes by including Marx in the syllabus.

One comes across a few choicest anecdotes and insider stories of the Atlantic academic world during the second half of the twentieth century. In 1963, when Cavell meets Bernard Williams for the first time over dinner at Princeton, Williams informs him rather quizzically about how the cold and ‘insufferably dogmatic’ Austin pushed his Oxford graduate students and younger dons to read Cavell’s early essays, who bristled at the thought of reading philosophy from another fellow graduate student and an American at that!

Then there is the legendary music teacher at Berkeley, Marjorie Petray, who wishes to test Cavell by asking him to play for 60 seconds Liszt’s D-Flat Fantasy impromptu and at the end of it, turning to the class, remarks: ‘Isn’t it fine to hear a man’s touch at the piano?” That daring invidious compliment lead to an adolescent crush as he looks for excuses to be in the magic presence of this ‘full woman.’ He begins to think about Tannhauser’s curse—whose singing attracts the passion of women, and to each of them he comes to sing the wrong song or sings wrongly to each. Only one woman successfully intercedes for him, once for his life, once for his redemption. Marjorie Patray committed suicide, leaving two children and a rich husband.

Cavell fondly recalls how Terence Malik, whose academic major was philosophy at Harvard and who was actually immersed in Heidegger and in films, of course. Such sharpness of mind and the quick daring of considering Heidegger a philosopher at Harvard will not go down well, Cavell feared, with his external examiners. But Malik was unmoved, and began instructing his instructors instead. His grades ensured that even if he failed in the interviews, he would still graduate with the highest honours.

Or one of those stories expatriated Harvard graduates like to tell to convey to the less fortunate the unrivaled swank of Harvard that Cavell tells us with some irony. “After dinner, around the fire in an adjacent common room, George Santayana was talking with a few of us carefully but effortlessly well-dressed young men, and asked us: ‘Can you read Goethe in German, Dante in Italian, and Lucretius in Latin?’ No one claimed to be able to read all three. Santayana replied: ‘I too am very ignorant.’ And then added, ‘Not that ignorant.’

The other one is about Thomas Kuhn, who after a late night drink or two with Cavell, blurts out with a tortured look: “I know Wittgenstein uses the idea of ‘paradigm.’ But I do not see its implications in his work. How do I answer the objection that this destroys the truth of science? I deplore the idea. Yet if instruction and agreement are the essence of the matter, then Hitler could instruct me that a theory is true and get me to agree.” Cavell’s reply I cast as follows: “No he could not; he could not educate you in, convince you of, show you, its truth. Hitler could declare a theory to be true, as an edict. He could effectively threaten to kill you if you refuse to, or fail to, believe it. But all that means is that he is going to kill you; or perhaps kill you if you do not convince him, show him, that you accept and will follow the edict. I don’t say this is clear. But it is something I cannot doubt is worth doing whatever work it will take to make clear.” Kuhn’s reaction was startling. He rose almost violently from his chair, began pacing in front of the fireplace, and as Cavell narrates, muttered something like, “Yah. Yah.” What causes conviction? What, perhaps rather, may undo an unnoticed conviction?” After that night both arranged to meet for lunch and regularly discuss ideas which would later appear as The Structure of Scientific Revolutions.

In a manner, Cavell’s book is the quintessential tale of the immigrant in America. And ruthlessly introspective, as the best of such tales have always been. He reminds us that while United States is a synonym for chauvinism, America might not be (patriotism has become a maggot in his nation’s consciousness). Has this something to do with US’s chronic skittishness about philosophy and original intellectuality? A typical example is the writings in the New Yorker which share a particular claim to sophistication among the literary and the tasteful class. And yet, Cavell tells us how he came across an essay on Emerson on his two hundredth birth anniversary by the celebrated John Updike, who was able to, and willing to, string out a list of careless and banal criticism of Emerson’s pretensions, but unwilling to explain subtly and accurately by contextualizing those very sentences. Cavell asks: Who was Updike protecting? What public service was he thereby performing? It is this cultural dispensation, of hasty and gleaming smartness, that Cavell has been cautioning us in all his works. As he sums up: “Snobbery readily presents itself as a form of tastelessness manifested by those with some real taste.”

In a brief spurt of inspired wonder at the relationship between poetry, philosophy and more practical activities, Cavell recalls Wallace Stevens’ and Santayana’s repeated claims upon philosophy and asks why The Magic Mountain might open with the question ‘What is Time?” He responds to Stevens’ claims of virility in poetry by considering Euripides’ Hippolytus, as a study of the dangers of promising and Racine’s Phedre, which is about the treacherousness of speech.  Poets have to risk both—accept the promise of poetry before they can withstand consequent prophecy/poverty and contest with monsters the right to assert their own language and imaginative cosmos. In the background is Wittgenstein’s famous tag at the end of Tractatus: “Whereof one cannot speak, therefore one must be silent,” which was in response to Nietzsche’s admonition at the beginning of his second volume of Human, All Too Human, “One should speak only where one must not be silent.” But when a culture unnoticeably learns to read and converse silently, its implications are vast.  Cavell’s own literary-artistic sensibility was largely guided by his discovery of writers of stories, like Saul Bellow, Isaac Rosenfeld, Bernard Malamud, Robert Warshow and the likes of Kafka and Mann. The legacy, for which he is permanently grateful, he calls non-Stalinist socialist aspirations living somehow with a commitment to high modernism. But he was often bored in literary theory and psychology classes, which seemed formless and far too uselessly abstract. In this case he had to be partisan:  “…in both psychology and literature classes, names of members of the philosophy department began to be invoked by students asking the most interesting questions…” But this reaction comes from an intense love of art, not dismissal. What he dismisses is pedantry. Without fail.  Cavell, in continuation to a rare tradition in philosophy, has always sought philosophy’s rapprochement with art, two ancient rivals: “I am not willing just to say that Shakespeare, Racine, Dickens, George Eliot, Ibsen, Proust, Kafka, and so on evidently know intuitively what philosophy responds to conceptually. These writers also evidently respond conceptually.”

Music is a constant presence and so are films. As he writes the musical score for a professional production of King Lear (songs, fanfare, tuckets, alarums, storm effects and a concluding dirge), Cavell underscores the fact that to imbibe theatre’s intellectual ambience means not only a familiarity that exceeds mere literary study but also the enlargement of scope, because a production systematically and explicitly demands the exercise of imagination, articulation, interpretation, surprises and mood. Cavell is inordinately happy when his Cities of Words gets mentioned by two reviewers in connection with the film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. That some of his works are long forgotten save a specialized readership and yet are referred to in relation to this film or that composition makes it still alive and pertinent. Similarly, a publication of a collection of essays Contending with Stanley Cavell, on his works, with his responses in it, makes him pleased as a peach. We observe, to our utter delight, how common our humanity is actually—with its similar worries and fears, its stubborn foibles and tribulations.

At one level the book is also about academic institutions. And at a time when institutions are being undermined and faculty humiliated by all kinds of high handedness, certain observations demand special attention. Like when he observes in general how “Large and ambitious universities are on average probably no less complex, and no subtler, at making decisions about hiring and promotion, and generally no more or less rational in evaluating and balancing talent and productiveness and promise and reputation and loyalty and simple affection, than law firms or insurance companies or sports teams. It is true that the latter have measures of winning and losing apparently more objective (cases handled successfully, policies written, league standings) than universities do. Yet one imagines universities to have the freedom to be better, at once juster and kinder and more imaginative.” At several points the book reminds us how lectures need not necessarily be displays of individual accomplishment rather than invitations to participate in professionally working things through and how graduate students ought to be regarded as participating in a common enterprise with their professors. Cavell, ever so persistent in highlighting the kind of seriousness that academic pursuit demands, is at the same time ruthlessly dismissive of academe’s false pretences. To the popular adage meant to explain the compounding decline of an academic department’s importance, or perhaps to decry a new appointment to the faculty: “Second-rate people like to be around third-rate people. First-rate people like to be around first-rate people,” Cavell has to say this: “Do first-rate people speak so—except in their fourth-rate moments?”

And a very touching, poignant episode comes late in the book that shows how this man thinks about the academe. Gilbert Ryle comes to Harvard, and among other things, gives an informal lecture in the students’ common room. As Ryle holds forth, a senior Harvard faculty, Henry Aiken, arrives volubly drunk and creates a commotion. A student host takes him out and just as Cavell was thinking the situation was well handled, the student returns and takes his place again near Ryle. When Cavell asks the student later about why he would leave Aiken to his disgrace, he said he did not wish to miss the lecture. This sets Cavell thinking about the level of refinement and prestige that moral philosophy has achieved these days. And a consequent casualness in everyday actions: “A talented teacher to whom you owe gratitude for repeated past kindnesses, and whose disgraceful conduct will be underscored by the consciousness of your rebuke, deserves better of you than being deftly turned out of doors, when the only cost to you to help him preserve a tatter of dignity is the mild disappointment of missing the end of a public conversation.” There is something quaint enough to learn from someone who refuses to recognize competitiveness (or moral stinginess) where it entails a lack of respect. The way to make winning pertinent, or rather irrelevant, is to win in such a way as to be beyond or outside evaluation.

