Linked Histories

Linked Histories:
postcolonial studies in a gobalized world
Edited by Pamela McCallum & Wendy Faith

© 2005 by Pamela McCallum
& Wendy Faith
Published by the
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We acknowledge the financial 1 Postcolonialism.

support of the Government of Canada 2 Globalization – Social aspects.
through the Book Publishing Industry 3 Marginality, Social.
Development Program ( B PIDP ) and the I McCallum, Pamela, 1949–
Alberta Foundation for the Arts. We II Faith, Wendy, 1963–
acknowledge the support of the Canada
Council for the Arts for our publishing HM1136.L55 2005 305.5’6
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Cover design, Mieka West.

Internal design & typesetting,
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Acknowledgements vii
1 Introduction: 1
The Linked Histories in a Globalized World
Pamela McCallum & Wendy Faith
2 The Fascist Longings in our Midst 21
Rey Chow
3 Queer with Class: 45
Absence of Third World Sweatshop in Lesbian /Gay
Discourse and a Rearticulation of Materialist Queer Theory
Rob Cover
4 Cross-Mirrorings of Alterity: 63
The Colonial Scenario
and Its Psychological Legacy
Monika Fludernik
5 Mythologies of Migrancy: 91
Postcolonialism, Postmodernism,
and the Politics of (Dis)location
Revathi Krishnaswamy
6 Postcolonial Differend: 111
Contents Diasporic Narratives of Salman Rushdie
Vijay Mishra
7 At the Margins of Postcolonial Studies 145
Kalpana Sheshadri-Crooks
8 Keeping History at Wind River and Acoma 167
Mary Lawlor
9 Modernity’s First Born: 189
Latin America and Postcolonial Transformation
Bill Ashcroft
10 Toward Articulation: 209
Postcolonial Theory and Demotic Resistance
Victor Li
11 Postcolonial Theory and the “Decolonization”
of Chinese Culture 231
Wang Ning
Notes on Contributors 245
Index 249
Acknowledgements
Many colleagues have assisted us in preparing this book. We are grateful to

Victor Ramraj, the former editor of ARIEL, under whose direction many of
these articles appeared, and to his associate editors Lorne Macdonald and
Patricia Srebrnik.
We appreciate the encouragement of the editorial staff at University of
Calgary Press throughout this project. Joyce Hildebrandt’s vigilant copyediting
helped us clarify many issues. At different stages of the project, Ann Becze
and Erin Wunker were excellent research assistants. The Graduate Program in
the Department of English at the University of Calgary brought us together,
and we are grateful for the funding that the Faculty of Humanities and the
Faculty of Graduate Studies provided for our work. Part of the introduction
was drafted when Pamela McCallum was a Visiting Fellow at Clare Hall,
Cambridge University, whose gracious fellowship provided a stimulating
space for reflection. Finally we would like to thank our families – Keith
McCallum, Hendrikus van Ginneken and Damon van Ginneken – for their
unfailing patience and support in matters large and small.
vii
Introduction: The Linked Histories of the
Globalized World The Fascist Longings
in our Midst Queer with Class: Absence
of Third World Sweatshop in Lesbian/
Gay Discourse and a Rearticulation
of Materialist Queer Theory Cross-
Mirrorings of Alterity: The Colonial
Scenario and Its Psychological
Legacy Mythologies of Migrancy: Post-
colonialism, Postmodernism, and the
Politics of (Dis)location Postcolonial
DefferendDifferend: Diasporic Narratives
of Salman Rushdie At the Margins of
Postcolonial Studies Keeping History
at Wind River and Acoma Modernity’s
First Born: Latin America and Postcolonial
Transformation Towards Articulation:
Postcolonial Theory and Demotic
Resistance Postcolonial Theory and
the “Decolonization” of Chinese Culture
1
Introduction:
Linked Histories
in a Globalized World
pamel a mccallum & wendy faith
In the spring of 2000, marking the twenty-fifth anniversary of the end of the
Vietnam war, a Toronto newspaper published a story about the new economy
of that formerly ravaged country. Journalist Miro Cernetig began the account
by describing a familiar and conventionalized image of the Third World: on
the outskirts of Hanoi, visitors are met by peasant farmers who hold out plastic
bags, calling ”Buy! Buy!” But the bags do not contain the expected produce
from local fields; rather, they are filled with golf balls, carefully recovered from
the grasses around a newly constructed course that was built as a joint venture
with the South Korean company Daewoo. The club’s membership – mostly
Japanese, American, and French, with some newly wealthy Vietnamese
– invokes the successive imperialisms that have marked Vietnam, while
the name of the Scottish golf pro Ian Fleming ironically recalls the author
whose James Bond thrillers popularized a nostalgically orientialized view

Linked Histories
of the British presence in East Asia. Peasant farmers braving unexploded

American bombs buried more than twenty-five years ago in the surrounding
fields to collect golf balls for the recreational pleasures of a small number of
affluent club members provides an astonishing image of the intertwining of
past histories and present possibilities in globalized economies.
Alongside this unsettling depiction of peasant “labour” in the new global-
ized world, other images, which also invoke cultural memories of the Vietnam
war and the protests against it, have become familiar in recent years: the
photographs and television coverage of mass demonstrations in various
capitals of Western countries – Seattle, Quebec City, Prague, Goteburg,
Genoa, and others – against the meetings of the powerful organizations (the
World Bank, the World Trade Organization, the International Monetary
Fund, the G8) that have presided over the reshaping of national economies
in recent decades. The unstructured and diverse coalition of groups that
have come together in the anti-capitalist movement has focussed attention
on the linkages between the glittering, enticing commodities in the shops
of Western cities and the impoverished populations of the countries where
they are produced. The Nike running shoes or Gap T-shirts or stuffed Disney
characters carefully stacked in polished and mirrored shops tell stories of
sweatshop exploitation in conditions that cannot fail to bring to mind the
nineteenth-century factories of the industrial revolution, conditions many
had believed long since superseded. The new economics of globalization has
come to be represented in the designer T-shirt that sells for eighty dollars
and is made by a young woman in a faraway factory who is paid two dollars
a day, perhaps the daughter of the peasant who risks bombs buried a quarter
of a century ago to collect lost golf balls.
What are the implications of globalization for postcolonial studies? In a
recent essay, Simon During relates the category of postcolonialism with that
of globalization, despite their different focuses: whereas the first exposes
the fictiveness of the colonial imaginary (dehistoricization) and, in its more
critical expression, replaces Western meta-narratives with local accounts,
the second peruses the effects of the deregulated global economy (deter-
ritorialization). While During clarifies these perspectives, he argues that
postcolonialism and globalization are “names for forces which work, and long
have worked, in transaction with one another” in ways both progressive and
reactionary (392). Although widespread deregulation has “delegitimized the
whole history of settlement” (391), leading to unprecedented moral support
for indigenous claims to cultural autonomy and geographic territory, the
“contemporary world unification is simultaneously reconfiguring the past in
its own image and renewing colonial struggles” (393). Thus, within During’s
overlapping interplay of forces, the larger question persists: to what extent

Introduction pamel a mcc allum & wendy faith
will postcolonial contests for self-representation and equality be diminished

by the transnational displacement of national hegemonies?
Layered onto the world-shaping projects of various colonialisms and
imperialisms since the Renaissance, the concept of globalization has renewed
attention to the ways in which advanced capitalist systems of the early twenty-
first century strive to extend and integrate modes of domination. Indeed, the
use of the term globalization has itself been questioned by scholars on the
left. Samir Amin calls it a “euphemism for that forbidden word, imperial-
ism” (45). Taking up a similar position, anthropologist David Harvey asks,
“[W]hat significance attaches to the fact that even among many ‘progres-
sives’ and ‘leftists’ in the advanced capitalist world, much more politically
loaded words like ‘imperialism,’ ‘colonialism,’ and ‘neo-colonialism’ have
increasingly taken a back seat to ‘globalization’ as a way to organize thoughts
and to chart political possibilities?” (53). And yet, when Harvey comes to
consider whether new configurations in the world economy – a series of
financial deregulations, a proliferation of technology transfer, the effects of
the “information revolution,” the rapid movement of commodities across the
world – constitute a qualitative difference from earlier colonizing projects,
his answer is “a qualified ‘yes’” (68).
The difficulties in conceptualizing globalization can perhaps be located in
Fredric Jameson’s trenchant analysis of two opposed but equally affective and
resonant responses to conceptualizing the implications of the contemporary
world systems. The first, more positive image of globalization has its roots in
the expansion of communications technology and celebrates “the emergence of
a whole immense range of groups, races, genders, ethnicities, into the speech
of the public sphere, a falling away of those structures that condemned whole
segments of the population to silence and to subalternity” (57). At the same
time, a more negative image arises from the economics of a globalized world:
“the rapid assimilation of hitherto autonomous national markets and produc-
tive zones into a single sphere, the disappearance of national subsistence (in
food, for example), the forced integration of countries all over the globe into
precisely that new global division of labor” (57). Heterogeneous difference or
relentless identity? In Jameson’s view, globalization represents both at one and
the same time; in his words, they seem “somehow to be dialectically related,
at least on the mode of the unresolvable antinomy” (57). If globalization has
imposed such a contradictory template, such divergent expectations, on the
contemporary world, it is not surprising that a critical understanding of its
processes and implications appears to be an urgent task.
Within such a context, a renewed focus on global patterns and structural
markings of continents and peoples may prove especially illuminating for
postcolonial studies. Critics working in this field, Arif Dirlik argues, must

Linked Histories
be particularly vigilant against the comforting illusion that postcolonial

studies have always-already-been global. Rather, he suggests, the contrary
is true. Postcolonial studies have all too often rejected global categories as
fatally tied to the overriding master narratives so devastatingly critiqued by
poststructuralism. In his view, “postcolonialism in its most popular forms
(in the United States, at least) eschews questions of the structurations of the
world in terms of ‘foundational categories,’ and stresses local encounters in
the formation of identities; it is in many ways driven by a radical individual-
ism, and [is] situationist in its historical explanations” (4). This differential
movement, as Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin observe in The
Empire Writes Back, stems ironically from the very policies and practices of
imperialism. “In pushing the colonial world to the margins of experience,”
they write, “the ‘centre’ pushed consciousness beyond the point at which
monocentrism in all spheres of thought could be accepted without question.
In other words the alienating process which initially served to relegate the
post-colonial world to the ‘margin’ turned upon itself and acted to push that
world through a kind of mental barrier into a position from which all experi-
ence could be viewed as uncentred, pluralistic, and multifarious” (12). While
strategies of difference have generated insightful and empowering readings,
especially in demonstrating how postcolonial texts have appropriated, resisted,
and rewritten colonial Euro-American cultures, Dirlik nevertheless argues
that this orientation runs the risk of “elevating culture to primacy in social
and cultural theory” (24). A refocusing on the global structures of capitalism
is imperative, he suggests, for “without an account between Eurocentrism,
and the enormous power that enabled Euroamerican expansion, the criticism
of Eurocentrism may not only perpetuate Eurocentrism in new guises, but
also disguise the ways in which globalism itself is imbued with a Eurocentric
worldview” (15). In other words, Dirlik advocates a reconnection of cultural and
discursive analyses with the material conditions in and through which they
were articulated. Such a position does not seek to privilege political economy,
as in old materialisms, but attempts to open up new ways of envisioning the
connections between the cultural and the material.
Frederick Buell has underlined the complexity of globalization in which
local identities and the global whole are worked and reworked in complicated
and continuing inter-relationships: “global interactiveness,” he writes, “has
become more significantly decentered and much more overt than before,
no longer managed so restrictively and ideologically obscured by bordered
nation-states and national economies” (46). Such fluid and interactive ongoing
connections raise urgent questions for postcolonial studies. How might it be
possible to articulate and facilitate potential sites of cross-cultural exchange

without situating genders, races, classes as the “others” of Europe? How does
a renewed interest in the intersections of culture and materialism challenge
postcolonial criticism to rethink categories of marginality and subalternity?
How might identity be reconceived by a postcolonial criticism sensitive to the
nuances of complicity and compromise within global economic structures?
What new configurations of social transformation are emerging? These are
the kinds of questions that the articles in Linked Histories seek to open up
and to illuminate.
Rey Chow’s “The Fascist Longings in our Midst” examines the present
state of North American academic politics through the historical lens of
European and Japanese fascism. Unlike commonplace critiques that interpret
fascistic atrociousness, in the Freudian sense of “projection,” as the violent
externalization of repressed fear, Chow construes this phenomenon, in “the
more obvious sense of projection,” as the technological display of cultural
imagery. She thus shifts attention away from fascism’s speculative essence
toward its historical-material existence or “surface.” Taking Hitler’s state-
ment that “the masses need illusion” at face value, she compares the lure of
fascistic ideals to the appeal of polished filmic images; fascism takes hold
when members of the population – eager to be seen as pure and righteous
– seek identification with figures who appear godlike or “larger than life.”
Such monstrous exhibitions of idolatry are indicative not of baleful uncon-
scious drives but rather of “good intentions shining forth in dazzling light.”
By associating themselves with exemplars of the flawless, the beautiful, the
brave, or the ecstatic, fascists aim to displace the harsh reality of lived history
with the “glossy” dream of utopian living.
Chow draws a parallel between fascism’s “massive submission” to the ideal
of the absolutely heroic leader and academia’s uniform acquiescence to the
perception of the purely oppressed racial other. This “new liberal fascism,”
through its wholesale valorization of cultural pluralism and corresponding
neglect of historical and class differences, treats all persons of colour as
intrinsically “correct and deserving of support.” Such willful “disbelief
in fraudulence,” she observes, serves the fascistic manufacture of self-ag-
grandizing phantasmagoria. By identifying with an idealized appearance
of racial otherness, “these supporters receive an image of themselves that
is at once enlightenedly humble (‘I submit to you, since you are a victim of
our imperialism’) and beautiful (‘Look how decent I am by submitting to
you’).” While Chow applauds academic challenges to white hegemony, she
warns that prejudicial discrimination and preconceived indiscrimination of
persons of colour are two sides of the same fascistic coin. Both views rely on
the imagistic division between us and them: the former, typical of “territorial

Linked Histories
colonialism,” avoids the contaminating touch of the impure, vilified other;

the latter, characteristic of scholastic postcolonialism, desires redemptive
contact with the pure, exotic other.
In “Queer with Class,” Rob Cover examines the ethical implications
of queer theory’s focus on desire to the exclusion of needs. He notes that
while this emphasis is used complexly in academic discourse to transgress
the normalization of sexual identity, it is applied reductively in gay/lesbian
media publications to establish a homosexual identity “in opposition to”
the heterosexual construct, thereby fostering the illusion of an essential
queer subjectivity that transcends all cultural and regional boundaries. This
homogenization of queerness forms the basis for a definable market niche,
which is exploited by corporate advertisers who profess to champion gay/les-
bian rights in the interest of social progress but still reproduce the (classist,
sexist, racist) status quo by targeting the bourgeois, white, Euro-American
male as representative of the queer subject. Cover is boldly critical of this
marketing strategy. By assigning the expression of desire exclusively to the
most affluent members of gay communities, mainstream advertisers and queer
magazines collude to establish a new sexual norm that both marginalizes
relatively poor queer persons in the West (non-whites, indigenous persons,
women, youth, migrants, and the disabled) and subsumes culturally specific
sexualities into a Western paradigm. Moreover, the gay/lesbian media’s reli-
ance on advertisers who promote middle-class patterns of spending blindly
supports, and thereby helps to obscure, capitalism’s exploitation of labour
throughout the world.
Cover argues that the insidious relation between (non-hetero) sexual
identity and corporate economic vision necessitates the rearticulation of
queer theory through a broad materialist analysis. This approach will always
be difficult for, as Cover takes pains to note, gay and lesbian magazines
represent queer persons as sufficiently aware of “other worldly injustices,”
by virtue of “having suffered the ills of homophobia,” and as necessarily
“apart from other middle-class consumers.” Materialist theory provides a
corrective for such assumptions by foregrounding how the stakes of global
capitalism have contributed to the construction of sexualities, dividing
Third and First World bodies into labourers and consumers respectively
and Western (queer) consumers into desirable and undesirable subjects.
A materialist approach does not abandon theories of desire as a means of
disrupting heteronormative patriarchy but focuses, additionally, on the ways
in which the queer celebration of pleasure and longing is indebted to the
deprivation and alienation of others.
Monika Fludernik’s “Cross-Mirrorings of Alterity: The Colonial Scenario
and Its Psychological Legacy” explores the class-based assumptions embedded

in the circulation of long-standing colonial clichés. Within Western cosmo-

politan environments, she notes, gendered stereotypes of “the bad native” are
transferred in various complex ways to the poor and underprivileged. The
recirculation of old colonial categories in the new context of global capitalism
is facilitated by non-white middle- and upper-class émigrés, who internalize
Euro-American racist perceptions (the “native other” is conniving, dirty,
lazy, etc.) and, in a strategy of psychoanalytic compensation, project them
onto lower-class exiles and minorities. Fludernik suggests that postcolonial
scholars, in their sweeping celebration of migrancy and hybridity, have become
insensible to the ways in which such urban professional expatriates “participate
in the processes of cultural dominance.” Her argument here parallels Chow’s
analysis that academics, in their indiscriminate valorization of persons of
colour, can prove to be blind to the strategies through which class privilege
reproduces itself across the political economies of higher education.
In a nostalgic attempt to establish a native identity abroad, Fludernik
argues, it is not uncommon for expatriates to adopt Western stereotypes and
“exoticist fantasies” about their home countries. At times, the replication of
such cultural imagery is employed reflexively “to prove [indigenous, ethnic,
or national] worth against Western allegations of unworth.” At other times,
it is used more strategically to “deflect the feelings of inferiority generated
by racial remarks” onto other minorities, such as less desirable foreigners
or welfare recipients. In the latter case, it is a means by which elite migrants
ascend to the ranks of (white, Euro-American) respectability and aspire,
increasingly, “to the idealized status of the moneyed.” Indeed, in the touristic
and migrant global economy, wherein the fetishistic appeal and marketability
of cultural symbols supersede their colonial and “counter-colonial specificity,”
it is only the higher-class cosmopolitan émigré who occupies the relatively
enviable position of manipulating and “exploiting” Western “clichés for his
or her own purposes.”
Revathi Krishnaswamy raises similar cautions about an undifferentiated
marginality in “Mythologies of Migrancy: Postcolonialism, Postmodern-
ism and the Politics of (Dis)location.” She charges that present cultural
discourses, by conflating all experiences of subalternity and lack with those
of the prosperous voluntary migrant (epitomized here by the intellectual
and literary luminary Salman Rushdie) obscure both transcultural and
Third World hierarchies of class and gender. In opposition to this leveling of
historically and culturally specific narratives of subalternity, Krishnaswamy
stresses that working-class exiles and economic refugees, unlike professional
emigrants, are often victims of either the global trade in cheap labour or the
worldwide “traffic in female flesh.” Elite Third World intellectuals generally
ignore such “grim [material] realities of migrant labour” and focus instead

