Threads of Generosity: How do people navigate second-hand trade?

Cover Picture: The front of the Charity Shop. Photo taken by author

By Adair Egan

The startling reality of living in a predominantly-student building lies in the mail room. There is an abundance of fast fashion packages. The brands sometimes change, but it is constant. There are stacks of cardboard boxes wrapped in cello tape. An overflowing amount of different size postal bags lies on top of the boxes and on the floor. Sometimes statements like 'I'm eco-friendly', 'Hey! I'm a 100% recycled mailer', or 'I am made from plants not plastic' are printed atop. While, brand names and logos are most identifiable, namely Zara, Shein, Boohoo, and ASOS. This exposure brought me to think about the afterlife of these clothes. I was particularly interested in the institutions involved in shaping such an afterlife. How are garments recycled into our society? What happens to the clothes that are not sold? These were the key questions that steered me to pursue my research at a charity shop.

In mid-January 2023, the manager of Oxfam’s charity shop in Camden, Daniel, kindly gave me consent to take on a vacant volunteer position as a researcher. I was fortunate to develop close relationships with people that enjoyed telling stories and narrating their thought processes. I am using pseudonyms to maintain anonymity.

The shop is in a 3-story brick building that characterizes British local high streets. The shop, which inside resembles a boutique, is predominantly women's clothes, devoting one or two racks to men's clothes depending on the week. The till is angled toward the front door, over which a CCTV screen records the entirety of the shop floor. A door in the back opens onto narrow stairs reaching what Daniel calls his office. The floor caters to sorting, hanging, pricing, steaming, and storing clothes. A handmade wooden structure acts as two crates. One is named donations, and the other is CTR. CTR Group collects all waste, notably clothes, from Oxfams across London and aims to maximize the possibility of recycling and reusing such 'waste'. "We put everything we can't or don't sell into here and they take it twice a week," Daniel tells me. At this point, he had answered a key question of mine in a few words. I decided to direct my attention away from recycling processes and focus on second-hand trade and the people involved in these exchanges.

Who is involved in the circular economy? What is sustainable about the charity shop? How do people navigate second-hand trade? The vibrant personalities at Oxfam Shop Camden were the reason I was able to steer my research project toward how different people perceive acts of helping and gifting. These ideas came to be central to how people navigated working and shopping in the charity shop.

A picture of the shop’s interior. Photo taken by author.

The charity shop: a social organisation

I stood at a large table sorting clothes beside Daniel's desk on my first shift. He had ripped open eight plastic bags and let the clothes spill out of them onto the table, emitting a distinct, yet undiscernible smell. I was slow to sort through the pile as I was fixated on looking for holes, broken zippers, and noticeable stains. I approached this process with the point of view of maximizing what we could keep from the donations. To my surprise, this was not the case. Often, I would hold up a garment and ask for Daniel's opinion; sometimes, he was quick to react with a disgusted facial expression and respond with 'that's awful', 'who would buy that to begin', and 'bin it'. To bin an article of clothing referred to putting it in a bag inside the CTR bin, to be collected and recycled. Further, brands like Primark and Shein were quickly bagged and given to CTR. Daniel did not want to sell clothes that would fall apart while on the clothes hanger, in his words. Indeed, many individuals' donations were fast fashion garments; fast fashion refers to cheaply made clothing that enables customers to change their wardrobes often and affordably. This reality brought me to question the charity shop's function in shaping a sustainable society. The shop does not keep a prominent number of donated clothes, whereas it allows individuals to essentially 'offload' their waste, while considering themselves 'sustainable'. 

Moreover, the curatorial process was heavily influenced by personal style and opinions. 'If you wouldn't wear it and if you wouldn't give it to your mom or sister as a gift then you should toss it': this statement challenged my conception of the charity shop. Indeed, volunteers were trained to look out for recognizable brands, while avoiding 'awful cuts' and 'tacky patterns'. While working in the colder months, I witnessed several sweaters quickly thrown into the recycling bags, due to subjectively unattractive colors and cuts. The sorting process materialized as fault-finding. While also, the use of language related to tossing, trashing, and throwing out clothes was prevalent. Is this perpetuating a throw-away society rather than a sustainable one? The charity shop keeps clothes from landfills, through selling such garments on the shop floor or in collaboration with a textile collector from CTR. Sustainability at the charity shop remains contested. The sorting process embodies unsustainable practices as clothes intersect with personal style and fashion trends.

The charity shop is tailored to the community that engages with it. The shop provides affordable clothes and goods to the community living in Camden. The prices of clothes are lower than many leading cheap fast fashion brands and high street chain stores. Indeed, most clothes are priced between £2 and £12.99; sometimes a nice blazer or items that are normally more expensive would be more expensive. Daniel mentioned that anything that was priced too high would not sell quickly or get stolen. The long-term volunteers had not noticed prices change in the shop as London faces rising rates of inflation and a cost-of-living crisis. The shop reflects the community around it. Daniel's familiarity with the people that came in every day was reflected in the way clothes were priced. He was conscious of heavy drug use in the area. Indeed, he deemed it likely that a lot of people spent much of their money on drugs, while still needing a winter coat. This reality framed a pertinent tension of distinguishing necessity and desire. On a cold February day, Russell and I were running the shop floor. I was handling the till and he leaned beside the counter telling me about his travels. He interrupted himself and calmly walked to the door. He stopped in front of the shop windows in discussion with another man. The man he had followed out had stolen a coat from the men's section. There was a distinct tranquility to their conversation:

"I can't let you go with that."

"But I want it."

"Come back in and I'll give you a different one."

Upon returning inside, Russell repositioned himself against the counter and expressed a slight irritation towards the man's attempt to take a £20 coat, when there were cheaper ones on the rack. The calmness toward theft was depictive of the complex social dynamics that make up the charity shop. The charity shop's function is responsive to the community's engagement. Indeed, the way the shop is curated reflects the social landscape. The shop is a multidimensional site granting affordability and accessibility, while also continuously adapting to the local community.

Motivations for volunteering

The altruistic perception of volunteers is contradictory to the individualistic reality that embodies volunteering at Oxfam Shop in Camden. This is not to say that the volunteers are selfish, instead, acknowledging this further frames the charity shop as a multifaceted site. Indeed, the space is a gallery of independent endeavor. The ways in which the volunteers conceptualized their involvement with the charity shop varied, as they differently stressed in their behaviours feelings of circularity, momentariness, and attachment. There were about nine volunteers consistently on the weekly schedule; some would commit to as many shifts as they could short-term, while others came in once or twice a week. The application process was simple, and no background or visa check was conducted. The diversity in reason for volunteering corresponded to learning English, completing work experience, and seeking a routine amid life changing. This reality gives shape to the structure of a circular system, in which the charity shop both contributes to and receives from the community. Nina and Nathalie were working at the shop to learn English while living with friends short term. From small towns in Belgium, they were in their early twenties, and both eagerly expressed being in London for the first time. The shop was a site of cultural immersion. Their involvement was temporary, while giving them the opportunity to practice their English language skills. This theme of momentariness was reflected further by Jade and Victoria, who were friends from Shanghai. They were pursuing a degree at a nearby university; part of their degree requires them to pursue fifty hours of work experience. They came to Oxfam's shop because their other option would have been a teaching position in English, to which Jade laughed at upon telling me. "I can't teach. I cannot talk in English. This is easy. You don't need to know English." The temporary nature of volunteering at the shop allows for volunteers to make gestures and continuously ask for help. There are few expectations put on unpaid volunteers dealing with donated goods. It provides a space for opportunity and, just as much, for error.

On the other hand, the ongoing involvement of some volunteers, including Rin and Tara, shaped the charity shop as a site of stability. Rin, a woman in her thirties, embodied the role of Daniel's assistant in the shop. She had been working with him most shifts for three years. She did not speak much English, but she was strongly involved in the functioning of the shop. She expressed herself through her meticulous care for the shop floor. She told me she could not remember why she started volunteering because it had been so long. This stood out to me as a strong attachment to the shop. Indeed, the shop materialized as a personal project of hers; she knew where everything was, and consistently kept the space to her admiration. Daniel would run ideas by her before carrying out any changes to the shop. A sense of routine and familiarity shaped her involvement. Another volunteer, Tara, found routine in coming into the shop every week. She had been working as a volunteer for over a year. She expressed a sense of comfort in volunteering. "There've been a lot of changes since A-Levels and starting uni. I don't know, I like coming in here," she told me. While conducting my research, she started working a part time job at & Other Stories. We would work together every week, and I observed her as she became increasingly overwhelmed by her commitments and struggling to balance her university workload. During a shift, she expressed the need to take on another shift at her job as she was short of money, to which I asked her if she was considering taking time off from the shop. "I hadn't thought of that," she answered with emphasis. This was reflective of what the shop meant to her; it acted as a sanctuary outside chaos and life changes. Volunteering at the charity incorporates diversity and complexity in underlying motivations. It goes beyond the altruistic perception. The ways volunteers conceptualize their involvement and experiences reflect individual projects and a sense of routine. Oxfam Shop Camden is a site in which themes of momentariness and attachment are prevalent. It is this that gives shape to its circular nature: receiving from and giving to surrounding people.

A picture of the shop’s interior. Photo taken by author.

Blurry exchanges

I came to see the dichotomy between gift and market exchange dissolve. Through the lens of Marcel Mauss' theories in The Gift, I started realising that the charity shop is built and sustained around the concept of gifting. The charity shop blurs the line between gift and commodity.

I worked alongside Russell most weeks. He was in his mid 70s and lived between Jamaica and the United Kingdom most of his life. Two decades ago, he followed his favorite beats to Brazil after a high blood pressure diagnosis. He would spend as much time there as he could on a tourist visa and book his flight returning to Brazil the moment his travel days in the country renewed. He came to Oxfam when his travels slowed:

Russell: "I'm not going to keep living the way I've been living, so I got on a plane to Brazil. And lucky enough the people already knew me."

Me: "What do you mean?"

Russell: "They knew me because they knew who I was in my past life."

He offered a distinct perspective on navigating second-hand trade. Indeed, Russell’s strong belief in past lives shaped how he lived his current life. In his past life, he was a Preto Velho, which is Portuguese for 'old black'. He expressed that he carried the soul of past Brazilian slaves. Pretos Velhos were a generation of older slaves that were freed under Brazilian law due to their age. They gained a reputation of being wise as their elderliness enabled them to recall, and preserve traditional African spirituality.

Russell embodied a gift in a sense. The charity shop materializes as a site to connect with the local community, and Russell's involvement serves as a prevalent example. He lived through clothes; I received a detailed account of the places in which he had come across the clothes he was wearing, and the ways in which he was connected to time and space through their materiality. Indeed, he was connected to the spirits of different decades through vintage jewelry made of varied materials, namely metal and wood. While also, it was through clothes he interacted with people, from the point of view of a history of wear weaved into them, or simply because interesting clothes led to conversations. He told me he did not want new things. He wanted things with stories. He expressed that that was what was captivating about pre-worn clothes: they are gifts. Further, he wanted to be around clothes and young people. He saw his function in life as a teacher. Not in its an academic sense, but instead in the form of one who freely teaches people around them. His mission was to tell the stories of the past and teach young people about the value of living one day at a time, similar to a Preto Velho. He never told me if he was able perform his function, but he appreciated having his lunch reimbursed by Oxfam. He said that he spent no money during the week and could live off the £6 lunch limit implemented by Oxfam. Is this what he gets in return? This complexifies the dichotomy between gift and commodity in the charity shop.

To expand, the shop receives donations as a gift, as there is no expectation of anything in return. The shop offers these goods to the community at low costs; I employ offer to underline this dichotomous essence, as what was once a gift becomes a commodity. In turn, the monetary value of these goods rematerializes as a gift to support the charity. Through Mauss, we know that gifting serves as the foundation of human solidarity (Mauss, 2001). Gift exchange is inherently tied to reciprocity, and it is this that distinguishes itself from market exchanges. Gifting is productive of social relations as there is a form of obligation to return, and maintain, such relation, related to receiving a gift. As for market exchanges, this embodies the exchange of commodities, in which reciprocity is out of the frame. Instead, commodities are exchanged in relation to other commodities. When we examine the charity shop, this dichotomy dissolves. The charity shop is founded on curating a connection between people along the lines of helping others. A photograph of Oxfam humanitarian projects is printed on the back side of price tags. To illustrate, the batch of tags in the shop depicted a young girl standing beside a bicycle, Malawi printed across the bottom. This referred to Oxfam's 20-year project to improve livelihood among youth in Malawi. This is intended to hold an effect on guiding customers to consider helping and gifting, rather than solely purchasing. By this, the charity shop obscures the difference between gift and market exchange. Gifts become commodities, and commodities are rematerialized into gifts to support Oxfam. How do we then understand monetary gifts? I came to see the charity shop as a site in which gifts and commodities confront each other. The charity shop redefines exchange in the context of circularity. From this point of view, second-hand trade is interwoven with ideas of reciprocity and value.

Bibliography

Mauss, M 2001, Gift, The: Form and Reason for Exchange in Archaic Societies, Taylor & Francis Group, Milton. Available at: ProQuest Ebook Central.

Queer Folk: Reflexive Heritage, Temporality and Queerness in Manchester’s Folk Music Culture

Cover picture provided by author 

By Rishi Milward-Bose

Well, the king has called on his merry men all 
His merry men thirty and three 
Saying, "Bring me Willie o' Winsbury 
For hanged he shall be." 
 
But when he came the king before 
He was clad all in the red silk 
His hair it was like the strands of gold 
His skin it was white as milk 
 
"Well, it is nae wonder," says the king 
"My daughter's heart you did win 
For if I were a woman, as I am a man 
My bedfellow you would have been."

Willie O’ Winsbury, an old folk song

For me and many others Manchester’s folk music culture represents a space of joy, community, and cultural warmth that is a rarity elsewhere. As an immigrant to England, the folk cultures of the British Isles represent no obvious link to my identity, heritage or past, as they may for some. Yet in a short period of time, I found an inexplicable yet very tangible sense of belonging to a community initially so alien to me. Others expressed similar sentiments in our conversations. Within Manchester’s folk community I encountered many queer young folk, unwaveringly proud of their countercultural identity having formed a space of subversion. Folk culture can be deeply weird; simply participating in a wintery wassail or singing a merry song about an old man’s erectile dysfunction can reveal as much. It is in the context of folk culture’s apparent strangeness that a paradox arises; that despite a prevalent anti-mainstreaming sentiment within the community, folk music is currently experiencing a popularity boom (Keegan-Phipps & Winter, 2015). It has gone through various revivals and re-emergences historically, yet some of my interlocutors expressed that there is something discernibly different about the way the current boom is being experienced.

There is definitely something going on, whether it’s full-blown folk revival, or just a cultural moment, that feels very real to us - Oliver 

By using the micro-level as a heuristic tool for analysing broader issues, I attempt to assess the questions that arise from delving into Manchester’s folk music scene. Why do parts of Manchester’s folk music community draw in so many queer people? What is the relationship between queer temporalities and folk temporalities? How do members of Manchester’s folk community understand their relationship to heritage? How do the contents of folk songs reflect the wider ideologies and concerns of my interlocutors?

I use queerness broadly as a term for sexualities that do not correspond to hegemonic sexual norms, where many members of the community experience ontological ‘otherings’ (McCallum and Tuhkanen, 2011). My arguments will draw on several key ideas. Firstly, that folk spaces constitute a democratic, anti-hierarchical structure which appeals to those experiencing marginality. Secondly, that my interlocutors envision folk music to be a battleground for the politics of heritage, one they can affect by uncovering subversive histories and by encouraging reflexive heritage (Craith and Kockel, 2007). Furthermore, historical reflexivity emphasises the natural synergy between folk temporalities and queerness as an ontological condition. Both subvert chrononormativity (Freedman, 2010) and aid in remedying the disjunctions some of my interlocutors struggle with, by expressing hauntological (Fisher, 2012) concerns about past and current societal wrongdoings.  

 For my research, I attended sessions (open folk ‘jams’) at Platt Field Market Gardens, the ‘folk train’ from Manchester to Glossop and several gigs with my interlocutors (and one at which I performed). I also conducted folk archival research to explore folk histories.  

Photo taken by author

In the womb: 

  Her father, once my true friend 
Now turns me from the door 
Her mother owed me worthy 
Now bids me love no more 

Why should I not love my love? 
Why shouldn't my love love me? 
Why should I not speed after her 
Since love to all is free?

Newcastle by Lankum 

Clasped within the warm embrace of an octagonal church spire, the clutches of Manchester’s clammy, dark winters are briefly evaded. We are safe in the ambience of the room, transfixed by the ethereal, soothing soundscapes being performed to us. Performer Lili’s yearning voice resonates within the church walls, now lit up an animate, fleshy red, as she sings to us of the feeling of safety and comfort found amongst gentle bodies of water.  

Keep me inside the hallway home

Lay down your head,

No thoughts in the way

Daughter of mine, lay down inside 

Uterine metaphors are one of Lili’s ways of expressing longing for belonging and rootedness in a world where Capitalism thrives and social alienation looms, a sentiment that is not irregularly echoed within Manchester’s folk community. It seems that for many, the folk community at least somewhat fulfils this desire.  

I don’t really get unhappy in January [anymore], since doing folk stuff. A lot of people need to go on holiday; I don’t mind it anymore, when I know I can go to a pub to be surrounded by warm people and play some music together. It's made for people, by people - Jacob

Jacob’s hint at the inherent democratic potential of folk music can contribute to our explanation of why queer folk are so drawn to it, and why it denotes belonging and comfort. All musicians were allowed, even encouraged, to play songs they wished to perform, and the rest would catch-on and support. Participants were free to tell stories and express their sentiments as they relate to songs, and audience participation was adored, contributing to the egalitarian intimacy of the space (Blake, 2018). My interlocutors prided themselves in creating an unintimidating social environment, in which participants were free to express their non-normative being.

If anything, Folksoc (UoM’s Folk and Ceilidh Society) is too anti-hierarchical (laughs). Sometimes we just end up clambering over one another to get our tunes played - Charlie

In this way, queer folk culture is one of many queer spaces which pride itself of both a political and embodied rejection of the hierarchies and power relations that structure queer lived experience (Brown, 2007; Jeppesen, 2010). ‘Heteronormativity is produced in almost every aspect of the forms and arrangements of social life, reproducing itself systemically in nationality, the state, and the law... in the conventions and affects of narrativity, romance, and other protected spaces of culture’ (Brown, 2007: 464). Folk’s queer appeal, therefore, partly derives from its social autonomy and democratic counter-culturalism, allowing people the freedom to subvert heteronormativity and express their ‘weirdness’.  

Folk, since the 2nd revival, has been associated with alternative culture – we dress differently, and we gravitate towards it as ‘others’. Folk is very queer! I'm used to getting dressed up in my ridiculous gear, every summer, and going and waving my hankies around with my belts attached to my leg (in reference to the Morris folk dancing tradition). For me its liberating, I love being that silly - Ellie

The spaces I explored were sustained by the active practice of democracy and inclusivity and were therefore accessible to queer folk. However, my interlocutors recounted experiences of homophobia and general ‘turfing out’ of other spaces that did not prioritize those values. These spaces were perceived as reifying false notions of what constitutes the proper way of ‘doing folk’, by shunning those who strayed too far from its normative forms. My interlocutors envision themselves, therefore, as opponents to those who constrain folk’s radical, subversive forms and insist on ‘preserving tradition’, as I now explore.

Photo taken by UoM Folk and Ceilidh Society.

The story surrounding the story: 

Mahsuri is born to a poor paddy farmer and his wife. Beautiful Mahsuri attracts many suitors, including the wealthy village Chieftain, Jaya, who is already married with children. Jaya’s wife, Mahura, vows revenge on Mahsuri, and spreads false rumours about her apparent adultery. Convinced, executioner takes a sacred sword to Mahsuri, and as she is killed, white blood gushes from her wounds, proving her innocence. Before she dies, Mahsuri curses the villagers with generations of bad luck for their wrongdoings, and her spell proves true.  

Osman’s (2020) legend of Mahsuri is one that has been told and retold countless times through Malay generations. What was originally a morality-tale, infused with themes of wicked witchcraft and whore-hood, now has been adapted to include narratives of female agency and victimhood; of women misunderstood and erroneously sentenced to death, and creating affect through this wrongdoing. ‘What emerges in this contribution is not just the import of a story in itself but also the importance of a “story within a story” as well as the “stories surrounding a story”’ (Craith, 2007: 11). Folklore, and similarly folk music, are reflexive traditions. Tales and themes evolve dialectically as communities undergo inevitable shifts in ways of thinking and being. There are those who believe folk is a tradition that should be ‘preserved’ or performed in its purest form. Charlie discusses Klezmer, for example, a Jewish folk tradition. 

Klezmer, specifically, is a lot more focussed on historical authenticity than the folk that we play… There’s much more of a focus on looking at old manuscripts and archive recordings. It’s a lot more academic - Charlie

My interlocutors also discussed experiencing similar sentiments in folk sessions in England, particularly where the ‘session crowd’ (1) was older. Yet the idea of folklore being bounded and fixed is one that my interlocutors generally ridiculed.

The idea that we should be preserving our Folk culture as a historical relic to me is laughable because the folk traditions of England are oral. You can’t fix down and codify an oral tradition - Ellie

Preserving’ [folk] is a non sequitur, there’s nothing to preserve. There’s no fixed point from where it starts to where it progresses to -  Ainsley

My interlocutors exhibited such strong feelings about heritage reflexivity partly because they are engaged in projects to unearth radical and queer folk histories and further queer them, to make their own mark on the culture. ‘Queering’ folk histories involves a process of searching for folk songs that subvert heteronormativity, making them public and sometimes altering the lyrical content to make it more explicitly queer. Ellie, a lesbian woman with a huge repertoire of queer, lewd songs she loves to perform, sings an adaption of a song called “Maids when you’re young, never wed an old man”, about old men with erectile dysfunction:

They’ve got no phallorum, fi diddle I orum,

He’s got no phallorum, he’s lost his ding-dorum da

Maids when you’re gay, never wed an old man   

The word ‘gay’ was altered from ‘young’. When sung by an old man in its original form, this song can feel bawdy and somewhat problematic. When Ellie sings it, however, along with several other lyrical adaptations, the song adopts a cheeky, liberatory potential; it has been reclaimed. At the gig in the church, the whole room cracked up at hearing a raunchy song from Rochdale (2) about a promiscuous old woman that Jacob had heard and re-constructed .  