There is an important section towards the concluding part of the book which shows how vexed and attracted this professional philosopher is towards French post-structuralist writings. On the one hand, Cavell is moved intensely by intentions of exchange and challenging claims in philosophy. The whole point of doing philosophy is a right to confront (“…a confrontation that draws blood, or stops or boils or cools or heartens it.”) and examine each other in our daily existence. This is a rational position. On the other, he is profoundly disturbed that philosophy has put a distance between itself and theology. This leads him to Lacan and Blanchot who feel that human beings are made so as to bump into each other. Philosophy ought to be the unblushing publishing of one’s guilt within the everyday. And yet that it chronically avoids the everyday is a predicament Cavell painfully confronts. His first encounter with Derrida (with Cavell’s book in hand) sums it up in manner. He can see how both of them are thinking together on the conditions of our existence and yet the ways of this French articulation he cannot fathom. The phantasmagoria of fashionable American espousal of French thought bothers him and yet he walks close to them in every manner. The result is the acknowledgement of a profound conundrum within the American humanities world itself in the last century: “American dispensation of humanities, formed in the absence, indeed the shunning, of the study of philosophy, left it incapable of evaluating claims made in the name of philosophy by philosophers from the other side, whereas professional philosophers on this side were on the whole too contemptuous of these claims to study them.”

This is a book about a way of living. This is also, to a large extent, the inside story of the American academia as it developed in the previous century. And within all this lies the story of the evolution of philosophy. What does a commitment to philosophy look like? With what right, out of what need, might or should a teacher question it? Certainly not by creating works, but by going back over one’s expressions, leaving nothing standing, or perhaps, as Emerson, one of Cavell’s heroes, puts the matter, always just approaching. To trace a path, crooked and unpredictable—that is what has been Stanley Cavell’s aim in this journey. No harm indeed in saying again, It is a mad world, my masters—I speak as a child.

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Links:

Vladmir Jankelevitch, ‘Should we Pardon Them.’
http://www.du.edu/cjs/documents/jankelevitchshouldwepardonthem.pdf

Ralph Waldo Emerson, Complete Works
http://www.rwe.org/

Richard Wagner, Tannhauser Overture,

Deuteronomy, Chapter 24
http://www.mechon-mamre.org/p/pt/pt0524.htm

Euripides, Hippolytus
http://classics.mit.edu/Euripides/hippolytus.html

Thomas Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions
http://insitu.lri.fr/~mbl/Stanford/CS477/papers/Kuhn-SSR-2ndEd.pdf

J.L. Austin, Other Minds

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Prasanta Chakravarty teaches English at the University of Delhi.

Spinoza, Bayle, Socinians

 

 

Russ Leo

 

(Review of Jonathan I. Israel, Radical Enlightenment: Philosophy and the Making of Modernity 1650-1750.  Oxford University Press, 2002.  832 pp.  ISBN 978-0199254569.  Jonathan Israel, Enlightenment Contested: Philosophy, Modernity, and the Emancipation of Man 1670-1752.  Oxford University Press, 2006.  983 pp.  ISBN 978-0199279227)

 

In her study $urplus: Spinoza, Lacan (2007), A. Kiarina Kordela reads Jonathan Israel alongside Gilles Deleuze, Félix Guattari, Antonio Negri, and Michael Hardt as proponents of “Neo-Spinozism” in contemporary philosophy and political theory.  While offering scant praise for this “Neo Spinozist” camp Kordela recognizes Israel’s intervention  beyond the field of intellectual history. Of Israel in particular she writes, “To praise Spinoza as the most philosophical force of secular modernity on the ground of arguments such as [in  Radical Enlightenment: Philosophy and the Making of Modernity 1650-1750 (2001)] only makes one wonder whether it would have been better to have left him in quasi-anonymity.”

In other words, she recognizes the importance of  Radical Enlightenment  (and subsequently  Enlightenment Contested: Philosophy,  Modernity, and the Emancipation of Man 1670-1752 (2006)), the extent to which both works argue for a certain modernity as well as a revised history of modernity. Kordela’s treatment of Israel exemplifies the degree to which the concept “Radical Enlightenment” currently enjoys cross-disciplinary vogue.  It provides a useful point of entry into Israel’s attempt to retrace the Enlightenment, an attempt that is as much a critique of reigning forms and fantasies of modernity as it is an historical corrective.  For Israel, Benedictus de Spinoza is the intellectual progenitor of “the only kind of philosophy which could (and can) coherently integrate and hold together such a far-reaching value condominium in the social, moral, and political spheres, as well as in ‘philosophy’” (EC 867).

 

It is Spinoza and Spinozism which promotes the adoption of secular reason and government,  universal toleration and shared equity among all men, personal liberty, freedom of expression, and democratic republicanism.  Israel’s vision of modernity, grounded in his reconfigured Enlightenment history, is a polemical statement buttressed by an historical archive – one which critics and philosophers across disciplines, including Kordela, seem interested in recruiting or dispelling. Given the scope of his archive as well as his argument, the appeal of Radical Enlightenment is perhaps unsurprising.  In both  Radical Enlightenment  and its companion text Enlightenment Contested Israel challenges existing approaches to  and histories of the Enlightenment based on his identification of a single, coherent and continuous “radical” stream of thought.

 

This radicalism emanates from Spinoza and his Dutch circle during the mid-seventeenth century. Israel  takes issue with national histories of the Enlightenment and claims to multiple Enlightenments as well as with unsophisticated and insular histories glorifying  later eighteenth-century French and/or English innovations.  In their stead he introduces a single history of Enlightenment marked by three competing trends or forces – those of Radical Enlightenment, Moderate Enlightenment, and Anti Enlightenment, all of which are set to work as early as 1650.  Radical Enlightenment ideas cut across national, regional and confessional lines as their Spinozism takes shape (much earlier than has been accorded by historians of the Enlightenment) throughout Europe as the most thorough, systematic, and rigorous critique of the “shared core of faith, tradition, and authority” of the Middle Ages and Early Modernity (until around 1650)  (RE 3).

 

Illustrating Moderate and Anti-Enlightenment trends, Israel identifies numerous reactionary movements working to stop the torrent of Spinozistic claims and illegal texts.  These reactionary movements understand Spinozist claims as anarchic and atheistic innovations that quickly breach the limit of what is necessary to maintain order and morality in a civil (and religious) society.  Israel’s is a history where radical philosophers stand at odds not only with absolutism, tyranny, superstition, and intolerance but with an emergent Moderate Enlightenment as well.  Here we encounter an apologetic and ultimately conservative philosophical cohort working to reconcile philosophy and reason with faith, including such hallowed figures as Rene Descartes,  Thomas Hobbes, Isaac Newton, John Locke, Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, Christian Wolff, and Francois Marie Arouet Voltaire. For Catholics, Protestants, monarchs, limited-republicans, humanists, scholastic philosophers, and philosophers of the Moderate Enlightenment alike it is the spread of Spinozism that marks the greatest threat to a well-ordered, pious, and increasingly-rational European world.

Israel’s determination of Spinoza and Spinozism first takes shape in  Radical Enlightenment. Indeed, detailed investigations of related figures and controversies surround the exegesis of Spinoza’s  oeuvre, particularly the 1670 Tractatus Theologico-Politicus, the posthumously-published 1677  Ethics, and the 1660-1 Korte Verhandeling.   Israel’s reading of the Korte Verhandeling in particular supports his crucial claim that Spinoza’s system was essentially determined by 1660 which, in turn, buttresses the underlying claim for Spinoza’s primacy.  He introduces such key philosophers as Franciscus Van  den Enden, Johan de la Court, Peter Cornelius Plockhoy, Johannes and Adriaen Koerbagh, and Lodewijk Meyer, as well as debates and events concerning early modern science, political theory, and the (unsuccessful) efforts on behalf of Anti- and Moderate Enlightenment forces alike to curb the publication  and distribution of radical texts and ideas.  Israel’s treatment of Johannes Bredenburg and the so-called “Bredenburg Debates,” of Balthasar Bekker, Bernard  Le Bovier de Fontanelle, and the heated disputations over superstition, oracles, and the existence of the devil reveal the degree to which Spinozism and the very name “Spinoza” became watchwords for disruptive or impious challenges to  existing beliefs and institutions. This is even the case in controversies where the so-called “Spinozists” act in the name of religion and deny the influence of such a notorious atheist and innovator.  This is perhaps nowhere as evident as in the case of Pierre Bayle, a figure who in his conflicting allegiances to the Reformed Church, to Catholicism, and to Spinozism throughout his life comes to exemplify the complex protean tenor of Radical Enlightenment  debate and exegesis.

Despite his avowed hatred for Spinoza and his declared piety, Bayle’s careful (and lengthy) treatment of Spinozism across his works led contemporary and future readers to suspect the motivation of his philosophical and theological projects. Controversial issues such as tolerance and the stated virtue of atheists led Bayle’s readers to Spinoza in spite of (or, as Israel suggests, in accord with) his declared intentions.

 

Much of the work of Radical Enlightenment – indeed, what makes it an invaluable intervention in the history of Enlightenment thought as well as in the history of religion – lies in Israel’s attention to lesser-known figures and, ultimately, to the lesser-known Dutch context of early modernity.  This is not to accuse Israel of merely producing a rival national history to counter existing English or French varieties; on the contrary, the Netherlands of Radical Enlightenment takes shape as a porous polity populated by a number of political  and religious refugees and communities in exile.  Publishing in the Netherlands retains an international character and the range of figures that spent significant time in the region, including Locke and John Toland, is striking.  Nevertheless, it is attention to the Dutch context that enables Israel’s most scouring critique of existing histories of Enlightenment (namely those of Peter Gay and Margaret C. Jacob), where the celebrated innovations of Locke, Newton, and Voltaire are rendered conservative in comparison to their lesser-known contemporaries, the victims of national histories.