Linked Histories
on the personal and psychological trials of migrancy. Moreover, as a means

of legitimizing their relative power and privilege, they appropriate the “vo-
cabulary of protest,” with its fears of persecution and hopes of emancipation,
from superexploited groups and assign it to the upper-middle class “public
(literary) persona.”
This persona, notes Krishnaswamy, involves the concept of the exiled
writer as a “champion of the oppressed” and evokes modernism’s image of the
alienated artist as a critic of bourgeois modernity. But whereas the modernist
author-hero both denounced and conceded the dislocation, destabilization,
and fragmentation of the humanistic subject, postmodern and postcolonial
“celebrities” such as Rushdie flatly valorize these conditions in the names of
fluidity, detachment, contingency, hybridity, and diversity. Indeed, far from
being distressed by feelings of alienation, as were his modernist predecessors,
Rushdie constructs a romantic image of himself as a man-of-the-world who
belongs “everywhere by belonging nowhere.” He is thus able to identify with
either the sophisticated cosmopolite, the struggling subaltern, or both. It is
ironic, however, that by laying claim to a “deterritorialized consciousness
freed from such collectivities as race, class, gender, or nation” he recreates “a
postmodernist avatar” of the bourgeois autonomous subject (more specifically,
the avant-garde transcendent artist).
But, as Krishnaswamy warns, geographical displacement and cultural
alienation are not the exclusive domain of elite migrants. Much Third World
literature is not written by exiles; nor is it “postcolonial in ways recognized by
the postmodern West.” In addition, the ongoing struggle against hegemony
demands an awareness of the ways that hierarchical relations are performed
not only across nations but also “within societies.” With these caveats in mind,
Krishnaswamy reproves Third World intellectuals for self-indulgently failing
to acknowledge that the prevailing “mythologies of migrancy” perpetuate
long-standing economic and social inequalities.
Approaching Rushdie from a different perspective in “Postcolonial Dif-
ferend: Diasporic Narratives of Salman Rushdie,” Vijay Mishra assesses the
intense controversy that surrounded the publication of The Satanic Verses.
In so doing, he recasts the notorious oppositional stance between Islamic
fundamentalists and Western literati – which, according to Homi Bhabha,
overshadowed the debate’s “irresolvable” heterogeneities – in terms of Lyotard’s
differend: the discursive incommensurability between sacrosanct tradition
and secular aestheticism. The ideology of the sacred, claims Mishra, demands
allegiance to totalizing, transhistorical narratives that secure its inviolabil-
ity. Such homogeneity, he continues, is nostalgically promoted by members
of diasporic settlements, who reduce shared religious doctrines to a single
millenarian politic in an effort to establish ethnic solidarity abroad: “The

fatwa against Rushdie originated in the diaspora – in Bradford – and not in

Iran.” In contrast, the ideology of liberal humanism perpetuates narratives of
individualism and difference (but perhaps only those that “can be footnoted
adequately in the grand history of Empire”).
Mishra’s main emphasis is that the diasporic religious denunciation of
The Satanic Verses, which denies special status (or political immunity) to
the creative writer, is irreconcilable with the Western humanistic valoriza-
tion of the aesthetic object, which grants “non-negotiable privilege” to the
author-as-genius. According to Rushdie, whose sensibility is aligned with
this latter discourse of modernity, Islamic fundamentalists cruelly aimed
to censor his right to freedom of expression. But from the perspective of
Islamic devotees, Rushdie, in his promiscuous aestheticization of the sacred,
aggressively sought to undermine their freedom from secular corruption. For
the Westernized diasporic author, “the choice for civilization” is between the
“Enlightenment and barbarism”; for the insular diasporic settler, who does
not presume a separation between the spheres of religion and the state, the
choice is between holy enlightenment and philistinism.
In focusing this differend, Mishra’s point “is not that every dispute must
be resolved but how to argue for a nonresolvable heterogeneity (the basis
for all true discussion) that is not a simple pluralism.” However, his plea for
indeterminacy and radical plurality is not as impartial as it first appears.
Indeed, it entails the idea that the opposition between sacred scripture, which
he presents as necessarily monolithic and closed, and the postmodernist
text, which he poses as characteristically multifaceted and open, can ever
only be illuminated through the (secular) ideology of heterogeneity itself: it
is the humanistic aesthetic domain that “signals the possibility of alterna-
tive worlds that do not seek legitimation purely through facts.” In the final
analysis, Mishra defends The Satanic Verses on the basis that it “bears witness
to differends by finding idioms for them.”
How can postcolonial studies avoid lapsing into a hegemonic mode
characteristic of the dominant discourses that it attempts to critique? In
an innovative observation, Kalpana Seshadri-Crooks’s “At the Margins of
Postcolonial Studies” identifies the crux of this well-rehearsed theoretical
problem as the “inadequately enunciated notion of the margin.” Her main
point of contention lies in the treatment of the margin as a “spatial category”
or discursive “turf” whose boundaries are drawn in monolithic opposition
to an ostensible centre. This concept of marginality, she argues, is better
associated with the consonance of affirmative action and ethnic/minority
studies, which are rooted in the Western liberalistic “positive discourse
of rights,” rather than with the “amorphousness” of postcolonial studies,
which is situated in a postmodern “discourse of limits” that negates the

Linked Histories
“identifiable object” and the unified subject. She observes that the confla-
tion of the clearly delineated margin of minorities with the “irreducible
other” of the postcolonial dynamic persists, however, revealing a utopian
neo-assimilative impulse, which she aligns with the American “melting
pot” brand of multiculturalism. (Parenthetically, it is important to note
here that Seshadri-Crooks writes from a perspective within cultural debates
in the United States; there is a significant difference between the way that
multiculturalism takes shape within the internationally dominant United
States and the way that it plays out in the relatively powerless settler colonies
of, for instance, Canada or New Zealand.) She asserts that if postcolonial
studies is to preserve its critical edge – that is, its distance from bourgeois
liberal humanism – then it must remain suspicious of categories of identity
and attend to the ways that hierarchy is performed in current contexts as
“the lived condition of unequal power-sharing globally” instead of the way
it is theorized in static terms as “a particular historical phenomenon such as
colonialism, which may be plotted as a stage of capitalist imperialism.”
Seshadri-Crooks focuses on two recent conceptions of the margin, which
advocate homogeneousness (under the guise of multiculturalism). The first
attributes the inferior status of the marginalized to their lack of self-fulfill-
ment and social recognition and seeks to alleviate this malady by inviting
the generic (and fetishized) other “to partake in the privileges of the center.”
The second defines the margin in terms of an increasingly hybrid subject
position, which generates a disruptive postmodern aesthetic wrought not so
much by late capitalism as by global migration. The first treats the margin as
a weak appendage of U.S. mainstream culture that can only be rejuvenated
by receiving validation from “its” larger body. The second, by viewing all
postcolonial subjects as essentially migrant, posits an “undifferentiated”
margin. In opposition to these reductions of otherness, Seshadri-Crooks
insists that postcolonial studies must explore marginality both as an (unlo-
catable) site of political exclusion and as an impossible category of identity.
Indeed, she claims that only by its “failure to recoup the margin” can this
field remain critically effective.
Mary Lawlor’s “Keeping History at Wind River and Acoma” explores issues
of representation through a discussion of two Native-hosted museums, whose
displays of culture seem to comply with Euro-American historiography.
Such apparent capitulation of Native identity to the market of tourism is
often countered in postcolonial discourse by appeals to “authenticity,” which
oppose the promotion of assimilationist narratives of indigenousness to
the preservation of “genuinely aboriginal” accounts. But, as Lawlor argues,
self-representations that appear at first glance to reproduce stereotypical
perceptions of Native culture as static and exotic, in keeping with the themes
10
of the “doomed” and “noble savage,” may in fact work to monitor the touristic
expression of colonial fantasy and to preserve the “exclusivity” of Native
communities.
How, then, are we to conceive of Native history and identity? In response
to this question, Lawlor moves beyond the old lure of “authentic” aboriginal
subjectivity to examine more recent models of hybridity and “cultural dou-
bling.” The first, usually viewed as a point of strength in postcolonial studies
because it circumvents the monolithic narratives of the past, recognizes the
colonized’s simultaneous identification with and opposition to the dominant
culture. The second locates an unspeakable cultural space “in between” the
presumably distinct lineages of Euro- and Native America, implying the need
for a double vision of history. Lawlor rejects the former on the grounds that it
signals, through its assumption that hybridity is a “rich way of being,” a glib
acceptance of the alienating effects of cultural displacement. She dismisses
the latter on the basis that it suggests an inconceivably “compartmentalized”
or puristic notion of historical development.
Whereas the ideas of hybridity and “doubling” presuppose a binary model
of cultural identity (centre/margin; subject/other) and merely extend the
“either/or” proposition to one of “both/neither,” Lawlor imagines a “ka-
leidoscopic” vision of history in which oppositional terms are “shuffled
into different and still-changing relations.” Her main point is that Fourth
World narratives – those produced by aboriginal peoples of former settler
colonies – are in a position, within the colonial legacy of popular culture, to
capitalize on shifting patterns and inherent contradictions. By appropriating
mainstream historiography, and by selling it back to Euro-American tourists,
Native-hosted museums gain some measure of control over the fetishistic,
public consumption of their traditions. Indeed, insofar as they select which
aspects of their lives to expose to the popular gaze, they restore a degree of
self-determination to their communities. Thus, Lawlor concludes that the
displays at Wind River and Acoma have “consumed” dominant cultural
representations so as, in effect, not to be consumed by them.
In “Modernity’s First Born: Latin America and Postcolonial Transfor-
mation,” Bill Ashcroft also considers questions that can be located in the
intersection of postcolonialist discourse and the Americas. He notes that
most postcolonial theorists analyze exclusively the global consequences of
British imperialism from 1757 (the year Robert Clive captured the Indian
province of Bengal), and thus turn away from the comparable regional effects
of Spanish imperialism from 1492. In turn, many Latin American thinkers are
reluctant to engage in postcolonial discourse, which they view as a new way
of consolidating “the English speaking centres of global power.” In response
to these stances stressing separation, Ashcroft calls for the postcolonial
11
Linked Histories
inclusion of the Latin American paradigm. Although he concedes that the

fifteenth- and sixteenth-century colonization of Latin America bears little
historical resemblance to the more recent occupation of formerly British ter-
ritories, he argues that the region’s characteristic ambivalence and hybridity
are manifest, to some degree, in all settler societies. Moreover, because the
European imperial expansion into Latin America heralds the very emergence
of modernity, it “obliges us to address the question of postcolonialism at its
[conquistadorial and capitalistic] roots.” By refusing to treat postcolonial
discourse either Anglocentrically in terms of the decline of the British empire
or hyper-vigilantly in terms of the establishment of a neo-hegemonic field,
Ashcroft aims to widen its theoretical scope.
Like other settler colonies, Latin American culture is marked by ambiva-
lence – that is, by “the conscious desire for separation” from the imperialist
regime and, in keeping with the Althusserian notion of interpellation, by “the
unconscious desire for the persistence of colonial relations.” But unlike other
settler colonies, stresses Ashcroft, Latin America “still lies at the edges of the
world system” and thus lays bare the workings of imperialism and capitalism
in the continuing exploitation of Third World labour. More specifically, this
colonial paradigm reveals that the so-called underdeveloped region is not
simply in “an earlier state of a transition to industrialization” as compared
to the First World, in accordance with the bourgeois myth of progress, but
is engaged in a hard and painful struggle against the leading industrialized
nations, which use it as a “peripheral, raw-material producing” area – that
is, as a colony. In the process, this model illuminates not only the problem
of interpellation but also the power of what Ashcroft calls interpolation,
which involves “the extraordinary capacity of indigenous and indigenized
forms to appropriate and reform the powerful discursive practices of the
colonizer.”
No anti-colonial strategy, claims Ashcroft, exemplifies the act of inter-
polation better than the Latin American testimonio. Through its use of
a communal speaking position, which disrupts both the Enlightenment
affirmation of individuality and the poststructuralist/postmodern critique of
presence, it bears witness to the material effects of imperialism. In so doing,
it blurs the distinctions between orality and writing, mythos and history,
and the personal and the political, thus offering “a fascinating confrontation
with modernity.” In total, it brazenly discloses the “socially transformative
dimension of postmodernity,” which is suppressed by postmodern aestheti-
cism. Ashcroft stresses that this politically resistant approach should not be
viewed as a naïve appeal to the transparency of language, the truthfulness
of the text, or the value of identity politics, but should be seen rather as “the
urgent representation of the experience of a reality.” Thus, the Latin American
12
colonial paradigm and its testimonio allows Ashcroft to redefine postcolonial

discourse as a means by which the colonized disruptively insert or interpolate
“their own realities and cultural activities into the global arena.” In this way
Ashcroft’s assertion that testimonio “produces, if not the real, then certainly
a sensation of experiencing the real” has affinities with magic realism, which
is, of course, well rooted in Latin America. As Stephen Slemon has shown,
magic realism reconstructs colonial discourse in much the same way that
testimonio interpolates it. “Magic realism,” he perceptively comments, “can
be seen to provide a positive and liberating response to [both] the codes of
imperial history and its legacy of fragmentation and discontinuity. […] This
process […] can transmute the ‘shreds and fragments’ of colonial violence
and otherness into new ‘codes of recognition’ in which the dispossessed, the
silenced, and the marginalized of our own dominating systems can again
find voice, and enter into the dialectic of on-going community” (21).
Victor Li’s “Toward Articulation: Postcolonial Theory and Demotic Re-
sistance” re-evaluates the binary opposition, axiomatic in certain strains
of postcolonialism, between theoretical and popular modes of resistance.
This binarism, notes Li, is used to level suspicion at both “collective identity
and action,” as exemplified by Said’s admonishment of “nativism,” and
academic interpretation and remove, as epitomized by Simon During’s
critique of postcolonial discourse. It is chiefly to the latter, however, that
Li speaks. While he acknowledges that appeals to demotic renitency are
prompted by the desire to protect indigenous cultures from assimilation,
he warns that such strategies of “separatism” lead to the political trap of
essentialism, in which the concept of “authentic” difference is exploited to
justify oppressive practices of segregation. In addition, the demand for the
preservation of seemingly genuine features of the “indigenous” entails that
subaltern cultures resist not only the perils of cultural domination but also
the vitalities of cultural change.
The benumbing worry that postcolonial theory itself is hegemonic, says Li,
results from the field’s characteristic “wariness of all monocultural discourses,”
which in turn stems from its humanistic valorization of autonomy and differ-
ence. But because a potentially exploitive “performative contradiction” occurs
whenever privileged First World theorists – either “nativist” or elitist – speak
for the subaltern, Li advocates that the theoretical/demotic or centre/margin
poles be articulated (linked) through a transcultural dialectic, in contrast to
Sheshadri-Crooks’s call to dissolve this binarism through amorphousness.
This interactive approach, while attentive to uneven relations of power, would
recognize that the subaltern has often managed to “resist, influence, or even
redirect and shape the dominant culture.” By allowing for the hazards and
contingencies that Li associates with agency, this approach empowers “us”
13
Linked Histories
– in the Marxist sense – “to make our history even under conditions not of
our own choosing.”
From a different cultural positioning, Chinese scholar Wang Ning explores
the implications of linguistic and discursive globalization, the new technolo-
gies and mass-marketed Western cultures that have made English the global
language and “Americanness” the global style. Like Wang Fengzhen, he shares
the sense that in the past decade “the privileges or special policies given to
foreign companies for their investments seem to me to be an unconscious
or covert subjection of the nation state to world capital” (Wang 148). In
“Postcolonial Theory and the ‘Decolonization’ of Chinese Culture,” Wang
Ning goes on to ask: should academics and aesthetes in China contest the
“colonization,” or Westernization, of Chinese language and literature? His
answer stresses that this concern cannot be adequately addressed until we
first clarify the sense in which China may be deemed a postcolonial entity.
Because of its low technological and economic status, the country can rightly
be seen to share concerns with other former colonies of the Third World; but
because its culture has always “been deeply rooted in the soil of the Chinese
nation,” it cannot properly be viewed as a colonized region.
Is there a productive niche, then, for the discipline of postcolonial studies
in Chinese intellectual circles? Can it be used to halt the invasion of angli-
cisms and Western advertising into China, for instance? In response to
these questions, Wang endorses a cautious acceptance of postcolonialism.
On one hand, from a Chinese perspective, the theoretical approaches of
eminent “hybrid Western–non-Western” critics such as Said, Spivak, and
Bhabha betray an ignorance of “the practical situations” faced by Third World
cultures. Strategies that appear anti-hegemonic in the West may thus seem
neo-imperialistic in the East. On the other hand, Asian intellectuals can
appropriate postcolonialism’s centre/margin (active invader/passive invaded)
binarism and reconceptualize the “colonization” of China, in dialectical
terms, as a cultural exchange between East and West. Here Wang seems to
share Victor Li’s assertion that the subaltern can “redirect” the centre. This
approach would foreground the potential benefits of cross-cultural contact
for both the Third World and the Occident. Such advantages would include
the “modernization of Chinese culture,” which would improve communica-
tion between the formerly isolationist country and the international public,
and the introduction of “fresh methodologies” and new ideas to Western
thought. Although Wang admits that this method would inevitably result
in the loss of some aspects of traditional Chinese culture and identity, he
argues that “no society” in our global village, “be it Oriental or Occidental,
can avoid the influence of, or even ‘colonization’ by, other societies.” He
concludes that Chinese intellectuals should adopt postcolonial theory with
14
the awareness that it is “unnecessary” – indeed, futile – to use it to combat