We roamed down spider alley, too tired to stand or sit

When I heard somebody shoutin’ ‘mrs Holroyd, up a bit!’

Then she gave a little yelp, as though she were in pain.

She’d landed in a wasps’ nest and I could not help but say: 

Now, tell me Mrs. Holroyd, can you feel owt? If you can i’d like to know

For they say that theres a breeze on down in blackpool, and I think I’d like a blow.

The Rochdale song comes from politically Labour but morally conservative Yorkshire, so I find it very entertaining that this bawdy song came out. She falls in the wasp’s nest at the end – wasp is a lesbian in old slang, so she’s fallen into some bizarre alleyway where some mad lesbian orgy is going on in Yorkshire! - Jacob

The existence of sexually subversive stories and songs allows us to imagine the existence of queer folk in the past and how they may have lived. Tradition is often cast as the antithesis of ‘progression’ or modernization, yet this is a false dichotomy (Craith, 2007). Rather, tradition may be seen as the authoritative relationship constructed between the past and the present, denoting an active political process of creating historical meaning. Hence, dialectically imagining the lives of those who came before us is a potentially powerful expression of solidarity and reflexivity regarding our own ways of being.  

By singing these songs, you are connected with everyone who has ever sung them before you and to the people who did work the land  - Ainsley

Who ploughed the fields & scattered the seeds  - Ellie

Time accordions when you sing. It pushes together everyone who has sung it. It ties into a belief that I know you (Ellie) share, in immortality. That no one ever really dies, no one is ever really forgotten because you live on in the people after you, who live on in the people after them. We are all products of people who have come before us - Ainsley

Photo taken by UoM Folk and Ceilidh Society.

Queer Magic: 

The Witch’s family lie dead, slain by their seven deadly sins, and she reaches her transcendental form, as foretold by her kin. Walking through the woods, she becomes entangled into nature, entangled into cycles of decay and regeneration. Reverberating feminine vocals echo in the background, delayed, decaying into unseen temporalities. (Celia recounts to me the ending of ‘The Witch’, a film of the folk horror genre) Folk horror is about clashing temporalities. Not rational or linear time, [instead] it’s about regression, going backwards, [how] now is not so far from the then. Heteropatriarchal, ‘straight’ time is about moving forwards; life is structured around birth of the child. Folk horror looks at time in squiggly, dialectic lines.

Here, Celia is introducing the final piece of the puzzle as to why queer people are attracted to folk culture; that folk and queer temporalities are synchronous. Under hegemonic power structures, human bodies are organized to maximize productivity, subject to chrononormativity (Freeman, 2010) which conditions us to ‘Cut off the strongest instincts of youth, its fire, defiance, unselfishness and love, at the roots… [and] suppress or regress its desire to mature slowly’ (Nietzche, 1997: 115). ‘Chronobiopolitics’, the process of biological temporal regulation is used to assert ‘teleological schemes of events or strategies for living such as marriage, accumulation of health... reproduction, childrearing, and death’ (ibid: 4). Queer folk experience ontological disjunctions deriving from chronobiopolitics, marked by ‘untimeliness’ and historically associated with failures to ‘harness their drives and to orient themselves properly with respect to the future’ (McCallum and Tuhkanen, 2011: 7). Queer time is therefore the radical process of rethinking temporality through phenomenology, and by participating in folk temporalities, we are embodying a queer, youthful defiance to the structures that demand our compliance. There is an almost childish, magical quality to the collective joy we experience when we sing, relate, and reflect on the lives of those before us during folk sessions. 

Magic is deeply political!... [it] doesn’t require you to have a fixed relationship to space and time. Capital and Fordism required a fixed relationship to the clock, whereas magic is ‘irrational’, it doesn’t tell us… that our bodies must be organized in space - Celia

Folk stories and songs are brimming with magic and surrealism, with little relationship to fixity and bodily demarcation. From bizarre postmodern reinterpretations of Cinderella (Morrissey, 2011), to Jacob’s hilarious social commentary in the form of Bonnie and the Goose that laid golden eggs, the folk stories I came across evidently did not limit themselves to reality or narrate time as continuous or impersonal. Instead, they represented time as lived, choice time, the way memory selects it to be (Dolby-Stahl and Newall, 1980). Celia believes that magic and surrealism are popular with queer people, as they reject heteronormative notions of ‘rationality’ and Capitalist normativity, and queer people recognize these qualities in folk culture.

Hauntological film and music (Fisher, 2012) are ones that are suffused with melancholy, of mourning caused by alienation and dispossession of one’s ways of being. Hauntological culture is defined by its refusal to yield to realism and postmodern finitude, haunted by ‘lost futures’ (ibid: 16) of things that could have been, and collective wrongdoings that now torment us. Folk horror and folk music are both saturated with hauntological themes, specifically those that relate to our wrongdoings to nature.  

[The gruesome themes of] folk horror is about re-imbuing natural spaces with the bodily pain and violence that we have brought upon it - Celia

Celia explains how in both ‘The Witch’ and ‘Midsommar’ the final, transcendental form reached by the lead characters is one where plant and human permeate into one, formless structure. Both are set in locations where nature asserts its agency over human beings.  

Spaces of nature and spaces of “wildness” are outside of Capital control, they are freer and more interconnected; less linked to Capitalist space and time, which is unfriendly to queer people. 

Celia refers to ‘The Green Knight’ a gender ambiguous figure who appears in Arthurian stories. A monstrous, villainous figure, the Green Knight is also gender queer in that its structure is linked to plant regeneration and femininity, despite being a man. She explains how all these strange, surreal, pastoral beings are linked to queerness, beyond their mere androgyny.  

Plant life exists of growing parts, parts that have not yet been formed and decaying parts. The temporality of them existing together is why they are related to queer time. They need decay to exist, rather than just moving forwards.  

Folk horror therefore offers explicit warnings about the dangers of forgoing our relationship with natural environments, and how queerness can subvert these wrongdoings. Similar themes appear in folk music, but in different forms, offering hauntology instead through imagination and escapism.

Oh, the summertime is coming 
And the trees are sweetly blooming 
And the wild mountain thyme 
Grows around the blooming heather

Will you go, lassie, go? 
And we'll all go together 
To pull wild mountain thyme 
All around the blooming heather 

 Wild Mountain Thyme by the Corries

Manchester’s folk community is ‘self-replicating’, according to Charlie. The community has likely produced a space which will sustain its cultural and political tendencies, continuing to aid those who similarly struggle with ontological disjunctions from normative ways of existing. Folk music culture constitutes form of sociality that reflects queer phenomenology, where established temporalities are deconstructed in our performances of solidarity and imagination. For Nietzche, ‘haste... is waste, whether it is the rush to become employable as a [wo]man of science or the rush to become fruitful (and, presumably, multiply)’. By contrast the “cultivated [wo]man”—clearly refined, probably effete, no doubt gay— is operating on queer time, off the designated biopolitical schedule of reproductive heterosexuality’ (McCallum and Tuhkanen, 2011: 5). By operating heritage as a reflexive practice, and by navigating folk music as a space of hauntological and ontological expression, the folk community becomes a potentially powerful source of grounding, comfort and organising for the queer community. Furthermore, the use of pastoral magic and storytelling can aid us in deconstructing risky, reified notions of rationalism and its relationship with fixity and order, lest ‘the [current] relationship between science and power kill us all’, as Celia warns in reference to the ecological destruction caused by the unrestricted dominion of industrialism over ‘nature’.  

Notes

1. Referring to the demographic make-up of a folk session.

2. A town in Greater Manchester

Bibliography

Blake, D. (2018). ‘Everybody makes up Folksongs: Pete Seeger’s 1950s College Concerts and the Democratic Potential of Folk Music’, Journal of the Society for American Music. Cambridge, 12(4). 

Brown, G. (2007). ‘Mutinous Eruptions: Autonomous Spaces of Radical Queer Activism’. Environment and Planning A: Economy and Space, 39(11), 2685-2698. 

Craith, M.N., Kockel, U. (2007). ‘Cultural Heritages as Reflexive Traditions’. Palgrave Macmillan, New York. 

Dolby-Stahl, S., Newall, V.J. (1984). ‘Folklore Studies in the Twentieth Century: Proceedings of the Centenary Conference of the Folklore Society’. New Jersey: Totowa.  

Fisher, M. (2012). ‘What Is Hauntology?’. Film Quarterly, 66(1), pp. 16–24.  

Freeman, E. (2010). ‘Time Binds: Queer Temporalities, Queer Histories’. Duke University Press.

Jeppesen, S. (2010). ‘Queer Anarchist Autonomous Zones and Publics: Direct action Vomiting against Homonormative Consumerism’. Sexualities, 13(4), pp. 463-478. 

Keegan-Phipps, S., Winter, T. (2015). ‘The Mainstreaming of English Folk’. Performing Englishness. Identity and Politics in a Contemporary Folk Resurgence. Manchester University Press, pp. 41-78. 

Kockel, U. (2007). ‘Reflexive Traditions and Heritage Production’. Cultural Heritages as Reflexive Traditions. Palgrave Macmillan, London. 

McCallum, E. L., Tuhkanen, M. (2011). ‘Becoming Unbecoming: Untimely Mediations’. Queer Times, Queer Becomings, The State University of New York Press, pp. 1-21.

Nietzsche, F. (1997). ‘On the Uses and Disadvantages of History for Life’. Nietzsche: Untimely Meditations. Cambridge University Press, pp. 57-124.                                                    

Osman, S. A. (2020). ‘Folktale Adaptation and Female Agency: Reconfigurations of the Mahsuri Legend in Selected Contemporary Malaysian Young Adult Fiction’. Asian Children’s Literature and Film in a Global Age, pp. 215-243. 

Articles: 

Commission for Racial Equality. (2005). ‘Citizenship and Belonging: What Is Britishness?’. Retrieved January 2024 from:                      

http://www.ethnos.co.uk/pdfs/9_what_is_britishness_CRE.pdf    

Socialist Party. (2022). ‘How Mass Working-Class Action Established the “Right to Roam”’. Retrieved January 2024 from:                     

https://www.socialistparty.org.uk/articles/94827/27-04-2022/how-mass-working-class-action-established-the-right-to-roam/ 

Making do: On resilient grounds

LSE Anthropology’s Summer Ethnographic Projects 2023

Artistic Conclave: boundary and authenticity in Mayfair auction houses

Cover picture: an Old Masters’ auction exhibition. Photo taken by author.

By Hugo Hong

“vade, quaecumque habes vende, et da pauperibus, et habebis thesaurum in caelo: et veni, sequere me”

“ Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”

Mark, 10:21

I entered Baldwin’s through the entrance at Rabat Street. It acts as the back door, the main being the Casablanca Street entrance. Walking past the reception and down the stairs, I arrived at the central gallery. The room was full of artworks by emerging and established artists. The place in general was quite empty and there was only one security standing in a corner. It was hard to find him given the dark lighting in the room and the black suit every security staff wore. I walked into a room next to the central gallery. It was busy with staff – those of whom aren’t part of the security – walking across the place in a rush. On the right is Property Collections, where you can claim the artwork bought. Several items such as an antique-looking candle were on the table with some wrapping paper and a box lying around. People who looked like maintenance staff packed items in boxes.  

I headed to the reception in the hope of meeting the specialist behind the auction. A specialist is a title given to the staff who research, collect and market the area of art they focus on. I thought they would know the auction better than anyone else as they manage the auction season. I asked the receptionist if I could see the specialist and told them about my research. They rang someone called Rachel and informed me that she would be down in a minute. While I was waiting for her, I couldn’t help noticing a note framed on the reception desk. It was a warning to bidders to reveal their identity due to UK Anti-Money Laundering Regulations. The note brought up several questions. Is the anonymity of customers essential here? Are artworks treated as assets to invest money – such as income from money laundering? 

Soon after Rachel comes and greets me. I explained to her about my study and asked if she could spare some time for an interview. In an annoyed manner, Rachel tells me that she doesn’t have much time and that if I want to do an interview, I should do it now. Not wanting to lose this opportunity, I accepted her offer and we moved to the sofa close by. I begin my interview by asking her what the clients are composed of. She tells me that last night, two Chinese clients and three Turkish clients were present. “The participants in the auction vary much from the US to Asia.” She emphasised. I continue by asking if there is a common preference or taste among clients according to their social group. “Asian clients tend to have similar tastes to the Americans, but you can’t generalise! For instance, the Japanese and the Hong Kong buyers have major differences in tastes.”  

Suddenly she stopped talking about the note and went back to the earlier conversation.  

“Look, I know that Baldwin’s can be intimidating at first. On my first day of working here, I was also intimidated by the grandeur. But you must realise that Baldwin’s is open to all. For instance, on Saturday, a schoolteacher who was looking around asked me if he could bring his students here. And I said sure, why not?” 

Describing the auction houses as open to all stuck in my head for a while. I imagined an auction house to be somewhere open to the exclusive few. Exclusive few as in wealthy, influential individuals often from privileged social backgrounds. Is it open to all people as Rachel asserts? Anyone can indeed come in through the door and look at the artwork. However, as she admitted it is difficult not to be overwhelmed by the grandeur and feel unwelcomed. The famous quote from Shelley’s Ozymandias, “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”, resonates. How can I explain the two contradictory feelings of being welcomed and unwelcomed? Trying to answer the question, I undertook my fieldwork with a focus on interpersonal interactions and visual images.  

The Maze Leading to the Centre 

Auction houses can be like a maze, especially one that changes often. If you walk past a corridor to reach a room one day, the next day you may find it blocked. Such a confusing and mysterious layout makes it difficult to navigate, but a route to the centre exists. The centre is where all the major events occur and where the auction house puts the most effort. On my many visits, I once found myself in a centre. 

Browsing Twitter, I saw that Baldwin’s was auctioning a portrait by Gerald Beaufort. Beaufort, the famed British painter of the 20th century, is one of my favourite artists. Excited by the news, I paid a visit to the auction house soon after. When I entered Baldwin’s, however, I couldn’t find the painting by Beaufort in any of the galleries on the ground floor. Furthermore, many of the rooms which were open the last time I visited were now closed. I asked one of the security guards where the artwork for the upcoming evening sale was. He told me that they were upstairs. So, I went up the stairs heavily decorated with wallpaper promoting the evening auction. The painting by Beaufort greeted me as I entered the upper-floor galleries. Compared to the empty rooms downstairs, it was bustling with people. It seemed as if this was the main party in Baldwin’s. I couldn't help but notice the loud chatter coming from the room on the left. Inside were several white women in their 30s in fashionable, expensive clothes. Among them was a specialist – whom I could tell as she was wearing a dark-coloured suit in a formal attitude.  

Chinese antiques auction exhibition. Photo taken by author.

In Baldwin’s and Fitzalan's, the staff had various titles and distinct roles accordingly. For instance, auctioneers organise auctions and stand on the lectern with their hammers in auctions. Specialists, who specialise in an art genre, mainly deal with clients, trying to sell artworks they oversee. Compared to these roles, registrars dealing with shipping, and technicians handling the physical artworks are not so visible and lower in the hierarchy. The more visible one is to the public, the more importance given to them. Nonetheless, their presence shouldn’t exceed the visibility of their clients. Hence, the general dress code for all employees is formal dress with dark colours. Such a specific dress code enables them to blend with the dark atmosphere in auction houses. On top of that, most specialists stood as a group chatting with their colleagues rather than being scattered across the room. The colleagues with whom they interacted were always their fellow specialists. No attention was given to security guards or object-handling people. Such distinction had elements of race also. The auctioneers and specialists were mostly of White and East Asian backgrounds. On the other hand, the not-so-visible workers – such as security, and cleaners – were from Black or Ethnic Minority backgrounds.  

Going back to the auction house, the specialist was explaining some artworks in the room to the ladies. The group appeared to be enjoying a private viewing organised by Baldwin’s. Private viewing is the occasion where several influential individuals are invited to an exhibition before it opens to the public. As soon as the explaining ended, they marched to a bright room hidden deep in the corridor on the right. I decided to follow them and stumbled upon Baldwin’s Preferred Members’ Room. The room was like no other. The sunlight from the big windows facing Casablanca Street made everything shine. Moreover, an afternoon tea was served by a waiter as the ladies sat on the fluffy sofas. At that moment, I realised that not all visitors are treated the same in auction houses.  

Most visitors will wander around the gallery trying to make sense of the place on their own. Some selected few, however, will receive special treatment. This notably includes  an exclusive private group tour led by a specialist followed by afternoon tea. Perhaps the maze-like structure of the auction houses is intended for the not-so-welcome visitors to be stranded. Trying to figure out my way around the auction houses, I once asked a receptionist if there was any map with the layout of the place. I asked this as I couldn’t find any floor plan or map on their website. The receptionist apologised and said that they didn’t have any. Instead, she suggested taking a picture of the exhibition map shown next to the reception. This was frustrating as it only showed the small number of rooms open to the public at that moment. All the rooms not used for the current exhibition weren't shown. Furthermore, the map on the screen didn’t have any floor plan for lower ground. From what I know, the lower ground is reserved for the catalogues of all artworks they sold from the 18th century. 

Fair Warning! 

“We have to prioritise bidding clients and collectors.” I was shocked to hear the response from Baldwin’s. My application to attend a live auction was rejected. I tried to make sense of why and how by thinking back on what happened beforehand. I needed a ticket to attend the live auction, so I emailed them. They asked me several questions in the reply such as whether I needed a paddle, and what my client number was. Looking back on the process, I realised that this is when things went wrong. I told them I didn't need a paddle as I wasn’t intending to make a bid. Moreover, I haven’t linked a bank account with sufficient money to my Baldwin’s account. All this would have given the impression that I am no valuable client who will bid. But this still didn’t make sense, because, for Fitzalan's, another auction house I did fieldwork at, I was offered a seat in the auxiliary viewing room. It would be worth mentioning that they also said in the email that they prioritise confirmed bidders in their auctions. The viewing room is unique to Fitzalan's, and I was lucky enough to at least be accepted into that. 

A live auction is the main highlight of an auction house. It is what makes an auction house an auction house. Artworks worth millions are sold in the event and many wealthy people take part in the process. To capture the scene, the press releases news articles about million-dollar paintings sold in an auction. This enables an auction house to be turned into a theatre for the day. People dress to show off and talk with the few they want to. Some laughter, some applause, and some jokes are also essential in this play. The play also acts to draw the line between the main actors and the supporting actors. Of course, I haven’t had the slightest idea that it would be like this before attending in real life.  

The auction day at Fitzalan's was terribly busy with the greatest number of people I saw in the place. I went up the stairs and looked around the main hall. On the right, there was a large table with beverages. Next to it was another table with cardboard paddles. Some staff sat around the table looking at a paper which seemed like a list. In an adjacent room, a muscular security guard was standing in front of the entrance. Inside the room were several cameras, filming staff and chairs in rows. Compared to that, the West Room was empty and quiet.  

I went into the West Room – the auxiliary viewing room – and waited for a few minutes before the auction. Soon the TV showed the auction room and zoomed into the auctioneer for the evening, Charles Villiers. Villiers announced on the lectern that the auction would be filmed. He also added that some faces may be seen in the recorded videos.  

The atmosphere of the room changed as the auction began. The auctioneer called out the names of the specialists who stood to the left, and right side of him and asked for bids. It seemed like they all knew each other well and felt comfortable being named to bid. The specialists were busy talking to their clients on the phone. The men were in dark-coloured suits and the women wore relatively varying clothes but all of them luxurious. Some hid their mouths with their hands when on the phone, trying to hide the identity of their client.  

An empty exhibition room after an auction. Photo taken by author.

The early bids skyrocketed and stopped at £350,000. As if this wasn’t enough, Villiers repeated the price looking impatient. Out of luck, he suddenly spotted a specialist who was willing to bid more – signalling with a little hand up looking at Villiers. Filled with excitement, he yelled “Going on!”. It was eventually sold at £730,080 with a “Goes!”. As the auction continued, I could see a pattern in the process. Villiers called out the specialists by their names or a title such as The American colleague. A tense and dynamic atmosphere was also created as he said things like last chance or fair warning. Not only did the statement mean that an artwork is sold to someone but also you can’t have it even if you want later. Those shouting acted as encouragement for the bidders to bid more. The use of various hand gestures and the act of leaning on the table were also involved. In one instance, a specialist was on the phone with a client unsure whether to pay £100,000 more for an artwork. Noticing the reluctant client, Villiers proposed to only increase by £50,000. This was enough to convince them to continue bidding more for the artwork. For him, increasing the price sold even slightly is better than not getting any higher bids.  

The repetitiveness of the auction made people in the room tired. Many already had ideas about which lots they were interested in following. Some people had a paper with the details of several lots. One by one, the attendees in the West Room left the room changed seats, or simply stood at the back. People who were at the West Room knew that their place wasn’t much of an importance. You didn’t need an opulent invitation to have a seat there. What was easily gained and unworthy to boast about is destined to be abandoned. In this place, not only the artworks but people seemed to have price tags. It is invisible but they are very aware of how much they are worth in this pyramid. 

 In the following lots, lot 16 was a large Picasso. When the bidding began for this lot, people who left the room came back in and sat at the rear of the room. The bids went up to £16 million and stopped, which was disappointing. The lowest estimate for the lot was £15 million and the highest was £20 million. After the lot was sold, the audience in the room chatted quietly among themselves. Picasso who is one of the best-selling artists to be sold at such a meaningless price must have come as a shock to them. After all, this auction dictates the trend or how future artworks will be priced in the art market. Like a highly respected company’s stocks crashing, people lost their words.   

Furthermore, the work by Picasso stood out from many other artworks by less-known artists. Most clients are not well-versed in modern art trends. Thus, they invest more interest in what they already know and what auction houses recommend. Selling invaluable artworks and topping the headlines, the two auction houses accumulated unquestionable authority. It allows them to decide values and authenticity which are intrinsically related. If they say something is worth a million, it is worth a million. In the case of Picasso, that authority faced a challenge. The price sold – or as they call it, realised – was too close to the lowest estimate made by the auction house. Thus, those who trusted the auction houses didn’t know how to react.  