 

Enlightenment Contested  extends the earlier argument to account for the emergence of France as a crucial theater in the contest between rival versions of Enlightenment.  Here he locates the work of such figures as Bayle, Voltaire,Charles de Secondat, Baron de Montesqiueu, and Denis Diderot in relation to Spinoza and Spinozism and in opposition to trans-national Jesuitical, Jansenist, and Reformed movements working to limit (albeit in opposition to one another as well) Radical Enlightenment.  The narrative is not one of philosophy versus religion, however; neither is it an easy contest between political forms, between oppressive despotic regimes and their republican discontents.  Enlightenment Contested advances a more intricate competition over ideas (as in the preceding volume), identifying divergent philosophies and theologies according to the tripartite scheme: Radical, Moderate, or Anti-Enlightenment.  While much of the work retraces the spread of Spinozism beginning with Bayle, Israel eschews another investigation of Spinoza’s Spinozism and that of his immediate circle.

He proceeds, rather, through a series of controversies and topics; Israel’s treatments of Socinianism (a key theological movement which  Radical Enlightenment  referenced without explanation), tolerance, deism and physicotheology, Hobbesian thought and forms of republicanism, monarchy and representation, humanism, and the new discipline of the History of Philosophy all foreground rival versions of Enlightenment.  Particularly salient is his exploration of various approaches to Islam, Confucianism and Chinese political formations, race, gender, sexuality, and debate over what is now known as evolution.

 

Here Israel continues to extend his thesis beyond Europe, offering key, albeit brief, Enlightenment scenes from Russia and China as well as the New World, where Jonathan Edwards comes to stand in as a sort of representative Moderate or Anti-Enlightenment colonial informant.  His exemplary attention to Germany and the Baltic region works to expose additional contexts for the transmission of radical ideas and their subsequent effects in various political and religious landscapes, giving the reader a more capacious understanding of the scope of Enlightenment.  In order to make a case for the spread of radical ideas, particularly Spinozism, Israel attends not only to  philosophical ideas but explicitly to the materials and emergent institutions of Radical Enlightenment across both volumes, investigating censorship laws  and the contents of “universal” libraries as well as the strategic publication of illegal books and the circulation of clandestine philosophical manuscripts.  This is one of the stronger points in Israel’s narrative, lending credence to an otherwise unfamiliar and estranging notion of Enlightenment and historical philosophy as well as to many heretofore-unknown clandestine documents.

 

But while Israel is clearly capable of tracing the  spread of ideas among philosophical circles and within certain religious institutions and organs of state, neither  Radical Enlightenment  nor  Enlightenment Contested  seem able to make a case for the dissemination of Spinozistic ideas among the general European population.  His thesis is particularly difficult to accept outside of literate aristocratic circles and specialized reading groups.  Israel traces the ubiquity of the name “Spinoza” as well as the often-derogatory use of the term “Spinozism” (or some variation) to refer to any number of radical philosophical claims yet this does little more than establish familiarity with the name alone.  The thesis wants evidence of the supposedly wide spread of Spinozistic ideas themselves.  A brief tour through mid-seventeenth-century heresiographies (particularly in English, during the turbulent 1640s and 1650s) might have shed new light on the circulation of Spinozism as a term without content, or at least without the radical content Israel is looking for.  Heresiographies are notorious for misrepresenting ideas for popular audiences and comparative work might distinguish Israel’s claims for a more substantial dissemination based on the recognition of “Spinozism” from more dubious terms.  While the histories of radical materials are often compelling one is nevertheless left with the feeling that some aspect of this very material history has been omitted, that the print histories Israel offers are somewhat incomplete: what audiences did such texts expect? How were the texts read? Who was able to obtain radical texts, besides philosophes?  Did they circulate with similar philosophical materials or with clandestine or illicit books of a more general sort?  My reservation is that when “Spinozism” is understood as a general period term for atheism, for secularism, for reason and Enlightenment, it might also come to stand for a type of literature common to a more general trade in pornography and satire, recalling a more familiar terminology proper to libertinism.  Whether or not this is the case is unclear in Israel’s work.

 

In support of his basic argument – that Enlightenment is transnational and continuous, marked by varying degrees of acceptance but ultimately stemming from an initial systematic critique in Spinozism – Israel often writes defensively.  In some of the most unfortunate moments across the two books we encounter Israel championing his own methods and determinations of liberation against parodic summations of his intellectual opponents’ arguments – those of social historians, “postmodernist and postcolonialist philosophers,” and critics of Enlightenment projects (notably, Charles Taylor and Alasdair MacIntyre). Despite the reaction to his work across disciplines, such moments lead one to wonder which debates Israel imagines his work intervening in.  In short, Israel’s most polemical moments, which often act as bookends for his more substantial investigations, stand conspicuously against his treatment of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century materials.

 

This is particularly evident in Israel’s determination of secularism, a term which he locates at the center of radical thought and which becomes  the measure against which philosophers are classified as “Radical” or “Moderate.”  Israel is correct in identifying numerous critical approaches to religion (and to Christianity in particular), especially in the aftermath of the Reformation and its attendant violent conflicts, just as he is correct  in locating in Spinozism a particularly thorough and systematic statement against a particular sort of religion.  But in what ways is Spinoza’s philosophy “secular”?  This is a question that Israel answers too quickly, eschewing the investigations of Christian, Islamic, and Jewish influences that have figured prominently in competing studies of Spinozism.  This is not to chastise Israel (or his Spinoza) for their trenchant critiques of religion nor is it an attempt to apologize for religion in any general sense.  What Israel misses is the extent to which various religious movements or interventions make possible the very “secular” achievements in thought he seems to champion.  Israel’s thesis – that the true Enlightenment began with Spinoza and with Spinozism, the only strains of thought which truly deserve to be called “Radical” – carries with it a  dismissive determination of secularism.

 

Not every critique of religion is necessarily secular, even when the critique is as systematic as Spinoza’s ontology.  Secularism is an argument or set of practices working toward a particular vision of modernity.  It is not merely the opposite of religion nor is it necessarily a form of atheism.  Numerous interventions across a number of fields teach us otherwise, from the work  of Hans Blumenberg, Michael J. Buckley, and Marcel Gauchet to that of John Milbank, William E. Connolly, Charles Taylor and Talal Asad (and this is, of course, only scratching the surface).

 

But in Israel’s work secularism is taken for granted and conflated with Spinoza’s project and with his apparent atheism.  In this way Israel seems  not to contend with certain important trends in Spinoza scholarship either, ignoring the possibility of Spinozism as an alternative to confessional forms of  religion and to secularism, as a philosophical movement that offers something  else entirely.  I refer to the work of Antonio Negri and Yirmiyahu Yovel in particular, both of whom make compelling cases for a certain continuity between  religious or mystical languages and concepts and Spinoza’s own innovative philosophy.

 

Moreover, Spinoza’s supposedly secular and atheistic philosophical monism is further conflated with a kind of universalism, a claim that enables Israel to locate in Spinozism the only conceivable way to posit the inherent equality of all men.  Despite his early attention to Spinoza’s ontology in Radical Enlightenment, by the end of  Enlightenment Contested  Spinoza’s complicated and intricate ontological intervention (particularly in his Ethics) risks devolving into a blanket universalism which Israel is able to locate across a wide spectrum of writers.  Israel’s picture, in turn, becomes more a clash of universalisms – religion versus secularism – rather than a more nuanced vision of the many conflicting approaches to secularism and to religious life.

 

Israel’s determination of secularism is more than a theoretical problem.  It is reflected in his treatment of historical resources.  This is evident in his treatment of Socinianism across  Radical Enlightenment  and  Enlightenment Contested, an important heretical movement impacting sixteenth- and seventeenth-century European confessions in its threatening approaches  to Scripture and reason. While Israel is correct in affirming the importance of Socinianism he is markedly incorrect in his summary of Socinian beliefs and practices; what he understands as “a denial of Christology” and “a thoroughgoing scepticism about miracles” is in fact a more subtle understanding of doctrine emphasizing adiaphora and anti-Trinitarian thought (EC 123).  He concedes Radical  Enlightenment status to Socinianism (despite disputations between Socinian  Frans Kuyper and Bredenburg, with the former championing Moderate Enlightenment principles against quasi-Spinozism (RE 347-358)) on the grounds that it comes close to a supposedly-Spinozan “freedom of thought and a comprehensive toleration” (EC 123) rather than its (more accurate) alternative comportment to orthodoxy and belief itself.  Ultimately Socinianism is only important or radical based on its apparent similarity to Spinozism, a similarity that we are told is merely tactical on Spinoza’s part.

 

But while Socinianism is misunderstood it is Israel’s treatment of English Revolution philosophers, theologians, and social theorists that is most puzzling. Figures as diverse as Gerard Winstanley, John Milton, Roger Williams, John Lilburne, Anna Trapnel, Edward Sexby, and Abiezer Coppe, Lucy Hutchinson, translator of Lucretius, or Margaret Cavendish are elided based on Israel’s deployment of secularism which in turn shapes his understanding of radicalism.  This is particularly  frustrating given his disproportionate attention across the two books to  the bourgeois sources and contexts of continental radicalism; given the opportunity to read the English vein of radicalism with or against continental trends, Israel discounts such sources based on their religious character and what he reads as their relative simplicity.

In his own words, “the pantheism of a Winstanley had a theological, strongly poetic, even magical quality, and altogether lacked the pretensions to philosophical rigour characteristic of Spinoza, the Dutch Spinozists, and the British Deists of the Early Enlightenment” (RE 601).  Thus we are left with an English scene characterized by Thomas Hobbes and Oliver Cromwell, neither of which Spinoza liked, based on limited secular criteria.

 

Israel’s treatment of English Revolution texts – and, subsequently, scholarship of mid-century radical writing in English – points to  his dismissal of Dutch capitalism in its capacity to shape the Enlightenment and to the economic situation informing Spinoza’s philosophical project. His Spinoza and Spinozism work to enable a personal liberty as well as a notion of individualism itself that is not necessarily apparent in other historical versions of Spinozism or of modernity itself.  The degree to which this determination of Spinozism – and, indeed, radicalism – is in fact shaped by commitments to political and economic forms of liberalism departs from other recent Spinozisms (in particular, Negri’s).