the so-called colonization of Chinese language and literature (or what could
be called Chinese/Western transculturation).
Wang Ning’s reflections on postcolonial theory and globalization in China
raise other questions for Western scholars. Can the language of the colonizer,
as Chinua Achebe has pointedly asked in another context, “carry the weight”
of the colonized’s experiences (103)? In Postcolonialism: Theory, Practice or
Protest? Ato Quayson cautions against a postcolonial historiography that
would erase local oral traditions of storytelling about the past. Knowledges
based solely on documents, he argues, “serve ultimately to overdetermine
the very ways by which indigenous peoples later imagine their histories” (74).
What implications does the dominance of Western forms of knowledge
production have for cross-cultural exchange? How, as John Mowitt asks,
might the categories of cross-cultural exchange be reconfigured so that
classes, genders, races, and nations outside the West are no longer required
to construct their experience as the “other” of Western thought (3–4)? The
essays collected here do not claim to hold the answers to such pressing and
urgent questions. Rather, they contribute to an ongoing process of “thinking
through” these and other issues in postcolonial studies.
One of the most visionary recent attempts to map the configurations of
globalization is Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri’s Empire. In an innova-
tive and conceptually wide-ranging analysis of contemporary global modes
of domination and potential forms of resistance, Hardt and Negri suggest
that postcolonial studies must rethink its (sometimes implicit) reliance on
a binary model that posits an external colonizing power and a resistant
colonized locality. In the writings of many postcolonial critics, they argue,
the influential work of Homi Bhabha being their primary example, the
act of colonizing is assumed to impose a hierarchy of binary oppositions
through which a dominant term overshadows an excluded one (Europe
and colony; First and Third Worlds; North and South). The resistance of
the colonized can be read in the subversion of power structures through
hybridity, mimicry, multiple or unstable identities, and other strategies that
refuse and complicate the binary divisions of colonial rule (Hardt and Negri
143–45). And yet, Hardt and Negri contend, however useful such construc-
tions might be for reading history, they ultimately fall short of recognizing
the unique “logics of power” (145) in a world reconfigured by contemporary
Empire. They go on to point out the irony of how thoroughly the concepts
valorized by postmodernism, and freely adopted by postcolonial studies,
have been integrated into the economics of globalization: “[T]he ideology of
the world market has always been the anti-foundational and anti-essentialist
discourse par excellence. Circulation, mobility, diversity, and mixture are its
15
Linked Histories
very conditions of possibility” (150). If the historical divisions of colonizer

and colonized have been eroded by the sweep and eddies of the global flows
of capital, how is resistance to be understood in these new configurations
of power and subordination?
The sections of Empire that attempt to imagine resistance in a globalized
world inspire Hardt and Negri’s most speculative vocabulary. In conceiving of
a “multitude” – a word they use to avoid the passivity implied in “masses” or
the Enlightenment revolutions echoed in “the people” – they seek to imagine
a group within whom resistance is immanent. The multitude embodies a
great refusal, an existential stance of “being-against” (211), in the forms of
“desertion, exodus and nomadism” (212). Paradoxically, although flight from
the spaces of pain that characterize much of the globe may only bring the
nomadic subject to “a new rootless condition of poverty and misery” (213),
Hardt and Negri also exalt the subversive energies of the multitude that
cannot be controlled by national boundaries and that exert an insurgent
will against any forces of containment. Alluding to Marx’s opening words
in the Communist Manifesto, they comment succinctly, “[A] specter haunts
the world and it is the specter of migration” (213). Here, as in postcolonial
studies, the terms migrant and migrancy – which encompass everyone from a
middle-class professional seeking advancement, to an impoverished peasant
leaving a remote village for the metropolis, to a destitute refugee fleeing the
devastation of war – prove to be central figures in understanding potential
tropes of emancipation in the new globalized world. In the “diffuse, anony-
mous network of all-englobing power” that is Empire (Balakrishnan 143), the
flow of bodies in migrancy comes to represent an unwillingness to tolerate
“miserable cultural and material conditions” and, more significantly, an
“irrepressible desire for free movement” (Hardt and Negri 213).
There can be no doubt that Empire offers an imaginative and insightful
analysis of globalization in a resonant language that attempts to articulate
the utopian longings of Leftist traditions. And yet, Hardt and Negri’s con-
struction of the “multitude” remains decidedly unsettling. What are the
implications of assigning equivalence to a well-educated professional who
decides to accept a position on one continent rather than another and an
impoverished worker who illegally enters Europe or the U.S. seeking labour?
Both choose to become part of the global “flow of bodies,” but under very
different circumstances. How are the continuing displacements of aborigi-
nal peoples within settler colonies to be conceptualized? How should we
understand the “desire for free movement” across such divergent situations
as characterize global migrancy? These questions, and others, underline
the necessity we have stressed of re-examining the enormously divergent
group of those marginalized by race, class, ethnicity, sexual orientation,
16
gender, or geographical location. One strategy might be to develop Arjun

Appadurai’s discrimination among “diasporas of hope, diasporas of terror,
and diasporas of despair,” all of which carry “the force of imagination” (6).
It might be equally productive to retrieve and rethink the functioning of
“class” in and through the globalized world of the twenty-first century. To
the pressing challenges of mapping new configurations of domination and
resistance, postcolonial studies brings a wealth of histories, methodologies,
and creativities.
Our title, Linked Histories, is taken from an installation by the Cana-
dian aboriginal artist Joanne Cardinal-Schubert entitled “Kitchen Works:
sstorsiinao’si,” exhibited at the Alberta Biennial in the fall of 1998. The instal-
lation is unquestionably striking: the size of a small room, it confronts viewers
with diverse representations of aboriginal peoples’ histories under coloniza-
tion. One wall consists of a mural of contorted, distressed figures, presided
over by two soldiers; in the distance the viewer can make out a church and
a flag recognizable as the Union Jack. Above the mural is a large blackboard
covered with writing, extending the length of the wall, some seven or eight
meters long. The conjuncture of church, settlement, and blackboard evokes
memories of the infamous residential schools run by Roman Catholic and
Protestant denominations where, in the name of cultural integration, young
aboriginal children were separated from their families and communities,
forced to abandon their languages and cultures, and sometimes subjected
to physical and sexual abuse. While these representations work to preserve
the memories of sufferings under colonization and at the same time call the
dominant society to account, Cardinal-Schubert also strives to move beyond
the markings of the past: “As an artist,” she writes on the blackboard, “I can
dare to look into the future.” She goes on to challenge her viewers to move
toward an “understanding of our linked histories […] and the imposition
of those histories on each other.” From Cardinal-Schubert’s perspective, it
is not enough to address only the colonization of aboriginal peoples; rather,
it is crucial to grasp the intertwining of shared histories, to understand how
the cultural memories of the past might both block and, in different ways,
facilitate movement toward the future. Such a perspective implies an attentive
openness to how aboriginal cultures might offer emancipatory strategies
to settler cultures and a willingness to question vigorously the assumption
that cultural critique of colonization simply addresses the victimization of
the colonized. In her view it is crucial to understand the linked histories in
which pasts, presents, and futures are intersecting projects that cannot be
easily disentangled or separated.
Links are also forged, and it is worth reflecting on this significant verb.
In its evocation of fashioning and shaping, forge implies the historical and
17
Linked Histories
material conditions at work in the making of the contemporary world. Such

a recognition is crucial, for if linkages can be understood as humanly and
socially constructed, then they are also susceptible to alteration and change.
This process is reminiscent of Victor Li’s evocation of Marx when he writes
that “the practice of articulation reopens the dimension of agency, change,
risk, and uncertainty. In short, it enables us to make our own history even
under conditions not of our choosing.” And yet, from another point of view,
forge signifies the act of counterfeiting, of falsifying, which underscores how
linked histories have been nuanced and mobilized to carry diverse ideological
inflections. Histories told by the victors are obvious examples of counterfeited,
“forged” histories, but they are not the only examples. In forms as diverse as
“writing back to the empire,” testimonio, and magic realism, histories and
cultural practices have reappropriated, refabricated and rewritten – one might
say “reforged” – in order to represent new and unfolding projects.
In the spirit of linkages, it is appropriate to address our affiliations to an
earlier publication. In 1990 Ian Adam and Helen Tiffin published Past the
Last Post: Theorizing Post-Colonialism and Post-Modernism, a collection
of essays drawn from a special issue of ARIEL (A Review of International
English Literature), the postcolonial journal published by the University
of Calgary Department of English. At a time when postcolonialism was
beginning to reflect on its status as a disciplinary field, Past the Last Post
provided spirited reflections on a range of theoretical and textual questions.
A little more than a decade later when, to borrow the black British writer
Biyi Bandele’s timely comment in his Brixton Stories, “every post seemed to
have been postponed,” Linked Histories brings together subsequent articles
from ARIEL that have moved the discussion forward into considerations of
cultural materialism, a politics of resistance, and globalization. It would be
mistaken to represent such shifts in focus as the inevitable advancement of
knowledge within the traditional practices of academic disciplines. Rather,
it is a process of defamiliarization and reconstitution, of a return to cultural
memories and a rethinking of their implications for the future. As Diana
Brydon has written,
The “post” in “postcolonial” refers to the survival of certain ways of
seeing and not-seeing from the past into the present, sometimes in
rigidified forms […] but other times in more subtle and dissimulating
modes: in the rhetoric through which the media manage difference; in the
way key public choices are posed; in the way knowledge is conceived,
produced and exchanged and research conducted; in the way citizenship
is understood and practised. (56)
18
In Brydon’s formulations, the “post” in postcolonial does not signal a move-

ment beyond a certain point, but rather signals the persistence of the past
(“the survival of certain ways of seeing and not-seeing from the past into the
present”). The implications of these persistences are changing and diverse;
there is no definitive plotline into the future, but only a sense of mapping
that is negotiated across shared and linked histories.
Works Cited
Achebe, Chinua. Morning Yet on Creation Day. New York: Doubleday, 1975.
Adam, Ian, and Helen Tiffin, eds. Past the Last Post: Theorizing Post-Colonialism and Post-
Modernism. Calgary: University of Calgary Press, 1990.
Amin, Samir. Specters of Capitalism: A Critique of Current Intellectual Fashions. New York:
Monthly Review, 1998.
Appadurai, Arjun. Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1996.
Ashcroft, Bill, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin. The Empire Writes Back: Theory and Practice
in Post-Colonial Literatures. London: Routledge, 1989.
Balakrishnan, Gopal. “Virgilian Visions.” New Left Review 5 (Sept.-Oct. 2000): 142–48.
Brixton Stories. By Biyi Bandele. The Pit Theatre, Barbican, London. 18 Apr. 2001.
Brydon, Diana. “Canada and Postcolonialism: Questions, Inventories and Futures.” Is Canada
Postcolonial? Unsettling Canadian Literature. Ed. Laura Moss. Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier
University Press, 2003. 49–77.
Buell, Frederick. “Globalization without Environmental Crisis: The Divorce of Two Discourses
in U.S. Culture.” Symplokē 9. 1–2 (2001): 45–73.
Cardinal-Schubert, Joane. Kitchen Works: sstorsiinao’si. Installation. Glenbow Museum and
The Edmonton Art Gallery, Calgary and Edmonton. Alberta Biennial, 1998.
Cernetig, Miro. “Apocalypse Revisited: A visit to the Mekong Delta 25 years after the U.S. was
defeated.” Globe and Mail 29 Apr. 2000: A16–A17.
Dirlik, Arif. “Is There History after Eurocentrism? Globalism, Postcolonialism and the
Disavowal of History.” Cultural Critique 42 (1999): 1–34.
During, Simon. “Postcolonialism and Globalization: Towards a Historicization of Their Inter-
relation.” Cultural Studies 14.3–4 (2000): 385–404.
Hardt, Michael, and Antonio Negri. Empire. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2000.
Harvey, David. Spaces of Hope. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000.
Jameson, Fredric. “Notes on Globalization as a Philosophical Issue.” The Cultures of
Globalization. Ed. Fredric Jameson and Masao Miyoshi. Durham: Duke University Press,
1998. 54–77.
Mowitt, John. “In the Wake of Eurocentrism.” Cultural Critique 47 (2001): 3–15.
Quayson, Ato. Postcolonialism: Theory, Practice or Protest? Cambridge: Polity Press, 2000.
Slemon, Stephen. “Magic Realism and Post-Colonial Discourse.” Canadian Literature 116
(1988): 9–24.
Wang, Fengzhen. “Mapping the Globalization in Chinese Culture.” ARIEL 32.2 (Apr. 2001):
145–62.
19
2
Evil is never done so thoroughly
and so well as when it is done
with a good conscience.
— Blaise Pascal
thoughts (279)
Fascism is not the prohibition of saying

things, it is the obligation to say them.
— Roland Barthes
leçon (14)
The Fascist Longings

in Our Midst
re y chow
Fascism is a banal term.1 It is used most often not simply to refer to the
historical events that took place in Hitler’s Germany and Mussolini’s Italy
but also to condemn attitudes or behaviour that we consider to be excessively
autocratic or domineering.2 Speaking in the mid-1970s, Michel Foucault
referred to the popularized use of the term fascism as “a general complicity in
the refusal to decipher what fascism really was.” The non-analysis of fascism,
Foucault goes on, is “one of the important political facts of the past thirty
years. It enables fascism to be used as a floating signifier, whose function is
essentially that of denunciation” (“Power and Strategies” 139).
In this essay, I attempt to study this – what amounts to a collective –
denunciation of fascism by examining not only what is being denounced but
21
Linked Histories
also the major conceptual paths through which denunciation is produced.

My argument is hence not exactly one that avoids the “floatingness” of the
word fascism by grounding it in a particular time or space. Instead, I take
fascism as a commonplace in the many ways it is used to indicate what is
deemed questionable and unacceptable. In the process, I highlight what I
think is fascism’s most significant but often neglected aspect – what I will
refer to as its technologized idealism. In my argument, fascism is not simply
the disguised or naturalized “ideology” that we find in Louis Althusser
and Roland Barthes; 3 rather it is a term that indicates the production and
consumption of a glossy surface image, a crude style, for purposes of social
identification even among intellectuals. In lieu of a conclusion, I also comment
on the affinities between fascism as a “large” historical force and the mundane
events of academic life in North America in the 1990s by foregrounding the
idealizing tendencies in what is called multiculturalism.
Monstrous Visions
For those of us who do not have personal experience of the period of the
Second World War in Europe and Asia, the picture that comes to mind when
we think of fascism is always a photograph, a scene from a film, a documen-
tary, or some graphic account narrated by survivors. The visual association
we have with fascism is usually one of horror and destruction. Recently,
for instance, I had the chance to view a video called Magee’s Testament
(produced and distributed by the Alliance in Memory of the Victims of
the Nanking Massacre, 1991) about Japan’s invasion of the city of Nanjing
during December 1937 to February 1938. These newsreel pictures of rape and
massacre constitute the only known filmed documentation of the atrocities
committed by Japanese soldiers during what the Chinese call “Nanjing da
tusha,” the Nanjing Massacre or the Rape of Nanjing. Shot by an American
missionary, John Magee, and recently rediscovered after fifty-five years, the
cans of amateur film from the 1930s have been incorporated into a thirty-
minute video by the Chinese American filmmaker Peter Wang. According to
Magee’s account, about 300,000 Chinese were killed in a week. This number
would be among the fifteen to twenty million generally estimated to have
been killed during Japan’s aggression against China from 1931 to 1945.4
What comes across most powerfully in Magee’s Testament is the aesthetic of
Japanese brutality. I use the term aesthetic not in its narrow sense of principles
of beauty or good taste, but in the broader, Kantian sense of principles of
perception and cognition, principles that are in turn manifested in outward
behaviour, as behavioural style. Among the Chinese survivors interviewed
some forty-five years after the war, the memories of that aesthetic unfold in
narratives that are juxtaposed with pictures taken in 1937 and 1938 of heart-
22
The Fascist Longings in our Midst re y chow
rending wounds, amputations, disabilities, and deaths. I was struck most of

all by the pictures of a still-living woman the back of whose neck had been
sawed at with a bayonet. A large portion of the head, which must have at one
time been dangling in mid-air without being completely chopped off, was
surgically stitched back onto this woman’s body. At the time the newsreel
was made, it was as if the camera, simply because it captured so vividly
the painful physicality of this event, was an accomplice to the original act
of brutality. So was the doctor who manipulated the woman’s head for the
camera, and so were those watching the film.
No words would do justice to the monstrosity of such an aesthetic. But
what exactly is monstrous? No doubt it is the calamitous destruction that
descended upon the victims. And yet a monstrous aesthetic is also an aes-
thetic of making something monstrous, of demonstrative magnification and
amplification. As one writer points out, the Japanese soldiers who committed
such acts of atrocity were able to do so because, like the Nazis, their loyalty
to their ideology was so absolute that it freed them from all other restraints
(Lestz 105). Unlike the Nazis, who were Christians mindful of the close
relations between “body” and “spirit” and who regarded physical involve-
ment with their victims’ bodies as a form of spiritual contamination, the
Japanese showed no such compunction. The point about their fascism was
not enthusiasm in discipline but enthusiasm in unharnessed cruelty. It was
thus not enough simply to extinguish the enemy’s life tout court; they must
torture and mutilate in ways that prolong and aggravate their victims’ suf-
fering and thus maximize their own pleasure. There was no sense of being
contaminated by the enemy because the enemy was just raw material into
which they poked their swords or discharged their urine and semen.
Like all graphic records of fascist destructiveness, the images of Magee’s
Testament clarify two things about fascism. The first, which is the easier to
grasp, is that fascism is a form of technology. This does not simply refer to
the fact that fascism deploys technological means for its purposes, but also
that fascism is a kind of demonstrative culture/writing whose magnitude
– whose portent – can only be that of the technological. The Japanese soldier
did not simply use technological weapons; he was a murder machine that
happened to take the form of a man. The second thing about fascism, which
is closely related to the first but not as readily acceptable, is that the most
important sentiment involved in fascism is not a negative but a positive one:
rather than hatefulness and destructiveness, fascism is about love and ideal-
ism. Most of all it is a search for an idealized self-image through a heart-felt
surrender to something higher and more beautiful. Like the Nazi officer
who killed to purify his race, the Japanese soldier raped and slaughtered
in total devotion to emperor and in the name of achieving the “Great East
23
Linked Histories
Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere.” Like the Nazi concentration camp official who
was genuinely capable of being moved to tears by a Beethoven sonata being
played by Jewish prisoners, the Japanese officer, we may surmise, was probably
also genuinely capable of being moved by the delicate feelings inscribed in
cultured practices such as haiku poetry, calligraphy, or the tea ceremony. In
each case, what sustains the aesthetics of monstrosity is something eminently
positive and decent.
Projection I: The Violence “In Us All”