Several hours passed, and I began to feel tired and didn’t feel the need to stay looking at a TV screen. The auction was all about what happens in that exclusive room guarded by security. People outside couldn’t take part and being frustrated took pictures of the inside at the guarded door. Many left the auction house as time passed and the West Room became empty. It seemed as if those people were just the supporting actors needed to support the leading actors. On the other hand, the specialists and bidders inside the room often went out to enjoy drinks with their colleagues from the inside. When done with their break, they went back in and enjoyed the lively auction. The room was often full of laughter when Villiers made a silly joke or shouted his famous fair warning. 

Insider/Outsider, Fake/Authentic: Flexible Boundaries 

Auction houses exclude and include people in manifold ways.  Sometimes through space, other times, people themselves drew the boundaries. Despite the boundaries looking clear, they are essentially flexible. Somewhere what stays closed or private one day may be open to the public another day. Similarly for people, one can access an exclusive space such as how I attended an auction, but some form of boundary. Playing with such fluctuating reality and being successful in it are the goals to aim for. This dynamic made me question my first research question assuming a firm insider and outsider boundary. I believe such flexible boundaries are something that the auction houses know already. The existence of an Auxiliary Viewing Room and the Preferred Members’ Room being open with no security, or anything are some examples. However, one must play by the rules and know oneself. Being open doesn’t mean anyone can enter. Different rooms and places exist for distinct groups of people, and one must continue to question and find out where they fit. Being courageous and trying to challenge the rules may end up unfavourably.   

Beyond the boundaries, what seemed central to me was the production of authenticity in auction houses. As the value of an artwork largely depends on its authenticity, people use various tools to verify it. Among the opinions given about authenticity, those by auction houses are taken to be the most credible. This is largely from the clients' lack of sufficient knowledge and the fame of auction houses selling million-dollar artworks. Furthermore, the exclusiveness of the auction houses for those with great wealth, and power doesn’t allow new possibilities. Nonetheless, such authority is subject to challenge when their predictions turn out to be inaccurate and as the clients become sceptical.  

Navigating black masculinity at the LSE

Image credits: photo provided by author

By Oliver Geddes

Being black at LSE

As a Black man who has lived in Europe since birth, race has always been a key feature of my existence, whether I wanted it to be or not. Consequently, finding a sense of belonging among a society that historically did not want me to belong has been a challenging and often confusing experience. Amidst this struggle for my identity, I found sanctuary in team sports, particularly basketball. The idea that I was part of a larger group, moving towards one common goal, was an escape from the daily pressure of being Black in a Eurocentric society. 

Yet, while finding ‘community’ and commonality among other young Black men has been liberating, it has also created ‘conditions of ambivalence’. These conditions are a series of seemingly incessant contradictory feelings and experiences – optimism undermined by pessimism, freedom refuted by restraint. I found these conditions to be present in the way we reconcile oppression with our masculinity; in the way we are impeded by our oppression even in spaces where we are supposed to feel safe; in the way we escape our oppression through community and yet seek to reject monolithic identity. Generally, the racialised experiences of Black men in predominantly non-Black spaces seem plagued by contradictions and unpredictability. 

When I started university at LSE, an institution where Black students are a visible minority, I felt a replication of the experiences I had endured during my lifetime. I was in a space where I was unsure of my identity, of how to exist in a place where I saw very little representation. I found sanctuary through team sports – basketball. It allowed me to access a community where I didn’t always feel the intensity of something as insignificant as my skin colour. I was a part of a larger whole, a common objective. I became close to my Black teammates, greatly due to our shared experience of being very visible minorities in predominantly white spaces. My ethnography focuses on Black men’s navigation of these spaces, using basketball as a vessel to facilitate this understanding. 

Initially, I wanted to research a wider question on the ‘Black’ experience at LSE. I quickly modified my question upon realising several limitations I was faced with. Most importantly, Black experiences are not monolithic, so I felt it wasn’t justified for me to speak on experiences that were not reconcilable with my own. Finding sanctuary through team sports is one Black experience but it is by no means a universal one. I also realised that there was a gendered element to my curiosity – I couldn’t ignore that there was something innately masculine about how I found an escape from my racialised experience through a physical activity, so this formed something I wanted to explore further with my interlocutors.

The basketball court is a place I have known my whole life. I’m always struck with the same sensation when I walk into a basketball gym, the stuffiness of the air and the faint smell of sweat never fails to produce a remote sense of dizziness as I acclimate to the court. Similarly, the competitiveness of game day always produces a palpable intensity, and thus feelings of unease, even angst. 

My research allowed me to explore the diasporic importance of basketball to Black men, and how it helps us to form a ‘collective identity’, particularly against the backdrop of an institution where navigating our identity feels like a constant struggle. Interactions with my peers allowed me to understand the diversity of Black men’s experiences in white spaces. Our experiences are individual, and the institutional denial of their uniqueness only perpetuates harm to our community. Overarchingly, I sought to explore the conditions of ambivalence that underpin these findings. 

Understanding the Black Male Experience – “Being on the court is like an escape… in the classroom I feel isolated”:

Almost routinely, every Friday, the first person I would see at practice was Sam. He is a fellow Black teammate and my closest friend on the team. This Friday was no different, he came and sat next to me on the bench as we got ready to play. After exchanging pleasantries, I introduced my research topic to him and explained what I was going to be doing over the next ten weeks. He seemed intrigued and enthusiastic to be assisting me. He looked over at me, smiling invitingly, and said “alright cool, what do you wanna ask me?”. 

My first point of inquiry was why young Black male athletes at my university gravitated towards basketball, as proportionally, the men’s basketball society had more Black student athletes than any other sports team. 

I asked Sam, “why do you think us Black guys love basketball so much?”.

He pondered for a moment before responding, “Well, I think basketball holds a special place in our heart. It’s a sport we can watch at the highest level and see guys that look like us. When we’re in a place like this I think that’s something that we need”. 

As Sam said, culturally, basketball is significant to Black men. The National Basketball Association (NBA), the most competitive basketball organisation in the world, is constituted by 71.8% Black players (Statista 2022), while Black Americans constitute just 14% of the U.S population (Pew Research Centre 2023). While my research is focused on young Black British men and not Black American men, the diasporic significance of this phenomenon is far from lost on us. We too live in a society where we are very visible minorities and where systemic racism plays a dominant role in our lives. Seeing Black men succeed is a diasporic victory, regardless of where within the diaspora this success takes place. 

Image credits: LSESU men’s basketball instagram page (@lsembb)

What I wanted to explore further though, was the last bit of what Sam said - “in a place like this”, the idea that being in a space where we are minorities generates a desire to find a sense of belonging, a community where we feel we aren’t part of a wider community. What was driving this desire? Simply put, why did we need to come together as Black men and play basketball? Why was merely being a fan of the sport, an individual spectator, not enough? I got a very insightful answer during an interview with another one of my fellow Black teammates, Daniel. 

I asked him, “how do you compare your experience playing basketball with your wider experience as a Black man at LSE?”. 

He thought for a while. Finally, he responded, “you know, being on the court is like an escape from all the bullshit. In the classroom I feel isolated, on the court I can just forget about all of it”. He paused briefly before continuing, “I remember one time, I was doing a module for my course, and not once did my class teacher, who was white, get my name right. She confused me for the one other Black guy in the class every single time.” 

Daniel recounting his experiences of racism at our university reminded me of similar experiences I’ve had. Microaggressions ranging from getting my name confused with another Black student, to a throwaway comment about my hair, to even one I experienced during a basketball training session. This was during the fourth practice into my research, when my project had become common knowledge within the team. A non-Black player from the second team who I wasn’t particularly familiar with came up to me and asked, “do you think non-Black people should be able to say the ‘n’ word? I only ask because when I was growing up everyone used to say it, what do you think?”. It was an obvious attempt to get a reaction out of me. I looked at him in disbelief, got up, and went about the rest of the training session as normal. 

What fascinated me though, was that as the training session progressed, being surrounded by my Black teammates created an element of comfort and by the end of the session, I had all but forgotten that the microaggression had even occurred. This experience effectively confirmed what Daniel had told me, playing basketball alongside my teammates was an escape from the microaggressions we experience daily, reminding us incessantly that they are a species of wider institutional racism.

What I have come to realise about our experience as Black men at LSE is that it is somewhat of a rite of passage, with particular emphasis on the ‘liminal’ phase of rites of passage as Van Gennep (1909) puts it. Experiencing racism places us in a strange middle place where we are unsure of where we belong, and how we are supposed to belong. In essence, we have surpassed the first stage of the tripartite structure of rites of passage as we have been separated from schooling as we knew it in the first 18 years of our lives, and placed in a higher learning institution, yet we are stuck in a liminal space, incapable of progressing to the incorporation phase of rite of passage. We are stuck because as minorities in a space that has historically excluded us, we are unable to fully feel like we can aggregate as an intrinsic part of the student community. Our experiences with racism evidence this, producing a sub-conscious feeling that we’re not supposed to be here and thus we are in a perpetual state of transition, unable to integrate. 

I align this with Victor Turner’s (1969) discussions about liminality: we are “betwixt and between” as well as “structurally invisible” because we feel as though the structures of the institutions where we study were not designed to include us. The primary difference between our experience and Van Gennep’s and Turner’s theories is that we are unable to advance to the final stage of this perverted rite of passage, unable to be liberated from the liminal position that racism places us in. However, as my experience interacting with my interlocutors has demonstrated to me, we cope with this position through escapism. Playing basketball, attempting to recreate the feelings of triumph that we feel when we witness the seemingly disproportionate success of Black athletes, gives us a sense of belonging – Appiah (2009) refers to this phenomenon as creating “collective identity” – specifically in the context of being minorities at our university, where our identity is systematically confused.

Another question that I couldn’t ignore was the relationship between the escapism we sought through basketball and our masculinity. During my seventh training session into my research, I had a conversation with some of my Black teammates which helped me answer this. 

Sam started the conversation, saying: “it’s weird how we’ve never really talked about our experiences with racism like this. I mean we joke about it but before this we’ve never really spoken about it seriously.” 

Daniel laughed and responded, “well yeah, we just have to get on with it, what’s complaining gonna do, you know no one would listen to us.” Sam laughed and nodded in agreement. 

I found this to be a typically masculine, reductionist approach to the issues we face as Black men. Talking about our problems goes against our traditional conceptions of masculinity, so if we put our heads down, and “get on with it” as Daniel said, it’s almost as if the problem doesn’t exist. This is why seeking escapism through basketball makes sense, it’s easy to reconcile with patriarchal ideas of masculinity, ideas that purport that we shouldn’t talk about our experiences with racism, instead we should repress the emotions they produce and “get on with it”. In part I blame the fact that we are victims of systemic racism, but I also blame the fact that as men we reproduce toxic ideas of masculinity. I don’t find it to be a coincidence that historically, participation in sport was seen as a process of “masculinising” and a “toughener” for young men (Kidd 2013). I’ve thus been able to acknowledge that there is a problematic element to the way in which my fellow Black teammates and I deal with racism at university. While basketball has provided us with a community and a cathartic way to relieve the daily pressures of our racialised experience, it also reduces our racialised experience and reproduces ideas about masculinity that we should begin to forget. 

The violence of the patriarchy is different to that of racism, yet it is undoubtedly connected and comparably oppressive. The notion that as Black men, we fight our oppression by almost reaffirming a different type of oppression, speaks to the sentiment that underpins the entirety of my project – our experience as Black men in non-Black spaces is confused by an exhausting paradox.  

Understanding Internal Distinctions – “We’re not a monolith”

Something my research demonstrated was the diversity of my Black teammates’ experiences. Our experiences were not only racialised and gendered but also defined by class division and ethnicity. This became apparent to me from the beginning of my project. Two training sessions into my research, my Black teammates and I were having a general conversation about our backgrounds.

Michael made an interesting contribution – “I went to private school, so coming to LSE wasn’t that different. I feel like I was already quite accustomed to code-switching and knowing my position in a place like this.” 

Sam contrasted this account with his own experience – “I think my time here’s been different. I went to a school that was majority Black and Brown, when I started uni it was a whole new world for me”. 

Sam and Michael continued to contrast their experiences based on their ethnic origins. While both Nigerian, they come from different tribes. Sam is Igbo while Michael is Yoruba. 

Michael jokingly said to Sam, “you Igbos are all money hungry, I bet you felt right at home here, I had to adjust to that”. 

Sam laughed and replied, “you make a fair point”. 

This interaction got me thinking about my own experience and how it was distinct, because I’m Zimbabwean and similar to Michael, I have been privately educated in predominantly white schools. Thus, my perspective of the world has been uniquely shaped by not solely my race but also my socio-economic background as well as the cultural knowledge dispersed to me by my parents.

I added to the conversation with this suggestion: “I think it’s important to understand that while we’re all very visible minorities at this university, meaning we share that common struggle, our experiences are still going to be unique based on factors other than our race”. 

Michael agreed, responding, “yeah… we’re not a monolith. It’s annoying that we’re viewed as though we are”.

A key takeaway from this observation was that even though my research focused on a specific part of the Black student population at LSE, our experiences were still so different. While as Black men, we had found a community in our basketball team, we are not monolithic. Michael alluded to the idea that we’re viewed as though we are, and he’s completely right. LSE’s recently published statistics on Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion show Black Asian and Minority Ethnic (BAME) students constitute over 60% of the student population (LSE 2020). However, there are no individual statistics for Black students. This is an institutional representation of exactly what Michael is referring to, and he calls it annoying because if institutionally, we are viewed as one singular group, how can we expect to be treated as individuals. I believe that certain microaggressions are a species of this institutional hazard – being confused for another Black student in my class is reflective of the fact that on an institutional level, my very existence within the institution is not individualised, rather it is grouped into one overarching monolithic demographic. As Michael and Sam described, they have very individual experiences as Black men at LSE, as do I, and the institutional denial of those experiences perpetuates negative trickle-down effects. I believe Michael and Sam’s depiction of their experiences are calls for institutional recognition of them.

Contradictions: invidividuality and collective identity

I want my inquiry into the experiences of Black men at an institution where we are minorities to reveal what exactly those experiences are, and how such experiences trap us in a liminal space we find difficult to navigate. I hope that my research paints a clearer picture of what we go through in a space where we don’t always feel like we belong and how we have tried to deal with this by finding a community in our basketball team. I also want to reveal the complexities that lie beneath how we’ve found this community, specifically the way in which we reconcile the desire for community with problematic notions of masculinity that we still hold, and how this demonstrates an apparent contradiction in how we as Black men fight oppression.

I want my research to demonstrate that the community myself and my interlocutors have found in our basketball team should not overshadow the fact that we still have individual and personal experiences and that we want these individual experiences to be recognised on an institutional level, perhaps this would be the beginning of ameliorating our negative experiences with racism. I once again want to note that these calls are an indicator of our conditions of ambivalence – we seek to find individuality in a space constructed for collective identity, an exhausting effort in the wider struggle that is battling the contradictions that afflict our experience as Black men. 

Bibliography:

Appiah, K.A. (2009) ‘Racial Identity and Racial Identification’ in Baker, L. and Solomos, D. (ed.) Theories of Race and Racism. London: Routledge.

Gennep, A. van (1909) The rites of passage. Reprint, London: Routledge, 2004

Gumperz, J.J. (1977) ‘The sociolinguistic significance of conversational code-switching’, RELC Journal, 8(2), pp. 1–34. doi:10.1177/003368827700800201. 

Johnson, D.G. et al. (2021) ‘Social-cognitive and affective antecedents of code switching and the consequences of linguistic racism for black people and people of color’, Affective Science, 3(1), pp. 5–13. doi:10.1007/s42761-021-00072-8. 

Kidd, B. (2013) ‘Sports and Masculinity’, Sport in Society, 16(4), pp. 553–564. doi:10.1080/17430437.2013.785757. 

London School of Economics and Political Science (2020) Equity, diversity and inclusion (EDI). Available at: https://info.lse.ac.uk/Staff/Divisions/Equity-Diversity-and-Inclusion (Accessed: 12 May 2023). 

Pew Research Center (2023) Facts About the U.S Black Population. Available at: https://www.pewresearch.org/social-trends/fact-sheet/facts-about-the-us-black-population/ (Accessed 11/05/2023).

Statista (2022) Share of players in the NBA from 2010 to 2022, by ethnicity. Available at: https://www.statista.com/statistics/1167867/nba-players-ethnicity/ (Accessed 11/05/2023).

Turner, V.W. (1969) The ritual process: Structure and anti-structure. Reprint, London: Routledge, 2017.

Involution in China: the appropriation of a political critique by a neoliberal workplace

Cover image credits: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-china-57328508

By Jingye Tang

“What we have here is pattern plus continued development. The pattern precludes the use of another unit or units, but it is not inimical to play within the unit or units. The inevitable result is progressive complication, a variety within uniformity, virtuosity within monotony. This is involution.”

-- Alexander Goldenweiser (1936) in Geertz (1963:81).

“Neijuan (“内卷”) is the scenario in which vicious competition emerges among dagongren (“office jockeys”, a Chinese internet buzzword from 2020), resulting in the gradual worsening of their working conditions and subsequently broadening the scope of exploitation that the capitalist class can impose on them.”

-- Adam, an accountant from my fieldwork which was conducted in an accountant agency in Shenzhen during July, 2021.

The theme of this article is 'involution': a concept with the ability to unite Goldenweiser and Adam’s ideas despite their distance in time and space – and despite the fact that they had never heard of one another. What the American anthropologist was describing is an aesthetic pattern that he found in the “primitive” art of the Māori: an art style which was trapped inside a fractal cycle of repetition and reproduction of the same motifs over and over again. In this cycle, progress in creativity and the difference in aesthetics was only marked by the chronic increment in the number of motifs in a given area (Goldenweiser, 1936 in Geertz, 1963:81).

A Ceplok patte, a type of Javanese batik pattern which can also be described as an involuted art form

A paradigm like this, filled with contradictions and obstacles stemming from the internal lacking of creative energy was then summarized as “involution”. Upon research in Indonesia, Clifford Geertz (1963) adopted “involution” from Goldenweiser as a concept in his analysis of the Javanese agrarian economy. Under the double pressure from colonialism's embargo of productive equipment and the agrarian economy’s saturation of labor supply, the result was an economy of internal complexification and, at the same time, no growth in productivity. Phillip Huang (2002:6) first re-interpreted Geertz’s theory and translated “involution” into Chinese, terming it neijuan (a portmanteau joining two Chinese characters, “internal” and “spinning”). Although Huang’s re-interpretation of Geertz has been contested (Liu and Qiu, 2004; Pomeranz, 2003), neijuan as the Chinese translation of involution has mushroomed in Chinese popular discourse since Huang’s work – and it has assumed a life of its own as a term that captures the zeitgeist of contemporary China.

My interlocutor Adam, meanwhile, did not refer to Goldenweiser, Geertz or Huang in his understanding of neijuan. In fact, Adam had not heard of any of these writers; he also did not elaborate on what he meant by neijuan, taking it as a self-evident term. For Adam, neijuan conveys a chain of regress which generates suffering. The word was used by him to refer to a phenomenon that he found in his labor as an accountant, namely the gradual demise of working conditions including worsening wage rates and increasingly longer working hours– and it is a common feeling shared by all eight members in the office where I did my fieldwork, and many more outside of it. In 2020, neijuan was ranked as one of the ten most popular internet buzzwords in China and managed to outlive all its competitors on the list with unassailable popularity even now.

Moreover, as exemplified by the definition that Adam attributed to neijuan, the virality of the term has coincided with an apparent de-academization of the concept and an ostensible unmooring of its history within qualitative social science. Of course, scholarly articles that trace the origin of neijuan in China and explore its meanings predate this boom, but with the adoption of neijuan in Chinese colloquial language, references to it no longer rely solely (if at all) on academic exegesis for their meaning; instead, the term is used to describe one’s own everyday experiences and observations. Indeed, I have come to understand how this term provided an avenue for a young urban population to articulate their worsening working condition in a bold and straightforward manner.

Manager 1:

“I don’t want our team to be in the exact same situation as the beginning of the year. All of you were in the “American time zone” at the start of this year – no exaggerating. You worked till four in the morning and came to the office at one in the afternoon. Is this a healthy working schedule? Is this a sign of high efficiency? Our clients were having difficulties communicating with you. In our new round of work in the mid-year, everyone, please, leave at 9:30 p.m. at the latest.”

Manager 2:

“Indeed, our company requires you to engage in result-based work, not time-based work. We feel as if you like overworking for long hours in a war of attrition. Efficiency and teamworking needs to be improved immediately”.

In the afternoon of my forth day at the company, I observed what seemed like a pep talk at a departmental meeting in which attendance by all team members was demanded. The managers wanted to address the supposed issues with the team’s working efficiency and the absence of a (good) fenwei (“atmosphere”) among the team. The appearance of these two senior managers in the same room was a rare event; the managers’ speech was an explicit denunciation of the working pattern of their team: a daily work-time rhythm that inverted the usual nine-to-five in a stark way that conveyed the sense of living in another time zone. This degree of overworking signaled to the managers unhealthy competition among team members to the extent that it resembled “a war of attrition”.

The use of the word neijuan is represented by the blue line, other words came from the list of 10 most popular internet buzzwords in China in the last years. Source: https://index.baidu.com/v2/index.html#/

Everyone in the room sat silently. None took objection or expressed shock. One manager then began calling everyone to take turns to introduce themselves and to articulate their expectations for the future working intensity. At this point, a worker next to me suddenly spoke of their experience at the start of the year. With a serious and mildly emotive tone, they refuted the claim that they “liked overworking” and emphasized this point with two knocks on the table. They lowered their head, it seemed that they were secretly wiping their tears. On the first day of my fieldwork and right next to me, there was already a silent protest against the grievance from work. It left me shocked and speechless.

It was then my turn. I announced my ethnography project on neijuan in front of colleagues and especially in front of the project management team in order to negotiate informed consent to conduct my research. As soon as my brief introduction concluded, I was greeted by an immediate response from one of the managers: “Neijuan? Oh, dear fellow student, you are in the wrong place for investigation! Unfortunately, we do not have neijuan in this office!” The project manager burst into laughter spontaneously. Yet as he gazed around the room expectantly, the manager only found some awkward grins from colleagues, squeezed out of the corners of their mouths. At this moment, I observed a discernible divide about the office members’ interpretation of neijuan.