Both Radical Enlightenment and Enlightenment Contested will undoubtedly remain standard references for future histories of Enlightenment as well as of Spinozism, Cartesianism, and a host of other philosophical figures and movements, and for good reason.  It is an erudite and convincing project insofar as Israel presents Enlightenment as an inclusive pan-European trade in competing claims and methods, supported by detailed investigations of its materials and institutions.  Nevertheless, Israel’s secular vision of Enlightenment carries with it a number of risks. Despite the thrilling recuperations of various figures and texts; despite his romance with Spinozism which reveals other histories of the Enlightenment and their champions as reactionary and subordinate; even despite the ambition and scope of such a project and the invigorating energy it brings to scholarly debate, Israel’s treatment of secular modernity leads to a  series of challenges in understanding the stakes of Spinozism as well as of religious dissent, even within orthodox traditions.  It leads one to wonder what the term “radical” is capable of doing in recasting the history of modernity under secularism, and certainly to question what form of emancipatory modernity Israel presents.  Even in praise of the book I offer, after Spinoza, a word: caute.

 

 ———————————————

Russ Leo is Fellow in the Society of Fellows in the Liberal Arts at Princeton University. He will join the Faculty in the English Department at Princeton University in Fall 2012. This review article was first published as “Caute: Jonathan Israel’s Secular Modernity,” in Journal for Cultural and Religious Theory vol. 9. no. 2 (Summer 2008): 76-83.

 

 

Beginnings, Beginnings, Beginnings: A Letter

A letter from Hans Ulrich Obrist to Hou Hanru

Dear Hanru,

Thanks so much for your message and many congratulations on your Lyon Biennale. This is an occasion to think about the Internet and John Brockman’s annual Edge question, which this year asks, “How has the Internet changed the way you think?” Some thoughts about this in order to resume our exchange, which I have tried to summarize in an incomplete A to Z PARS PRO TOTO ever PARS PRO TOTO.

C is for Curating the World
The Internet made me think towards a more expanded notion of curating. Stemming from the Latin word “curare,” the word “curating” originally meant “to take care of objects in museums.” Curation has long since evolved. Just as art is no longer limited to traditional genres, curating is no longer confined to the gallery or museum, but has expanded across all boundaries. The rather obscure and very specialized notion of curating has become much more publicly used since one now talks about the curating of websites and this marks a very good moment to rediscover the pioneering history of art curating as a toolbox for 21st-century society at large.

D is for Delinking
In the years before being online, I remember that there were many interruptions by phone and fax day and night. The reality of being permanently linked to the Internet triggered my increasing awareness of the importance of moments of concentration – moments without interruption that require me to be completely unreachable. I no longer answer the phone at home and I only answer my mobile phone in the case of fixed telephone appointments. “To link is beautiful. To delink is sublime.” (Paul Chan)

D is for Disrupted narrative continuity
Forms of film montage, as the disruption of narrative and the disruption of spatial and temporal continuity, have been a staple tactic of the avant-garde from Cubism and Eisenstein, through Brecht to Kluge or Godard. For avant-gardism as a whole, it was essential that these tactics were recognized (experienced) as a disruption. The Internet has made disruption and montage the operative bases of everyday experience. Today, these forms of disruption can be harnessed and poeticized. They can foster new connections, new relationships, new productions of reality: reality as life-montage / life as reality-disruption? Not one story but many stories………

D is for Doubt
A certain unreliability of technical and material information on the Internet brings us to the notion of doubt. I feel that doubt has become more pervasive. The artist Carsten Höller has invented the Laboratory of Doubt, which is opposed to mere representation. As he told me, “Doubt and perplexity … are unsightly states of mind we’d rather keep under lock and key because we associate them with uneasiness, with a failure of values.” Höller’s credo is not to do, not to intervene. To exist is to do and not to do is a way of doing. “Doubt is alive; it paralyzes certainty.” (Carsten Höller)

E is for Evolutive exhibitions
The Internet makes me think more about non-final exhibitions and exhibitions in a state of becoming. When conceiving exhibitions, I sometimes like to think of randomized algorithms, access, transmission, mutation, infiltration, circulation (and the list goes on). The Internet makes me think less of exhibitions as top-down masterplans, but rather as bottom-up processes of self-organization like “do it” or “Cities on the Move”.

F is for Forgetting
The ever-growing, ever-pervasive records that the Internet produces make me think sometimes about the virtues of forgetting. Is a limited-life space of certain information and data becoming more urgent?

H is for Handwriting (and Drawing ever Drawing) 
The Internet has made me aware of the importance of handwriting and drawing. Personally, I typed all my early texts, but the more the Internet has become all-encompassing, the more I have felt that something went missing. Hence the idea to reintroduce handwriting. I do more and more of my correspondence as handwritten letters scanned and sent by email. On a professional note, I observe, as a curator, the importance of drawing in current art production. One can also see it in art schools: a moment when drawing is an incredibly fertile zone.

I is for Identity
“Identity is shifty, identity is a choice.” (Etel Adnan)

M is for Maps
The Internet has increased the presence of maps in my thinking. It’s become easier to make maps, to change them, and also to work on them collaboratively and collectively and share them (eg, Google Maps and Google Earth). After the focus on social networks of the last couple of years, I have come to see the focus on location as a key dimension.

N is for New geographies
The Internet has fuelled (and been fuelled by) a relentless economic and cultural globalization, with all its positive and negative aspects. On the one hand, there is the danger of homogenizing forces, which is also at stake in the world of the arts. On the other hand, there are unprecedented possibilities for difference-enhancing global dialogues. In the long duration there have been seismic shifts, like that in the 16th century when the paradigm shifted from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic. We are living through a period in which the center of gravity is transferring to new centers. The early 21st century is seeing the growth of a polyphony of art centers in the East and West, in the North and South.

N is for Non-mediated experiences. N is for the New Live
I feel an increased desire for non-mediated experiences. Depending on one’s point of view, the virtual may be a new and liberating prosthesis of the body or it may threaten the body. Many visual artists today negotiate and mediate between these two, staging encounters of non-mediated intersubjectivity. In the field of music, the crisis of the record industry goes hand in hand with an increased importance of live concerts.

P is for Parallel realities
The Internet creates and fosters new constituencies, new micro-communities. As a system that infinitely breeds new realities, it is predisposed to reproduce itself in a proliferating series of ever more functionally differentiated subsystems. As such, it makes my thinking go towards the production of parallel realities, bearing witness to the multiverse, as the physicist David Deutsch might say, and for better or worse, the Internet allows that which is already latent in the fabric of reality to unravel itself and expand in all directions.

P is for Protest against forgetting
Over the past several years I’ve felt an increasing urgency to do more and more interviews, to make an effort to preserve traces of intelligence from past decades. One particularly urgent part of this is the testimonies of the 20th-century pioneers who are in their 80s or 90s or older, whom I regularly interview, testimonies of a century from those who are not online and who very often fall into oblivion. This protest might, as Rem Koolhaas told me, act as “a hedge against the systematic forgetting that hides at the core of the information age and which may in fact be its secret agenda.”

S is for Salon of the 21st century
The Internet has made me think more about whom I would like to introduce to whom; to cyberintroduce people as a daily practice or to introduce people in person through actual salons for the 21st century (see the Brutally Early Club).

U is for Untimely meditations
The future is always built out of fragments of the past. The Internet has brought thinking more into the present tense, raising questions of what it means to be contemporary. Recently, Giorgio Agamben revisited Nietzsche’s Untimely Meditations, arguing that the one who belongs to his or her own time is the one who does not coincide perfectly with it. It is because of this shift, this anachronism, that he or she is more apt than others to perceive and to catch his or her time. Agamben follows this observation with his second definition of contemporaneity: the contemporary is the one who is able to perceive obscurity, who is not blinded by the lights of his or her time or century. This leads us, interestingly enough, to the importance of astrophysics in explaining the relevance of obscurity for contemporaneity. The seeming obscurity in the sky is the light that travels to us at full speed but can’t reach us because the galaxies from which it originates are ceaselessly moving away from us at a speed superior to that of light. The Internet and a certain resistance to its present tense have made me increasingly aware that there is an urgent call to be contemporary. To be contemporary means to perpetually come back to a present where we have never yet been. To be contemporary means to resist the homogenization of time, through ruptures and discontinuities.

Last but not least is the response of David Weiss who answers this year’s Edge question with a new question asking if our thinking can influence the Internet.

I am now working on a project about Maps for the 21st century and will tell you more about it in the next letter.

I am very curious to know more about your new projects.

Yours ever,
Hans Ulrich

[This Letter first appeared in Art It, No. 15.  Hans Ulrich Obrist is a contemporary art curator, critic and historian of art. He is currently Co-director of Exhibitions and Programmes and Director of International Projects at the Serpentine Gallery, London. Hou Hanru is a Chinese art curator and critic who works at San Francisco Art Institute as Director of Exhibitions and Public Program and Chair of Exhibition and Museum Studies.]