The question of the relationship between the destructive and idealizing
sentiments in fascism is thus much more difficult than it first appears. Let
us think, once again, of Foucault’s criticism that we have only used the term
fascism to denounce others. On another occasion, in the preface to Gilles
Deleuze and Félix Guattari’s Anti-Oedipus, Foucault writes that the strategic
adversary combated by Anti-Oedipus is fascism, adding that by this he means
“not only historical fascism, the fascism of Hitler and Mussolini […] but
also the fascism in us all, in our heads and in our everyday behaviour, the
fascism that causes us to love power, to desire the very thing that dominates
and exploits us” (xiii).
By moving from events in the world outside back to the fascism “in us
all,” Foucault suggests an ancient piece of philosophical advice: “Know
thyself.” At the same time, by calling attention to the fascism within us
as opposed to that outside us, Foucault articulates a specific conceptual
mechanism used in many accounts of fascism, the mechanism of projection
as defined by Freud. The function of projection is described by Freud as a
defence: when we sense something dangerous and threatening in ourselves,
we expel and objectify it outward, so as to preserve our own stability. The
best social example of Freud’s understanding of projection is anti-Semitism.
The “Jew” is the name and the picture of all those things we cannot admit
about ourselves; it is thus a symptom of our fears and anxieties.5 Even though
it is not always consciously stated as such, Freudian projection is crucial to
some of the most sophisticated accounts of fascism.6 However, what emerges
interestingly from Foucault’s brief comments on fascism is that if the fascist
discrimination against the “Jew” is a projection in Freud’s sense, then our
denunciatory use of the term “fascism,” insofar as it remains a “floating
signifier,” is also such a projection. Fascism has become for us the empty
term, the lack, onto which we project all the unpleasant realities from which
we want to distance ourselves. This is why fascism is associated alternately
with colonialism, authoritarianism, mysticism, populism, socialism, banality,
and so forth.7 Ortega y Gasset summarizes fascism’s emptiness perceptively
when he writes that it is “simultaneously one thing and the contrary, A and
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not-A” (qtd. in Laclau 81–82). The extreme logical conclusion to this is that

those who most violently denounce fascism – who characterize others as
fascists – may themselves be exhibiting symptoms of fascism.
But what is it that we cannot admit about ourselves? Like many of his
other concepts, Freud’s definition of projection hinges on an act of nega-
tion: projection is the outward manifestation of a basic denial or refusal (of
knowledge) in the individual organism. Once we focus on the indispensable
negativity involved in projection, we notice that the premise for this projec-
tion is something like “human nature,” which is treated as the source of the
problems at hand. A critique of fascism by way of Freudian projection would
hence always emphasize fascism as an expression of our own repression – our
oppression of ourselves – and most critics of fascism, it follows, see fascism
first of all as an inner or internalized violence from which we need to be
“liberated.” The belief in repression and liberation as such has the effect of
turning even the perpetrators of fascism – those who rape, mutilate, and
slaughter – into victims who are ultimately pardonable. For instance, in his
classic study, The Mass Psychology of Fascism, Wilhelm Reich argues that
fascism, like many forms of organized religion and mysticism, is the mass
expression of orgiastic impotence or repressed sexual energies. Citing Hitler
as his type case, Reich locates the social origin of fascism in the authoritarian
patriarchal family, in which feelings of fear and rebellion toward the father
are combined with those of reverence and submission (37–40). While Reich’s
interpretation made up in a significant way for the neglect of sexuality that
characterized most Marxist and economic approaches to fascism of his day,
it nevertheless reads like a vulgarized use of Freud’s notion of repression:
fascism becomes the compensatory “sublimation” (in distorted form) of the
energy that had nowhere else to go. Not surprisingly, therefore, the solution
offered by Reich is finally that of “love” and “work” – the proper sublimation
of sexual energies that should, he writes, govern our lives.
Similarly, in Anti-Oedipus, Deleuze and Guattari explain the repressive
violence characteristic of Western society by way of Nietzsche’s notion
of ressentiment. For them, ressentiment, which is active life force turned
inward, has a name – Oedipus. Freudian psychoanalysis, insofar as it helps
perpetuate the ideological baggage of a metaphysics of interiority, is for
Deleuze and Guattari the place to begin criticism of the everyday fascism
of Western society.8
The “internalized violence” model is so persuasive that it captures even
a Marxist political philosopher like Ernesto Laclau. In Politics and Ideology
in Marxist Theory, Laclau’s project is that of finding ways to articulate the
popular forces that motivated fascism in Europe. While Laclau does not fail
to see the problems in Reich’s interpretation (84–86), his own criticism of
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Nicos Poulantzas’s well-known study of fascism is precisely that Poulantzas

reduced every contradiction to a class contradiction and failed to take into
account the processes of subjectivization involved. Using Althusser’s notion
of “interpellation,” Laclau thus reformulates fascism as a kind of populism
that interpellated masses as “a people” in ways that went beyond their class
distinctions. It does not seem problematic to Laclau that Althusser’s notion of
interpellation is still, arguably, dependent upon an outside (ideology) versus
an inside (the individual), and that the moment the individual responds to
the hailing “Hey, you!” is also the moment when the force of ideology is
“internalized.”
Despite the differences among these critics of fascism – Deleuze and
Guattari mock and deterritorialize Freudian psychoanalysis while Reich,
Althusser, and Laclau continue to adapt it to their own purposes – they all
implicitly agree that fascism’s effectiveness has to do with its being a violence
– a negative force – that has been internalized, a violence that is somehow
“in us all” by nature or by culture. This leaves us with the question of how
exactly fascism is internalized. What does it mean for fascism to be in us?
Do we violate ourselves the way the Nazis and the Japanese violated Jews,
Gypsies, and Asians? How does the lack in us (in Freud’s terms, fear and
denial) turn into a concrete thing outside us? How does the nameless in
us acquire the external name “Jew”? Conversely, how does that monstrous
picture out there signify/become what is in us? How are we to understand
that proclamation by Göring which epitomizes this basic problem of fascist
projection – “I have no conscience. My conscience is Adolf Hitler” (qtd. in
Mitscherlich 288)?
In other words, when we move from acts of brutality to internalized
violence, or when we move from the lack that is supposedly in us to exter-
nal atrocities, some change, presupposed and yet unexplained, has taken
place. This change, which is the unarticulated part of all of these theories
of internalized violence, is metaphorical, imaginary, and, as I will argue,
technological. It indicates that which happens but which we cannot actually
see or hear – and which we must therefore explain in terms other than itself.
The filmic image, because it is obvious and palpable, offers a convenient way
of staging these other terms.
But there is a more fundamental reason why fascism can be explained
by way of film. Not that film expresses the images of fascism effectively.
Rather, like film, fascism as an ideology has “its foundation in projection.”
I take this phrase from Alice Yaeger Kaplan’s illuminating study of French
fascism, Reproductions of Banality. Basing her notion of fascism not on the
profound but on the banal and obvious (46), Kaplan calls for a different kind
of attention to be paid to fascism – not a convoluted search in the depths of
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our selves for the ressentiment imposed by religion or family, but attention
to fascism as projection, surface phenomena, everyday practice, which does
away with the distinction between the inside and the outside: “The fascist
ideal is being swallowed by the subject at the same time as it is being pro-
jected onto the leader. Projection and introjection are not always even that
distinguishable” (6).9 The indistinguishability of introjection from projection
means that there is a mutual implication between fascism and technology,
including the technology that is psychoanalysis. When authors like Freud
used terms such as projection and screen memory, Kaplan writes, they were
already speaking to the mediatized makeup of our experience (5).
What is internalized – if the language of internalization still makes sense
– is thus not so much the atrocious ideology of cruelty as its monstrous,
propagandist form:
The crowd comes to know itself as film. Subjects knowing themselves as
film – that is, internalizing the aesthetic criteria offered in film – have a
radically different experience, than if they knew themselves through film.
In the film experience the spectators do not merely control a model that
remains exterior to their untouched subjectivity; rather, their subjectivity
is altered and enlarged by the film. (155)
What is internalized in the age of film is the very projectional mechanism

of projection. If individuals are, to use Althusser’s term, interpellated, they
are interpellated not simply as watchers of film but also as film itself. They
“know” themselves not only as the subject, the audience, but as the object,
the spectacle, the movie. In his study of the cinema of Fassbinder, Thomas
Elsaesser makes a similar argument about German fascism – namely, that
German fascism was based in the state of being-looked-at, which cinema’s
proclivity toward visual relations conveniently exemplifies. Elsaesser holds
that the Fassbinder trademark of exhibitionism – the persistent foregrounding
of being-looked-at and its significance for the formation of social identity
– should be understood in this light:
What, Fassbinder seems to ask, was fascism for the German middle
and working-class which supported Hitler? We know what it was for
Jews, for those actively persecuted by the regime, for the exiles. But for
the apolitical Germans who stayed behind? Might not the pleasure of
fascism, its fascination have been less the sadism and brutality of SS
officers than the pleasure of being seen, of placing oneself in view of the
all-seeing eye of the State? Fascism in its Imaginary encouraged a moral
exhibitionism, as it encouraged denunciation and mutual surveillance.
Hitler appealed to the Volk but always by picturing the German nation,
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standing there, observed by “the eye of the world.” The massive

specularization of public and private life […] might it not have helped
to institutionalize the structure of “to be is to be perceived” that
Fassbinder’s cinema problematizes? (545)10
In Elsaesser’s phrase “to be is to be perceived,” we see that projection, instead

of being preceded by “being,” is itself the basis from which “being” arises. Such
psychologizing implies a reversal of Freud’s model of projection. While Freud
begins with the “being” that is the individual organism – the inner something
that, sensing something unpleasant, projects it outward – Elsaesser’s reading
of Fassbinder enables us to begin instead with the projection that is obviously
“out there” – the projection that is “being perceived,” the projection that is
film. While the Freudian model describes projection as being based upon
an original lack, as an externalized concretization or objectification of that
lack, we can now ask instead: how does the projection that is film become
us? How does visual technology inhabit the human shape?
In order to answer these questions, we need to recall the more conventional
meaning of projection as an act of thrusting or throwing forward, an act that
causes an image to appear on a surface. Despite the suggestive association
of fascism with film, what remains unarticulated in Kaplan’s (and to some
extent Elsaesser’s) account is the difference between this obvious sense of
projection and Freud’s definition. While the common conceptual path taken
by most critics of fascism is projection in Freud’s sense – that is, projection
as a subject’s refusal to recognize something in order to defend itself – film,
as external image, operates with the more obvious sense of projection – as
objects already out there, objects that may not necessarily be a compensa-
tion or substitution for an original (subjective) lack or inability. Once the
premise of projection is changed from “inside” to “surface” in this manner, it
becomes possible to think of projection as a positing rather than a negating
function. It would also, I propose, be possible to rethink fascism away from
the projection-as-compensated-lack model provided by Freud.
Projection II: Angels of Light

By turning to film and to the formal mutuality between film and fascism,
I am not saying that film offers a means of illustrating the principles of
fascism. What I am saying is that fascism cannot be understood without a
certain understanding of the primacy of the image, which is best exemplified
by the relations of receptivity involved in film. My point can be stated in a
different way: film, because it is obviously imagistic, stands as a good way
of analyzing the abstract problem of projection, which is also the problem
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of that imaginary and metaphoric change between external and internal

violence that remains unexplained in the writers I mentioned earlier.11
It is hence not an accident that critics of fascism frequently turn to film for
their discussions. Consider, for instance, Susan Sontag’s classic “Fascinating
Fascism,” from which the title of the present essay is taken.12 In her essay,
Sontag repudiates the judgement that the work of filmmaker and photographer
Leni Riefenstahl, who received generous support from the German govern-
ment for her productions during the Nazi period, is nevertheless in some
significant manner “apolitical.” By refusing to separate artistic technique
from ideology, Sontag persuasively shows how the creation of beauty in
Riefenstahl’s films is intimately linked to fascist ideals. Toward the end of
the essay, Sontag writes:
[I]t is generally thought that National Socialism stands only for
brutishness and terror. But this is not true. National Socialism – or, more
broadly, fascism – also stands for an ideal, and one that is also persistent
today, under other banners: the ideal of life as art, the cult of beauty, the
fetishism of courage, the dissolution of alienation in ecstatic feelings of
community; the repudiation of the intellect; the family of man (under the
parenthood of leaders). (43)
Insofar as she identifies the positive messages of fascism as an inalienable

part of its functioning, I am in total agreement with Sontag. Her charge that
the most widely appreciated qualities of Riefenstahl’s work – its beauty, its
technical refinement – are precisely what speak most effectively to “the fascist
longings in our midst” is so perceptive that it is unsettling.13 Yet peculiarly,
in an essay that so clearly insists on the inseparability of art and ideology,
Sontag nonetheless makes a distinction between art and ideology as soon
as she tries to contrast fascist art with communist art:
The tastes for the monumental and for mass obeisance to the hero
are common to both fascist and communist art. […] But fascist art
has characteristics which show it to be, in part, a special variant of
totalitarian art. The official art of countries like the Soviet Union and
China is based on a utopian morality. Fascist art displays a utopian
aesthetics – that of physical perfection. […] In contrast to the asexual
chasteness of official communist art, Nazi art is both prurient and
idealizing. […] The fascist ideal is to transform sexual energy into a
“spiritual” force, for the benefit of the community. (40–41)
If Sontag’s judgement about fascist art does away with the distinction between
propaganda and aesthetics, her reading of the difference between communist
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and fascist art reintroduces it. We can only speculate that, as a Jewish in-
tellectual writing in the United States of the 1970s, Sontag was absolutely
clear-eyed about the fascism of the earlier decades, but like all left-leaning
Eurocentric intellectuals of that period, she retained a sense of illusion about
communism. Hence even though she writes that fascist art shares with
totalitarian art the same tastes for the monumental and for mass obeisance
to the hero, she seems to imply, ultimately, that because fascism beautifies
and thus hides its totalitarian motives in aesthetically impeccable images, it
is the more pernicious and dangerous of the two. Once ideology and art are
distinguished as content and façade in this way, however, aesthetics returns
to the more narrow and conventional sense of the beautiful alone.
By describing fascism as fascinating aesthetics in the narrow sense, Son-
tag, in spite of her own insights, rejoins the tendency of most discussions
of fascism, in which attention is almost always focussed, negatively, on the
deceptiveness of fascist authorities: these fascists, it is thought, paint beauti-
ful (that is, delusive) pictures about their ugly (that is, real) behaviour. Such
pictures, in other words, have the status of deliberate lies. Fascist atrocities
thus become the “real” that sets the records straight, that exposes the deceit
and error of fascist rhetoric.
But it is precisely in this kind of interpretive crossover from rhetoric to
deed, from “lies” to “truth,” from “beautiful pictures” to “ugly reality” that
critics have downplayed the most vital point about fascism – its significance
as image and surface; its projectional idealism. The false-true dichotomiza-
tion leads us to believe that good intentions cannot result in cruel behaviour,
and conversely, that the fact of cruelty can only be the result of hidden evil
motives dressed up as beautiful pictures. We see how the substitutive or
compensatory logic of Freud’s notion of projection is fully at work here: the
fascists, according to this logic, project to the outside what they (secretly)
deny about themselves; we the critics thus have to negate their negation and
rewind their projection from that false outside back into their hidden inside.
According to this logic, not only are intentions and behaviour transparently
linked; they are also linked through opposition and negation: hence, the
“good” image is an index to “bad” motives. But what if the declared ideals
were not lies (projection in Freud’s sense) but projections (projection in
the common sense of throwing forward)? How then do we understand the
relation between noble intentions and atrocious deeds?
Without the illusion about communism – that its propaganda, unlike the
beautiful façade of fascism, has after all some real connection to a utopian
morality – Sontag would in fact have come close to saying that the aesthetics
of fascism (aesthetics in the broad sense of cognition and perception) resides
precisely in images – not so much images-as-the-beautiful but images-as-the-
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positivistic-and-self-evident. The beautiful images are not images that hide