It is evident that project managers and my colleagues alike were tied up in a regressive process of involution. The focal point of Geertz’s involution theory is precisely how low efficiency and productivity stagnation of the Javanese economy combines with the political economy’s inhibiting effects (such as Dutch colonizers’ containment of any productive capital to be introduced) to resolve the problem. On the workers’ side, One colleague said to me that accounting work was basically “complexification of the smallest number” and that even the smallest numerical discrepancies had to be assessed and accounted for. Thus, in trying to satisfy the requirements of producing accurate figures in reports with a poressing workload and ever-changing requirements from the management and clients, forced them to variously make sense of involution. However, Management too was facing an evident double crisis that brought involution as a forefront issue: the demands from clients were difficult to fulfill at current levels of productivity, eked out by long hours of work. At the same time, the lack of new recruits and experienced employees has been a troubling issue. In fact, in August 2021, when both of the managers were present in the office, their main topic of conversation was the number and names of those who resigned.

Being an ideal employee in my fieldsite – as elsewhere in contemporary China – is fraught with various involuted ethical paradoxes. I observed three key virtues that management considered indispensable for such an ideal worker to embody: “gaoxiaolv” (“high efficiency”), “gaomingandu” (“high receptivity” to suggestions), and “zhengnengliang” (“positive energy” ). Yet from the perspective of my colleagues, this ideal type is hard to embody and is fraught with paradoxes. For employees, overworking has been routinized and normalized – and yet also variously ridiculed. In the words of the managers, overworking was unmoored from a personal ethic of self-sacrifice and had instead become an indicator of low efficiency. This had a direct impact to the workers’ bargaining power with the management team, as one member observed:

"Before quitting, L always stood up to the manager and told her to stop demanding that she stay in the office [after already long working hours, probably after 11:00 p.m.]. L even dared turning their phone off during annual leave. But even then, the manager still wanted L to stay around because L is good with the numbers."

However, in everyday workplace interactions , “neijuan” or “juan” (shorthand for “neijuan”) was not frequently mentioned and in fact tended to serve to describe trivial matters, almost always in a teasing tone. For instance, during lunch time, when a colleague seemed reluctant to leave due to being preoccupied with their workload, another colleague would typically walk in front and say, “biejuanle” (“stop juan”). In another instance, when a different colleague was choosing which kind of food they would order for dinner and subsequently chose “qingshi” (“light food”, a type of food that was suggested to be healthy in ingredients and served lightly), another colleague would hover over and jibe, “you are juan on food now [too]?”.

This limited usage can be linked to the fact that the workers have identified real and personal obstacles in their career. The below-average salaries (compared to other high-tech companies who operated in the same area) and the managers’ behaviour combined to generate shame and indignation for workers. In response to the ideal worker figure that evidenced the three virtues, the accountants often self-effacingly employed a four-point inversion of it to describe themselves: “dixiaolv” (“low effieicny”), “dimingandu” (“low receptiveness”), “funengliang” (“negative energy”), and the newly added “zhizaomaodun” (“seditiousness”) in response to the newest solution raised by the management team to deal with the current crisis – teamwork.

Writers and social commentators have noted that neijuan emerged on the internet since April 2020 and has increased in virality ever since (Wang and Ge, 2020). This is highlighted by the prior graph which depicts its increased popularity, and through the qualitative responses of my interlocutors. In a group interview during my fieldwork, the accountants in the office spoke about when they first saw neijuan on the internet. The responses ranged from May to September 2020 and for some, a few months later than that. One accountant noted that they first read “neijuan” in May 2020 in an article addressing the increasingly competitive dating “market” in which the pursuit of love had been increasingly based on valuations of the candidates’ wealth and university degree.

Another accountant noted that their discovery of neijuan dovetailed with a personal panic that they had about the sudden “grade inflation” of the university degree/ranking of the new interns and colleagues around soon after returning to work in September 2020. However, despite the seeming novelty of neijuan in the public gaze, the use of neijuan in public discourse in China has historical roots. Attention to involution as a helpful way to describe a negative paradigm of living or working has emerged in China over the last decade . For instance, an online article published by the Daily News of Guangdong in 2014, aptly headed “Involuted Life”, introduces involution in the following manner:

There is a shepherd on the hill who tends his sheep every day and a pedestrian who came by stepped forward. Q: What are you doing? A: Shepherding. Q: Why are you shepherding? A: To earn money. Q: Why are you earning money? A: To find me a wife. Q: Why are you having a wife? A: To have children? Q: Why are you having children? A: So that they can help me with shepherding. This dialogue may appear amusing, but most people do live in such cycles: what drives us to work or study hard may actually be our desire to maintain our current way of life. This life is an “involuted” life.”

The 996 working schedule has come to the fore in the last years, with the increasing neoliberalisation of labour in China

The moral of the story is simple: step out of your comfort zone and you might live a better life. However, its mention of involution in the take-home message complicates the plausibility of it, because the author seems to overlook the essence of Geertz’s notion of agricultural involution: the wider context in which the so-called “internal complexification” or the de facto stagnation of productivity occurs. On the contrary, the story’s author’s proposed solution to involution seems to pivot solely on the agency of the individuals; the simplicity of pastoral life and the desires of the shepherd described in this article appear to convey a primitiveness in the mindset of individuals who live an “involuted life”. The incongruence between this story and scholarly conceptualizations might originate from the fact that the author later inaccurately describes “involuted effect” as a theory from the discipline of psychology, limiting the relevance of . Geertz’s discoveries in Java to a case of “repetitive cycling without progress” as the author puts it.

It is hard to speculate what the influence of this allegorical story is on the emergence of neijuan as a popular Chinese vernacular. Nonetheless, similar didactic short stories that emerged before the virality of neijuan share many features with the above tale: unbreakable repetitions and loss in productivity from a “managerial” perspective. That is to say that such stories attribute agency for the solution to neijuan to the individual and largely de-contextualise human subjects from their structural, political economic setting, seemingly misapplying Geertz’s insights. I call such works with these features as exemplifying the “shepherd paradigm” to involution/neijuan – these mark the starting point of the non-academic usage of neujian, which endures in the commonsense meaning of the term today.

With the popularization of neijuan in 2020, increasing scholarly attention went into tracing the origin of neijuan. The resultant analyses consisted of a more accurate alignment to the term as expounded by Geertz and Huang than the shepherd paradigm. For instance, on Baidubaike, the largest encyclopedia website in China, a total of ten references are dedicated to the entry of neijuan. However, this modern usage cannot be considered as a radical break from the previous paradigm. In this refashioned meaning neijuan seemed to detect the responsibility of involuted life in people themselves, dismissing the structural motifs that lead people to experience neijuan. When I tried to recover the original meaning of the word with my colleaugues, I always reached a dead end. On one occasion, after bringing up Geertz’s four-point definition of involution to a colleague (of which the last point refers to “the self-sophistication of the economic system”), she turned to me and asked if “involution” was perhaps actually a good thing. Awkwardly, I had to remind her that it was a term that denotes social critique. On other instances, when I began raising the subject of “zhidu” (“the system”) in front of my colleagues I always found them unresponsive. This has been an ethical issue which concerned me in my fieldwork. The incorporation of the political economy is, however, a critical feature for conceptualizing involution in a systematic way. Without paying attention to the political and economic forces which generate the “involuted life”, there is a risk that the concept of involution becomes redundant.

In an online post published in a Chinese video game forum in 2010 which was titled “involuted: the shortcomings of the social structure of World of Warcraft (WOW) and their consequences”, the author analyzed what he believed to be wrong in his beloved video game community. In his analysis, he challenged the then claim “is this just a game?” and suggested that the political and economic implications of World of Warcraft must be taken seriously. Describing it as an aggregate of social relationships between players and exploring the premise of a world structured by involuted stagnation, the World of Warcraft community according to his analysis was indeed subject to a sweeping kind of transformative change just like an actual society. In the conclusion, he observes: 'How different can the transformations in the video game WOW be to the social problems that plague the people of our country? To understand our games is also to understand our reality'. In hindsight, to my colleagues/interlocutors and me, his analysis appears prescient. Yet for my interlocutors, their jobs do not afford them the privilege of simply ‘turning off’ and leaving the game, let alone a reflective space to question their workplace as a ‘game’ in isolation from the requirements real life. In the reality of being forced to deal with involution in the workplace, they come to see themselves as subjects becoming lesser versions of themselves, being twisted and folded by the swirl that seems to pull everyone inside. Thus this refashioned, vernacular use of neijuan becomes the way Chinese workers try to express their material feeling of entrapment without talking about what is the unmentionable cause of it, “zhidu” (“the system”).

Do we genuinely recognise them? An Intimate Mini-Ethnography of People with Dementia in London

By Wange Li

In the summer of 2022, I participated in a volunteering programme at the Museum of London Docklands. The programme is called 'Memories of London' and aims to help elderly Londoners with dementia recapture their youth through a series of activities in the museum. I reflected for the first time on discourses of ‘memory’, ‘recognition’, and ‘personhood’, gradually becoming aware that the correlation between these was in fact artificially constructed and cannot be taken for granted. It was also through close encounters with elderly people with dementia that I saw their vivid but little-known vitality as well as  their deep bonds with London and their loved ones.  

Museum artefacts and collections that we used during the events 

One day some months ago, I walked into one of the activity rooms at the Museum of London Docklands. The room was a bit noisy, with a crowd of people standing, sitting, or even lying on the floor. I could not tell what they were doing for a while, making me wonder if I had come to the right place. 

"Ah! There you are at last. Come on in, we'll be starting soon" Seiwa, the manager, greeted me enthusiastically and seemed compelled to show me the exciting things that were about to happen. 

As I took my seat, I saw David sitting beside his son (the carer) looking quite nervous. David had been talking to me so eloquently the last time we met, but this time in the middle of a group of his peers, he was somewhat tempted to join in the conversation of others but was seemingly too shy to step forward. Meanwhile his son was climbing into conversation with the carer of another elderly, making David look even more lonesome. Suddenly, he saw me sitting right across from him. His eyes lit up and he waved at me like a child. Although surprised that he recognised me at once (or maybe not but was just sending out a "help" signal), I immediately dropped the things at hand and made my way to him.  

I crouched down, shook hands with David and asked him how he was doing. I did not ask him if he remembered me, as Seiwa had repeatedly stressed back on the first day of the training not to ask such questions, which could be offensive to people with dementia. That was the first time I began to reflect on the question "Do you recognise me?", which many people, including me at the time, took for granted when referring to dementia: not only was it disrespectful to the individual, but it was problematic in a broader sense, as the question itself was imbued with social and ethical judgements which should not simply be relegated to personal manners or expressing sympathetic concerns. 

According to the CDC definition, dementia is a general term for impairment of memory, thinking or decision-making skills that affects the ability to perform everyday activities. One of the most important criteria for judging dementia is memory loss, which in turn relates to concepts such as 'personhood' and 'caring' in the discourse of medical anthropology (Zhu 2021: 176). When individuals no longer have a sense of who they are and are unable to maintain their social relations effectively due to memory loss, their sociality is seriously threatened and constitutes a kind of 'social death'- the body may continue to live, but the person is actually gone, no longer present and no longer a person. The philosopher Paul Ricoeur’s three semantic clusters in his book The Course of Recognition (2005) are of particular explanatory power here. According to his model, people with dementia usually go through three key stages to complete the transition from active to passive status. They begin as a sovereign self, capable of identifying external objects, gradually lose this ability and begin to suffer judgement from the outside world, and finally reach a point where they are passively recognised by others as an incomplete person. 

But what is the nature of this obligation to remember and recognise if we owe it to ourselves in order to qualify for complete personhood? Underlying this perception is the profound western presupposition that human beings, as subjects of personhood, should be autonomous and capable of recognising their own social relations; the idea is also deeply rooted in historical development. Since the Enlightenment, memory has been considered a manifestation of the mind and, as such, memory impairment has been seen as a great challenge to the integrity of the human person (Cohen 2008: 336). In an era where such assumptions are the dominant standard of ‘personhood’ in the West, it is clear that people with dementia cannot be reconciled with this institutionalised model of cultural and ethical values. Moreover, since the 20th century flourishing of cognitive and brain neuroscience, the medicalisation of memory has stimulated processes of deconstruction and reconstruction, that the implications of which has been that the deconstruction of human subjectivity has also completed the construction of illness (Zhu 2021: 177). Once a person is diagnosed with dementia, the label of this disease term overrides the subjectivity of the person themselves, and the bystander's view of the person is henceforth dominated by the label, deepening the understanding and inherent impression of the disease in one encounter after another. 

A society's understanding of illness has a direct impact on the form of care and attention applied to the patient. Euro-American values of individualism have long held personal autonomy as an important criterion for identifying the integrity of the person, and the rise of modern biomedical discourse has further de-socialised illness by placing its roots and treatment squarely in the human brain. However, this focus on individuality should not be the only way to define personhood; rather, its perception should be pluralistic and in various states of tension. It is through ethnographic field research that anthropologists have been able to critique dominant but narrowly defined individualistic values and point to alternative possibilities and interpretations for understanding people with dementia, namely that memory loss does not imply a loss of freedom and self. Instead, a new type of self-knowledge may develop when a person enters a state of 'relatedness' and dependence on others, rather than being reduced to being merely a passive, cared-for object.  

A random chat before the day starts 

After exchanging pleasantries for a while, Seiwa gestured for everyone to return to their seats. As the day began, I realised why she had just seemed so mysteriously excited and understood why so many older people were joining us today - we were going to have a wedding, and David would be the ‘groom’ for the day. I started to wonder who the 'bride' was going to be, and the answer soon emerged - it was the mother of the lady who had chatted with David's son earlier. No wonder David's son was 'ignoring' his father and talking to other people, and no wonder David seemed so nervous. It all made sense now. 

The wedding was on. Although it was not a real wedding, we basically had everything and everyone needed for a real one. One of David's friends was invited to play the priest, a few other programme participants played best man and bridesmaid, and the rest of us played guests. Suddenly, I heard one of them start humming a song that resembled a wedding march. As more and more people joined in, the song became louder and louder and even began to shake the hearts of people like me who were not very familiar with European wedding customs. I saw a few older men, who were a little frazzled at first, whose mouths began to unconsciously match the call of the song. The sound came from their throats, vicissitudes and gradual brightening, and their faces flushed as if they had sung it hundreds or thousands of times until the song had long since become part of their bodies. 

I saw the shy smiles on David's face, the “demented” old men who sang earnestly, and the many twilight souls still burning. I saw a living 'body of experience', as opposed to the 'body of diagnosis' I had seen in books and clinics. Modern biomedicine is so concerned with the latter that it ignores the patient's true self and needs; here, even without their words, I could see their needs being fully met; also here, the normative power relationship between carers and the elderly has been completely subverted. In the clinic and in everyday life, caregivers have always played the role of advocates, holding the channels of external communication for their patients, often giving the false impression that they are the true advocates for the latter. But how can this be the case? 

Here at the museum, we listen carefully to the voices and demands of the elderly and encourage them to actively express themselves in a variety of ways, while the carer becomes a supportive role and we are no longer guided by their opinions solely. If we free our perception of ' recognition’ from a single cognitive domain to experience the process of communication, participation and practice, we can appreciate the many other ways in which their capacity to be a person is made tangible. And it is through all of this that we see more possibilities in people with dementia.  

Preparing for the wedding  

The original intention of the “Memories of London” programme was to bring back the brain memories of the elderly with dementia through a series of activities and objects, but it was clear that the effect was rather modest, in the sense that most of the people did not have those entirely back. Nevertheless, does this mean that the programme has failed? I - and the vast majority of participants - think not. Perhaps it was just that the programme was initially designed with some reservations or over-optimism in mind, and we gradually discovered this over the course of the sessions – even if they don't remember, so what? And, had they really forgotten their past? 

An increasing number of scholars have begun to question conventional definitions of personhood since the 1990s, arguing that personhood should not be seen as a possession owned by individuals, but rather as an intersubjective state of mutual recognition, respect and communication. Thus, even if a person no longer possesses his or her former memories, so what? The correlation between loss of personhood and the loss of memory is not natural but always socially constructed, and only with such an understanding, a fundamental change in the assessment of people with dementia and the corresponding care system can be truly ushered in; at the same time, this wave has led to a broader reflection on other more subtle concepts such as 'recognition' at the level of cultural practices. 

Recognition can be understood not only as an internal emotional or intellectual state of the individual, but also as a social, very concrete and material form of practice and activity (Taylor 2008: 326). Being able to remember others is only one of these activities, as there are countless other forms of knowing how to interact with people: the elderly with dementia in our programme may not all be able to speak coherently, but they are capable of participating in and enjoying activities such as dancing, singing, roleplaying, etc., which all rely on their embodied procedural memory (Taylor 2008: 328). They may not be able to remember and recognise things cognitively, but their bodies respond vividly, testifying to their viability and the fact that they are far from having lost personhood and, consequently, the status of social death. Having said this, are we still unable to overcome the idea that cognition is the defining carrier of personhood? 

Regarding the loss of cognitive memory as the signal of one’s incompleteness and social death is thereby a huge ignorance of what it means to be a person. Memory in the brain is never the most important thing. Its presence or absence does not and should not fully define who we are; rather, every word we have said, every interaction we have had with others, every smile or cry we have had, these too are a large part of who we are. As memory can be expressed on and through the body, corporeality also matters. Even when our minds fail us, the great embodiment of habit remains deeply rooted and functional within (Katz 2013: 311). 

Looking back on the whole journey of the 3-month programme, we may not be able to bring back cognitive memories of the people with dementia, but they at least gained joy and respect and a full experience of the present moment, and we in turn gained a more intimate and comprehensive understanding of them. These are already quite enough; from now onwards, as Taylor suggests (2008: 315), perhaps a better and more worthwhile question to ask, rather than "do you recognise me" or "do they recognise us" could be: do we genuinely recognise them? 

---

References

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (2019). Alzheimer’s Disease and Healthy Aging - What Is Dementia? [online] www.cdc.gov. Available at: https://www.cdc.gov/aging/dementia/index.html#:~:text=Dementia%20is%20not%20a%20specific. 

Cohen, L. (2008). Politics of Care: Commentary on Janelle S. Taylor, ‘On Recognition, Caring, and Dementia’. Medical Anthropology Quarterly, 22(4), pp.336–339. doi:https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1548-1387.2008.00037.x. 

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Ricœur, P. (2005). The Course of Recognition. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. 

Taylor, J.S. (2008). On Recognition, Caring, and Dementia. Medical Anthropology Quarterly, 22(4), pp.313–335. doi:https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1548-1387.2008.00036.x. 

Zhu, J. (2021). Yixue renleixue shierlun [Twelve Essays on Medical Anthropology]. Shanghai: Shanghai Education Publishing House, pp.176–192. 

Migrant politics on a small Italian vineyard

Migrant politics on a small Italian vineyard
by Carli Jacobsen (she/her)

Note: all names have been changed in this article. 

“…in the 8 years Victor has worked here, he’s never once been offered a cup of coffee.” 

In this article, I discuss employer to employee relationships on a small vineyard in Umbria, central Italy. Throughout my intense, strenuous, and wine indulgent stay there (a fortnight to be precise; albeit short, but as long as one can manage when earning nothing), I worked closely with a few members of the small ‘team’ on the vineyard. My work consisted of picking grapes, running lab tests, cleaning, refilling, emptying barrels, as well as bottling, labelling and boxing the wines. My boss, Lawrence, inherited the land via the Marquis legacy in 2002. The 1200-hectare space consists of dense black truffle forests, vineyards, farmland, olive groves, holiday homes, and a beautiful castle atop the hill that overlooked the village, which we called the Castello. He knew of all gossip throughout the town, as if his castle acted as a panopticon over the residents. His wife Rachel and I privately referred to him as the “King of the castle”. 

My tasks were always done alongside two of the vineyard’s most loyal employees, Amanda and Victor. They were two of the three Romanian workers on Lawrence’s land: they had moved to the village roughly a decade ago, for reasons I didn’t ask at the time. Amanda had perfected her Italian while Victor and I communicated with hands and the occasional Romanian phrases. Victor was the oldest employee on the vineyard, aged nearly sixty, and lived with his Romanian wife down the road. He walked to work every morning, always so early to work that he completed bottling a few crates before I even arrived at 8am. Victor often worked longer hours than I did, and always refused to leave, even if our tasks were completed early: he always found something to do and very often underused his lunchbreak because of this. 

My last few days in the cellar were spent bottling with Victor and my English colleague and roommate Olive, who was hired by Lawrence as head winemaker while he focused on the farming estates. Olive and I quickly developed an intimate relationship: aside from working together eight hours a day, six days a week, we were almost forced into each others’ arms from the get-go, partly due to the doorless shower on the open balcony that only had a tiny translucent curtain that we used to block the view from the chapel across the square. Essentially, we became best friends over cigarettes and box of wine. 

The bottling machine

At one point, we ran out of boxes to pack because the shipping company needed special machinery to deliver up the hill and wouldn’t arrive until November. As there were few tasks for the three of us that day, we bottled together: a very slow process in which the bottling machine fills the bottles, inserts nitrogen to protect the vintage, which had been aged seven years, and corks it at approximately five bottles a minute. The speed of the machine meant it was a solo task, but the three of us took turns placing bottles on and taking them off the conveyer belt. A few hours into the job and Lawrence walks in, checking in on our progress. While Olive had her turn to sit aside as Victor and I stood at the machine, she asked Lawrence if she could run up to the castle to make herself a coffee, to which he responded that she had better stay down here and overlook the machine, but he’d ask his wife, Rachel, to make it. It was then I piped in and requested two more. Twenty minutes later, Rachel brings three espressos in green ceramic mugs on a metal tray, handing one each to Olive, Lawrence and I. 

“No, I didnt ask for a coffee.” Lawrence said to Rachel. 

“Oh, I thought you said 3.” I sometimes thought Rachel was scared of her husband. 

“It was me. It was for Victor too.” I said. 

Victor never turned away from the machine to look back, so when Rachel nodded, left the coffees on a stack of crates and left the cellar, Olive took one of the espressos, tapping Victor on the shoulder and offering the espresso to him with a smile, which he silently denied by shaking the empty bottles in hand. I noticed then afterwards that he also denied glasses of water from Olive and I throughout the evening, which he did for the next two days bottling with us.  

I raised the awkward exchange at dinner with Lawrence and Rachel that evening. No other employees were invited into the Castello, but Rachel invited me for lunch and dinner almost every day and I only accepted if there was enough food to bring Olive as well. While Lawrence expressed excitement in sending Olive and I and our sharp tongues away, Rachel gladly took us in because we reminded her of when her two daughters lived at home and the concrete walls echoed with young girls’ laughter. 