“You Have Seen Nothing in Hiroshima, Nothing”: Evidence & Cinematic Image

T.P. Sabitha

Alain Resnais’ film, Hiroshima mon amour (1957), makes an audacious claim when the Japanese man makes this remark repeatedly to his French lover when she claims to have “seen” Hiroshima: “Tu n’a rien vu á Hiroshima, rien.” This denial is the possibility of the text of narration that cannot be done with the image. When the camera ‘sees’ something, it cannot be ‘nothing’ that it sees. The image can only assert, not functionally serve as a denial or negation. What is negated is the truth of her claim that she has “seen” Hiroshima: the hospitals and the museum. When she says this, the camera takes on a documenting role, moving through the corridors of the hospital and ‘recording’, almost without a witnessing agent, the exhibited objects at  the museum – stones, human skin, human hair, as well as the ‘recreated’ performances of the Hiroshima bombing, the actors apparently on fire, their skin peeling off, the enacted deaths. We see the ‘documented’ people at the hospital often startled by the camera; they look directly at it, thus the cinematic image is made in the convention of the documentary film, moving through spaces and creating a cartography of the ‘real’ that she claims to have seen.

However, the man denies that what she has seen is the ‘real’. What she sees is not testimonially adjudicated as Hiroshima, hence we can perhaps think that Hiroshima exceeds this, it is not containable in representation. The representation does not attest to the reality of Hiroshima, with the text of narration breaking down and negating the ‘reality’ of what is shown. What we see here, through these images, is not Hiroshima. Compare for a moment, Renè Magritte’s painting “This is not a pipe”, with the image of a pipe and the text that denies that it is a pipe. On the one hand, it is quite obvious that it is not a pipe, but the picture of a pipe. On the other it is a radical pictorial statement (since the writing in cursive hand is within the picture) about the limits of attestation or the impossibility of re-presenting the ‘real’, about the inherent fictionality of pictorial art, and perhaps too, on the function of art which is not to re-“present” anything outside of itself. This is what Michel Foucault writes about the scrawled text “This is not a pipe” within the painting: “Yet perhaps the sentence refers precisely to the disproportionate, floating, ideal pipe – simple notion or fantasy of a pipe. Then we should have to read, ‘Do not look overhead for a true pipe. That is a pipe dream. It is the drawing within the painting, firmly and rigourously outlined, that must be accepted as a manifested truth’” (This is not a Pipe. Pp. 16-17.) Resnais does something similar here, while showing us images of Hiroshima, the narration denies that it is Hiroshima that we are seeing. Hiroshima here signifies an absence that the cinematic image cannot show us, a manifestation outside of itself.

It can, though, show us Hiroshima from his point of view, Hiroshima as his recollection-image. However, the Hiroshima that must exist vis-à-vis that which is not Hiroshima, is not shown in the film. That is perhaps the ideal, the ideational Hiroshima that cannot be actualised, through what Gilles Deleuze calls the “false piety” of the image of “actualitè”, the documenting image that bears a certain reverence for the evidence of the “real” (Cinema 2, Pp. 122). But Hiroshima as an experienced event in time is never shown in the film. The question “if this is not Hiroshima, then what/when/where is Hiroshima?” is never answered. The only fictionalising of the Hiroshima bombing is what she and the camera see in the hospitals and museums, the re-creation, the re-collection, the re-gathering perhaps, of the event. The fiction of documentary is also seen in the reference to the “Peace Film” to act in which the French woman has come to Hiroshima. Marguerite Duras’s script says of the Peace Film: “It is not necessarily a ridiculous film; merely an enlightening one” (HMA, 39). We never see that “Peace Film” within Hiroshima mon amour. All we see are sets being dismantled and carried away and she removing her makeup. The sets and the makeup emphasise the ‘falseness’ of the documentary film, its fictiveness. The referential and signifying linkage between image and text is broken when, just as we are shown images of the Hiroshima that she has seen, he negates it and we are told we have seen nothing of Hiroshima. Is there a possibility of thinking that nomination (‘Hiroshima’) is impossible as an effect of the visual? The two protagonists too, significantly, are not named in the film, until the end when they call each other by the names of cities/sites of a sight that is not attested to in the film. Can the image attest to/ name anything by itself? The ‘real’ in the documentary is ascribed as the ‘real’ by a certain usage of technique or visual grammar. Resnais seems to deny what Carl Plantinga calls “Asserted Veridical Representation” while discussing the ‘documenting’ status of the documentary film. (“What a Documentary Is, After All”). Resnais denies this assertion, the ability of the image to nominate what it shows, and instead fictionalises her recollection-image, a powerful sequence of the ‘false’, her story that is actualised in this fiction film.

The Hiroshima that she has seen and he denies as being Hiroshima, is partly the fiction of Hiroshima through documentary images and hyper-real museums; Resnais inserts some newsreel footages into the images of what she has “seen” in Hiroshima that, fast-edited, almost work  as a parodic pastiche. However this ‘false’ Hiroshima is acknowledged as capable of affective power when she says: “The reconstructions have been made as authentically as possible. The films have been made as authentically as possible. The illusion, it’s quite simple, the illusion is so perfect that the tourists cry”. The fiction of the ‘authentic’, the ‘actual’, is exposed as fiction by Resnais and its testimonial veracity juridically denied. The man does not bear witness in the film, he is the function of judgement, while the woman is the witness whose recollection-image of the WW II we are given access to in the film. We see her recollection-image of France during the German Occupation in association with the present Hiroshima.

Actualisation of time in cinema is technically done through editing, changing the pace of the shots – acceleration or deceleration – and flashback, with identifiable markers of shifting between the present-time and the past-time. Montage can be used to indicate the presence of two parallel times. And with the movement from Hiroshima to Nevers, it is such a parallel time that the cinematic image creates. Resnais does not use conventional markers of the flashback such as fade-in or fade-out or dissolve. The visual text moves seamlessly from the present Hiroshima to Nevers, where she witnesses the killing by French snipers of her German lover. The montage moves from the twitching fingers of the sleeping Japanese man to the spasmodic movements of the dying man by the banks of the river Loire.

The montage here can be seen as the persistence of time, the continuum of time, which is where the ‘real’ can be said to be located – not as separate co-ordinates on the “sheet of time”, but in the co-existence of images in a continuum. Gilles Deleuze, while discussing Resnais’ films writes, “Throughout Resnais’ work we plunge into a memory which overflows the conditions of psychology, memory for two, memory for several, memory-world, memory-ages of the world…What are the sheets of the past in the cinema of Resnais?…In the first place, each sheet of the past is a continuum” (Cinema 2. Pp.119). The montage that works almost like a tracking shot between two “sheets of time” seems to indicate the persistence of one in the other, that of Nevers in Hiroshima. Here are two time-images coming together, colliding, to create a new cartography of time, the essence of which is the persistence of time that has the plausibility of changing and transforming with each colliding encounter with another memory-age, another site on the crystalline architecture of time, this is perhaps what Deleuze calls “the series of time, which brings together the before and after in a becoming, instead of separating them” (Cinema 2. pp.155). This coming together, instead of serving an effect of disorientation, instead orients us towards the inherent nature of the simultaneity of co-ordinates on different sites of time, the time of the world.

The conflation of Hiroshima with Nevers here coincides with the Japanese man referring to the Nazi lover as “I”. While she is narrating her story, he asks her, “When you’re in the cellar, am I dead?”. Time here moves from the memory of one into the memory for two, thus making possible a world of time that can come into being with two memories colliding with and segueing into each other. It is also the possibility of fiction to inhabit the ‘I’ of the other where through the power of the false, ‘I’ can go out of itself and by fictionalising itself can come to be, in another’s site of time. It is what the art of Jean Rouch’s documentary cinema does, this going out of oneself, the time of oneself into that of another, of the Other, in the possessed and parodic self-fictionalisation in Les Metiers Fous, where what is manifested is what Deleuze calls “not the cinema of truth, but the truth of cinema” (ibid. Pp. 151).

What we see in the visual narration in answer to his question whether he is dead while she is in the cellar, is her story, of falling in love with a Nazi soldier, the innocence of their furtive meetings, her witnessing his death (that is where her story starts, in medias res), being ostracised from society for falling in love with the enemy, her father’s drugstore closing down due to the ‘dishonour’, her being incarcerated in a cellar, her trauma and the possibility of her having gone temporarily insane, when she loses track of the passing of time. She does not register time anymore and is frozen in one moment, one dot on the sheet of time.

What we see here are close-up shots of the textured walls of the cellar, and her bleeding fingertips scratching that surface. The images are almost tactile. This parallel sheet of time comes into being where ironically the protagonist loses sense of the passage of time altogether. Time ceases to be chronological and what we see is time as phenomenological. The decelerated long shots of her in the cellar changes the pace of time, slows it down, almost stilling time. She remembers having been there for “Eternity”. It is when she starts noticing the markers of time that she comes out of her state of shock. The soundtrack is that of church bells that she says she started hearing again. The consciousness of time brings her back from the limbo in the cellar. The decelerated pace while she is in the cellar and the textured wall and close-ups of her scratching fingernails remind us of the rich tactility of the long shots of the lovers’ bodies at the beginning of the film.

The texture of the close-up shots of the lovers’ bodies creates a lingering ambiguity about what it is that is represented – is it sweat or dust or ashes? All these possibilities are visually present in the images. The camera here is not ‘documenting’, but evoking parallel poetic possibilities. The fragmented close-ups of the lovers covered with a texture that can be sweat or ashes suggest alternative probabilities of the ‘real’, thus coalescing temporal probabilities in the topography of bodies. The camera plays neither the role of the witness, nor that of the voyeur. This ambiguous opening shot itself interrogates the documentary status of the image and its stability as a sign with an identifiable referent. When the woman asserts the veracity of the referent ‘Hiroshima’ that she has seen, the man negates the truth of that assertion. The Hiroshima that she attests to is entirely spatially locatable: the hospital, the museum, the Peace Square, the streets that she walks, the hotel where the lovers meet.