(the content of horror); rather they are the cognitive form of the technological
age, the surface or superficial phenomena that present themselves as evidence
of themselves instead of some other, inner meaning. What is fascist about
fascism’s idealized images is not only that they are positive, but also that they
pose and posit, and are positivistic. This positivity is the projection that the
followers of fascism internalize.
What Sontag correctly identifies as the idealizing tendencies of fascism can
thus be explained by the projectional nature of film. To present something
in idealized terms is literally to enlarge and embolden it – in short, to blow
it up as a picture. While it takes its materials from everyday life, this picture,
by its very positivity, also becomes mythic. It holds a promise and turns the
everyday into the primitive and archetypal. In the process of consuming it,
we become infantilized. As Kaplan writes, “the machinery of the media gave
birth to a new kind of ideological vulnerability. It was mother bound” (23).
In what amounts to the same argument, Kaplan writes: “When fascism took
power, it took charge of the imaginary” (34).14
André Bazin provides an astute analysis of these relations between film and
idealism, relations that are based on projection, in an essay called “The Stalin
Myth in Soviet Cinema.” Unlike Sontag, who still attributes to communist
art a utopianism that would set it off from fascist art, Bazin calls attention
precisely to the idealizing – that is, fascistic – logic in the Soviet films about
Stalin. Writing around 1950, Bazin was amazed by the fact that these mythi-
cally positive images of Stalin – as a hyper-Napoleonic military genius, as an
omniscient and infallible leader, but also as a friendly, avuncular helper to the
common people – were made while the man was still alive. Bazin’s point is
that only the dead are larger than life: “If Stalin, even while living, could be
the main character of a film, it is because he is no longer ‘human,’ engaging
in the transcendence which characterizes living gods and dead heroes” (36).
The glorifying films have the effect of mummifying and monumentalizing
Stalin, so that it is the Stalin-image that becomes the ultimate authority,
which even Stalin himself had to follow in order to “be” (40).
Thus, according to Bazin, the idealizing power of cinema is not only
positivistic but also retroactive, calling for a submission to that which has
always, in the process of being idealized, already become past or dead. The
Stalin myth in Soviet cinema commands an absolute surrender – an identi-
fication that is possible only with the cessation of history. Bazin illustrates
the retroactive logic of fascist idealization with another, non-filmic example:
the Stalinist trials. For Bazin, the major accomplishment of the trials is their
success in remaking – that is, falsifying – history with the pre-emptiveness
of retroaction:
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According to the Soviet “Stalinist” communist perspective, no one can

“become” a traitor. That would imply that he wasn’t always a traitor, that
there was a biographical beginning to this treason, and that, conversely,
a person who became a menace to the Party would have been considered
useful to the Party before becoming evil. The Party could not simply bust
Radek to the lowest rank, or condemn him to death. It was necessary to
proceed with a retroactive purge of History, proving that the accused was,
since birth, a willful traitor whose every act was satanically camouflaged
sabotage. Of course, this operation is highly improbable and far too
serious to be used in every case. That is why the public mea culpa can be
substituted concerning minor figures whose historical action is indirect –
such as artists, philosophers, or scientists. These solemn hyperbolic mea
culpas can seem psychologically improbable or intellectually superfluous
to us if we fail to recognize their value as exorcism. As confession is
indispensable to divine absolution, so solemn retraction is indispensable
to the reconquering of historical virginity. (37)
By inserting this discussion of the logic of totalitarian interrogation in an

essay about cinematic representation, Bazin enables us to see retroaction
as the crucial common ground for both the Stalinist trials and the filmic
construction of Stalin. Moreover, he enables us to see that retroaction works
hand in hand with positivism: like the interrogative erasure of the history
of communist “traitors” – an erasure (of counter-evidence) that, in effect,
becomes the self-validating “evidence” of their guilt – the very (retroactive)
idealization of Stalin’s goodness in the form of (positivistic) images is part
of a manipulation of history that uses images as their own alibi by making
them appear self-evident. The effect is mass sacrifice – the sacrifice of the
masses’ own knowledge of history in submission to the mythic image.
Bazin’s analysis offers us a way out of Freud’s definition of projection.
Instead of operating negatively as refusal, compensated lack, and defence
mechanism, projection here is the positive instrument of transparency, of
good intentions shining forth in dazzling light. Stalin as the angel of light – not
only in the sense that he was bringing enlightenment to the people but also in
the sense that he was himself transparent, thus allowing for an identification
that dissolves the boundary between the inside and the outside: this was the
magic of his image. It is therefore not by focussing on the atrocious deeds,
the evil of fascists, but on their moments of idealism production, their good
conscience, that we can understand the effectiveness of fascist aesthetics.
The voice of Emperor Hirohito, heard for the first time by his people over the
radio after the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, speaking solemnly of the
sadness of national defeat, was one example of this aesthetic. The voice and
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image of Mao Zedong telling the Red Guards that “revolution is not criminal,
revolt is reasonable” in the form of massive street slogans and pamphlets was
another. The sincere altruistic rhetoric we hear in U.S. presidential campaigns,
complete with the candidates’ demonstrations of their ordinariness (their love
of family, for instance), is a third. In all of these cases, it is the force of light,
transparency, and idealized image that works in the service of interpellating
the masses, who receive the leaders as a mesmerizing film. To say that the
leaders are lying to the masses would be to miss the point of our thoroughly
mediatized feelings and perceptions, which accept this aesthetic without
coercion, and which accept it as positive and good.15
That fascism is primarily a production of light and luminosity is an argu-
ment Paul Virilio makes in War and Cinema: The Logistics of Perception,
among other works. Virilio’s point over and over again is the fatal interdepen-
dence of the technologies of warfare and vision, “the conjunction between the
power of the modern war machine […] and the new technical performance
of the observation machine” (71). Hitler and Mussolini clearly understood
the coterminous nature of perception and destruction, of cinematic vision
and war. While the former commented in 1938, “The masses need illusion
– but not only in theatres or cinemas,” the latter declared, “Propaganda is
my best weapon” (qtd. in Virilio 53).
These remarks show us the technical nature of fascism, not only in the
sense that fascism deploys technological weapons, but also in the sense that
the scale of illusion/transparency promised by fascism is possible only in the
age of film, the gramophone, and the loudspeaker. The mediatized image
and voice – machines in human form rather than humans using machines
– are, in Heidegger’s terms, fascism’s teche. Virilio writes:
If photography, according to its inventor Nicéphore Niepce, was simply
a method of engraving with light, where bodies inscribed their traces by
virtue of their own luminosity, nuclear weapons inherited both the dark
room of Niepce and Daguerre and the military searchlight. (81)
To paraphrase Virilio, we might add that fascism is an engraving with light

on people’s minds: fascist leaders inscribed their traces by virtue of their own
luminosity; fascist propaganda inherited both the dark room of Niepce and
Daguerre and the military searchlight.
The Story of O, or, the New Fascism

In the foregoing pages, I have tried to argue that fascism needs to be under-
stood not only in its negative but, more importantly, in its positive aspects,
and that fascism’s production of idealism is a projectional production of
luminosity-as-self-evidence. In an essay entitled “The Evidence of Experience,”
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which does not at first seem to have anything to do with the topic of fascism,
Joan Scott has made comparable observations about the use of experience
in the North American academy today. In the general atmosphere of a felt
need to deconstruct universalist claims about human history, Scott writes,
scholars of various disciplines have increasingly turned to personal experi-
ence as a means of such deconstruction. However, she argues, by privileging
experience as the critical weapon against universalisms, we are leaving open
the question as to what authorizes experience itself. Scott charges that the
appeal to experience “as uncontestable evidence and as an originary point of
explanation” for historical difference has increasingly replaced the necessary
task of exploring “how difference is established, how it operates, how and in
what ways it constitutes subjects who see and act in the world (777).” 16
For me, what is especially interesting is the manner in which Scott em-
phasizes the role of vision and visibility throughout her essay. Beginning
her discussion with Samuel R. Delany’s autobiographical meditation, The
Motion of Light in Water, Scott notes that “a metaphor of visibility as lit-
eral transparency is crucial to his project.” She concludes that for Delany,
“[k]nowledge is gained through vision; vision is a direct apprehension of a
world of transparent objects” (775). What Scott articulates here is the other
side of Virilio’s argument about the coterminous nature of visual perception
and destruction – that is, the coterminous nature of visual perception and
knowledge: “Seeing is the origin of knowing” (776). While the technology
of seeing, or seeing-as-technology, has become an inalienable part of the
operation of militarism and fascist propaganda, Scott shows how it has also
come to dominate our thinking about identity, so much so that visibility
and luminosity are the conditions toward which accounts of difference and
alternative histories derived from “personal experience” now aspire. Such
aspiration, Scott implies, is an aspiration toward the self-evidence of the
self’s (personal) experience. The self as evidence: this means that the self, like
the Stalin myth in Soviet cinema, is so transparent, so shone through with
light, that it simply is, without need for further argument about its history
or what Scott calls its “discursive character” (787).
By alerting us to the technology (what she calls metaphor) of visibility,
which is now engraved in the attitudes toward knowledge, history, and
identity, Scott’s argument provides a way of linking the “large” historical
issues of fascism and totalitarianism we have been examining with the “small”
sphere of North American academic life in the 1990s. In the remainder of
this essay, I will elaborate this linkage further with the help of a fictional
scenario. As many readers will recognize, the features of this scenario are a
composite drawn from the recent general trends of multiculturalism in the
academy. By portraying these features in a deliberately exaggerated form, my
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point is not to slight the significance of the work that is being done by non-
Western intellectuals on the non-Western world, but rather to deconstruct
our increasingly fascistic intellectual environment, in which facile attitudes,
pretentious credentials, and irresponsible work habits can be fostered in
the name of “cultural pluralism.” The heroine in my fictional scenario is
ultimately a mock heroine, the victim of a dangerous collective culture that
all of us working in the West perpetrate in different ways.
We will call this imaginary heroine O. A “person of colour” from a Third
World country, O is enrolled in a graduate program in a North American
university. Despite her upper-class background, O tells people that she
is from poor peasant stock in order to enhance her credibility as a Third
World intellectual. After muddling and bluffing through her coursework, O
launches a “multidisciplinary” dissertation that deals with various types of
social protest by underdogs in her culture of origin. For two or three years
O does virtually nothing by way of serious reading and research, though
she makes her presence known regularly by speaking extemporaneously at
different conferences. Much as she holds Western capitalism in contempt
and tirelessly brandishes slogans of solidarity with downtrodden classes in
the Third World, O seems even more determined to get her share of fame,
privilege, and material well-being in the First World by hook or by crook.
But even while O has no qualms about faking her way through graduate
school, and even while no one can, when asked, say what her project really
is apart from repeating the vague generalities that O habitually recites,
the support O receives from well-established academics across the U.S. is
tremendous. Many of these supporters are white. Some of them assert that
O is the most talented young intellectual from a Third World country they
have ever encountered. With their glowing recommendations, O eventually
finds herself a job teaching at a U.S. university.
What is behind such sincere support of a great impostor from what are
undoubtedly intelligent and accomplished people? A mass process similar to
that described in the classic story of the Emperor’s new clothes is mobilized
here, as someone willing to occupy the position of the Emperor accidentally
appears. Obviously, we cannot say to O’s supporters – “But can’t you see…?!”
– because another kind of seeing is taking place. By seeing a student of colour,
no matter how pretentious and fraudulent, as self-evidently correct and
deserving of support, these supporters receive an image of themselves that
is at once enlightenedly humble (“I submit to you, since you are a victim of
our imperialism”) and beautiful (“Look how decent I am by submitting to
you”), and thus eminently gratifying.
Even though O may be cheating her way through the system, she alone is
not to blame for this ridiculous situation. As I already emphasized, it is our
35
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flagrantly irresponsible environment of “cultural pluralism” that nurtures

her behaviour and allows her to thrive.17 In the white liberal enthusiasm
for “people of colour” that is currently sweeping through North American
academic circles, something of the fascism we witnessed in earlier decades
has returned in a new guise. The basis for this fascism is, once again, the
identification with an idealized other placed in the position of unquestion-
able authority. Like the fascism of the 1920s and 1930s, a feeling of rebellion
is definitely present; like the old fascism also, there is a massive submission
to a kind of figure of experience that is assumed to be, to use the terms of
Scott’s analysis, luminously self-evident. This time, what is rebelled against is,
fashionably, the canon of the West or “Western imperialism,” and the figure
onto whom such feelings are projected is the “person of colour,” regardless
of that person’s actual personal or professional politics.18
Once fascism starts taking effect, it is useless to point out that the person
being put in the position of the Emperor wearing new clothes is a fraud.
Debunking O as an impostor by pointing out her fraudulence – that she
is actually ignorant, lazy, and deceitful, for instance – would be to miss
the point that fascism happens when people willingly suspend disbelief in
fraudulence and that, in fact, it is precisely with such fraudulence that they
identify. The trait-of-identification between O and her supporters is the
glossy surface image of a righteous “person of colour” who, simply by being
(herself), simply by making loud proclamations against the West at all times,
brings justice to everyone who has suffered under Western imperialism.
Since the identification is precisely with this truth/illusion about O – that she
simply is, without work or effort – debunking it would reinforce rather than
destroy O’s appeal.19 Fascism here is the force of an “in spite of” turning into
a “precisely because”: in spite of the fact that the Emperor has no clothes on,
people see him as the opposite; precisely because he has no clothes on, people
themselves provide the vision that makes up for this lack. In this vision, an
impostor like O looms with irresistible charm, as an angel of light. For those
who love her with benevolence, O is a cipher, an automaton performing the
predictable notions of the Third World intellectual they desire.
This story of O is but one among many that characterize the politically
correct atmosphere of the North American academy of the 1990s. In using
the term politically correct, what I intend is not the kind of conservative,
right-wing bashing of the academy gone to hell with feminism, cultural
pluralism, multidisciplinarity, and the like, but rather the phrase’s original
sense of a criticism of our own moral self-righteousness having gone haywire.
In this original sense, political correctness is a machinery of surveillance that
encourages certain kinds of exhibitionism. To borrow from Elsaesser’s study
of Fassbinder, we may say that “[i]n the face of a bureaucratic surveillance
36
system ever more ubiquitous,” the O’s of the academy, like the German
middle-class citizens in Fassbinder’s films, take on “an act of terrorist exhi-
bitionism which turns the machinery of surveillance […] into an occasion
for self-display” (545).
As a person of colour from the Third World, as a student doing a project
about lower classes in the Third World, O occupies a number of positions that
are currently considered, in an a priori manner, as “other” and “marginal-
ized.” But are such positions alone, especially when they are self-consciously
adopted and promoted simply in order to draw attention and in place of hard
work, a genuine contribution to change? Does otherness itself automatically
suffice as critical intervention? By subscribing to the “evidence of experience”
as embodied by the likes of O, those who support people of colour insult the
latter a second time: this time people of colour are not being colonized ter-
ritorially and ideologically; rather they are uniformly branded as the “virtuous
other” regardless of their own class, gender, race, and other differences, and
are thus, to cite Edward Said, orientalized all over again. To put all this in
blunter terms, we can draw an analogy between what is happening to O and
the much-criticized white fantasy about the sexuality of, say, black people.
According to this fantasy, the black man or woman simply is sex, primitive
rhythm, unrepressed nature, and so forth. To this wish list we may now add
the oppressed, revolution, and political correctness as well.20
The machines of surveillance here are not war airplanes but the media
– the networks of communication, which, in the academic world, include
the classroom, conferences, publications, funding agencies, and even letters
of recommendation. With the large number of students (rightly) eager for
alternative histories, of academic conferences (rightly) devoted to the con-
structions of differences, and of publishers (rightly) seeking to publish new,
unexplored materials, fascism has reasserted itself in our era. And, as even
my brief discussion shows, fascism’s new mode is very much complicated
by postcoloniality. The question facing intellectuals in the contemporary
West is how to deal with peoples who were once colonized and who are
now living and working in the First World as “others.” 21 In the early days
of colonialism, when actual territorial conquests were made and relocation
from the mother country to the colonies was a fact of life for those from
what eventually came to be called the First World, the questions for white
people finding themselves removed from home were questions of what Nancy
Armstrong and Leonard Tennenhouse call “the imaginary puritan”: How
to preserve whiteness while in the brown and black colonies? How to stay
English in America? How to fabricate a respectable national origin against
the onslaught of barbaric natives – that is, how to posture as the invaded and
colonized while invading and colonizing others? All in all, these questions
37
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amount to how not to “go native.” 22 As Armstrong and Tennenhouse argue,