“I felt so awful when Victor said no to coffee earlier today. He must feel guilty relaxing on the job” Olive said. 

“Probaly because in the 8 years Victor has worked here, he has never been offered a cup of coffee” Lawrence responded. 

The conversation rolled on to inform me that Victor and his wife live in the village but do not own a car, so Rachel used to pick up Victor’s wife twice a week to take her to the nearest supermarket in Fabro, seven kilometeres away. During the pandemic, Rachel couldn’t take her in the car and expressed guilt for driving past her. In that time, Victor’s wife waited outside her home every morning in the hope that another villager would drive past and offer to take her to Fabro. I also learnt that a few years ago, Lawrence and Rachel offered Victor an old Moped that they never used, so he could commute to nearby villages, but his family forced him to sell the Moped for money, and so to this day his wife still waits on the curb for a lift. 

The view on the estate from the Castello

Victor’s denial to take breaks, to accept coffee or water, to arrive early to work are measures taken seemingly as an act of gratitude toward his employer. Lawrence attempting to help him in the past, not out of selflessness but out of convenience so Rachel didn’t have to pick up Victor’s wife, was something Victor felt needed to be repaid. Even years after the Moped was ‘gifted’, he still made extra efforts through extra unpaid manual labour to reciprocate the exchange. I speculate that his obedience to overwork is also carried forth on the desire to ‘make it up’ to Lawrence and Rachel. There is some form of “de-facto occupational hierarchy” (Bourgois 1988: 331) in action, as his labour is often more strenuous, and his wage is less, than the Italian, English or Danish employees on the vineyard. Phillipe Bourgois’ term “conjugated oppression” with ethnic groups on a banana plantation is reflected in the various forms of oppression and exploitation that employees across ethnicities experience on the vineyard. Language, ethnicity, and class differences emphasise hierarchy between employers and employees as well as within employees themselves. The ways that Victor, like the Guyami workers in Bourgois’ ethnography, internalise oppression are practiced in similar ways, including “humiliating” and “self-destructive” alcohol consumption; a “forum for public degradation” (1988: 342), to the point of Victor not showing up for work on a single account last spring, for Rachel to call his partner and find he had slept through his shift after heavenly drinking the night before.  

Lawrence also pays many of his employees in cash. Not only does this benefit his workers by enabling them to avoid taxes, but it also means that his few Italian employees can be registered for Reditto di Cittadinanza: the universal basic income given by the Italian state to unemployed citizens, and thus receive wage on top of the informal labour. This sits in a context of migrants in Italy learning to navigate bureaucracy efficiently, specifically laws concerning migrant labour, rather than being played by it. Anna Tuckett argues that there is certainly institutionalised irregularity that cannot be distinguished from migrant labour function (Tuckett 2015), and this is certainly visible here, as we see that the ways in which the system’s rules can be reinterpreted are dependent on the terrain in which they are navigated. In a rural town that is over an hour from Perugia, the nearest city, and is often inaccessible in the winters, there is little governmental regulation or enforcement, and such ‘illegal’ labour can be done publicly without fear of getting in trouble.  

Tuckett explains that the fact that there are a “myriad interpretations of the law by different actors means that individuals experienced it as fickle and shifting” (Tuckett 2015: 116). While cash payment may appear the better option for Victor and his family, it merely reinforces “the interface between agency and social forces” (Vigh 2006: 14). The “actors” that Tuckett mentions can also be the Italian employees that receive cash payments to still be ‘legible’ for Reditto di Cittadinanza. The “actors” can also be employers: many farm owners or rural employers are highly dependent on migrant labour, and thus have become well accustomed to interpreting the system in ways that are beneficial to them. For example, Lawrence also benefits from paying his employees in cash, because it means he can underpay them without his migrant employees being capable of speaking up or reporting such exploitation. Olive and I experienced this personally as well. Olive was paid twelve euros an hour, also in cash as she was not approved a visa (much higher than his long-term migrant employees), while I was not paid at all. And while Olive sublet the apartment in private bank transfers to Lawrence, I did not pay for living costs all. I lived for free on the land for free labour, despite the cost of living being far less than I would have been earning.   

Only a few days after I left, the authorities from the agricultural association in Orvieto (another town nearby) unexpectedly arrived at the vineyard. They walked through the town, checked the cellars, and drove through parts of the farmland, because they had gotten a tip from a waitress in Orvieto (who once used to work for Lawrence but was fired) that he had two foreign female employees that were working illegally on the land. The waitress had overheard Olive and I talking when we stopped for coffee at a café in the town. Lawrence simply invited the authorities in for coffee whilst Olive hid in the apartment until they left. It seems even the more privileged perceive the system as malleable and are able to influence it in ways that their migrant employees describe it as “fickle”. Additionally, Lawrence paying Olive a higher wage, and his extra effort to ‘employ’ me, such as driving 1.5 hours to the airport in Perugia to pick me up, and giving Olive and I coffee on shift, shows how even on a smaller scale, the “commitment to political and citizenship rights for long term residents is less tenacious” (Zincone 2006: 13), and how the advocacy for the rights of migrants is “paternalistic in nature and does not challenge the unequal inclusion which migrants encounter” (Tuckett 2015: 116). 

Olive pouring wine into the barrels where it ferments

It seems Lawrence acts as a broker between his migrant employees and the law, emerging as an actor in navigating bureaucratic structures for his own, and crucially others’, benefit. As an Italian citizen and a (mediocre at best) winemaker that inherited a Castello estate, his position means he can “relate community-oriented individuals who want to stabilise or increase their life chances but lack economic security and political connections with nation-oriented individuals” (Wolf 1956: 1075-6 as cited in Blok 1974: 8). Lawrence, like the mafiosi as described by Blok, bridges as well as exploits these paths (Blok 1974) with his employees, by creating dependencies between them through acts of ‘generosity’ that condition his labourers to work dangerously for very little.  

Three months after my return to London, I finally opened my journal and recalled my unexpected encounters with Victor. The journal that had originally begun as chemical equations and soil readings from the cellar laboratory very quickly transformed into a series of anthropological accounts. I observed migrant navigation through bureaucracy and power arrangements within the workplace that are deeply imbedded in class and ethnicity. On the vineyard, these manifested in intersectional ways. I often separate my passion for winemaking from my degree but now struggle to see them as individual aspects of my life. It seems that even wine can be complex and contested, with taste notes of misogyny, and with full-bodied politics through which hierarchies of taste and peoples are created.  

Bibliography 

Blok, A. (1974) “Argument,” in Part of The Mafia of a Sicilian village, 1860-1960: a study of violent peasant entrepreneurs. Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 5–16.  

Bourgois, P. (1988) “ Conjugated oppression: class and ethnicity among Guaymi and Kuna banana workers,” American Ethnologist, pp. 328–348.  

Foucher, V. (2009) “Henrik Vigh, navigating terrains of war. youth and soldiering in Guinea-Bissau, New York – Oxford, Berghahn Books, 2006, 258 pages, ISBN : 1-84545-149-X (« methodology and history in anthropology », 11),” Lusotopie, 16(2), pp. 275–278. Available at: https://doi.org/10.1163/17683084-01602024.  

Tuckett, A. (2015) “Strategies of navigation: Migrants' everyday encounters with Italian immigration bureaucracy,” The Cambridge Journal of Anthropology, 33(1). Available at: https://doi.org/10.3167/ca.2015.330109.  

Zincone, G. (2006) “The making of policies: Immigration and immigrants in Italy,” Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies, 32(3), pp. 347–375. Available at: https://doi.org/10.1080/13691830600554775.  

Dispossession through tourism, and resistance through sound: an ethnographic perspective

Dispossession through tourism, and resistance through sound: an ethnographic perspective

by Ishani Milward-Bose

The housing crisis in London today has catapulted questions of ownership over land into the foreground of public debate. For someone who lives in this city, it’s never been clearer that processes of property accumulation are occurring – right under our noses – as we see cycles of demolition and construction happening on our doorsteps, while poverty worsens and millions struggle to afford to pay for the fundamental right for secure and safe housing. Yet framing this issue in terms of rights is myopic: access to land is a hotly debated topic that Marx and Engels had a lot to say about. Arguably, privatisation of land is one of the most fundamental processes that underlies our economic system today: it has shaped the economic relations essential to capitalism by allowing the material world (and thus labour) to be commodified and exchanged.  

David Harvey (2004) in his book ‘The New Imperialism’ coined the term ‘accumulation by dispossession’ – a contemporary form of the primitive accumulation Marx argued was the process by which capitalist relations of production were able to emerge. Harvey criticises the idea of ‘original’ accumulation, arguing instead that this process is ongoing and diverse. Today, capitalism’s inability to continually expand has led instead to the development of new mechanisms of dispossession, for example through intellectual property rights, biopiracy, commodification of cultural forms, privatisation of public assets, and environmental degradation among others.  

These processes seem to be global, but I want to focus on one example where particularly interesting forms of dispossession are occurring. There has been a booming (domestic) tourism industry emerging Shantiniketan, a small town in West-Bengal, India. I spent most of my childhood in the vicinity of the town and continue to visit, so have the opportunity to observe this process with insider knowledge of interactions across class and caste lines, and of the local bureaucracy. It is clear that the material benefits of tourism here are distributed hugely unequally, with upper-caste urban elites profiting from the vast industry borne in the construction of villas, ‘guest-houses’, hotels and second homes. The land transacted to enable this often bypasses regulations and protections, illegally appropriated from protected indigenous lands. Although constitutionally illicit, the local government is often complicit in these transactions, as businessmen, bureaucrats and land brokers tied up in these processes. For example, in my last visit to the town I discovered that a plot of land just outside town that used to be forested, and was used by local communities to forage, graze and gather firewood, had now been bulldozed and was in the early stages of being built up into second homes for West-Bengal's growing urban elites. Shockingly, this land was widely known to be ‘khash jomi’ - government protected communal land, so the transaction of this public land into private hands must have had some dodgy deals involved.  

Children going to forage for berries in a plot of protected land near Shantiniketan

Although my evidence for these processes of dispossession in Shantiniketan is experiential and anecdotal, these processes have been documented in South Asia at large by a range of authors. Akram-Lodhi (2007) suggests the rate of land dispossession in India is so high that this period could be coined the neoliberal era of enclosure, which is part of what has been called a ‘global land grab’ (Scoones, Hall, Borras, White & Wolford 2011). Gardner and Gerharz refer to the chronic involvement of state officials in land deals across South Asia as ‘crony capitalism’ (2016: 2). Moreover, it has been documented that those losing out the most from industrialisation and land enclosure are marginalised indigenous communities – referred to in India as ‘Adivasi’ - in various ways (Shah 2010). Adivasi Santal communities in and around Shantiniketan similarly seem to be facing the brunt of these processes. 

Adivasi relationships with the state and bureaucracies across India have been characterized by dispossession. An increasing need for interactions with the state has led to Adivasis seeking formal recognition, which necessitates processes of becoming legible to the Indian state. Often, the documents needed to officiate Adivasis identity and access the protections that come with this just don’t exist. In India this process has worsened with the introduction of the CAA (Citizenship Amendment Act) and NRC (National Register of Citizens) in 2019, with one of the effects being that families who have lived for generations on protected land have been forced to leave in a wave of displacement, unable to provide any legal documents proving their rights to access. In other places, evicting Adivasis from their land is not as legally straightforward. This is where the daily interactions of ‘crony capitalism’ take place.  

Santals have been systematically marginalised through such processes of dispossession but also through other tools including (but not restricted to) language, culture, and outright discrimination. The effects of these are material, with analyses of data accessed from India’s national statistics showing deprivation across multiple spheres. For Adivasi populations, the national literacy rate lies at merely 59% compared to the national average of 73% (Census of India, 2011). In West-Bengal, this figure is even more starkly unequal. Another figure useful for highlighting economic deprivation is that the proportion of agricultural labourers among Adivasis is double that of the national average (24% compared to 12%). Contracted agricultural labour is notoriously informal and casual, with extremely low pay and few benefits. 

It is in this context of Adivasi precarity and of capitalist dispossession that I examine the booming (domestic) tourism industry Shantiniketan. Tourism in Shantiniketan has been hugely successful partly because Santals play an important role in the national imaginary. In West-Bengal, indigenous communities represent a nostalgic vision of rural Bengal’s past, with narratives of dependency on land and rich cultural expertise in music and dance widespread. The West-Bengal state capitalises off this imaginary, developing a rural tourism littered with images perpetuating these visions. During my last visit to Shantiniketan, it was evident that the boom in tourism has been directed towards cultivating this image. I captured some manifestations of this project in the following images: 

The visual elements of these are striking. The bottom two pictures depict Santal women dancing and cooking on a traditional wood-burning stove; the top two, the ‘guest houses’ they were displayed on. I spoke to the owners of both small-scale ‘hotels’: neither were of indigenous descent (both came from urban areas outside of Shantiniketan), and no Santals were consulted or benefitted in the making and painting of the murals on their walls. 

Santals here are simultaneously visible and invisible. The aspects of their identity deemed ‘traditional’ are visible everywhere – on walls, souvenirs, ads, clothing – yet they are invisible when they provide the land and precarious, back-breaking labour needed to prop up the tourism industry. Often, land is sold out of desperation; after years of neoliberalisation of the agricultural industry, small-scale petty farming is no longer profitable for local farmers. This tourism industry disguises accumulation by dispossession in its shadows by painting its face in Adivasi words, patterns and crafts. Certain aspects of Santals are frequently commodified, with womens’ unique clothing, picturesque mud villages, apparent harmony with nature, and depictions of song and dance being frequent themes. This plays into the ancient narrative of what Alpa Shah describes as the ‘Edenic bliss associated with tribal populations who were considered both as savages and as protectors of nature, living in harmony and even worshiping it’ (2010: 107). Tourism in West-Bengal has commodified this image and manifested it in exchangeable goods sold in many souvenir shops across Shantiniketan: 

‘Tribal’ patterns reproduced on bags and masks sold in souvenir shops in Shantiniketan

It seems clear from these brief images that the ‘image’ of Santals has been appropriated, with Santal individuals having little instrumentality in the decision-making processes leading the project of rural tourism. Tourism here thus has been used as a tool for material and cultural dispossession of the Santal Adivasi communities. 

Despite this context of exclusion, it’s important to acknowledge spheres of life in which marginalised individuals make decisions, create spaces for themselves and thus resist. It’s easy to pigeonhole a group of people as oppressed and without agency, a common feature especially since the decades of ‘dark anthropology’ (Ortner, 2016). In recent years, anthropology has taken a turn to the personal, utilizing first-person narratives to show agency in a field often concerned with revealing structures of hierarchy and domination (ibid). Cheryl Mattingly, in her study of African Americans struggling for a ‘good life’ under structures of oppression, gives attention to the particularities of experience over ‘public personhood’ (Mattingly 2014: 18), attempting to transform the debates on freedom. In my reflections on Shantiniketan, I utilize her approach to highlight Santal expressions of agency through the medium of sound. Giving attention to the senses as a sphere of expression helps us see ways in which people ‘dub’ (Boellstorff 2003) imported knowledge to create knowledge of their own. More widely, I explore how the sonic world can be utilized by bringing attention to what is heard or unheard, through Brendon LaBelle’s ideas about sonic agency (2018).  

So although a visual aspect is commodified (and maybe precisely because of this), many Santal individuals express agency through different sonic means. A commodified image has resulted in people turning to sound and music-making for the self-expression of their identity, as opposed to the West-Bengal state’s image of them. Through my experience growing up in Shantiniketan and participating in the youth culture of various Santal communities, I have seen ways in which Santals use sound to express their visions of modernity. Dr. Boro Baski, social worker and activist, writes songs in Santali fusing traditional sounds with modern instruments such as synthesizers. A translation of his song ‘Dungri Latar Khadanre’ is as follows: 

At the foothills, in a stone-quarry  

Muni, I feel pity to see you carrying stone chips. 

For the greed of money, 

In exuberance of youthfulness 

You are neglecting your supple body. 

What could I say brother, 

It's a disgrace to even talk about it. 

I carry stones after shunning my self-respect. 

My father is a drunkard, 

My mother is debilitated 

I do carry stones to satiate my hunger. 

(Baski: 2021 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQgP68HTIzk) 

The lyrics to this song clearly depict issues Dr. Baski feels are relevant to Santal modernity, and sound has provided a successful medium of agency in expression. In his informal introduction to this song, Dr.Baski writes that the song refers to a girl ‘Muni’ he met at a mining quarry that supplies West-Bengal with stone chips for the rapidly growing construction industries across the state. He writes ‘Muni is one of the many Santal girls who are trapped in a system which is controlled by local mafia and political leaders’ (Baski 2021). The video for this song is comprised of a medley of footage from the quarry and daily village life and pose striking contrast to the idyllic image of Santal life presented through tourism:

As Brandon LaBelle suggests in his 2018 book ‘Sonic Agency: Sound and Emergent Forms of Resistance’, ‘the ways in which speech and action are orchestrated as volumes and rhythmed as durations, along with intensities of silence and noise, these form a critical base by which to approach questions of political struggle’ (2018: 2). In this context, sound is used to exceed spheres of visibility by acknowledging the unseen – the Santals. Steven Feld refers to the linguistics of voice (2006), suggesting that a voice points towards meaning (in its separation of the signifier and signified); it is ascribed with inner intentionality and thus is a tool for agency. Seeing sound as a means of agency in a context where the visible realm is appropriated and manipulated is key in this context of seeing people holistically; as structuring their daily lives creatively and through resistance. Young Santals more specifically use sound as a medium for agency through ‘biswarjan’ parties, where gigantic speakers are hired during religious festivals, and youth from the local communities dance to Santali base-heavy music. These moments of freedom in the everyday; the ‘banal’, exemplify the moral decision-making visible in daily reality. 

Tourism, then, has its problems. In Shantiniketan it has come with appropriation, displacement and the centralisation of profit – all parts of the modern tools of capitalist dispossession as described by David Harvey. Despite this, we must continue to acknowledge that those who are typically hurt by processes of industrial tourism and capitalist expansion find ways to express and create their own realities through varied means. As highlighted, many members of the Santal community in West-Bengal seem to be coping with late-stage capitalism’s flux of identities, and with its more material consequences, through engaging with the sonic realm. This focus is especially important in engaging with debates on freedom and agency. Just as the processes of dispossession are frequently slow, mundane and unexceptional, my interlocutors highlight that they were not just using sound to affect their lives in moments of rupture, but in their daily lives through voice, song and the outdoor ‘parties’ young people throw during festive times. Resistance here and elsewhere thus often happens in the most banal ways. 

---

Bibliography 

Akram-Lodhi & Haroon 2007 ‘Land, Markets and Neoliberal Enclosure: An Agrarian Political Economy Perspective’, Third World Quarterly, 28(8), pp. 1437–56. 

Baski, B, 2021. Dungri Latar Khadanre. Ghosaldanga and Bisnubati Adivasi Trust, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQgP68HTIzk 

Boellstorff 2003, Dubbing Culture: Indonesian ‘gay’ and ‘lesbi’ subjectivites and ethnography in an already globalized world, American Ethnologist,30(2), pp 225-242, Wiley press 

Borras, Saturnino, Hall, Scoones, White, Wolford 2011. ‘Towards a Better Understanding of Global Land Grabbing: An Editorial Introduction’, Journal of Peasant Studies, 38(2), pp. 209–16 

Gardner & Gerharz, 2016. Land, ‘Development’, and ‘Security’ in Bangladesh and India: An Introduction. South Asia Multidisciplinary Academic Journal, 15. 

Labelle, B., 2018. Sonic Agency : Sound and Emergent Forms of Resistance. Goldsmiths Press. 

Mattingly, C., 2014. Moral laboratories: Family Peril and the Struggle for a Good Life. University of California Press. 

Ortner 2016, Dark anthropology and its others: theory since the eighties. Hau: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 6 (1): 47-73 

Shah, A., 2010. In the shadows of the state. Durham, NC. Duke University Press. 

Indigenous creolisation in the Sierra Nevada, Colombia

Indigenous creolisation in the Sierra Nevada, Colombia

By Juliette Gautron

This article stems from a couple of months I spent conducting fieldwork in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta (Colombia) from July to September 2019, thanks to LSE’s Summer Ethnography funding and The Explorer’s Club grant.

Map credits to SIGAC

Umguma (male)

Ushui (female)

Uraca (house) wall with both genders

References

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Chaves, M., & Zambrano, M. (2006). “From blanqueamiento to reindigenización: Par- adoxes of mestizaje and multiculturalism in contemporary Colombia”. Revista Europea De Estudios Latinoamericanos Y Del Caribe, 80, 5-23.

Diaz, V. M. (2006). “Creolization and indigeneity”. American Ethnologist 33: 576-778.

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Hall, S. (2003). “Créolité and the Process of Creolization”. Créolité and Creolization. Okwui Enwezor et al., editors, pp. 27-42. Kassel: Hatje Cantz Publisher.

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Ulloa, A. (2004). La construccióńn del nativo ecológico. Complejidades, paradojas y dilemas de la relación entre los movimientos indígenas y el ambientalismo en Colombia. Bogotá: Instituto Colombiano de Antropología e Historia Colciencias.

Gender and kinship relations of Indonesian domestic workers

Gender and kinship relations of Indonesian domestic workers

By Karen Lee

Over the summer, I conducted fieldwork in a village in rural East Java, Indonesia, as part of the Summer Ethnography Project. My initial aim was to study the gender and kinship relations of domestic workers who have returned home. Irene, my previous domestic worker, stayed with my family for over 10 years, and has returned to this village not too long ago. We shall refer to it as Desa; I mainly interacted with around 30 people, of its approximately 200 residents; my same-street neighbours. Irene’s family welcomed me into their household.

Desa follows no specific marriage patterns: both patrilocal and matrilocal arrangements are in use. If the wife’s family has available land or can accommodate the couple into the family house, the couple may live matrilocally. Conversely, if the husband’s family is relatively more well- off, the couple may decide to live patrilocally. Most of the elders are rice farmers, the regional specialty crop. Many younger women spend several years of their life abroad, as domestic workers, before returning and retiring into domestic life. Some men work abroad as construction workers, while others take jobs locally such as security guards in factories and motorcycle taxi drivers. Those who have gone to university have the option to open their own shop or work in a bank, but salary is minimal. As Irene has often mentioned to me, the money they earn in East Java is enough to sustain their daily living, and if nothing else they will always have rice to eat, but ambitions such as having a grand wedding ceremony, building a new house, or buying a new vehicle would require the wife to work abroad. If she goes to Hong Kong, she can save up enough to build a house in 2 years (monthly salary for domestic workers in Hong Kong now is around 500GBP). On the other hand, even if men do work abroad, they earn far less than their women counterparts, have to pay in advance and have to be checked more rigorously to get a visa. Therefore, many women work abroad while men remain at home. As Hoang et al. (2012: 737) mentioned in their findings, the nucleation of family has made parental figures the predominant child-carers. During my stay in Indonesia, I have often observed fathers taking care of their children without relying too much on their extended family in the absence of the mother.