After she finishes her possessed narration of her ‘story’, she feels she has betrayed her German lover. In a scene where she has an internal monologue looking at the mirror she confesses to her absent dead German lover that she betrayed him with the Japanese man. It is not a sense of sexual betrayal, but a betrayal of sharing that sheet of memory that only belonged to the two of them. She says “I told our story to him tonight. You see, it was a story that could be told”. This telling of the story in Hiroshima makes possible the coalescing of separate memory-images where the Japanese lover, in the course of narration of the story can become the German lover. It  is an enabling illusion, the illusion of this fictionalisation, just as she earlier compared the illusions in the museum to the illusion of love. That is perhaps where the Deleuzian “power of the false” lies, in this illusion of the ‘real’ that is acknowledged and asserted as an illusion, as fictional. Her sense of betrayal also alludes to the inherent falsity of narration. Deleuze quotes Nietzsche in Cinema 2: “Even the truthful man ends up realizing that he has never stopped lying” (‘The Powers of the False’, Cinema 2. 133). In the woman’s haunting and persistent sense of betrayal can be seen the inherent fictionality of the ‘real’. The ‘real’ as an unstable topography made up of constantly transforming and modifying time-images.

While Nevers exists as a separate sheet of time, we do not see Hiroshima in a sheet of past-time. It is the Hiroshima in the here and now of the cinematic time and space that we see. In the sequences of her walking the streets at night, the camera itself becomes the flâneur, walking and seeing the city. We see the neon-lit bill-boards, the night-lamps on the streets, the desultory traffic, the tea-rooms, the bars; and then in one shot, again a seamless montage that fits in with the flâneur-camera shots of the city, suddenly we see a quick glimpse of Plâce de la Republique inserted into images of the buildings on the streets on Hiroshima. Nevers and Paris continue to persist in Hiroshima. Resnais brings together, in the site-seeing of the camera, different cartographies of time, both spatially and temporally. The space of the past of Nevers seems to persist in the space of the present of Hiroshima.

Flâneuring is a contingent activity, where the flâneuse throws herself open to chance. This element of contingency is where Resnais locates the ‘real’ in cinema. The movie-camera here is nomadic, and the ‘real’ that it attests to is the transient and the contingent. Guiliana Bruno in her essay “Site-Seeing: Architecture and the Moving Image” writes that the affinity between cinema and the city street pertains to the transient: “The [im]mobile spectator moves across an imaginary path traversing multiple sites and times. Her navigation connects different moments and far apart places. Film inherits the possibility of such a spectatorial voyage from the architectural field” (Pp. 14).  Bruno quotes Eisenstein from his essay, “El Greco y el cine”: “An architectural ensemble…is a montage from the point of view of a moving spectator…Cinematographic montage too, is a means to ‘link’ in one point – the screen – various fragments of a phenomenon filmed in diverse dimensions” (Bruno. Pp. 14). The architectural spaces of time persistently coalesce in the final long sequence of ‘street-walking’ in Hiroshima mon amour.

Perrault thinks of cinema veritè that cinema must become akin to walking. In that contingent movement we see the document-image located. In the final scenes of Hiroshima mon amour, the long shots of her walking the streets of Hiroshima at night and throwing herself as well as the cinematic image open to chance, cinema is located in the contingency of the movement-image — the motion-picture — and its temporal veracity validated through the architecture of time – the layering of different, parallel, persisting sheets of time, the buildings suddenly become unlocatable. Are they in Hiroshima or in Nevers or in Paris? What kind of montage is it where another site of memory persists in short glimpses, erupting into the present of Hiroshima? Hiroshima comes into being in these capricious contingencies of imaginary sites of time. The ‘real’ in Resnais’ film perhaps comes into being at the transient interstices of these persistent cartographies of time that the camera takes a walk through.

Works Cited

 

Bruno, Guiliana. “Site-Seeing: Architecture and the Moving Image”. Wide Angle. Vol.19, No. 4, 1997. Pp – 8-24.

Deleuze, Gilles. Cinema 2: The Time Image. Trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Robert Galeta. London: Athlone Press, 1989.

Duras, Marguerite. Hiroshima Mon Amour. Trans. Richard Seaver. New York: Grove Press, 1961.

Foucault, Michel. This Is Not a Pipe. Trans. and Ed. James Harkness. Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press, 1982.

Plantinga, Carl. “What a Documentary Is, After All”. The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, Vol. 63, No. 2 (Spring, 2005). Pp 105-117

 T.P. Sabitha teaches English Literature at Hansraj College, University of Delhi. She is an art critic & poet and is currently working on her doctoral studies on a Commonwealth Scholarship.

Psychiatry: A Gendered Microhistory

Amitranjan Basu

Amitranjan Basu

[First Look : Ajita Chakraborty, My life as a psychiatrist: memoirs and essays. Kolkata: Stree, 2010, pp. 220, index+references, hard cover, Rs. 500.00. ISBN 81-85604-92-4 978-81-85604-92-3.]

For the last two decades, since I started reading critically psychiatry and psychology from the cultural perspective, I had the opportunity to engage myself with colleagues from both humanities and human sciences, and this engagement has enriched me a lot to understand and describe the complexity of cultural practices called psychiatry and psychology. There seem to be a growing interest in the humanities that deal with human mind, but more with psychoanalysis than with psychiatry, psychology and psychiatric social work. There is a renewed interest with Frued, Lacan and a range of post-modern and post-colonial scholarships emerging from Euro-American societies. While these efforts have been productive to re-view south-asian society, culture and politics, I can hardly recall about any serious work based on resources that developed in the South Asian mileu in the last four to five decades! There are few exceptions like Ashis Nandy and Sudhir Kakar, who probably entered the reference list when appreciation of their work started being audible from the Euro-American academia! No study tried to include the works of those who tried to raise a critical voice within these disciplines. No serious reading has been done with the ‘internal’ discourses of mental ‘sciences’ that can strengthen our intellectual culture to offer alternative views on our society, politics and culture. In this context, the book under review can provide an entry point for my colleagues.

 It links up with the threads of knowledge that the early scholars of our psychiatry, produced in a context where these disciplines were more marginalised. And again, much of this knowledge is useful once we consider history is a way to access past for the present. In this backdrop, Ajita Chakraborty’s book takes us to nuanced narratives of a microhistory of Indian psychiatry and Indian Psychiatric Society. Ajita, one of the first two woman psychiatrists (the first perhaps is Saroja Bai) in India is more known for her serious concerns about the social and cultural aspects of psychiatry, an area less travelled by majority of her fellow colleagues.

Who else could write the foreword of this book other than Ashis Nandy? A street-fighting public intellectual, who convincingly transformed his training in psychology to create a discourse of political psychology as a powerful social critique. Nandy in this original piece, opened by saying that “no account of a society is complete without a profile of its subjectivities. This is particularly true for India, which has for centuries lived with diverse, highly developed theories of the mind and techniques of intervention in human consciousness” (p. vii). He notices the paucity of data on those pioneers who tried hard to adopt this new science in a culturally diverse non-modern society to make their profession meaningful in its new social context, and laments that: “we are now left with predominantly de-cultured, asocial, overtly medicalised psychological disciplines studying subjectivities in this part of the world” (p. ix). Nandy noted that, Ajita did not try to blur the distinction between normality and abnormality like her ‘Guru’ Ronald Laing and his anti-psychiatry group. Rather, “she retains the difference as a therapeutic reality and a tool of social criticism” (p. xii). Nandy has pleaded to read this book keeping this context in the mind.

Ajita’s book is divided into two parts: memoirs and essays. Memoirs are organised in seven chapters (‘My Early Days,’ ‘Time Abroad,’ ‘Life and Work in Calcutta,’ ‘Psychiatry and the Indian Psychiatric Society,’ ‘Transcultural Psychiatry,’ ‘Deconstructing and /or Analysing Myself,’ and ‘People and Organisations’). In the essays section she has provided eight essays where the last two (‘My Views on Psychiatry in General’ and ‘Cultural Psychiatry, and Understanding Self and Identity’) are being published for the first time. The reader will realise that her autobiographical narrative is theoretically argued and evidenced in her essay section making the volume a well organised narrative.

Starting with her birth date she commented: I was born on 31st October, 1926, 9 pm, Sombar, Sashthi. Mother [Tamalini Devi] had written that information in a tiny handmade notebook of some antiquity that I have preserved. The year of birth written by my mother is 1927; I had disputed and corrected it to 1926 when I was 11 years old, after having checked it with cousins near my age. The birthday came under a strange cloud some years later. (p.1)

An astrologer, who visited her as a client persuaded her that he wants her horoscope prepared by his guru and with much hesitation she provided her birth information to him.

A few days later he came back to report her that the date is faulty: Kartik 14 did not match either Sombar (Monday) or Sashthi (the sixth day since the new moon) of that year. I told him about the confusion over the year of my birth. He came again; saying, that the day and date recorded by my mother matched neither the Greǵorian nor the Bengali year…Confusion and missing out became a part of my life, while the ‘real’ things eluded me. Even my birthday was a contentious issue. (pp. 1-2)

Her father, Khirode Behary Chuckerbutty came from a humble family of Jajmans (village priests) who, having committed the sin of eating chicken ‘fell out with his family and ran away from his village. He became a khalasi in a ferry service, and later purser with a coastal shipping company.’ However, he managed to get a BA degree and switched his career as a resident tutor in affluent families. He used the dowry for his marriage to start an electrical goods manufacturing which later on became well known as Clyde Fans. In spite of its initial success, Clyde Fan sank and Ajita’s father moved to the shade of the factory calling himself sansar tyagi (one who has denounced the family life) and put his wife and children in a small rented house where he used to visit sometimes and sent money regularly.