the English novel, which was conceptually based not so much on previous
cultural developments in Europe but rather on the captivity narratives that
found their way back to Europe from the New World, bears symptoms of
this white anxiety about cultural purity. In this sense, the English novel is
perhaps the earliest example – to use Fredric Jameson’s classic pronouncement
on Third World literature – of a “national allegory.”
Toward the end of the twentieth century, as the aftermath of the grand
imperialist era brings about major physical migrations of populations around
the globe, it is no longer a question of white people going to the colonies,
but rather of formerly colonized peoples settling permanently in their for-
mer colonizers’ territories. The visible presence of these formerly colonized
peoples in the First World leads to violent upheavals in Western thought.
The overriding preoccupation among First World intellectuals has now
become how to become “other.” How to claim to be a minority – to claim to
be black, Native American, Hispanic, or Asian, even if one has only 1/64th
share of these “other” origins. In other words, how to “go native.” Instead of
imagining themselves to be a Pamela or Clarissa being held captive, resisting
rape, and writing volumes in order to preserve the purity of their souls (and
thus their “origins,” to quote again from Armstrong and Tennenhouse), First
World intellectuals are now overtaken by a new kind of desire: “Make me
other!” And so, with expediency, we witness the publication of essays that
are studded with names of nations and territories in order to convey a profile
of “cosmopolitanism”; journals that amass the most superficial materials
about lesser known cultures and ethnicities in the name of being “public,”
“global,” or “transnational”; and book series which (en)list “indigenous”
histories and narratives in the manner of a world fair – all this, while so-
called postcolonial criticisms of former European imperialist strategies of
representing, objectifying, and exhibiting the other are going on.
If there is one thing that unites the early territorial colonialism and the
contemporary white liberalist intellectual trends that I am describing, it is the
notion of a clear demarcation between self and other, between us and them
– a demarcation that is mediated through the relations between conscious-
ness and captivity. The myth, in the days of territorial colonialism, was that
(white) consciousness had to be established in resistance to captivity – even
while whites were holding other peoples and lands captive – so that (white)
cultural origins could be kept pure. In the postcolonial era, by contrast, the
myth is that (white) consciousness must itself surrender to or be held captive
by the other – that (white) consciousness is nothing without this captivity
called “otherness.” In both cases, however, what remains constant is the belief
38
that we are not them, and that white is not other. This belief, which can be
further encapsulated as “we are not other,” is fascism par excellence.
Emerging in postcoloniality, the new “desire for our others” displays
the same positive, projectional symptoms of fascism that I discussed in the
preceding pages – a rebelliousness and a monstrous aesthetic, but most of
all a longing for a transparent, idealized image and an identifying submis-
sion to such an image. Like the masses’ embrace of a Hitler or a Mussolini,
this fascism seeks empowerment through a surrender to the other as film
– as the film that overcomes me in the spell of an unmediated “experience.”
The indiscriminate embrace of the peoples of colour as “correct” regardless
of their differences and histories is ultimately the desire for a pure-other-
ness-in-pristine-luminosity that is as dangerous as the fascism of hateful
discrimination from which we all suppose we are safely distanced. The
genealogical affinity of these two fascisms is perhaps best exemplified by
the art of a Leni Riefenstahl, who progressed from embracing Nazi racism
to embracing the beautiful Nuba men of the southern Sudan.
If the controversial label “fascism” is indeed useful, as I think it is, for a
radical critique of the contemporary intellectual culture in the West, it is
because it helps us identify and problematize the good conscience and noble
obligations of the new liberal fascism with its multiculturalist modes and its
sophisticated enterprises of visibility. Some will no doubt want to disavow
such ongoing fascist longings in our midst; others, hopefully, will not.
Notes
1 Many people must be acknowledged for having contributed to the final shape of this essay.
Nancy Armstrong, Chris Cullens, Prabhakara Jha, Kwai-cheung Lo, Austin Meredith, and
Dorothea von Mücke were readers who responded with constructive comments to the first
draft when it was completed in December 1992. Members of the Critical Theory Institute at
the University of California, Irvine devoted a session to a subsequent version of the essay
in Fall 1993, and I thank in particular Lindon Barrett, Alexander Gelley, and John Rowe for
their extended remarks. I am also grateful to Iain Chambers, Chris Connery, Hal Foster, and
Kathleen Woodward for their assistance at various stages. To Livia Monnet, who gave me her
indefatigable enthusiasm and support, I owe a special debt of friendship.
2 For an informative analysis of some of the well-known and/or widely adopted interpretations of
fascism in Germany, see Schulte-Sasse. For some of the more recent discussions of fascism in
Europe and European writers, see the essays in Golsan, which also contains a useful “Selective
Bibliography” of recent works in English on fascism.
3 The argument that ideology is the history that has been “naturalized” or “disguised” is a
predominant way of understanding fascism; accordingly, fascism is construed as a matter of
lies. As will become clear in the course of this essay, my argument differs from this major view of
ideology in that I do not see fascism simply as lying.
4 It is well-known that even today members of the Japanese Parliament attempt to deny their
country’s war atrocities. Magee’s Testament shows one such mp, Shintaro Ishihara, declaring
39
Linked Histories
in an interview with Playboy that the atrocities did not happen and then changing his mind in
a subsequent interview with Time. In the second interview, Ishihara proclaimed that merely
20,000, rather than 300,000, Chinese were killed in the Nanjing Massacre – as if a smaller
number would make the massacre of less concern. This denial is so determined that the
Japanese government ensured that Emperor Akihito’s visit to China in 1992 would not be used
as the occasion for an apology. “There was an unfortunate period in which my country inflicted
great sufferings on the people of China,” Akihito said, speaking in Japanese. “I feel deep sorrow
about this.” Meanwhile, the Japanese Education Ministry exercised its constitutional right to
dictate the contents of schoolbooks by censoring descriptions of the Japanese army’s germ
warfare experiments on prisoners and of episodes such as the Rape of Nanjing. According to
a Reuters report in March 1993, Japan’s Supreme Court upheld this censorship and rejected
the lawsuit by Saburo Ienaga, a retired history professor, who had waged a thirty-year battle
against the whitewashing of wartime history (“Japanese Court OKs Censoring of Schoolbooks”).
Ienaga finally won his battle in May 1994 (“Scholar Wins Ruling on Nanjing Massacre”). As
Claude Lanzman writes in Shoah: An Oral History of the Holocaust, for the invention of genocide
no one wants “copyright.” Lanzman is quoted by Michael Lestz in a review essay on holocaust
literature, “Lishi de mingji.” For discussions of Japanese war atrocities in China published in
Chinese, see for instance Xu Zhigeng, and also Gao Xingzu. For a recent overview of Sino-
Japanese political and cultural relations since the Second World War, see Dirlik.
5 “The subject attributes tendencies, desires, etc., to others that he refuses to recognize in
himself: the racist, for instance, projects his own faults and unacknowledged inclinations on to
the group he reviles. This type of projection […] seems to come closest to the Freudian sense of
the term” (Laplanche and Pontalis, 351. See also the entire entry under “Projection,” 349–56).
6 For instance, in an essay on the 1932 Exhibition of the Fascist Revolution in Rome, Jeffrey T.
Schnapp describes “the structural undergirding of fascist ideology” as a “taut but hollow frame
over which a canvas must be stretched in order for the illusion of fullness to spring forth.”
Fascism “required an aesthetic overproduction – a surfeit of fascist signs, images, slogans,
books, and buildings – to compensate for, fill in, and cover up its forever unstable ideological
core” ( 3). As I go on to argue in this essay, the twin components of lack and compensation are
crucial to Freud’s concept of projection.
7 Albert Memmi associates fascism with colonialism: “every colonial nation carries the seeds of
fascist temptation in its bosom. […] What is fascism, if not a regime of oppression for the benefit
of a few? […] colonialism is one variety of fascism” (62). Wilhelm Reich associates fascism with
authoritarianism and mysticism; Ernesto Laclau analyzes fascism as a kind of populism or
failed socialism; Alice Yaeger Kaplan studies fascism from the point of view of the banal and the
everyday.
8 Quoting from Nietzsche’s On the Genealogy of Morals, Deleuze and Guattari write: “In the
latency system of terror, what is no longer active, en-acted, or reacted to, ‘this instinct for
freedom forcibly made latent […] pushed back and repressed, incarcerated within and finally
able to discharge and vent itself only on itself,’ – that very thing is now ressenti […]” (214; italics
in the original).
9 By reading novels, autobiographies, and letters of the Freikorps officers, as well as illustrating
his readings ironically with cartoons, posters, advertisements, and other graphic materials,
Klaus Theweleit’s work on fascism shares with Kaplan’s a methodological focus on the obvious
and everyday as the place to look for fascist aesthetics.
10 Elsaesser emphasizes throughout his essay the historicity of fascism and the historicity of film
theory’s privileged ability to explain processes of specularization.
11 Having said this, I should add, however, that the imagistic or projectional implications of
fascism go well beyond the medium of film itself.
12 In the passage from which my title is taken, Sontag writes: “Riefenstahl’s current de-
Nazification and vindication as indomitable priestess of the beautiful – as a film maker and
now, as a photographer – do not augur well for the keenness of current abilities to detect the
fascist longings in our midst. The force of her work is precisely in the continuity of its political
40
and aesthetic ideas. What is interesting is that this was once seen so much more clearly than it
seems to be now” (43).
13 Sontag’s argument here is comparable to that of Georges Bataille, who describes fascist
authority in terms of a “double character” in which “cruel tendencies” co-exist with “the need,
characteristic of all domination, to realize and idealize order” (146).
1 4 Unlike orthodox Marxism, which reduces spiritual and artistic phenomena to economics, the
fascism of the 1920s and 1930s had a great appeal to artists and intellectuals because it gave
the potentially creative role of beliefs – of mythmaking – a central place in social life. This was
especially so in the case of Italian fascism, which was, unlike German fascism, aesthetically
compatible with the avant-garde tenets of modernism. For an informative argument, see
Dasenbrock, 229–41.
15 See Kaplan’s very interesting discussion of the “slogan text” in chapter 3 of her book. For
Kaplan, the slogan is a form of encapsulation with the performative aura of the “self-evident,”
luminous, transparent speech act, which appeals through the clarity of refrain rather than
through thought and discourse. Both visual and aural in effect, a slogan is a brief string of words
that tells and makes history at the same time, and “a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy” (68).
16 For a similar critique of the positivistic manner in which some non-white feminists turn to ‘lived
experience’ as “an alternative mode of radical subjectivity,” see Suleri (“Woman”).
17 This environment can in part be described in terms of what Paul A. Bové calls “the facile
professionalization of the U.S. academy” (xv). However, the ramifications involved go far beyond
the U.S. academy.
18 I want to emphasize once again that my point is not to defend Western imperialism or
Eurocentrism per se, but rather to mobilize criticism of the trends of uninformed and
unanalytical claims about “cultural pluralism” that are being made in the name of anti-
imperialism and anti-Eurocentrism. By implication, it is also to criticize those who are kind and
lenient whenever it comes to dealing with non-Western scholars – those, in other words, who
base their judgements on the sole basis of skin colour.
19 The situation here is comparable, though not identical, to Slavoj Žižek’s analysis of the popular
support for Kurt Waldheim in the 1986 Austrian presidential campaign. The Austrian people,
to put the matter in the form of a joke of the time, wanted to have “Waldheimer’s Disease,”
the disease of not being able to remember that one has been a Nazi, but this is precisely what
Waldheim’s opponents missed. As Žižek writes:
Starting from the assumption that Waldheim was attracting voters because of his
great-statesman image, leftists put the emphasis of their campaign on proving to the
public that not only is Waldheim a man with a dubious past (probably involved in war
crimes) but also a man who is not prepared to confront his past, a man who evades
crucial questions concerning it – in short, a man whose basic feature is a refusal to
“work through” the traumatic past. What they overlooked was that it was precisely
this feature with which the majority of centrist voters identified. Post-war Austria is
a country whose very existence is based on a refusal to “work through” its Nazi past
– proving that Waldheim evad[ed] confrontation with his past emphasized the exact
trait-of-identification of the majority of voters.
The theoretical lesson to be learned from the campaign, Žižek continues, “is that the trait-of-
identification can also be a certain failure, weakness, guilt of the other, so that by pointing out
the failure we can unwittingly reinforce the identification” (105–06). Žižek’s book is entirely
relevant to the critique of idealism in fascist and totalitarian operations. See my discussion in
“Ethics after Idealism.”
20 Spivak refers to the current constructions of the Third World and marginality in the academy as
a “new orientalism” (56). See also Sara Suleri’s critique of what she calls “alteritism,” which is
characterized by an indiscriminate reliance on the centrality of otherness and tends to replicate
the familiar category of the exotic in imperialist discourse: “alteritism enters the interpretive
scene to insist on the conceptual centrality of an untouchable intransigence. Much like the
41
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category of the exotic in the colonial narratives of the prior century, contemporary critical theory
names the other in order that it need not be further known” (The Rhetoric of English India 13).
21 For a discussion of this epochal change from the viewpoint of the “Others,” see Chow, “Against
the Lures of Diaspora: Minority Discourse, Chinese Women, and Intellectual Hegemony.”
22 Among other things, Armstrong and Tennenhouse’s The Imaginary Puritan: Literature,
Intellectual Labor, and the Origins of Private Life is a significant contribution to the vast project of
deconstructing and thus provincializing Western European culture, in particular that of England.
Works Cited
Althusser, Louis. “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses (Notes towards an
Investigation).” Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays. Trans. Ben Brewster. New York:
Monthly Review, 1971. 127–86.
Armstrong, Nancy, and Leonard Tennenhouse. The Imaginary Puritan: Literature, Intellectual
Labor, and the Origins of Private Life. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992.
Barthes, Roland. Leçon. Paris: Seuil, 1977. Qtd. in Jean Baudrillard. For a Critique of the Political
Economy of the Sign. Trans. Charles Levin. St. Louis: Telos Press, 1981. 26.
———. Mythologies. Comp. and trans. Annette Lavers. London: Paladin, 1973.
Bataille, George. “The Psychological Structure of Fascism.” Visions of Excess: Selected Writings
1927–1939. Vol. 14 of Theory and History of Literature. Ed. Allan Stoekl. Trans. Allan Stoekl,
Carl R. Lovitt, and Donald M. Leslie, Jr. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1985.
137–60.
Bazin, André. “The Stalin Myth in Soviet Cinema.” 1950. Trans. Georgia Gurrieri. Movies and
Methods. Ed. Bill Nichols. Vol. 2. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985. 29–40.
Bové, Paul A. In the Wake of Theory. Hanover: Wesleyan University Press & University Press of
New England, 1992.
Chow, Rey. “Against the Lures of Diaspora: Minority Discourse, Chinese Women, and
Intellectual Hegemony.” Writing Diaspora: Tactics of Intervention in Contemporary Cultural
Studies. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993. 99–119.
———. “Ethics after Idealism.” diacritics 23 (1993): 3–22.
Dasenbrock, Reed Way. “Paul de Man: The Modernist as Fascist.” Golsan 229–41.
Dirlik, Arif. “‘Past Experience, If Not Forgotten, Is a Guide to the Future’; or, What Is in a Text?
The Politics of History in Chinese-Japanese Relations.” boundary 2 18 (1991): 29–58.
Elsaesser, Thomas. “Primary Identification and the Historical Subject: Fassbinder and
Germany.” Narrative, Apparatus, Ideology: A Film Theory Reader. Ed. Philip Rosen. New
York: Columbia University Press, 1986. 535–49.
Foucault, Michel. Preface. Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Ed. Gilles Deleuze
and Félix Guattari. Trans. Robert Hurley, Mark Seem, and Helen R. Lane. Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1983. xi–xiv.
———. “Power and Strategies.” Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings
1972–1977. Ed. Colin Gordon. Trans. Colin Gordon, Leo Marshall, John Mepham, and Kate
Soper. New York: Pantheon, 1980. 134–45.
Gao, Xingzu. Rijun qin hua baoxing – Nanjing da tusha. Shanghai: Shanghai renmin
chubanshe, 1985.
Golsan, Richard J., ed. Fascism, Aesthetics, and Culture. Hanover: University Press of New
England, 1992.
“Japanese Court OKs Censoring of Schoolbooks.” Los Angeles Times 17 Mar. 1993: A7.
42
Kaplan, Alice Yaeger. Reproductions of Banality: Fascism, Literature, and French Intellectual
Life. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986.
Laclau, Ernesto. Politics and Ideology in Marxist Theory: Capitalism, Fascism, Populism.
London: New Left Books, 1977.
Lanzman, Claude. Shoah: An Oral History of the Holocaust. New York: Pantheon, 1985.
Laplanche, J. and J.-B. Pontalis, The Language of Psychoanalysis. Trans. Donald Nicholson-
Smith. New York: Norton, 1973.
Lestz, Michael. “Lishi de mingji (The unforgettable memory of history).” Trans. Lin Zhiling and
Xie Zhengguang. Jiuzhou xuekan (Chinese Culture Quarterly) 1 (1987): 97–106.
Magee, John. Magee’s Testament. Home movie camera film exposed by the Reverend Magee
during and immediately after the rape of Nanking, edited and transferred to commercial
stock by the filmmaker Peter Wang, and produced and distributed by the Alliance in
Memory of the Victims of the Nanking Massacre, 1991.
Memmi, Albert. The Colonizer and the Colonized. Trans. Howard Greenfeld. Expanded ed.
Boston: Beacon Press, 1991.
Mitscherlich, Alexander. Society without the Father: A Contribution to Social Psychology (Auf
dem Weg zur Vaterlosen Gesellschaft). 1963. Trans. Eric Mosbacher. New York: Harcourt,
Brace and World, 1969.
Pascal, Blaise. Thoughts of Blaise Pascal. London: Kegan Paul, 1888.
Poulantzas, Nicos. Fascism and Dictatorship: The Third International and the Problem of
Fascism. London: New Left Books, 1974.
Reich, Wilhelm. The Mass Psychology of Fascism. Trans. Vincent R. Carfagno. New York: Farrar,
1970.
Schnapp, Jeffrey T. “Epic Demonstrations: Fascist Modernity and the 1932 Exhibition of the
Fascist Revolution.” Golsan 1–37.
“Scholar Wins Ruling on Nanjing Massacre.” New York Times 13 May 1994: A3.
Schulte-Sasse, Linda. “National Socialism in Theory and Fiction: A Sampling of German
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Suleri, Sara. The Rhetoric of English India. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992.
———. “Woman Skin Deep: Feminism and the Postcolonial Condition.” Critical Inquiry 18
(1992): 756–69.
Theweleit, Klaus. Male Fantasies. 2 vols. Trans. Stephen Conway in collaboration with Erica
Carter and Chris Turner. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987, 1989.
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1987.
Žižek, Slavoj. The Sublime Object of Ideology. London: Verso, 1989.
43
3
Queer with Class:
Absence of Third World Sweatshop
in Lesbian/Gay Discourse
and a Rearticulation of
Materialist Queer Theory
rob cover
Queer theory has been criticized recently by several academic authors for
its seeming inability to address postcolonial and class issues. It has been
described as non-materialist, as focusing on desire over needs. As a theory for
the exploration and analysis of constructed sexualities, it ignores a number
of obvious and non-obvious “absences” both within its own theoretical
focus and in its failure to address absence in the sites it attempts to explore.
For the purposes of this paper, I make use of two instances of absence: the
invisibility of the sweatshop and Third World labour in lesbian/gay discourse
despite the way this practice is used to prop up bourgeois production in the
West, and – through this spotlighting of closeted lesbian/gay skeletons – the
absence of “class” and the Third World from queer theory.
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Queer Theory
There is not the space here to explore the many strands and trends of queer
theory other than to point out some of the basic tenets that can be drawn
from the body of academic work on sexuality and sexuality constructionism
that labels itself “queer.” As a form of textual reading and sexual politics,
and reliant on post-structuralist/postmodernist theories derived chiefly
from Foucault, Derrida, and Lacan, queer theory permits perspectives from
which to challenge the normative, including those sexualities that have
been normalized in contemporary discourse: lesbian, gay, straight. It opens
a space for exploring diverse discourses that challenge hetero-normativity
while prompting examination of the constructionism of non-heterosexual
sexual positions. A prominent target of queer theory is identity, which, as
is often asserted through the anti-foundationalist work of Judith Butler
(Gender Trouble, Bodies That Matter), is performatively articulated as the
effect of regulatory regimes – a constraint queer theory attempts to transgress,
subvert, and disrupt.1
“Queer,” as it appears in lesbian/gay discourse through lesbian/gay media
publications, is not equivalent to the queer of “queer theory” 2 and frequently
fails to stress the disruptive potential of the non-normative. It is used instead
as a signifier for a grouping of non-heteronormative sexualities and genders
(gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgendered), with an ultimate effect of stabilizing
and regimenting those sexualities in opposition to the construct, hetero-
sexuality. Criticism of the constructionist trends of queer theory is found
in much lesbian/gay (or “umbrella queer”) discourse that most frequently
asserts an essentialist identity.
Queer Theory and Class/Race