My research question stems from the assumption that East Java, with its strong Islamic presence, is bound to speak out against women’s rising economic status. Not to mention that the Indonesian state emphasizes the ideal of men as ‘breadwinners’ and women as ‘homemakers’ (Silvey, 2006). As Elmhirst (2007: 231) succinctly summarized, women are valued as “being able to stay at home, avoid work in the fields and keep their skins pale, whilst men enter the world of work, embrace expansive spatial horizons”. How are these domestic workers going to reintegrate back into their community after spending a long time away from their families? Constable’s (1999: 224) analysis may still ring true after nearly two decades: “migration has provided (domestic workers) with new experiences, desires, options, and visions but with no ready formulas for successfully transplanting them”.

After a month in East Java, I may have found some preliminary answers. Firstly, my original use of the word ‘reintegration’ is problematic, as migration is not a one-off event to these Indonesian women; they may leave home as early as they finish high school, and work to support their maternal family. Once they have found a marriage prospect they may return to marry. By the end of the couple’s marriage ceremony they may have already spent all their money. Only the skeleton of their new house has been built; the walls have not been painted, the tiles not laid out. The wife may stay at home to try and conceive, but by the time the baby comes, new expenses are due. They have to start saving for their child’s education, not to mention they have to buy him or her a motorcycle so that the child can travel through rugged roads. The wife would then go abroad again to earn more money. Other arrangements aside, migration is often continuous. Women go abroad, they save, they spend, and they go abroad again. “Reintegration” is therefore a problematic concept. Their time at home is more a vacation from work. After working consecutively to look after someone else’s family for 6 days, or even 7 days straight a week, they return home to take care of their own families; and if their family is grateful, they will be taken care of.

In effect, these domestic workers’ family may not always be grateful for their sacrifices. For Irene, workers resemble “farm animals” at the mercy of their masters. For instance, Adiratna’s husband, who lives across the street, cheated on her while she was away in Hong Kong. His justification being that he was using his own money, not the funds his wife remitted to him. Considering that his income was derivant from the motorcycle his wife bought, his defence did not resonate well with me. Another girl, Citra, lived abroad for years, saving enough for a house, a motorcycle, and a marriage; she even gave birth to two boys. Yet her mother wished and managed to push her back to work, forcing a divorce between Citra and her husband. Such strained Citra’s mental health, according to Irene.

This may seem as a tragic description of the life of the domestic workers. However, we should also account Javanese relative individualism: Irene’s sister-in-law, Eka, decided to stay in Indonesia even though her family would have welcomed extra income. She was afraid of being alone. Such behavior is also evident in their child rearing practice: Dewi, a neighbour of ours, did not attempt to persuade her son when he decided at the last minute that he would not go onstage to perform during Scout’s Day, ruining his classmates’ chance to perform too. Moreover there are also multiple stories of them wasting their income away, when they are abroad, or disobeying the Quran through same-sex relationships. As Dolan (2002) has emphasized, people’s lived expectations may not necessarily coincide with their lived experiences. In truth, I would like to suggest that Javanese are a much freer people than I have originally presumed. Whether or not they follow the Islamic tenants is entirely up to them.

Irene’s sister-in-law, Eka, decided to stay in Indonesia even though her family would have welcomed extra income. She was afraid of being alone. This Javanese relative individualism is also evident in their child rearing practice: Dewi, a neighbour of ours, did not attempt to persuade her son when he decided at the last minute that he would not go onstage to perform during Scout’s Day, ruining his classmates’ chance to perform too.

My hypothesis is that there is no effective sanctioning mechanism even if people do not conform to expectations of good human beings. Since Desa is located 5 hours away from Surybaya, the administrative capital, state presence is minimal. The most people can do is gossip. Routine television shows broadcast the horrors that would be bestowed upon them should they act inappropriately; how their corpse will smell, ooze terrible fluids, and not be able to be laid down to rest in the grave. Religion acts as one of the more effective sanctioning mechanisms. Since children go to the mosque at a very young age and attend religious gatherings regularly, the Islamic idea has been instilled in all villagers’ mind. Even if they sway a little, religion can appeal to their good graces again. Through religious chanting, Adiratna’s husband ceased his adultery. Therefore, I may have been mistaken in assuming religion as a starting point of my research. It is more of a solution than the premise of the situation.

I am aware that my analysis is preliminary. After all, I have only spent a month in the field and I am confident there is much more to unveil. Since I could not speak fluent Indonesian, my main interlocutors were the domestic workers who have worked abroad and thus could speak English, Cantonese, or Mandarin. An analysis from the men’s perspective would have been beneficial.

I have thus proposed that domestic workers do not “reintegrate” back into their home community. The Javanese that I observed seemed to be free-spirited, as Desa lacks an effective sanctioning mechanism against deviance. Religion is one of the more effective mechanisms and encourages people to act properly according to Javanese imagination, but not an absolute guiding principle of the people. After all, as Hoang and Yeoh (2011: 114) have said “in the era of migration and family survival, ‘doing family’ may thus become more important than ‘doing gender’”. Conducting fieldwork presents an excellent opportunity for me to take note of the subtleties of a seemingly homogenous culture.

References

Constable, N. (1999). “At home but not at home: Filipina narratives of ambivalent returns”, Cultural Anthropology, 14 (2): 203-228.
Dolan, C. (2002). “Collapsing Masculinities and Weak States - A Case Study of Northern Uganda”, Masculinities matter!: Men, Gender, and Development, Cleaver F. eds. New York: Zed Books.

Elmhirst, R. (2007). “Tigers and gangsters: masculinities and feminised migration in Indonesia”, Population, Space and Time, 13 (3): 225-238.
Hoang, L. & Yeoh, B. (2011). “Breadwinning wives and ‘left-behind’ husbands: men and masculinities in the Vietnamese transnational family”, Gender and Society, 25 (6): 717- 739.

Hoang, L., Yeoh, B., & Wattie, A. (2012). “Transnational labour migration and the politics of care in the Southeast Asian family”, Geoforum, 43 (4): 733-740.
Silvey, R. (2006). “Consuming the transnational family: Indonesian migrant domestic workers to Saudi Arabia”, Global Networks, 6(1): 23-40.

Longboarding in China: Injury symbolism

Longboarding in China: Injury symbolism

By Juliette Gautron

In the longboard community, injuries are common, and a recurring topic of conversation amongst friends, often used as a symbol or as a lesson for others. This article is based on fieldwork I did with Shanghainese longboard crews in 2018 and 2019. I use data collected from my training sessions both in longboard dancing and freestyle, and downhill longboarding, with three different groups. L.B.S. (Longboard Space 长板空间) crew from the Yangpu district (longboard dancing & freestyle, and downhill), FDU RUSH group from Fudan University (longboard dancing & freestyle), and the Atomic Krew (生话 or AK) (downhill). In this article, I explore the meaning of injuries in the longboarding communities of Shanghai and the set of behaviours and symbols attached to them.

To begin, I wish to make a side-note about my position during this fieldwork. In regards to longboarding and injuries, I find it particularly hard to detach myself from this topic and remain objective, as I am deeply involved in the events and conversations I describe and analyse below. By reflecting upon the topic of injuries and physical well-being in longboarding, I realise how deeply biased I am, as I have strong feelings and beliefs about pain and injuries, and I realise that I am at risk of using my own assumptions as “objective truth”.

I first wish to address common misconceptions longboarders are often faced with. From an external perspective, injuries are often considered as the symbol of the irresponsibility and madness of the riders. For some people, those injuries are sometimes ‘deserved’, because longboarding is seen as a dangerous sport without rules. Yet, most longboarding groups, especially in downhill longboarding, have an important set of rules and codes of conduct which must be followed to ensure the safety of all riders. I was told by a friend that they no longer went on trips with a particular rider, as he broke the code of conduct by refusing to wear a helmet or protective gear, by lending inadequate types of boards to beginners, and by bringing beginners on roads which were too steep for them to handle safely.

The Atomic Krew is a good example of how safety protocols can be put in place during every session, sharply contrasting with the idea that many people have of downhill longboarding. Before each trip, one person was in charge of making sure that every participant had an insurance covering extreme sports like downhill longboarding, and collected emergency phone numbers from each member. One could not participate if one did not own or borrow safety gear, the minimum being a helmet (full-face helmet for experienced riders), knee pads, elbow pads, and downhill leather gloves. Two emergency kits were also stored in the van in case of an emergency. At the beginning of each riding day, Tom was in charge of “the safety talk” which re-states the code of conduct: always carry a fully-charged phone with you even when riding, never ride on the left side of the road, slow down before turns, only pass someone when you have good visibility in front of you, clap in your hands if you see a car in front or behind you in order to warn the next rider, check for cars behind you frequently, always give way to cars behind you even if it means having to stop, only ride at a speed that you can handle, be cautious at all times, keep 7 meters of safety distance between riders, etc. There were also a set of gestures to learn in order to communicate without speaking with the riders behind you (eg. slow down, be careful, go ahead). This “safety talk” had a ritual importance and was taken extremely seriously by everyone. Tom, in charge of delivering the safety talk, would ask for everyone to focus and would not start speaking until everyone was silent and giving him their full attention, including experienced members who had heard this talk a hundred times. Even if all members of the group were fluent in both English and Chinese, he would deliver the safety talk in both languages, if not also in French for some French native speakers. The end of the safety talk signified the right to start riding. The above examples illustrate the responsibility that each individual carried in downhill longboarding and how safety and security was emphasised at every training session in order to minimise injuries.

Although safety and security rules are put in place, injuries are frequent in longboarding. Yet, two categories are important to keep in mind, classifying injuries in order to better understand the set of behaviours and symbols associated with getting hurt: Traumatic injuries require immediate attention and sometimes hospitalisation. These are not only a physical trauma for the body, but tend to result in a psychological trauma as well. Physical damage, on the other hand, does not require immediate hospitalisation. In longboard dancing and freestyle, traumatic injuries are quite rare although still present (eg. dislocated elbows, teared ligaments, broken meniscus), and physical damage is the most common types of injury (ranging from a twisted ankle to bleeding wounds and big bruises). On the other hand, in downhill longboarding, which most of this article focuses on, both categories of injuries are present. Traumatic injuries can range from broken bones to very serious open wounds, and physical damage ranges from twisted ankles to burnt skin, bleeding wounds and big bruises.

When traumatic injuries occur, they are taken extremely seriously and acted upon with great urgency. The injured person is brought to the nearest local hospital to be treated, and anxiety is present until that person is under medical care. Traumatic injuries are very rarely joked about, or even spoken about. They are only mentioned to serve as a reminder for everyone to be cautious. The stories of these injuries are used as a deterrent for beginners, or as a way to teach a lesson. For example, the story of Lee was the first injury story Tom told me when I joined AK:

It was nearly sunset, and the road was dark. He was the first rider and I was following him. We arrived at a turn where there was a mirror, and I could clearly see the lights of the car coming in front of us. I slowed down and nearly stopped, that was the reasonable thing to do. But Lee kept going and crashed into the car. He broke his foot and leg in pieces, it was really ugly to see. We brought him to the local hospital because it couldn’t wait to drive back to Shanghai. Later, I asked him what happened. And he said that he had seen the car perfectly, but thought that he could dodge it and keep going. He was the best in the crew, and that day he was a bit too confident.

Interestingly, the moment chosen to tell me this story was after a very good run, where my speed was very high and I had shared that I was feeling fairly confident. The story was used to remind me that an excess of confidence is often the prime cause for accidents in downhill longboarding. Later, as we discussed the riding abilities of a new crew member who lacked skills to control his board and did not listen to our advice, Tom told me another story illustrating the potentially dangerous behaviour.

There was a new guy who came with us, Jake, but he would not be able to control his slides. He always ended up crashing on the sides of the road. He was wearing a GoPro, and I told him to look at the video, to understand that he was unable to control his trajectories. But he didn’t listen, and at one point he did a slide and ended up crashing into a huge rock. He was going so fast that his arms didn’t stop him: he broke his arms and his face crashed into the rock. He wasn’t wearing a full-face helmet, so his face was severely damaged. His lips were completely cut in half, his nose was broken and there was a lot of blood. I seriously thought he was going to die. He never questioned his skills and didn’t listen to us.

Once again, this story of a serious injury was used as a way to teach a lesson about a particular behaviour, which often was in contradiction with the code of conduct. The story of a girl, Maya, was another striking example.

You see, this turn, here, at the bottom of “Cow Shit” track? Well this girl Maya was a pretty good buttboarder [going down by sitting on the board], and she was going really fast. A bit too fast for her first time, if you want my opinion. Anyway, at this turn, she lost control and crashed into the safety railing. She wasn’t wearing shin pads and broke both of her shins. That was 6 months ago, and she’s still recovering.

The telling of Maya’s story took place just after a heated conversation with buttboarders who did not bring shin pads, although they were mandatory items for buttboarding in the code of conduct. These stories are not only a way to teach a lesson, but also a way of proving that by listening to more experienced riders, and following the code of conduct, most injuries can be avoided.

I never had a bad accident. Call me lucky, but I’m always pretty careful. I know my own limits.

Traumatic injuries were taken very seriously, but when the scars that remained were more psychological than physical, opinions became divided and a more critical atmosphere emerged within the crew. In the case of Lee, his behaviour changed after his accident. When he started longboarding again, although he was still one of the best riders of the crew, he was no longer the first rider (most dangerous position) and no longer rode if it was raining, or if the ground was wet. Through a few conversations with Anthony, Tom and Ben, I could discern a sense of disappointment that Lee had given up his position of leader. Later, Lee refused to come on an exploration trip (type of trip that was craved for, which required strong longboard skills) due to the chance of rain; the crew was left with too few people to make an exploration trip possible, leaving no other choice but to cancel, and plan a trip where beginners were allowed. In this situation, four out of five crew members manifested their disappointment by letting out a small comment about Lee’s unwillingness to ride in the rain. Here, the psychological sequels of an injury marked a turn in the rider’s behaviour. Although his accident was not joked about, his change in behaviour was noticed and frowned upon, especially when it interfered with other riders’ plans.

Physical damage is often ignored during a session and taken care of in one’s own time. Indeed, one would rather ride and enjoy the session rather than worry about a small injury which does not fully incapacitate one’s body. It is seen as superfluous for a rider or for the crew to worry about small injuries when much worse could happen; one’s attention should rather be directed towards more important thoughts such as concentrating on the next runs. Physical damage, as opposed to traumatic injuries, does not serve the purpose of teaching a lesson, does not bear the same gravity and importance, and is rather perceived as “collateral damage”, as well as a logical consequence of dedication to longboarding. When teaching a new beginner, we often explained that injuries were inevitable. However, the degree to which one is injured is within the rider’s control. Small road rashes, other superficial wounds and bruises are inescapable when learning new skills in downhill longboarding, and one should not be scared of this physical damage. Small but visible injuries, such as small road rashes are often seen as a symbol of the sport. When not too severe, these almost have a positive connotation. Instead of being the symbol of a wrong behaviour, physical damage symbolises trying hard and learning: “Bleeding is learning”.

In longboard dancing, although most longboarders wear long-legged trousers to protect their skin, they have a collection of scars on their lower legs, which are the symbol of their hard work. They are visible marks which are a proof of hours of training. During a session with FDU RUSH, I noticed a beginner girl who was very determined and very passionate about the sport. She had failed a few tricks and her board had tackled her ankles a few times. Bruises were appearing on both her ankles along with a tiny open wound on her right ankle. As we spoke about injuries, she told me “I finally got my first skate wound. I’m actually quite proud of it”. In her words I recognised my own feeling when I received my first “skate wound” the same way she did, which was a deep cut on my ankle due to the carbon fibre of my board, that hours of training had sharpened like a knife. I also recognised in her words a certain pride that riders experience when they are asked about their scars. By dealing with pain with pride, longboarders use physical damage as a symbol of their sport, as a way to differentiate themselves from beginners and to show commitment and belonging to the community.

By categorising injuries into two groups (traumatic injuries and physical damage), two different sets of behaviours and symbols emerge. On the one hand, traumatic injuries are taken very seriously, rarely spoken about and are used as stories to influence and correct at-risk behaviours. On the other hand, physical damage has a positive connotation which highlight one’s hard-work and dedication. Dealing with the pain of a small injury is also a way through which one can prove one’s commitment to longboarding and shows belonging to the group. As opposed to the general public’s point of view that longboarders’ visible injuries are the symbol of their lack of rules, at-risk and irresponsible behaviours, I argue that these types of physical damage are worn with pride and showcase the longboarder’s consistent training within a strict framework of rules and codes of conduct, whether spoken or unspoken.

Exploring Berlin record shops and unearthing musical value

Exploring Berlin record shops and unearthing musical value

By Mia Mancini

So it begins … 

While the Berlin Wall was still dividing the city, ethnomusicologists found a hole in the Wall through which they could transport phonograph records from East to West. Once the Wall fell, youths took over many abandoned buildings along its remnants, as well as former war power plants and radio stations. At present, a former American espionage centre in the Grunewald is converted to an outdoor recreational space for enjoying music and learning about the history of the place. These examples nicely situate the context in which music developed as a medium for social unification and liberation. The desire to give birth to ethnomusicology in Berlin was coupled with a broader social impetus for bridging cultures and tearing down prejudices. Amidst the current increasing digitalization and gentrification, what remains of this musical heritage? How does Berlin music culture live on and how is musical value produced? To investigate the actuality of this historic connection between music and Berlin, I started visiting a range of record shops. 

Vinyl records are an older, analogue form of music storage which require a physical medium to be heard. Despite increasing digitalization and gentrification, a subgroup of society continues to use and exchange them. You might think of a record as no more than a means through which you can acquire music. While it is true that for some, going to a record store results in a purchase, this transactional moment does not say anything about why people value vinyls and what this can teach us about their culture. Musical value has the potential to last beyond the actual listening experience, that is beyond the consumption process. It is this ephemeral quality of music which confirms the insufficiency of a self-contained, transactional analysis. 

While indeed record shops sell each musical piece for monetary value, I found economic feasibility to be secondary. Vinyl culture in Berlin lives on, because vinyl users have an intention of preserving the particular musical value they derive from this mode of listening. In fact, most of the Berlin record stores I visited did not look economically profitable. On the contrary, they were relatively small spaces, rarely busy, cash only, located in old houses or buildings cluttered with graffiti; some were even facing threats of eviction due to gentrification. Additionally, the majority of people’s interactions in record shops were made up of things-other-than shopping. From these observations emerged an apparent contradiction: how can cheap digital music be at the behest of commercialization by giants like Spotify while relatively costly music records are enjoyed in non-commercial ways and settings? I found that record listeners do not merely choose to listen to vinyl to purchase and own them outright. They seek a wider experience and it is this active quest which protects the non-commercial nature of vinyl culture, and music culture more broadly. But how did I figure this out? Let’s back-track. 

Shop by shop

As I entered the record store Audio-in, one of the staff members walked closer towards the till to greet me. I noticed he was barefoot, tapping one of his feet on every beat. He jostled around while I was browsing through records, until he found a mechanical artifact which he placed on the table. He gently put on his glasses and a pair of tight black gloves, and then he started cleaning the records with the artifact and a liquid solution, one by one. I asked for a recommendation and commented on the cozy atmosphere of their shop, to which he responded by saying, “it is most important that we provide a gemütlich experience for people”. This German word conveys a feeling of warmth, belonging, and friendliness. I began to see a system of musical and cultural exchange commanded by human care. 

Then, I cycled to Galactic, a record store with no name on the entrance, yet expertly organized inside. The panoply of ethnic subgenres ranged across progressive Oriental rock, Italian psychedelic art-rock, Jugoslav beat folk and Gabba hardcore. These gave me a feeling that I was walking amid the world’s archive of multicultural music. When I asked the manager why he showcases many different musical cultures, he said: “I find diversity a great thing. We sell everything except the Nazi shit some people sell. My nationality is not so important to me, but the cover and the record being original and clean are so important, that in this sense I am really German”. This was an important moment for me; by learning about music sourcing and vinyl quality I learned about the sociocultural significance of music. 

At Latitude, by comparison, a record store in a desolate house, I asked a staff member what he was playing as the track sounded familiar. “It’s because it is a classic from ‘87!” he exclaimed. When I inquired about the price, he smirked and told me it was his own. He flicked through his box of rusty old records and showed me two of his last month’s findings. As we talked about the richness of vinyl audio quality, he said, “nothing surpasses vinyl quality, but it needs to be second hand vinyl”. He complained that a lot of counterfeit is being sold in town, which he found sad because it diminished musical integrity and significantly reduced the original audio quality. Every person I encountered in a record shop mentioned or encouraged buying second hand; both a way of ensuring that the product has high quality audio, and a mechanism for staff to exclude from their inventory any imitations being sold to them for purely commercial purposes. 

My interactions with staff prompted conversations which unveiled the physical and cultural value they attach to music records as record listeners. I learned about records through their own values, which in turn provided me with an understanding of why record stores in Berlin harbor a particular musical experience for its users that is so intentionally detached from mass scale commercialization. Most importantly, staff never acted as traditional sellers, but as vinyl experts who openly shared important insights of Berlin record culture. I began to see how this record culture was continually shaped to respond to varying encroaching forces while preserving the integrity of music and society. 

  For my third visit at Latitude, I brought one of my interlocutors with me; a music lover, yet not a frequent record shop visitor. We browsed through different genres and made our selection. Then, she decided to buy a record despite that she didn’t own a turntable. This endearing ethnographic moment merits mention of Deleuze, who understands time as duration, such that even if the musical material lasts for a defined amount time, it is durable enough “to give sensation the power to exist and be preserved in itself”. My friend’s appreciation towards the musical material outlived the actual length of the record; she was left with a sensation powerful enough to warrant her buying it – without even being able to listen to it at home. 