 Even growing up in this kind of a fissured family environment Ajita passed her matriculation exams with first division and went to Scottish Church College for her intermediate degree and finally got admitted to Medical College, Calcutta. She described in detail about her school days, family life, neighbourhood and college days, carefully avoiding excess, which shows she was consciously comporting her in a way that she should not be an average. She said that her attraction towards psychology grew up from early adulthood so it was not surprising that she chose psychiatry as her specialty after reaching England in 1951.

 In England she worked in psychiatric hospitals for considerable period before getting her fellowship in psychiatry from the Royal College. One interesting fact needs to be told about her long stay in England. Here she got introduced to London Majlis (the Indian students’ association in London) where communists played a significant role. However, her association with them ‘meant spending a considerable part of my time doing extracurricular activities with fellow Indians. Life in the UK was generally rather boring and dull.’ So Ajita ‘hung out with the communists, but never truly believed in Marxism, except in a liberal sense.’

After returning to Calcutta in the end of sixties she rented a small terrace-flat in New Alipore and spent thirty years of her life there growing a nice roof-garden. At that time posts in psychiatry were less in the state government so she had to start working in the Neurology department. She faced a lot of hurdles and harassment in her career in the government service. Both in teaching and private practice she had to confront patronising and patriarchal attitudes. These debates and critical reflections about a new profession and her being a minority (not just in terms of gender) provided a nuanced description of a microhistory of the discipline and its institutions. She was active in the Indian Psychiatric Society and became the general secretary in 1966 and till date she remains the only woman psychiatrist holding this position! She gives a detail but critically analysed version of her experience, charting out her conceptual assertions not only about psychiatry in general, but trans-cultural psychiatry in particular and of course about WHO led programmes. Besides this, she was also seen in various addas in Calcutta, which were frequented by noted litterateurs, painters, poets and intellectuals. The best part of the memoirs section comes with her ‘Deconstructing and /or Analysing Myself,’ where she tried to be open in examining her self.

As commented earlier, the essays section seems to provide a theoretical premise for the memoirs. Selections are representative of her interest in cultural, social and political issues and provide in-depth analyses on those. Western psychiatric education did not alienate her from her own culture and society rather she has questioned poignantly about the hegemony of Euro-American psychiatry and the attitude of her colleagues who blindly followed that paradigm. She offered a narrative of a woman who struggled in various ways in her life yet consciously does not claim her narrative to be a feminist one.

 This is the first time I was reading a book that reveals a gendered microhistory of psychiatry that was buried under the discourse of standard histories and of patriarchies. We get engaged with a rare kind of psychiatrist who pushes the discipline outside the boundaries of mental hospitals and clinics and brings us face to face with the social.

Amitranjan Basu is an independent researcher in social psychiatry and currently a fellow at the Indian Institute of Advanced Study, Shimla. 

The Dead Body

Manindra Gupta  (Trans. Abu Hossain)

The fable of the Brahmin and the Brahmani used to be an amalgamation of the mythical and the folk. The duo lives in that hutment right at the yonder corner of the village. The Brahmin, a simple guy, partly a simpleton even. The Brahmani, a termagant—a long life of travail and tribulation has made her utterly irritable at the fag end. The story could take different turns once you reach this juncture. For instance, he discovers a pot full of mohurs, guarded by the yaksha, among the ruins in the jungle, or impresses the lord of the land with his witticism and makes a fortune, or gets swindled by a conman, suffers harsh words from the Brahmani and chooses exile.

This story of the twosome is actually our story—mine and my friends’. We get swindled everyday and our predicament worsens. As long as we were working, we were fishes secure within our respective shoals. A retired life is one of needless, sundry humiliation.

How and where our fulsome sons and daughters spend their time, what drives their lives, I am rather unsure. Internationally acclaimed pundits doing the circuit or surefooted asocial danseuses adept at social dos—whatever their trade be—they have traversed a long way from us indeed. We oldies are vulnerable like the groping Brahmin couple of the tale. We queue up at the bus-stop, hear someone holler ‘get up, do get up.’ Soon the bus waves past, an anomalous bell ringing. We are left standing. An odd shove here, a thrust there in the crowd, (we hope to parry, but invariably fail) easily leaves us cold, downbeat, fallen.

I recall the visage of old, weary Dhritarashtra, at the conclusion of the battle at Kurukshetra, returning with blooms and supplicating water—hungry, weak with fasting, trembling, superannuated, rapidly losing interest with living. Soon he enters the entrails of the forest with Gandhari, Kunti and Sanjay. And a fierce forest fire engulfs them. Sanjay entreats the old king to flee. The feeble king replies that he would rather scorch himself up. It is ideal to give up ones life to water, wind, fire and fasting. You may take leave Sanjay.

King Bimbisara died of fasting too. I have noticed unwell creatures, nearing death, hunt down a quiet spot—quit food and await stilly until death arrives. Possibly their being wishes to touch some primordial pulse before departing for good. The threesome in Mahabharata also sat motionless.

Modern death is a messy, troublesome affair. Face to face with death one realizes how perilous our circumstances are. These days there are hardly any treatment options at home. And nursing homes are veritable leeches. And then at the threshold of his last breath, the patient is pushed into a ventilator: artificial respiration initiates. Four or five days in that state, stark pale with death long ago, the nursing home declares the patient to be brain dead. The dead body and a bill of few lakhs are easily handed out.

In the name of wellness and treatment, partial dead-bodies thus enter the chain of transaction. And a complete and spectacular disrespect for the dead starts right there. On one hand, the abhorrent antarjali-jatra, on the other, this horrendous ventilation: is there no simpler, more natural route for the patient on the death roll? Howsoever agreeably we lead our lives, in death we proceed towards the grandeur of the infinite and the unseen. These last couple of hours, at their very moment of disappearance, let not the dead suffer contempt from those who stay back.

I would not have been so garrulous but for a jolt that I received the other day. I had gone to the samshan-ghaat, in solidarity, to witness the last rites of a neighboring friend. The gentleman, his wife, his kids—the whole family is illustrious, scholarly and free-minded. Probably the luster of scholarship had dried up the humidity of their bereavement.

In every civic, popular or natural society, the disposal of the dead merits some procedural aspects. Various as the formalities are, one basic thread binds them: that we do not consider the dead to be gone, vanished, non-existent. The idea is to see that a modicum of love and benediction guide us even as we dispose off a body who had been possibly a fellow traveler with the living for so long and so richly. And to wonder and consider the remains before it surpasses touch and feel.
The Eskimos of North Pole are an ancient lot. How do they resolve this conundrum of the wobbly, unsure old age? Once the old man realizes that he is unable to hunt, is dependent on his kinsman for food, the lumbering weight of life is getting better of him—he gets holds of a catamaran, and one evening quietly ventures on to the sea. Night in front, the ocean wide, below 30 degree Celsius the temperature. But he won’t return. What would happen to him, his body, his existence? The community is there by the sea-shore to bid him adieu. There are all kinds of traversing that final expanse: sometimes with such communal approval, at times alone and fasting—awaiting passage, and who knows, may be denying certain treatments even in the midst of mortal pain.

There is a breed of sanyasis whose mortal remains are left to be eaten by the creatures of the wild. The whole of the Tower the Silence precisely hinges on such an understanding of the relationship of the living and the dead. Some practitioners are given water-burial, so that they enter the food chain via fishes and other aquatic creatures only to re-emerge materially. There is nothing demeaning about returning this earthly body back to the earth. Now, the usual rites are either internment or cremation. Two kinds of mentality work behind these differing procedures. Burial implies that he is around, his existence being mysterious now and he has left secretly to live elsewhere. The pyre suggests his unencumberdness, his transparency, the voyaging out: one can well glimpse the clarity of the blue sky through his being.

Bereavement ties us up with the dead, to his bodily existence. Our minds remain shrouded and turgid at that point. Once that cloud gets uplifted, with tonsured heads, we re-enter our natural existence again. Before returning to this naturalness, we propitiate the dead with water, rice and prayers even. This formal rites are pretty divergent and yet not uncommon. The Yui Indians would trim their long hair as a mark of their grieving. The Yuis had no recourse to blades and scissors. So, they would bunch and hold their hair and burn patches over a slow flame.

Closer to us, there are certain natural and humane practices associated with the disposal of the dead. After death, the body, in its own course, excretes. So, the idea is to give the body a thorough bath, change accoutrements and get it ready for the pyre. And someone will keep on a tactile connection to the body. You are not abandoned, we feel and touch you—this assurance the dead receives. Will these be considered counter to progressive norms? Is there anything ritualistic or transcendental about this ongoing and newly forged relationship? If the artistry and rites of information dissemination is so carefully maintained, why be so fleeting with the dead? Life is being so color fully garnished every passing moment; can we not dye the dead with the color of joy for a day?

Let me get back to that samshan-ghaat where we left my free-minded neighbor. This is a study in precision. The hearse brought the dead unostentatiously, accompanied by the young son of the dead and other well-wishers. In a few minutes the necessary permits were obtained from the undertaker. The hearse left with its due once the body on the stretcher got unloaded. The funerary retainers, those accompanying, meeting after a period may be, softly exchanged pleasantries. The dead body—the forlorn Mr. Mukherjee, slept there lonesome with his neat rimless glasses and kurta-pyajma. After an hour or so, the furnace got vacant and was available, as it belched out curious smelling smoke all around. Unwashed, thirsty and hungry Mr. Mukherjee had no chance to bid adieu or exchange a few parting words with his escorts. The furnace door got bolted, the button pressed and the flames leaped out in earnest. Wonderful, now he will burn on his own. Nothing more to be accomplished. The whole retinue—son, grandkids and hordes of kin and friends took off in a few minutes for their respective homes. Mr. Mukherjee kept on burning alone. And once he leaves the crematorium, who knows, clueless,  where will he wander off all on his own!