Queer theory is subjected to more viable criticisms from within the academy.
Much of this tension comes from non- (or anti-) poststructuralist theorists
and researchers working within Marxist and neo-Marxist frameworks. Their
criticisms of queer theory are based in a reading of the theory as inadequate
for the exploration of class as an axis of differentiation and oppression.
Donald Morton divides queer theorists into those who base their work in
desire theory and those who look more closely at the issue of needs, finding
that needs theory is almost completely absent from queer theory as a result
of the theory’s basis in continental poststructuralist philosophy (Morton,
“Class Politics”). He suggests that queer theory’s notion of “queering the
planet” – derived from the title of Michael Warner’s anthology Fear of a
Queer Planet – is part of a project of establishing Baudrillardian desire over
any investigation of need, and that this erasure of need obscures worldwide
46
Queer with Class rob cover
social responsibilities in places as diversely located as Bosnia, Somalia, and

the South American and Asian Third World, as well as the non-privileged
sites and subjects of Western cities (Morton, Material Queer 29). For Morton,
needs theory makes possible a globalizing explanation of social injustice
not just throughout diverse geographic localities but through local Western
social problems such as disease (including HIV/AIDS), poverty, and sexual
harassment in a pattern of determinate economic and class relations (Morton,
“Class Politics” 474). He suggests that the liberal state – and by implication
the concentration on desire – is a mask that covers over economic and racial
exploitation (475–76), and that this is evidenced, as we shall see, by the pro-
lesbian/gay strategies of transnational corporations.
At the same time, there has been some criticism of queer theory as overly
universalizing. Leo Bersani sees Michael Warner’s definition of the subjects
of queer theory being those resistant to “regimes of the normal” as an obscur-
ing of sexual distinctiveness (71–72). The assumption that worldwide sexual
subjects transgressing heteronormativity operate in the same way is a chief
failing of much queer theory; it ignores the different inflections class and
postcolonial ethnicity perform on the sexual subject. Class theory and nation
theory are, according to Omi and Winant, the identifiable primary paradigms
of critical work on race (cited in Phelan 77), whereby race is understood in
terms of the social allocation of advantage and disadvantage; queer theory
has not been conflated with those theories that enable an understanding
of class, exploitation, and sexuality on a broad transnational level. This
failing stifles the ability of queer theoretical analysis to examine the way
the construction of sexual identities has occurred within and through the
discourses that maintain late capitalism.
The vast majority of queer theoretical analysis has concentrated not on
broad notions of sexual constructionism but on close examination of the
bourgeois constructs of lesbian and gay in the West. It has explored how
subjectivities are constructed in terms of lifestyle, taste, and culture (Hen-
nessy, “Queer Theory” 107–08) without an appropriate exploration of the
way social class and geographic location (West/Third World) might inflect
and add to the knowledge on sexual constructionism. In other words, queer
theory focuses on texts produced in the West and, generally, by those well-
positioned in the bourgeois class. I am arguing here that part of the reason for
such a focus has been the inability of theorists to seek out the non-Western,
non-bourgeois evidences of non-heteronormative sexualities, to see how
the non-West is responsible for propping up the discourses of lesbian/gay
sexualities, and to admit to the relative scarcity of research on non-Western
desire, class, need, and position.
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Materialist Queer Theory

What is necessary in order to extend the analytical potential of queer theory
is its rearticulation through materialist theory,3 with a return of class and
globalism including global exploitation as basic tenets within the theory.
In the critique he makes of queer theory through positing a dichotomy of
desire versus needs, what Morton misses is the way needs can (or should) be
focussed upon while maintaining explorations of desire (through semiotics,
through text, through spectacle, through jouissance) as the means that uphold
or obscure those who are (or should be) the subjects of needs theorizing and
analysis. A materialist queer theory would allow such a multiple zoning of
exploration and retain an ability to blur those two zones of analysis.
Needs have not, as Morton mistakenly suggests, been absent from queer
theory, as it was the exploration of the manner in which various Western
discourses privileged some over others in terms of AIDS treatments in the 1980s
that prompted the developmental exploration of difference and contributed
to what we now call queer theory. The beginning of the AIDS epidemic in
the early 1980s caused a series of crises both in the lesbian/gay community
and subsequently in the academy in lesbian and gay studies. There was an
urgency and a necessity in addressing the needs of a community being quickly
infected with – as much as affected by – a “killer disease”; this required the
attention of lesbian/gay scholarship. Attempts in the mid- to later 1980s to
educate the lesbian/gay community about safer sex methods caused awareness
of the limitations and inadequate attention given to differences among those
categorically labeled homosexual (Jagose 95). Considerations of difference
in terms of sexual practice are apparent in the spotlight HIV/AIDS casts on
sexuality, and, of course, necessitate further thought on the roles, place-
ment, and situations of non-white, non-English-speaking lesbians and gay
men. The fact that AIDS could no longer be defined a gay disease – despite
continuing belief in this myth by certain groups (Sedgwick 5n8) – caused
a necessary rethinking of the construction of the homo/hetero binarism.
Tasmin Wilton posits the idea that AIDS creates a new binarism, at-risk
and not-at-risk, in which heterosexual comes to be discursively equated
with not-at-risk (Wilton 129). HIV/AIDS discourse is one of needs – and it is
through the queer theoretical analysis of the lack of attention given to the
needs of those affected subjects outside the bourgeois-white construction of
non-heteronormative sexuality that queer theory has a basis (albeit small) in
exploring needs along with desire (and sometimes both together). But need
in terms of Western sexuality remains and goes beyond HIV/AIDS discourse
into issues of lesbian/gay political practice and community formation. A
materialist queer theory allows us to see the fact that sexuality is organized
48
along community lines rather than class demarcations; this has the unfor-
tunate effect of obscuring class status as an issue inflecting sexuality.
Through the exploration of needs and desires with globally enhanced
perspectives (without losing the site of the local), construction of sexuali-
ties would be understood as partly determined by the rate of distribution
of resources of all kinds throughout the West and non-West. The different
rates of capitalist development in different regions of the planet would be a
useful starting place for understanding the vastly different constructions of
sexuality between the Third and First Worlds. John D’Emilio points out in
“Capitalism and Gay Identity” that the free-labour system of the West broke
down the need for family units as basic economic units, permitting a very
specific social/sexual freedom to emerge (5).4 The capitalist labour system of
the non-West is markedly different, particularly in regions where sweatshop
labour is extensive, and this, as well as cultural and discursive differences
of the region, prompts us to see that non-heteronormative sexual identities
can, and will, develop in markedly different ways in those regions. In other
words, and as Morton points out, the increasing visibility of lesbian/gay
subjects in liberal capitalist democracies is not the result of self-liberatory
efforts but of the “reformative modifications undertaken by the system of
capitalism.” The interests of capitalism and the interests of heteronormative
patriarchy no longer coincide in the West (Morton, Material Queer 275).
The different emphases, positions, and styles of, say, religious/medical/legal
discourses and of transnational marketing strategies in the non-West cause
different conceptions and constructions of sexualities from the Western
model and are a useful pointer for queer theory to promote effectively its
anti-essentialist stance. But as a result of the differing uses that transnational
corporate capitalism makes of subjects between the West and the Third
World (primarily consumers and primarily labour force, respectively), the
focus of queer theory in terms of desires/needs must differ. In other words,
that branch of queer theory that we might foresee as materialist queer theory
must retain the conceptual ability to analyze need in the Third World to the
same degree that desire as sexual motivation is analyzed in the West.5
The recent evidence of transnational corporate behaviour in the Third
World suggests an increasing necessity for a materialist queer theory that
focuses on the needs of Third World subjects. As Rosemary Hennessy points
out, the expanding network of the multinational industrial complex through
exploitative relations of production and consumption has brought about vio-
lence against women in the Third World by corporate research, the increasing
sexualization of women internationally by a commodity aesthetics, and the
intensified contestation over women’s bodies as the site of reproduction in
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the First World and as commodity production in the Third World (Hennessy,
Materialist Feminism xii). Hennessy finds that a materialist queer theory
can put forward a critique of heterosexuality “that stresses relations among
divisions of labour while not shrinking from the examination of sensual
pleasure” (“Queer Theory” 108–09). While it is not an easy task to incor-
porate theories of labour and exploitation into a desire-based queer theory,
the dialogue that such an attempt can create will lead to further dynamic
strengthening of two sets of (to date, seemingly incompatible) theories.
The urgency of exploring needs can be suggested by articulating Morton’s
humanist/romantic conception of the difference: desire corresponds (following
poststructuralism) to the unnameable yearnings of the unconscious, whereas
need corresponds “to food, clothing, shelter, health care, education – the
confrontational relation of these two modes of thought can be clarified by
posing the question: What kind of subject can afford to explain politics and
the social world strictly in terms of ‘desire’ except the subject whose ‘needs’
are already met?” (“Class Politics” 474–75). While this point seems strategi-
cally under-theorized and requires much further analysis of the potential
intersections of need and desire, it is a useful platform from which we can
launch an articulation of materialist queer theory that enables explorations
of lesbian/gay discourse and the political implications of its bases.
The task that remains here – for now – is first, to examine the lack of
class analysis in the lesbian/gay discourse as posited through lesbian/gay
media publications, and second, to discuss the way that discourse posits a
global, essentialist non-heterosexual subject without due attention to class,
economic, and labour differences between the West and the Third World. I
will continue from there by opening the site of the Third World sweatshop as
the anomalous category absent from lesbian/gay media – an irony since the
transnational corporations that fund those media publications are known
to operate sweatshop labour. I will close with a brief look at how absence in
lesbian/gay discourse can be accounted for within both political-economic
and conceptual frameworks.
Gay/Lesbian Capitalist World and the Global Diaspora

Capitalism as economic structure and the emergence of the lesbian or gay
(or queer) identity have intricately linked histories. As John D’Emilio points
out, it is the free-labour system of capitalist societies that has allowed large
numbers of men and women in the late twentieth century to be less dependent
on the family as economic unit and to express non-heterosexual sexual identity
away from that basic social model (5–6). Materially, capitalism weakens the
economic bonds that once kept families together, but at the same time it
enshrines the family as the chief symbolic source of affection and emotional
50
security (11–12). Further, the possibility of establishing a community and

organizing politically on the basis of sexuality is related to the liberalist system
necessary for laissez-faire capitalism to flourish. The ability to organize on
the basis of community rather than class is a key notion of liberal politics
and society and underpins the discourses that keep the working-class poor
appropriately subjected (Altman, Homosexualization ix). It is ironic that
as non-heteronormative sexualities have become more free in the Western
world, they have become more reliant on business institutions to provide the
means to express this freedom, most particularly as places to make contact
with other sexually interested persons (85), but also for the dissemination of
(symbolic) lesbian/gay discourse. Without the social discourses of liberalist
society that are inextricably linked with the promotion of capitalist organiza-
tion, the possibility of economic survival outside the basic structure of the
family would have been impossible. Likewise, the expression of a lesbian or
gay or queer identity would not have been viable, nor would the organization
of a community around business interests.
The promotion of a gay minority as a definable consumer market is, in
some ways, a step toward tolerance and acceptance of non-heterosexual
sexualities in America, Europe, and Australia. However, the dependence on
consumerism and capitalist organization is, as Dennis Altman has pointed
out, “a new form of social control more subtle and less violent than the old,
but real nonetheless” (Homosexualization 102–03). Capitalist society and
corporate enterprises are perfectly happy to allow lesbians, gay men, and
queer persons to flourish with freedom to express sexualities, but only as
long as we obey the rules of reciprocal promotion of a fixed, coherent sexual
identity and of solid, devoted consumption. There is freedom to express
sexuality, but only as long as queer groups are a market, only as long as they
are sold to corporate enterprise by lesbian/gay media publications as affluent
consumers with ready cash. That is a constraint I find oppressive, with the
effect of marginalizing those non-heterosexual persons who are not in a
position to contribute by freely spending and buying. Many non-heterosexual
students and youth fall into this category.
Many corporations prey on queer people with disposable incomes. As
Carrie Moyer recently discovered (443), an American advertising agency,
Mulruan/Nash, focussing exclusively on the gay and lesbian market, noted
that since many non-heterosexual people are geographically or emotion-
ally separated from their homophobic families, the buying patterns nor-
mally learned from parents are not in place. When a company therefore
reaches out to the queer consumer, it can expect a certain amount of brand
loyalty. In Moyer’s words, “Mom and Dad might not like me, but I know
Absolut Vodka does!” (443) In the case of Australia, a significant number of
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working-class people are not in a position to be members of a supposedly

diverse community. Lesbian/gay activities are centred on available cash.
Drinking, drug use, patronage at clubs and dance parties, and coffee in queer
cafés exclude the non-affluent and the working-class poor from participating
in the established institutional practices of being queer. Such non-heterosexual
members of the working class are invisible: their particular class-cultural
identifications and images are absent in lesbian/gay media publications.
They are not represented by queer lobby groups and organizations,6 nor
do such people make it into OutRage magazine’s top 150 “powergays” in its
December 1997 issue.7
In ways that are seemingly less specific but relevant to lesbian/gay persons
and communities, capitalist society is responsible for a series of injustices,
discriminations, alienations, and marginalizations. Most important is the
way in which women have been treated in capitalistic societies built on
patriarchal origins. As the free-labour system evolved over this century,
capitalism drew more men than women from the home into the paid labour
force, and the result is still evident today with the imbalance in wage rates for
women (D’Emilio 76). This inequity, along with male control of urban public
space (76), results in a lower profile for female non-heterosexuals, the relative
poverty of many non-heterosexual women (Hennessy, “Queer Visibility”),
and the exclusion of lesbians and queer women from the gay market and
gay community. At the same time, the relative poverty of many persons of
non-white ethnicities, migrants, the disabled, and indigenous populations
in Australia results in exclusion from the queer community due to a similar
lack of buying power and available disposable income.
The freedoms that capitalist society has brought about for the expression
of lesbian/gay desire apply only to white, middle-class males. The discourses
of law, economy, and identity maintain non-white, indigenous, disabled,
and female non-heterosexual persons in marginalized positions and, fre-
quently, relative poverty. While lesbian and gay organizations have been
busy battling it out with right-wing politicians on the misguided notion that
affecting legal discourse will change the culture of sexually non-normative
lives, major corporations sign deals with prominent community members
and media owners,8 prompting the pink dollar strategy and permitting the
marginalization of all non-heteronormative people who are not easy targets
for a collusive marketing plan.
Early lesbian/gay discourse (in a period in which there was no definable
queer academic discourse in competition with community-level minoritarian
politics) was strongly marked by an awareness of capitalist structure and
class difference. Dennis Altman’s important work, Homosexual Oppression
and Liberation (1971), focussed its analysis of the early gay protests through
52
a Marcusean class/psychoanalytic theory and made strong suggestions that