Reflections and findings

This was a glimpse into my summer ethnographic project in Berlin. In order to understand different forms of musical value, I visited both music venues and record shops as means of unearthing the lived realities behind the threats posed by commercialization and gentrification, which are seeping into the music industry. 

Particularly after my excursion into record stores, I realized that the right question to ask was not about the ways people produce musical value in Berlin, but about the ways in which they preserve the authenticity and integrity of music spaces, which they deem indispensable for a good musical experience. Staff and listeners alike were drawn to vinyl records because they value them as a safe medium for bringing cultures together, and as an impermanent mode of listening. This in turn explained why digital forms have not replaced analogue altogether. Most importantly, this is not because vinyl are an economic success but rather because a subcultural group of people value vinyl as an inclusive, omnipresent musical medium.

This is all but conclusive, and perhaps reads as a little optimistic. As a first step my attempt was to trace what people value in analogue vinyl, and what this told me about the wider corpus of music culture in Berlin. This analysis therefore reflects value, something we think of as inherently good. However, the cultural value people attach to music has arguably been left behind in recent economic developments. In the last month, for example, Latitude was closed down because investors wanted to quickly resell and redevelop the property. Several music shops and venues are continuously forced to relocate. This means that to some extent, people who continue to value records are performing an act of preservation against intruding economic actors. So, the story continues – will people manage to preserve their music culture or will the pressure of economic giants begin to phase it out?  

“An ambitious society” – reflections on the Krishna Valley in Hungary

By Zsófia Kunvári

It is almost midday. He finally arrives on his bike to the campus, carrying the food that he will soon distribute among hungry university students. He serves the dishes one after the other while the music is playing from his carriage; once in a while, someone drops a donation into the tin. Few take a better look at him, and even less start a conversation. For most, he is the “Hare Krishna guy” who brings the “free food.”

The religion – rooting in Hindu beliefs – was founded in 1966 in the United States and used to be associated with the hippie movement. It quickly found its way to the other side of the ocean, even beyond the Iron Curtain. A mere 23 years later, the Hungarian state, living up to its new democratic values, recognised the association of the Krishna believers as a church. 

So how did a religion, so different from any other practiced in the region, find its way into a country that is nowadays often associated with its hostile attitude to alien cultures? Here, this is a rather rhetorical question that requires a more thorough anthropological research to answer. What can be said, however, is that the community and their beliefs are acknowledged and even admired by many. 

This admiration is not necessarily addressed to the unwavering chanting of the Hare Krishna mantra or the Indian clothing. Rather, it is the lifestyle, and in particular, the Krishna Valley. Founded 25 years ago on a 280 ha cornfield in the west of Hungary, the valley grew to be considered an outstanding example of self-sustainability.  

The nearest significant city is about 40 minutes away by car, and if one embarks on a journey using one of the rather scanty public transport options, it may take hours to reach it. As I drove through the village and took a left turn to the paved road that will soon lead us to the entrance of the valley itself, I was struck by the sudden change of scene: organised gardens, a lake with water lilies floating on top, and numerous small pavilions. The two elephant sculptures at the entrance leave quite an impression. It is possible to leave the car here or drive even further into the settlement itself, eventually parking the vehicle next to the greenhouse. I decided to make my visit on the day of the gastronomic festival and, while its turnout is a far cry from the 3-day festivity held earlier in the summer called “Búcsú,” it still attracted a great deal of curious visitors. The event offered traditional vegetarian food made outdoors, dance performances, talks, and guided tours around the valley. 

The valley welcomes visitors all year around – although not all parts are for the public eye. According to a helpful young girl who lives there, it is normally completely quiet and peaceful. 

Such difference in culture, lifestyle, and the physical isolation created a popular belief that this community is detached from society and reality alike. Even though distance may allow them to develop their society according to their own values, it is not automatically akin to isolation.

Kundavāli Devi Dāsī gave a lengthy tour around the temple, highlighting the key values of their life. In addition, she told the impressive story of the cornfield turned into a safe haven – all with a wide smile in the boiling heat.  On multiple occasions, she called the valley a “törekvő társadalom” which can be translated to an “ambitious society.” The fact that after 25 years they have managed to run a bio farm, a cattle reserve and even an accredited school without connection to the regional electricity supply is indeed remarkable. She phrased this, jokingly, in the form of a popular proverb that “one shall stretch only as far as the blanket lasts”, but no one said that the blanket cannot be made bigger. 

Those 30,000 visitors in a year themselves refute the misbelief of isolation. If we look further, we can see other evidence too for their strong ties with the outside world. In the past years, the registered church came fourth in the line of the most financially supported churches after the Catholics, Calvinists and Lutherans. Every event and festivity has numerous donation tins put out inviting visitors to support them in their “religious purposes.” Besides being present on social media platforms, creating vlogs and such, they run an online shopping site for their natural beauty and health products. They may not watch the news on television but the world finds its way into the valley too. Kundavāli Devi Dāsī provided a striking example herself. Explaining karma, action and reaction on her podium in the temple, she made an interesting choice to illustrate her argument. Instead of centuries old wisdoms and examples, she asked a simple question: “Where are the migrants heading?” Immediately serving with an answer, she pressed that the final destination of migrants are the once colonising states. She elaborated that it is not only the country that carries the weight of the karma that colonising entailed, but also all the people living in it. While I can only speculate about the intentions behind her choice of illustration, it was certainly one that evoked strong reactions and steered back the attention of the spectators who had already wished to leave the hot and crowded room. 

Self-sustainability, after it has been established, has the capacity to be upheld without outside support. An ambitious society with an aspiration to make the blanket bigger, however, needs a helping hand for which the Krishna Valley provides a good example. Tourists, followers and financial supporters all work towards the realisation of this ambition, making the community of the valley very much connected to the greater society and reality. This does not take the value of their achievements away – it can stand as an example for a life conducted in greater harmony with nature. Which is more important then? Complete self-sufficiency or development? Does the two have to be mutually exclusive or is the valley a living example of how the two can create something valuable? It is definitely a work in progress.

More information :

http://gbc.iskcon.org/

http://krisna.hu/ (in Hungarian)

http://krisnavolgy.hu/ (in Hungarian)

The bizarre relationship between human rights and anthropology

by Sean Chou

As a second year BA Social Anthropology student, I am used to challenging my personal opinions. This doesn’t stop outside of class. As President of the LSE SU Amnesty International Society, I have dealt with everything from the mundanity of planning meetings, to participation in public actions aimed at grabbing people’s attention.

Core to this is my fundamental belief in human rights. Wherever I go, I take my belief in human rights with me - as something internalised and central to who I am and how I see the world.

A lot of this may sound counter-intuitive and contradictory already. Aren’t human rights Western and neo-colonial? Shouldn’t cultures be treated as unique and values relative to different societies? What makes human rights legitimate in societies in the vast case studies that we study as anthropologists?

I have personally wrestled with these questions for a long time. It means, however, that I feel a special responsibility to articulate both the critique of human rights, and how alternatively it can provide the framework to talk about the emancipatory possibilities of self-realized human potential across transnational, global borders.

The concept of human rights traces its origin to the Enlightenment era. While it arguably had earlier origins in the Magna Carta in 1215, the Magna Carta was limited, where for example the right to free trial was only available for freemen.

During the Enlightenment, however, many thinkers talked about ‘natural rights’ which each person was naturally endowed with as individuals. This was supported by thinkers like Thomas Paine, who argued that the government could not violate such inalienable rights and defence against such violations by the people was legitimate. As a result, this period led to the creation of documents like the 1789 French Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen which contributed to the human rights discourse.

Human rights gathered momentum in the modern era and culminated in the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR). This lists 30 articles, including the right to life, to free speech and to free trial.

Anthropology’s ambivalence with human rights could be seen in its response to the 1948 UDHR: the American Anthropological Association released a rejecting statement in 1947 in response to the draft version of the UDHR arguing that cultural differences should be respected, could not be evaluated and prevented human rights from being applied to all cultures.

This forms the bulk argument of the cultural relativist critique. Some authors have gone further in their critique by arguing that the origins of human rights discourse to Western, Enlightenment thought makes it bound to a specific historical and cultural context. According to Rhoda Howards for example, human rights are based on liberal and rational assumptions of human nature which neglect collective rights holders like indigenous groups. Meanwhile, Bryan Turner criticised Enlightenment thinkers like Immanuel Kant whose rationalist moral philosophy understate the emotive role of social action within a ‘moral community’.

These criticisms suggest human rights are socially constructed and culturally relative. However, Anthropology plays a crucial role in criticising and applying critiques in human rights to ensure that human rights discourse avoids ethnocentric, Western-imperial, top-down solutions to human rights issues.

The cultural relativist critique is in itself limited. Firstly, culture is difficult to define. Durkheimian assumptions of culture as closed, static and continuous are hard to be applied in today’s globalised world, it is difficult to pinpoint cultural contexts which has been left completely unchanged by processes of technology, development, migration and hybridisation of cultures. Furthermore, these arguments are dangerous considering how they are often utilised by authoritarian governments to defend gross human rights violations. For example, in the 1970s, the Tanzanian government introduced a policy of ‘villagisation’ which forced people to live in communal settings, criticising the corrosive influence of Western individualism, while at the same time, government officials enjoyed the influx of Western consumer luxury goods.

Theoretical debates about the relativist/universal divide have been so focused on cultural differences that have prevented taking political action. Thus, it is my belief that human rights is one of many ways in which anthropologists can make a social difference through meaningful political action. Nancy Scheper-Hughes articulates this sentiment well in her stance of ‘militant anthropology’; she talks about an anthropology that is socially responsible that can achieved by conceding our subjectivity in ethnographic research and using our ethical obligations to build activist relationships with subjects who we study as a ‘witness’ rather than ‘spectator’.

How could we think about human rights, then? As a useful fiction. Indeed, this argument is made by human rights theorist Jack Donnelly who argues that human rights give people the framework and language to articulate grievances against states who violate their rights. Human rights help create a shared sense of solidarity across transnational groups fighting against acts of injustice.

Anthropological perspectives can help to inform how human rights are influenced by its Western, cultural origins, and how those can be adapted to suit cultural contexts. This is expanded upon in Thomas Hylland Eriksen’s research of Mauritania. Eriksen argues that human rights discourse is contradictory due to its dual origin in the Enlightenment and Romantic periods: the French Enlightenment argued that human beings are naturally endowed with human rights, meanwhile German nationalism, influenced by Herder, argued that each peoples (or, Volk) had their own cultural and linguistics particularities which each could legitimately defend.

In Eriksen’s study of Mauritania, these contradictions are evident. As a polyethnic society, multicultural discourse (Romantic influence) was balanced with constitutional principles of equality (Enlightenment influence). For example, Muslim Personal Law (MPL) was introduced during the British colonial era and allowed Muslims to follow customary Muslim law in family matters. It was scrapped, however, after opposition in the 1980s which perceived MPL as discriminating against women who found it virtually impossible to get a divorce compared to the relative ease of men seeking divorces.

Eriksen argues as a result that political outcomes made by human rights discourse could be ambiguous. Human rights discourse could politicise and empower minority groups by giving them ‘symbolic capital’ to self-organise and create political change; or, it could be institutionally imposed and lead to the ‘enforced ascription of political identities’.

Finally, human rights benefit from contextualisation within webbed networks of social relations. This is argued by Richard Wilson, who claims that human rights complaints must be embedded in social relations of mutual understanding. Without such active communication, in Donnelly’s terms ‘overlapping consensus’, human rights issues could not be articulated nor addressed.

Considering the background and issues concerning human rights, it can be argued that anthropology’s relationship with human rights is justifiably complicated. As anthropologists, we have a special responsibility to critique and deconstruct neocolonial relations, power disparities and global inequalities which human rights may exacerbate due to their neglect of collective-rights holders, support for institutional solutions and overriding of cultural norms. Nevertheless, such critiques are fruitless without proper examination of how anthropological perspectives may prop up systemic inequities by legitimising non-intervention and nihilistic attitudes towards humanitarian issues. Rather, we can pay attention to how anthropological interest on cultural and social issues provide unique perspectives on how human rights discourse can be taken up by people we study and used as a tool for social change. Only when we re-orientate anthropology towards a social action-based discipline geared towards achieving positive social outcomes can we re-embed our academic interests in the political arena we participate and engage with everyday.

References

Dembour, M.B. (1996). Human Rights Talk and Anthropological Ambivalence. In: O. Harris, ed., Inside and outside the law anthropological studies of authority and ambiguity, 1st ed. New York : Routledge, pp. 16-32.

Donnelly, J. (2013). Universal human rights in theory and practice. Ithaca : Cornell University Press.

Eriksen, T. (1997). Multiculturalism, Individualism and Human Rights. In: In: R. Wilson, ed., Human rights, culture and context : anthropological perspectives, 1st ed. London: Pluto Press., pp. 70-111.

Lauren, P. (2011). The evolution of international human rights: visions seen. Philadelphia, USA : University of Pennsylvania Press.

Scheper-Hughes, Nancy. (1995). The Primacy of the Ethical. Current Anthropology, 36(3), pp. 409-440.

Wilson, R. (1997). Introduction. In: R. Wilson, ed., Human rights, culture and context : anthropological perspectives, 1st ed. London: Pluto Press., pp. 1-28.

What can anthropology say about refugees?

by Sean Chou

Source: debatingeurope.eu.

On Christmas morning, over 40 people attempted to cross the English Channel to reach the UK, in small boats and dinghies. Migrants included children and are claimed to have had different nationalities, such as Afghan, Iraqi and Iranian.

In recent years, attitudes to refugees have hardened. Across Europe, hardline right-wing governments in countries like Poland and Hungary have blocked discussions of refugee quotas; in 2015, Hungary erected a wire fence along its border with Serbia.

Closer to home, evidence suggests that the UK has also hardened its attitudes to refugees and immigration, with the 2016 EU referendum result to leave the EU largely seen as a call to end mass immigration, where the Leave campaign campaigned with the message to ‘take back control’.

Given the media attention and public awareness of refugees and immigration, it’s worthwhile to ask what perspectives anthropology can share.

Firstly, the refugee issue should be seen in a global context. Since the 1980s, globalisation has accelerated the connectedness between countries, due to neoliberal economic growth, international development and spread of global communicative technologies. However, the trajectory of increasing expansion and technological development has simultaneously created social and cultural upheaval, by undermining traditional cultural categories of homogeneity that nation states have been built on. According to Arjun Appadurai, minority groups have increased their presence with the help of communicative technologies, and their multitude threatens the privileges that majority groups have traditionally enjoyed. Hardline immigration policies can therefore be seen as a protective, reactionary response to fears of losing privilege to the perceived ethnic Other.

Nevertheless, this argument can be expanded even further. The territoriality of the nation state creates the distinction between the domestic interiority and the external Other. However, this dichotomy has itself been undermined by historical waves of immigration into the UK from Commonwealth countries. The recent Windrush scandal in 2018, where the Home Office was found to have been deporting people who had settled in the UK for decades after immigrating from the West Indies, demonstrates how difficult it is to define who belongs and who is excluded.

The nation-state creates its own borders and defines its identity by who it excludes. However, decisions about who it excludes are arbitrary and partial. As Home Secretary, Theresa May vowed to bring net immigration to below 100000; the failure to fulfil this promise demonstrates the contradictory nature of the issue, where there is a mismatch between hardline rhetoric against immigration and actions taken to placate such concerns.

It can be argued that the UK is part of a wider, Western world which struggles to deal with refugees and an eminent immigration crisis. In the US, a second child migrant, believed to have Guatemalan nationality, was reported to have died in immigration custody after attempting to cross the border between the US and Mexico.

Such reports indicate how the refugee issue cannot escape the racial dimension. Along with other Western countries, the UK as a nation state is intrinsically built into racial notions of whiteness; the privileges enjoyed by the majority white population must be accepted before proper solutions can be discussed.

References

Appadurai, Arjun. (2006). Fear of small numbers. Durham: Duke University Press.

Norton, Holly. (2018). What anthropologists can tell you about the US border immigration crisis. The Guardian, [online]. Available at: https://bit.ly/2zVfwZn.

Inverting the Hierarchies: Popular Resistance and Folklore in China

by Marco Rossi

Han Chinese devotees offer incense at the Lama Tibetan Buddhist temple in Beijing on a Sunday morning earlier this year. | Source: Time.com

Throughout the history of mankind, the subaltern classes have been the object of study by scholars and intellectuals, who are interested in the way they behave and operate within the societal context. However, despite the positive thickening of the body of literature about the so-called “primitive societies”, this strata of society and the set of beliefs and rituals they practise have been doomed to remain an object of study by the high culture, rather than a subject of history with its own will and influence on other societal actors. Instead, these subaltern classes resisted against the compelling forces from above, including the influences and the constrictions from higher cultures and religious institutions. Their set of beliefs, traditions, and practices, namely the folklore of a community, is still alive and has resisted the absorption and the destruction perpetuated by the ruling ideologies.  

However, even though the movement of popular resistance should be recognised, we should not fall in the Gramscian trap of dealing with an inactive, “implicit”, and “mechanic” religion (Gramsci 1948). Trying to position the folkloric resistance in a more central place, Gramsci also underestimated the active will of the people, and its reactionary attitude towards higher spheres, as the critique of Lanternari (1954) goes. The recognition of the active role of the peasant society in shaping history and traditions is the key to understanding the “failure” of the high institutions in suppressing and destroying what is considered to be an unorthodox and backward facet of society. To further explain this concept, I will sketch a brief history of the Chinese experience, where the clergy and the peasants had to bear the weight of the central ideology’s violent repression. 

The relation between religion and state in China has never been brilliant. Lacking a strong institutional power, and with the spiritual and political leader being one and the same, there has always been an absence of a necessary independence. When the Buddhist clergy was gaining too much power during the rule of Empress Wu Zetian, she persecuted the sangha and confiscated the lands and the monasteries. Also in the late Qing Dynasty we find laws aimed at regulating religion, although with little enforcement (Welch 1968). The same oscillating relation between the religious and governmental spheres took place during the Republican era. The Nationalist Party (KMT) advocated for modernity and suppressed all religious backwardness at first, but then it granted a certain degree of religious freedom with the draft Constitution of 1936 (p. 142). Episodes of violence of the KMT were less fierce than the Communist Party’s (CCP), but then again the various religious communities had to endure confiscations of lands and temples, heavy taxation, and violence. 

Circuiting the Jokhang ceremony in Tibet | Source: RoughGuides

The fiercest attacks towards official religions and popular beliefs alike were perpetuated during the Communist rule of Chairman Mao Zedong. Although in the first decade of the People’s Republic of China’s (PRC) rule, class struggle, revolution, and mass campaigns could not tackle the spiritual revival that was taking place in mainland China, during the 60s the attitude against communal spirituality was reinforced. Within the Cultural Revolution, the CCP banned all forms of religious practices, and shut down every freedom of belief. During 1966, Marshal Lin Biao exhorted to the destruction of “all old ideas, old culture, old customs, and old habits of the exploiting class”, namely the so-called “four olds”, of which religion was a part. During these years Chinese citizens endured horrible treatment by the Red Guards, including beatings, looting, trespassing of private properties, and expropriation of goods and houses. Many holy places were vandalised and sacred symbols smashed. Everything that was bourgeoisie must be destroyed (Dikötter 2016). 

Nonetheless, after the death of Mao, a religious revival struck China as a wave of liberation in order to affirm popular will. The CCP loosened its laws against religion, and many started to practice their beliefs again. Technically, superstitions and proselytism of non-official beliefs are still a legal offence in China, but the five official religions of China (Daoism, Buddhism, Catholicism, Protestantism and Islam) are protected by the government and their followers are free to practise them. The temples, churches and mosques must, however, be registered with the Religious Affairs Bureau to acquire the license for operating as sacred places. The real problem arises when enlisting Buddhist and Daoist temples. The Christian and Islamic churches have a certain institutionalised orthodoxy to follow, but the Buddhist and the Daoist philosophies come from a plethora of different sects and beliefs. The enlisting of a temple, or of a sect gets problematic for the local and central state. For example, many temples are today enlisted and protected by the government, but sects as the Falun Gong are banished and its followers persecuted. The way the temples become enlisted and protected is by measuring the interest the local state has in the social service they offer. In his account of the Cultural Revolution, Dikötter (2016: 286) presents what he calls a “second society” of people that appeared to be controlled by the party, while still believing and practising their communal religions through a network of underground churches and religious groups. This “society” is the quintessential counteraction of the popular strata, which, although complying with Party rule, keeps its traditions in tact at the same time. Indeed, folklore and popular resistance remained resilient, even at the height of the Cultural Revolution. Paradoxically, the ultimate act of rebellion towards the Maoist regime was converting Mao himself into a divinity, using banners figuring the Chairman in the clothes of a Confucian-like gentleman to scare off the evil spirits (pp. 295-296).  

The active role of the peasant society, together with the new attitude of the local state, contributed towards the success of the religious revival in China. Folklore kept its strength even during the hardest of times, and the higher institutions could not get rid of it. Why was this? Why did the peasants need to believe and cherish their traditions? Why would they not follow the official ideology and bow to the only orthodox ideology? I argue that is the exact characteristic of the subalterns; to be subaltern. The subaltern classes have always felt the need to “let their steam off”, so to say. This is the overall point that Mikhail Bakhtin (1984) makes through his studies on Rabelais and the carnival during the Middle Age. The grotesque, hilarious character of the carnival is what allows the peasants to invert the hierarchy and set themselves free of moral and ethical obligations. “Medieval laughter is directed at the same object as medieval seriousness. Not only does laughter make no exception for the upper stratum, but indeed it is directed toward it. It builds its own world versus the official world, its own church versus the official church, its own state versus the official state. Even the smallest medieval parody is always built as part of while comic world” (1984: 88).  

We find a similar Chinese pattern in the conceptualisation of “bureaucratic” and “non-bureaucratic” gods (Shahar and Weller 1996). These two “factions” in the divine pantheon were aimed at the crafting of a supernatural political system and its opposite world by the peasant society. The bureaucratic facet of the pantheon should resemble the political order; while the latter goes beyond this, having gods and goddesses with a more personal approach towards the believers. Indeed, the non-bureaucratic gods were central to rebellions and revolts throughout Chinese history, and the fact that most of the non-bureaucratic gods were female (as Guanyin, Mazu, or Xi Wangmu) should be stressed. The inversion in the Chinese supernatural world served to balance the Confucian ethos that guided late imperial society and politics. The colourful and humorous aspects of Chinese deities offered liberation and relief from the social norms serving the same purpose the medieval European carnival that Bakhtin describes.  