Manindra Gupta is a poet and narrativist, working from Kolkata.  His collection of critical essays on poetry–The Otherside of Moon and his autobiography–The Ageless Mulberry, are pathbreaking quests on the nature of the human predicament within the cosmos.

Courtesans in the Academia?

 

Basuli Deb

The National Women’s Studies Association in the US selected “Outsider Feminisms” as one of the sub-themes for their annual conference at Denver, Colorado, in November 2010. The conference itself was themed “Difficult Dialogues II” in continuation with the previous year’s topic. Drawing on outsider feminisms as a mode of critique, this was an attempt to engage in difficult dialogues around the performative arts which have been the disenfranchised areas of feminist inquiry within the US academia.

In this context, I often keep on wondering how such dispossession is intensified in the context of transnational encounters between US academic feminism and the figure of the woman artist from beyond the borders? So, I thought I’d revisit Muzaffar Ali’s film Umrao Jaan (1981), based on Mirza Muhammad Hadi Ruswa’s 1905 Urdu novel Umrao Jan Ada about the life of the nineteenth century dancer courtesan, Umrao Jaan and think through the issue.  Is it possible for performative feminism to get an entry into feminist inquiry by way of US film studies? So, this is an attempt to think and if possible, reinvent the position and role of outsider feminisms (like performative feminisms) within the structures of the academia. The larger question is about internal disciplinary hierarchies and boundaries within social sciences and humanities and ultimately about the politics of the job market.

First, using the film Umrao Jaan as our lens, I’d like to think about the relationship in which feminist performative art, especially those embedded in a non Euro-American tradition, stands with respect to Women’s Studies and Women’s and Gender Studies departments/programs in the US. Transnational feminism happens to be the current buzzword within feminist inquiry, and departments and programs look cutting edge and frankly fashionable when such an area of feminist inquiry is introduced. But how has transnational feminism, with its strong affiliations with the idea of crossing borders, incorporated the figure of the woman artist from beyond the Euro-American cultural tradition? What is transnational feminism’s response to women artists, such as Umrao Jaan, who inhabit the courts of the Muslim aristocracy in the nineteenth century British empire in India? How much interest does transnational feminism have in getting to know the lives of these women courtesans who were caught in the double bind of being highly valued as artists and defamed as prostitutes? Why such women, despite their tragic stories of abduction from their natal families and being sold into prostitution, not eligible for entry into feminist studies, while human trafficking is becoming an increasingly significant area of feminist analysis? To draw on Audre Lorde’s famous description of multiple social locations of disenfranchisement for women, Umrao Jaan is perhaps the “sister outsider” of feminist studies; the likes of her hardly enter feminist inquiry, and more so when she belongs not to the underclass of Europe or America, but to the margins of the Indian aristocracy. What other factors make it so hard for some one like Umrao to enter the realm of feminist inquiry in the US academia?

It is true that performance itself remains largely an untheorized and neglected area within feminist scholarship. But Umrao, in her relationship with Nawab Sultan, also embodies romantic love between an aristocrat and a courtesan that has little hope for culminating into wedded bliss. “Under western eyes” Umrao Jaan could have been lumped with the motley crowd of “Third World women”, rendered faceless and homogenous by their victim status. But Chandra Mohanty has already dismantled the authority of such feminisms by exposing the underlying imperialist, and by extension racist, assumptions that mark them. Umrao Jaan could possibly have entered the domain of feminist inquiry as the woman artist, but her art speaks another language—incomprehensible to US academic feminism with its meager interest in cultural studies and art forms outside the Euro-American tradition. This is true even when positions in Women’s Studies and Women’s and Gender Studies programs and departments are opened up in transnational feminism. Contemporary art forms from elsewhere can still make an entry into the rarefied world of academic feminism, but the likes of Umrao Jaan, with their classical traditions and aristocratic affiliations, rarely do.

Umrao’s chosen dance form, the mujra, as we know, sprang during the Mughal period and was heavily patronized by India’s Muslim aristocracy. Mujra is a hybrid form that the pre-sixteenth century theatrical storytellers routinely performed in the courtyards of the Hindu temples space. In mujra, kathak intersect with the vocal musical forms of the thumri and the ghazal. The thumri is the musical form which has an intimate and material relationship of women for Lord Krishna. Pangs of loss or separation, so central to the internal dynamics of the workings of the genre of the ghazal, takes a more formal shape sometime in the sixth century. Umrao, who performs the mujra for the royalty and the aristocracy of India, represents an excess in the realm of feminist inquiry—the sister outsider, debarred from entry even into the domain of transnational feminism, with its strong affiliations with the elsewhere—beyond the borders of the familiar. She is not Phoolan Devi—the bandit queen of India—the beloved of transnational feminist inquiry into Bollywood—the lower caste woman, the outlaw of the postcolonial state, the sensational exception to the rule of Third World women’s victimhood that “Western feminism” loves. Her nuanced, median position becomes her undoing even in the highly slotted academic space as it used to be in her known world.

But what if Umrao Jaan tries to enter the realm of critical inquiry via an analytic of the British Empire in India in the nineteenth century? It is in the context of the 1857 series of wars between the British and the natives of India and the British repression of resistance against foreign rule that we need to understand the figure of Umrao. The British, in their imperial interests to rule India, annexed large territories of the princely states by dethroning the native kings of the region, often by claiming that they were inefficient rulers because their lives were spent in debauchery rampant in the Indian courts. Ray’s Satranj ki Khiladi graphically demonstrates how tactically the British did engage in this game of chess with the Nawab of the northeastern kingdom of Oudh and ousted him eventually. The British East India Company forcefully annexed Oudh by deposing its last independent ruler, Wajid Ali Shah, in 1856. This was one of the reasons that led to the outbreak of native resistance to British rule in 1857 in that part of the emerging nation. The film shows that what seemed to the British inefficiency in the royal courts, was actually a different kind of relationship between the ruler and the ruled—one based on kinship relations rather than bureaucratic control. What was debauchery was an atmosphere of court patronage of the arts. It is this Oudh of 1856 where Umrao Jaan lives and performs her art. She is the woman artist whose art is threatened by British imperial interests and its imposition of Victorian morality. She loses her courtly profession and is compelled to flee when the British invade the court in Oudh where she has lived as a courtesan for years. The British render her destitute. She is the outsider artist in the British Empire.

But her art becomes a site and action of resistance as well. After losing her livelihood she returns to her family, only to be rejected by them for her profession. However, she continues to perform her art as and when she receives a request for a mujra. Her performances continue to create feminine spaces of labor that contest prevalent schemas of moral order. At the same time the woman artist makes a statement against aristocratic court patronage and indigenous varieties of patriarchy. One particular number in the film, “In ankhon ki masti ke mastane hazaron hain”, for instance, (these intoxicating eyes draw many admirers), critiques the plight of the woman artist whose life draws romantic attention from numerous men, but at the end is relegated to recount a life of solitary existence. Men like Nawab Sultan might fall deeply in love with the likes of Umrao, but all the same they leave her to marry other women according to the dictates of a proper aristocratic marriage.

In the light of the above, I reiterate the question: What if Umrao Jaan tries to enter the realm of critical inquiry as the woman artist in the context of the British Empire in India? In a post 9/11 world postcolonialism’s position in the US academia has become even more suspect, at the same time as it has become even more important to use the anti-imperialist tools of postcolonialism to critically question the US academic project of scholarship and pedagogy. It has become crucial to identify what values have entered the academia in the context of a world that has created lists about the most dangerous US intellectuals—many of whom are postcolonialists! Postcolonialism is remarkable slippery and glamorous and its precise dubiousness paradoxically leads to its being cutting edge.

Umrao Jaan might enter the world of the US academia via a rhetoric of anti-imperialism, but from such a space marked by its ties to a transnational feminist vision, she is unlikely to create any dialogue with the world of US film studies, with its heavy emphasis on European and American cinema. Postcolonial cinema, such as Umrao Jaan (and the text has even more remote chance of being accepted in the canon), is fated to remain an outsider. It is terribly hard to recognize the postcolonial woman artist of color from elsewhere as a legitimate figure within the white washed walls of the US academia, within the recognized entry points that are currently available. She has inherited the legacies of prodigies like the eighteenth century African-American poet, Phyllis Wheatley, who likewise had to prove before the Boston Brahmins her legitimacy in the world of letters, not as a poet, but as a black poet.

It is thus surprising that the majority of students and scholars who want desperately to work on the likes of Umrao Jaan, a lot of them South Asian scholars who came to the US as international students, do so neither through Women’s and Gender Studies programs/departments, nor through film studies. They are either recruited/hired as students pursuing postcolonial studies or postcolonialists, specializing in postcolonial cinema, rather than film studies hires. Alternatively, they enter the US academia through South Asian studies programs that embrace a cultural studies perspective. These programs remain outsiders in the world of the US academia. Nonetheless, students and scholars working from within these departments and programs constantly remind the US academia that it still has a lot of listening to do. I am not sure whether they essentially do the listening bit too without being patronizing. These areas nevertheless remind us about the tactical defining of fields of knowledge that academics embrace as legitimate and fields that are systematically marginalized and excluded. The power structures in academia are insidious and deep seated. In this case, racial thinking and slotting in niches go a long way. This game is manifest enough, notwithstanding our moments of denial. Even as we critique those who are out to muzzle humanities and the social sciences, it would not be a bad idea to take a pause and look inwards into own complicity in this whole affair.

[A version of this article was presented on the panel “Performative Feminisms and Outsider Interventions” at the National Women’s Studies Association’s annual conference in November 2010 at Denver, Colorado]

Basuli Deb is Assistant Professor, Department of English, University of Nebraska-Lincoln.