Thus, the nature of the subaltern peasant society creates the necessity of revolting against the social order, while at the same time requesting its allowance to express their crafted universe. However, when this allowance by the official spheres is not granted, the peasant society does not accept it passively. On the contrary, they resist and struggle to keep their traditions alive, fighting the state and maintaining a resilient attitude.

References  

Bakhtin, M. (1984). “Rabelais and His World”. Bloomington, Indiana: Indiana University Press. Translated by Hélène Iswolsky. 

Chau, Y. Adam (2014). “Expanding the Space of Popular Religion: Local Temple Activism and the Politics of Legitimation in Contemporary Rural China”. In Making Religion, Making the State : The Politics of Religion in Modern China, edited by Yoshiko Ashiwa, and David L. Wank. Ch. 9, pp. 211-240. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press. 

Dikötter, F. (2016). “The cultural revolution : A people's history, 1962-1976”. London, UK: Bloomsbury.  

Gramsci, A. (1948). “Il materialismo storico e la filosofia di Benedetto Croce”. Torino, Italy: Einaudi. 

Lanternari, V. (1954). “Religione Popolare e Storicismo”. Belfagor, vol. 6 (IX), pp. 1-7. Firenze, Italy: Olschki. 

Shahar, M.; Weller, Robert P. (1996). “Unruly gods : Divinity and society in China”. Honolulu, Hawai’i: University of Hawai’i Press. 

Welch, H.; Harvard University East Asian Research Center. (1968). “The Buddhist revival in China”. Harvard East Asian series (33). Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. 

A (very) brief introduction to Chinese

by Eric Leung

Illustration provided by the editor, Mary Tzoannou.

I am currently conducting an ethnographic project to better understand the language situation faced by ethnic minorities in Hong Kong, and this term mainly refers to peoples of ‘South Asian’ origin, a term used locally to describe people coming from an area spanning from Pakistan to Indonesia, of non-Chinese (Han) ethnicity. Part of the problem they face is inadequate proficiency in Chinese, one of the territory’s official languages. While many of them are fluent in English, the other official language of the territory, and speak Cantonese, the main vernacular quite well too, their grades in ‘Chinese’ are often quite low, and Chinese characters are unintelligible to older residents too. Nonetheless, having a clearer idea of what Chinese is can be essential to having an accurate view of the entire situation.

Nowadays, it is increasingly common for a person to declare proficiency in Chinese, by both native and non-native speakers. Nonetheless, as with Arabic, another macro-language with many mutually unintelligible varieties when spoken (Kamusella 2017), it is quite impossible to know it in its entirety[1]. There are often variations according to locale, whether Hokkien (Bân-lâm-ōe) in Taiwan and Fujian, Mandarin (Putonghua) or Cantonese (Jyut jyu). For the international stage nowadays, this mostly means Mandarin with the People’s Republic of China’s (PRC) standardised version being one of the United Nation's official languages. However, this was not always the case, with earlier records focusing on Hokkien (Douglas & Barclay 1873) or Cantonese (Bolton 2002) given their importance as trade languages at the time. Even when we examine the word ‘Chinese’ alone, it is still complicated . In English, it could stand for an ethnicity, a nationality, a language, a geographical descriptor, among many other meanings. To clarify any of the possible definitions here is a potential minefield, mainly due to the current cross-strait relations and the associated disputes. In Hong Kong the term zungman/zhongwen (中文) is used, an emic macro term describing the entirety of the Sinitic language branch, as well as including multiple scripts, from traditional to multiple simplified systems.

Illustration provided by the editor, Mary Tzoannou. 

The Chinese writing system, due to its pictographic origins is markedly different from other common writing systems, such as the Latin, Cyrillic, and Arabic alphabets. To be literate requires memorisation of thousands of characters. While fluency among ethnic minorities of Hong Kong is common, literacy is another hurdle. From the traditional script, the PRC and Japan have developed separate simplified scripts called jiantizi and shinjitai respectively. Singapore once used its own version but switched back to the PRC's version in 1976, and the PRC once attempted a second round of simplification which was abandoned (West 2009). Therefore, we currently have two major sets in use: the traditional set in Taiwan, Hong Kong and Macau and the simplified set in the PRC, Malaysia and Singapore. Then, there are multiple writing registers, the most common ones being classical(文言) and vernacular (白話), the latter developed after 1911 based on Mandarin varieties. In addition there are multiple works written in regional varieties such as The Sing-song Girls of Shanghai written in Soochow/Suzhou [2], regional operas and a tradition of incorporating Cantonese in novels which were written in a mixed form of classical and vernacular (Wong 2014). Moreover, a character has many valid ways of being pronounced due to the historical spread of the script across many nations in East Asia. An example is the character 京, meaning capital. There are at least 15 ways to pronounce it across Sinitic varieties, Japanese, Korean and Vietnamese. Even with a singular character, restricted to a single variety, there are still different contextual variations. For example, in Cantonese 婦, meaning woman, is normally pronounced fu5. Yet in the phrase 新婦, meaning bride, it is pronounced as pou5 instead (Chan 1998: 100–101). In a pictographic script, there is no link between pronunciation and meaning, with many situational exceptions such as the aforementioned one, providing additional difficulties for people learning the language. The character 包, Romanised in Wade-Giles as Pao, could stand for a range of meanings from abalone to artillery after the addition of parts for fish and rock respectively (Lin 1989: 225). This form of creating characters, aggregating a part for the sound of the right or bottom, with a part signifying the meaning on the left or top is called jingsing, literally shape-sound. Still, this means the bar for literacy is higher than a script which employs phonetic principles. Therefore, we encounter a complicated situation where different varieties are intelligible on paper since the written standard is identical, but when spoken the exact same phrases become as distinct as Romanian and Portuguese [3].

To conclude, the Chinese language encompasses many different dialects unintelligible between major branches, as well as two scripts which have an obvious chronological order, and are not fully intelligible either if one only knows one of them. It is a system which has enabled an extreme separation between speech and writing, resulting in the fact that all varieties are simultaneously Chinese and not, since the local varieties, when written may not be intelligible to speakers of other varieties. The label ‘Chinese speaker' is thus somewhat moot, and ‘Chinese literate’ is perhaps closer to the truth regarding Sinitic languages[4]. That however opens a new can of worms regarding other languages previously written in classical Chinese, in particular Korean and Vietnamese, not to mention Japanese which still utilises many Kanji today. Perhaps the determining factor is whether a dialect has an army and navy, a quip attributed to Weinreich. 

[1] A possible exception is Yuen Ren Chao, who is fluent in many varieties including Changchow, Fukien, Northern Mandarin and Cantonese as well as a number of other languages such as French and German (Levenson 1977). In addition he wrote Lion-Eating Poet in the Stone Den, famous for only using the sound shi, in Mandarin throughout the poem.

[2]  Original could be read at https://zh.wikisource.org/zh-hant/海上花列傳

[3] For the case between Taiwanese and Mandarin (Guoyu) in Taiwan where the former is increasingly displaced by the latter, see Mair (2003). Intelligibility is mainly found within main branches, such as Beijing and Nanjing Mandarin. Teochew in the Min family and Cantonese, however are not intelligible, whereas Minnan/Hokkien is somewhat legible to speakers of the former type.

[4] For a detailed account of the debate between the terms referring to Chinese varieties such as topolect, dialect and language see Mair (1991). Hence I have mostly used ‘varieties’ throughout the piece as a relatively controversy-free term.

References

Ansheles, A. 2017. Ansheles treats mom to Herbal tea (available on-line: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=giSC7vFZzQo, accessed 25 June 2018).

Bolton, K. 2002. Chinese Englishes: from Canton jargon to global English. World Englishes 21, 181–199.

Chan, P. F. 1998. Lun Jyut fong jin ci bun zi hau sik [An investigation into the original characters present in Cantonese]. Hong Kong: Zhonghua book company.

Douglas, C. & T. Barclay 1873. Chinese-English Dictionary of the Vernacular Or Spoken Language of Amoy, with the Principal Variations of the Chang-Chew and Chin-Chew Dialects. Trübner [Suppl.:] Commercial Press in Shanghai.

Kamusella, T. 2017. The Arabic Language: A Latin of Modernity? Journal of Nationalism, Memory & Language Politics 11, 117–145.

Levenson, R. 1977. Chinese linguist, phonologist, composer and author, Yuen Ren Chao (available on-line: http://content.cdlib.org/view?docId=hb8779p27v&brand=calisphere&doc.view=entire_text, accessed 27 June 2018).

Lin, Y. 1989. Wuguo yu wumin [My country and my people]. Taipei: Fu Hsin.

Ma, B., D. Zhu & R. Tong 2006. Chinese dialect identification using tone features based on pitch flux, vol. 1, I 1029-1032. IEEE.

Mair, V. H. 1991. What is a Chinese “dialect/topolect”?: Reflections on Some Key Sino-English Linguistic Terms. Sino-Platonic papers.

Mair, V. H. 2003. How to Forget Your Mother Tongue and Remember Your National Language (available on-line: http://www.pinyin.info/readings/mair/taiwanese.html, accessed 27 June 2018).

West, A. 2009. Proposal to Encode Obsolete Simplified Chinese Characters (available on-line: http://www.babelstone.co.uk/CJK/N3695.html, accessed 27 June 2018).

Wong, C. M. P. 2014. Kong zin hau Hoeng Gong dik Jyut jyu siu syut [Cantonese novels after World War II]. In Jyut jyu dik zing zi: Hoeng Gong jyu jin man faa dik ji zat jyu do jyun [The politics of Cantonese: divergence and multiplicity of language culture in Hong Kong] (ed) K.-W. Man, 133–152. The Chinese University Press.

At the zoo

by Paola Juan

Inspired by "Kafka on the Shore" (2002), Haruki Murakami:  

“Perhaps most people in the world aren’t trying to be free, Kafka. They just think they are. It’s all an illusion. If they really were set free, most people would be in a real bind. You’d better remember that. People actually prefer not being free.” “Including you?” “Yeah. I prefer being unfree, too. Up to a point. Jean-Jacques Rousseau defined civilization as when people build fences. A very perceptive observation. And it’s true—all civilization is the product of a fenced-in lack of freedom. The Australian Aborigines are the exception, though. They managed to maintain a fenceless civilization until the seventeenth century. They’re dyed-in-the-wool free. They go where they want, when they want, doing what they want. Their lives are a literal journey. Walkabout is a perfect metaphor for their lives. When the English came and built fences to pen in their cattle, the Aborigines couldn’t fathom it. And, ignorant to the end of the principle at work, they were classified as dangerous and antisocial and were driven away, to the outback. So I want you to be careful. The people who build high, strong fences are the ones who survive the best. You deny that reality only at the risk of being driven into the wilderness yourself.” 

Azande Witchcraft and the Evil Eye

by Mary Tzoannou

Chief Editor

The study and desire to understand magic within human society has been a driving force behind anthropology since the earliest works of Tylor and Frazer. The “father” of modern ethnographic methods, Bronislaw Malinowski, produced Magic, science and religion, a seminal work, which made anthropologists turn their gaze towards the social functions of magic within the day-to-day lives of their research communities and, in particular, led to Evans-Pritchard writing what has become the “bible” of modern understandings of this “supernatural” phenomenon, Witchcraft, oracles and magic among the Azande.

Unlike the Azande society studied by Evans-Pritchard in the late 1920s (and which has changed significantly since then), I have nonetheless, experienced another form of “magic”, the evil eye, while growing up in a “rational” and “modern” Greek society. The popular understanding is that witchcraft is a deliberate practice, in which its practitioners intentionally direct and cause harm to others, whereas, the evil eye is thought to be within all of us, causing unintentional harm based on our uncontrollable inner emotions. Both, however, psychically attack their victims and cause physical harm by draining their life essence. In this article, I seek to better understand the practices of witchcraft, and the evil eye, as well as the social functions they imply.

Evans-Pritchard’s study of the Azande of central Africa (between the Nile and the Congo), resulted in what is the seminal ethnographic study of witchcraft. “A witch performs no rite, utters no spell, and possesses no medicines” (Evans-Pritchard, 1976), but they deliberately direct psychic acts to harm others, a capacity made possible by the presence of a physical “substance” in their bodies, “attached to the edge of the liver” (Evans-Pritchard, 1976). As the only way to prove this is through autopsy, it is usually impossible to tell a witch by their physical appearances. A witch may choose not to use the power of the witchcraft substance, which remains “cool” in their body, making the capacity for witchcraft an individual choice.

Evans-Pritchard claims the Azande are rational about witchcraft. If a known witch is in his hut when an act occurs, this is rationalized since it is actually the witch’s soul that travels to attack the victim. This mbisimo mangu (soul of witchcraft) operates over short distances, usually at night, and “sails through the air emitting a bright light” (Evans-Pritchard, 1976). The one time that Evans-Pritchard witnessed such a light was followed by the death of an old man in a hut on the path of the light. The mbisimo mangu travelled to his victim where it devoured his organs’ “soul” (mbisimo pasio). The mbisimo mangu is not autonomous but must be intentionally guided by the witch to its actual physical destination, allowing people who believe themselves to be targets of witchcraft to hide in places unknown to the suspected witch.

Witchcraft is “ubiquitous” within Zande life; any time something goes wrong, it is presumed to be the result of witchcraft. It can be something as simple as a minor accident in the bush or a “sulky and unresponsive” wife, or something graver such as the failure of game hunting or the groundnut crop (Evans-Pritchard, 1976). Certainly, almost all illnesses and deaths are the result of witchcraft. Witchcraft is most powerful when performed at close distances, suggesting that any time something “bad” happens to a Zande, it must be the result of an envious or jealous local person (Evans-Pritchard, 1976). The Azande recognize the same “obvious” causes for misfortunes as do those who think with “Western” “rationality”. They know the symptoms and causes of many diseases, but there is always the possibility of witchcraft contributing to the illness. When witchcraft is suspected, the usual course of action is to consider which neighbors are holding a grudge and then consult the poison oracles to confirm the witch’s identity (Evans-Pritchard, 1976). Consulting the oracles actually reveals “histories of personal relationships”, for the suspected witches’ names provided are the people with whom the accuser has known social problems. When Azande evoke witchcraft, they are simply “foreshortening the chain of events and in a particular social situation are selecting the cause that is socially relevant and neglecting the rest” (Evans-Pritchard, 1976). A Zande, then, will rationalize that a man might be sick for natural causes, but if he dies, it will be due to the umbaga of a witch. Thus witchcraft explains unfortunate events by providing the missing link in a chain of causation, filling in the gaps so that the whole of life, and death, is imbued with meaning” (Evans-Pritchard, 1976).

 The evil eye is a phenomenon common throughout Europe, especially across the Mediterranean region, as well as the northern parts of Africa, the Middle East, India, and other areas of the world colonized by Europeans (Dundes, 1981). The evil eye is often linked to envy and jealousy; within the Orthodox Church it is known as vaskania, an envy born of the devil (Chrysanthopoulou-Farrington, 2008). This link between the evil eye and envy is also supported etymologically, for “envy”, associated with jealousy, derives from the Latin in videre, “to see”. The assumption is that to see something is to consciously or unconsciously desire it. Christina Veikou, the foremost anthropologist of the evil eye in Greece, defines it simply as “the harmful power which the insistent and penetrating gaze has on admirable persons and objects” (Veikou, 2008). She adds that, vision is the most social and penetrating of the senses; it “knows because it sees, and for this reason it has a possessive power over the objects it views” (Veikou, 2008). This power of the eye to possess is precisely what makes the evil eye so dangerous. People in the village of Eleftherna, in Crete, believe the evil eye is an “involuntary” action or reaction by the person casting it, and is not intended to cause any harm: “it just happens” (Veikou, 2008). The actual harm caused by the evil eye derives from the “intense emotions” associated with admiration, lust, and envy, that reside in the “heart” which is uncontrollable. The only way to control such feelings and avert the effects of the evil eye is to resituate them from the heart to the mind, the rational self.

Linking the evil eye to their Orthodox belief system allows Greeks to rationalize their personal misfortunes arising out of social interactions. Indeed, in what has become the seminal Greek ethnography, based on the Sarakatsani transhumant herders in northern Greece, John Campbell noted that these people (like many modern Greeks) are predominantly Greek Orthodox with a strong belief in God but do not attend Church regularly (Campbell, 1964). They also fear the Devil, believing that “sudden or extraordinary material success can only be the result of communion with the Devil” (Campbell, 1964). The Sarakatsani view human nature as sinful, prone to jealousy, but caused by the diabolic effects of the evil eye. Key to the rationale of the evil eye is the notion of limited good. Alan Dundes argued that many people believe there is a finite amount of health, wealth, and happiness that must be shared by society as a whole: therefore, when an individual is particularly fortunate or successful, the assumption is that this is at the expense of someone else (Dundes, 1981).

So what effects can the evil eye have? Dundes suggests that an evil eye attack results in one’s vital liquids and, therefore, one’s life essence, being drained (Dundes, 1981). However, the effects of the evil eye can also be socially structural. The Sarakatsani observe that their animals, the source of family and community sustenance, can be negatively affected by the evil eye cast by a neighbor or even their own wives when they are menstruating (Campbell, 1964). In fact, the evil eye negatively affects the appearance, health, and fertility of community members, specifically, “whatever is of value for the survival and reproduction of a community” (Veikou, 2008).

Vassiliki Chryssanthopoulou studied the concept of the evil eye among Castellorizian Greeks. These people mostly emigrated from the island of Castellorizo to Perth, Western Australia, between the two World Wars. Such is the cultural weight of the evil eye, that many of these “Cazzies”, as they are known in Australia, still maintain their beliefs in its effects. The evil eye, to mati or to matiko, is particularly revealed through their modern pre-wedding rituals, where lavender and mousoukarfia cloves are used to protect the couple and to assure fertility (Cryssanthopoulou-Farrington, 2008). Likewise, the groom carries a pair of scissors to “cut the evil tongues”, another form of the evil eye, in order to protect himself from the jealousy of another woman whose gaze is capable of impeding his ability to sleep with his new wife (Cryssanthopoulou-Farrington, 2008).

Although Evans-Pritchard’s study of Azande witchcraft is almost a century old, and the practices he describes have certainly adapted and changed to modernity, I feel that we can nevertheless draw certain similarities between witchcraft of that earlier time and the evil eye as it is experienced in today’s Greece. One of the first obstacles that could impede such a comparison is the inevitable understanding that Azande witchcraft is intentional and physically directed by the witch, whereas on the surface, the evil eye is quite the opposite. Indeed, Veikou, from who, I have drawn heavily, states the “randomness and the indeterminacy” of the evil eye “are precisely the features that differentiate it from ‘sorcery’” (Veikou, 2008).

From this perspective, it is clear that the evil eye affects everyone, but in the same manner, so does Azande witchcraft. The key difference here is that the witch must direct the evil, whereas the evil eye is presumed to act autonomously from the person casting the gaze. However, this seems too simplistic. Firstly, the person must gaze upon the victim, in effect directing the ‘evil’, so this then becomes a question of conscious or unconscious intent. Acknowledging both witchcraft and intentionality Campbell argued that “the witchcraft or the sorcery of the evil eye is recognized by the Church as one of the Devil’s weapons” (Campbell, 1964).  Moreover, he added that the Sarakatsani recognized that certain individuals were known to possess and use the evil eye; that they had “an eye infected by the Devil. Therefore, I see a direct analogy between this diabolical essence of the evil eye and the “substance” that resides within the Azande witches’ bodies and which attacks and consumes the “innards” of the victim.

Finally, to return to Veikou’s choice of word, “sorcery”, the Azande clearly differentiate between it and witchcraft. A witch uses no spells or rites to inflict harm, but rather depends on “psycho-physical powers”. This entire description can be equally applied to the “practitioner” of the evil eye. Furthermore, Azande sorcery is just bad “magic” as opposed to the good magic of magicians who fabricate medicines and spells to heal witchcraft attacks (Evans-Pritchard, 1976) . In Greece, this role is played by cherikarides who use spells and ritualistic performances to heal victims of the evil eye. In addition, Campbell indicates that opposing the evil eye first requires identifying its possessor, which of course, is precisely the objective of the poison oracles in Azande society. Symbolically, these two social functions are the same.

Probably the most important parallel is that witchcraft in Azande society and the evil eye in Greek society are both important cultural constructs which highlight the expected values of social relationships and community cohesion (Chrysanthopoulou-Farrington, 2008).  In both cultures, intense emotions, especially those linked to envy or jealousy, can cause social frictions, resulting in a witchcraft or evil eye attack. While it is important to identify the competitive parties, the associated rituals help restore order and calm to the community. Such transgressions of social norms are, of course, common and quite normal within small communities, as are misfortunes and good luck, and despite witchcraft and the evil eye being illogical and irrational by “modern” standards, they can still play a significant role in reducing inevitable friction.

Illustrations provided by the author.

References

Campbell, John K. Honour, family and patronage: a study of institutions and moral values in a Greek mountain community. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 1964. Print.

Chryssanthopoulou-Farrington, Vassiliki. “The evil eye among the Greeks of Australia: Identity, continuity and modernization.” In, J.C.B. Petropoulos. Greek Magic: Ancient, medieval and modern. London, New York: Routledge. 2008. Pp. 106-118. Print.

Dundes, Alan. “Wet and dry, the evil eye: An essay in Indo-European and Semitic worldview.” In, Dundes, Alan (ed.). The Evil Eye: A Folklore Casebook. Pp. 257–312. London, New York, 1981. Print.

Evans-Pritchard, E.E. Witchcraft, oracles, and magic among the Azande. Oxford: Clarendon Press. 1976. Print.

Veikou, Christina. “To Kaku Mati: I Kinonkiki Kataskevi tis Optikis Epikinonias.” Athens. 1998. P. 144. Print. Cited in Chryssanthopoulou-Farrington, Vassiliki. “The evil eye among the Greeks of Australia: Identity, continuity and modernization.” In, J.C.B. Petropoulos. Greek Magic: Ancient, medieval and modern. London, New York: Routledge. 2008. Pp. 106-118. Print. P. 109

Veikou, Christina. “Ritual word and symbolic movement in spells against the Evil Eye.” In, J.C.B. Petropoulos. Greek Magic: Ancient, medieval and modern. Pp. 95-105. London, New York: Routledge. 2008. Print.