the growing evidence of gay existence would drastically disrupt the system
of patriarchal capitalism in the West. D’Emilio’s work was similarly marked
by a class awareness, as were the many newsletters, periodicals, writings,
pamphlets, and publications of the Gay Liberation Front and other lesbian/gay
organizations of that first decade after “Stonewall69.” It could be argued
that the growing professionalization of lesbian/gay political organizations,
community institutions, and media publications, combined with a shift in
political focus from gay revolution to an assimilationism/gay nationalism
dynamic, as well as the increasing and seemingly positive tolerance extended
by liberal democratic societies, has resulted in the wholesale acceptance of
the liberal-capitalist discourse as the essential and natural social system.
In terms of the non-West, lesbian/gay media discourse – with much
reiteration – posits the notion of the global lesbian/gay essentialist identity,
one that has always existed and crosses all axes of difference and locational/
regional/cultural boundaries (D’Emilio 5). In the words of the subtitle of
Dennis Altman’s 1982 analysis of lesbian/gay culture, there has been an
“Americanization of the homosexual.” While communication technology and
postcolonial economic colonization of the Third World are the driving forces
behind the promotion of Euro-American culture systems on a global scale,
increasing economic globalization is having the side effect of prompting the
cultural globalization of queer sexualities in the style of the American; this
exporting of a Euro-American lesbian/gay sexual identity has two distinct
negative effects. The first is that the discourse of lesbian/gay identity – with
its rhetoric of “Come Out! Be queer! Be happy! Pride!” – puts Third World
individuals practising non-heterosexual sexualities in a position of danger
within a cultural and political context that may be incapable of conceiving of
sexualities and sexual freedom along American and European models. The
second is that the distinctive cultural ways of representing and understanding
sexuality and non-heterosexuality in the non-Western regions of the world,
such as through the banci kathoey in Indonesia, are wiped out and sexual-
ity is subsumed within the Western definition of gay – similar, but clearly
not the same (Altman, “On Global Queering” 2). Much Euro-American
cultural domination of the discourses of sexuality in the Third World is the
result of American and European AIDS-related promotional material being
funded for distribution in the non-West; equally so, the blame lies with the
proliferation of more general cultural codes exported from the West. This
destruction of unique and culturally specific sexualities is part of a new
colonial enterprise in the non-West, and, as I shall later discuss, the buying
power of so-called queer communities in America, Australia, and Europe
are indirectly responsible.
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This global essentialist lesbian/gay identity, which is so strongly posited in

lesbian/gay discourse, has most recently been theorized as a cultural condition
of diaspora – the suggestion is that a symbolic homeland (frequently, ancient
Greece) and a shared history of oppression and alienation on the basis of
sexuality permit lesbian/gay self-identifying persons (and, by implication,
those yet to identify or come out) to see themselves as part of a global, universal
family, as destined eventually to return to a togetherness (Buchbinder). This
symbolic togetherness through which an essentialist notion of identity is
posited is one of the several conceptual structures within lesbian/gay discourse
that obscures difference on the basis of regional situation or position in the
labour market of the non-West. It is contemporary lesbian/gay discourse that
(not necessarily deliberately) obscures the notions of class, ethnicity, and
the postcolonial subject in favour of the simplistic essentialist identity and
the notion of progress (along liberal-democratic or humanist lines) through
coming out and via support of the capitalist enterprises supposedly catering
to the needs (read desires) of Western bourgeois lesbian/gay communities.
Sweatshop
In the corporate search for new markets and through the cultural hegemony
of the United States, capitalism as economic and social organization has
manifested itself in the non-West, or the Third World. With the continuing
globalization of Western orders of knowledge (Foucault, Power/Knowledge
69) it is important for Western thinkers in every field to consider the implica-
tions for Third World peoples of the very corporate structures that have, in
part, prompted the queer freedoms in the West. I want to talk briefly about
sweatshops, which are the factory systems used by many corporate organi-
zations for ridiculously cheap labour (often paying as little as ten cents an
hour and providing few safety or health measures) to provide massive profit
margins. Sweatshops breach standards of human rights in many countries,
but they exist and flourish. They can be seen as the greatest, most disgraceful
scourge of capitalism, with several major sweatshop factories known to make
use of corporal punishment, child labour, and imprisonment as standard
employment practices.
What does this have to do with sexuality and queer people? At first glance,
not a lot – it seems to be a different problem for a different struggle at a dif-
ferent time. However, there is a very clear and direct connection between
the way corporate organizations market to queer middle-class people in the
West and the way Third World people are subjected to the cruelest, most
humiliating, and most depriving means of existence. Many of the corporate
organizations that market directly to gay and lesbian persons and advertise
in queer newspapers and magazines produce their commodities under
54
sweatshop labour conditions – Guess clothing, Gap clothing, Levi Strauss

clothing, and, to a lesser extent, Hyundai car manufacturing, McDonalds,
Disney Productions, and Nike shoes (Campaign for Labor Rights 1997).
The ways in which these corporations frequently operate in terms of lesbian
and gay marketing is astounding. To take one example, Levi Strauss provides
health insurance benefits to the partners of lesbian and gay employees; the
company creates a supportive environment for employees who test HIV+, and
it funds a Lesbian and Gay Employees association. Furthermore, it boasts
about this commitment in its marketing strategies directed to lesbian and
gay consumers (Hennessy, “Queer Visibility” 173). However, the workers in its
sweatshops of Spain earn as little as US$2.15 an hour and live in inhumanely
cramped and crowded barracks. By operating with a window-dressing strategy
of supporting lesbian/gay/queer rights and community, corporations such
as Levi Strauss suppress the issues of class and perpetuate an unjust division
of labour. It is a common corporate strategy: Nike, which employs a largely
female workforce in Asian sweatshop factories and uses severe corporal
punishment for those who do not work hard enough, hypocritically advertises
with female athletes in the West, asserting that women will be healthier,
stronger, and more independent if they play sports and wear Nike shoes
(Greenhouse; see also Alexander).9 By ignoring the underprivileged classes
while publicly promoting queer rights, profit-motivated corporations like
Levi Strauss are responsible for keeping Third World working-class lives from
view and for stemming deliberation on the ways in which sexual identities
are complicated by priorities imposed by impoverishment (Hennessy, “Queer
Visibility” 176).
While middle-class lesbian/gay consumers are busy buying commodities
from these corporations, they are subjecting a very large group of people to
cruel and unfair work conditions. The affluence of middle-class lesbian/gay
people rests heavily on the shoulders of an international/global working
class. Part of the responsibility lies with media that unashamedly attract
corporate advertising without questioning either the motives or the labour
record of those companies and that fail to link issues that have interest and
implications for their queer readership. While these media publications,
international corporations, HIV/AIDS organizations, and lesbian and gay
political organizations are promoting the notion of a global queer identity,
they are all failing to give attention to the people most in need of anti-cor-
porate combat.
Finally, the greatest achievement of this corporate strategy is to break
down the possibilities of large-scale progressive coalitionism, whereby queer
issues can be understood, discussed, and fought alongside issues of class and
transnational corporatism, where the underprivileged – whether economically
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or culturally – are pitted equally against the reigning power-bloc (Fiske 45)
and where the discourses that maintain corporate capitalism are put in a
position of material and cultural dominance.
While it can be argued that much middle-class affluence relies on the
labour exploitation of the Third World, the case of Levi Strauss and lesbian/gay
advertising (and purchasing) opens a space for the discussion of ethics in
lesbian/gay discourse. The use of minoritarian language and politics and
the positing of a sense of shared oppression (not just with other lesbian/gay
persons, but with all the socially oppressed) obscures the global class demar-
cation of the visible Western lesbian/gay community and permits a certain
self-righteousness among lesbian/gay persons as having suffered the ills of
homophobia, thereby having become aware of other worldly injustices. The
dissemination of this myth, the positing of lesbian/gay persons as apart from
other middle-class consumers, and the obscuration of the Third World factor
in lesbian/gay spending patterns are iteratively circulated by lesbian/gay media
publications as part of their marketing process. My finding here is that there
is no such right to a lesbian/gay self-image as ethical – in fact, the lesbian/gay
reliance on the Third World working class is politically more unethical
than general bourgeois exploitation on the basis of that self-righteous sense
of shared oppression. The acceptance of corporate target marketing is the
moment in which the ethics of shared oppression are lost.
Materialist Queer Theory and Absence (political economy)

Despite the connections drawn between the Third World sweatshop and the
operations of lesbian/gay discourse and lesbian/gay media, I am led to ask
how we can understand the absence of the sweatshop in that discourse. At
the level of political economy, material queer theory can assist us through
briefly exploring the production of lesbian/gay media – which sees itself
as the central arbiter and police(man) of lesbian/gay identity, community,
and politics. Lesbian/gay media is almost always locally or nationally based.
In Australia, many publications cater to audiences residing in inner-city
regions, and the two magazines – Campaign and OutRage – are both national
Australian publications; they promote a certain Australian nationalism
even as they posit a queer or gay nationalism and draw frequently on North
American sources for news and lifestyle features. Being positioned within
a liberal-democratic society that upholds transnational corporate activity
and a national focus in terms of providing for needs/desires of the regional
inhabitants, these media publications fail to subvert those national goals, even
as much as they might subvert the nationally preferred heteronormatively
constructed sexualities. At the same time, these publications are directly
reliant on selling an audience (as commodity) to large corporate bidders in
56
order to maintain finances for ongoing publication. While it might seem an

outrage that these publications do not scrutinize their advertisers in terms
of their exploitative operations, this lack of scrutiny draws attention to the
simple fact that lesbian/gay media publications do not service anti-capitalist
activism but exist for the generation of profits. In other words, the publica-
tion owners are implicated in the extraction of surplus value from Third
World sweatshop workers. They are able to justify their position through the
promotion of the “pink dollar” – the attraction of large corporate interest in
a lesbian/gay audience and lesbian/gay market, positing the idea that this is
a form of (however temporary) progress in the liberal-democratic political
struggle for tolerance of non-heteronormative sexualities. In other words,
it would not be financially useful for the publications to name these silent
sufferers, no matter what recognizable sexual identities might be discovered
in the dark corners of the sweatshop. As Butler points out, the absent is such
because it is, or has to be, unnamed (“Critically Queer” 12).
Materialist Queer Theory and Absence (the competing spectacle)

While political-economic factors might be an underlying reason for the
absence of the sweatshop (and the Third World) from lesbian/gay discourse,
materialist queer theory is able to draw attention to the conceptual framework
through which this absence can be understood and to the ways in which
the absence is reinforced and stabilized. Within lesbian/gay discourse, the
hetero/homo binarism is central to the establishment of the essentialist
lesbian/gay identity,10 and the repetitive promotion in lesbian/gay media of
that binarism distracts from the possibility of any other binarial representa-
tions: hence the frequent exclusion of non-white ethnicities in the dominant
publications (except, perhaps, as a highly irregular special interest issue);
hence the nil interest in class (as anything more than style from which stylistic
appropriations can take place); hence the absence of women or lesbian women
from many of the pages of the publications. The Third World cannot appear
in lesbian/gay media because that positing of a West/non-West binarism
would draw focus from the hetero/homo binarism.11
A secondary reason for the sweatshop workers’ absence, which queer
theory might provide some clues about, involves the notion of the body.
Rosemary Hennessy draws attention to the differences in the role of the
female body between West and non-West: in the latter it is primarily for
labour, for production; in the First World, the body exists for reproduction
(Materialist Feminism xii). In a similar (though not exact) way, the queer
body operates with parallel constraints between the two worlds: in the West
the queer body is about desiring (and, in many ways, about purchasing that
which is desired), whereas in the Third World the body exists once again for
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the production of commodities for the West.12 The Western labour system’s
comparatively easier working day (which includes technology, safety, and
often household after-work comfort) means that the body is, even at a practi-
cal level, free for the expression of desire for at least some part of time, even
if that desire must be performed through genital activity (though often the
rest of the body remains at the disposal of the purchasers of labour). In the
Third World sweatshop there is no time even for sexualized body parts. The
understanding, and often the reality, of the sweatshop world is that workers
are operating for ridiculously low pay during most hours of the day. The
body cannot be used for the purposes of desire (sexual or otherwise) when,
as Morton points out, the needs of survival are overriding (“Class Politics”
474–75).
Another way to make sense of that absence is through the notion of the
spectacle. While contemporary liberal discourses exoticize non-heteronor-
mative identities with a precedented fascination, it remains for lesbian/gay
discourse to maintain that spectacle – partly for the small political gains
that the economic interests of corporations permit. The lesbian or gay must
continue, in the lesbian/gay press, to be performed with glamour and flair.
Part of that glamour has been dictated through the notion of shared oppres-
sion, through the hardship of the bourgeois white lesbian/gay life. By not
concentrating on Third World sweatshop workers, by not naming and not
even Othering them, the bourgeois lesbian/gay literally steals the limelight,
refusing to permit a more exotic, more spectacular, more suffering subject
to be posited. In this case the spectacle that is the lesbian/gay carnivalesque
portrayal of itself is used not for Othering, for distancing itself from something
grotesque (Stallybrass and White 290), but for establishing and reinforcing
the boundaries that normalize the bourgeois white male as the non-hetero-
normative spectacle, as the only queer within the lesbian/gay discourse.
58
Notes
1 See Butler, Gender Trouble and Bodies That Matter; Sedgwick, Epistemology of the Closet;
Foucault, Power/Knowledge and The History of Sexuality, Vol. 1., and for a good summary of the
contentions and stresses within queer theory, see Jagose.
2 And, in fact, it has a somewhat different origin. See de Lauretis.
3 A currently popular term for Marxian or neo-Marxian class analysis.
4 Religious, legal, medical, and moral discourses, however, have operated from time to time to
counter the freedom from family that economic conditions have permitted, thus shifting the
basis by which family is maintained and regimented from one discourse into another.
5 A dynamic of need/desire might also play a role in a queer theoretical analysis of the sexuality
of prostitution in Western urban centres, a matter that needs further exploration and one that
might start with John Rechy’s The Sexual Outlaw.
6 Among the agenda items addressed by the Gay and Lesbian Rights Lobby (Sydney) are
legislative protection of superannuation and the right for same-sex marriage – both, arguably,
are bourgeois institutions.
7 OutRage magazine is the top-selling Australian national gay magazine, directed to a gay-male
and ostensibly upper middle-class audience. The top twenty-five of their 150 “powergays”
included eight politicians/judges, six high profile personality artists, six major businesspeople
and investors, two senior academics, one high profile sportsperson, and one fashion designer
– the majority of the categories here are wealth-attracting positions promoted as important
within contemporary bourgeois discourse.
8 Note particularly the role played by Australian gay press company Bluestone Media and its co-
director Danny Vadasz in securing telephone corporation Telstra advertising for the magazine
chain that includes the glossy OutRage.
9 Likewise, Guess clothing, which once operated a Los Angeles sweatshop, attempted to buy off
student protests by advertising their involvement in the sponsoring of a campus film festival
(Campaign for Labor Rights 1997).
10 Although bisexuality, which from time to time is alluded to in lesbian/gay discourse, disrupts
that hetero/homo binary, the new umbrella term of “queer” has provided the answer to
maintaining the binary while including bisexuality in lesbian/gay discourse – “all-of-us-
nonheteronormative-sexualities” versus “the straights.”
11 There is, of course, some evidence of the eroticization of the black male and Asian transsexual
Other in lesbian/gay imagery – a matter for which there is no room for discussion at present (see
Mercer). It should be noted, though, that this eroticization is both a Westernization of the Asian
Other, and one that – in the imagery – divorces (and obscures) that Other from notions of Third
World sweatshop work.
12 And for the desire of the West, see note 11 above, bearing in mind prostitution, sex tours, and
so on.
Works Cited
Alexander, Nick. “Sweatshop Activism: Missing Pieces.” Z Magazine Sept. 1997: 14–17.
Altman, Dennis. The Homosexualization of America, The Americanization of the Homosexual.
New York: St. Martin’s, 1982.
———. “On Global Queering.” Australian Humanities Review 2 (1996): 1–7.
Bersani, Leo. Homos. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995.
59
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Bigelow, Bill. “The Human Lives Behind the Labels: The Global Sweatshop, Nike, and the Race
to the Bottom.” Phi Delta Kappan 79.2 (1997): 112–20.
Buchbinder, David. “Queer Diasporas.” Unpublished paper given at Postmodernism in Practice
Conference, Adelaide, South Australia. Feb./Mar. 1998.
Butler, Judith. Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of “Sex.” New York: Routledge, 1993.
———. “Critically Queer.” Playing with Fire: Queer Politics, Queer Theories. Ed. Shane Phelan.
London: Routledge, 1997. 11–29.
———. Gender Trouble:Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York: Routledge, 1990.
Campaign for Labor Rights (CLR): Select Documents. Washington, DC, 1997, 1998.
de Lauretis, Teresa. “Queer Theory: Lesbian and Gay Sexualities: An Introduction.” Differences
3.2 (1989): iii–xvii.
D’Emilio, John. “Capitalism and Gay Identity.” Making Trouble: Essays on Gay History, Politics
and the University. New York: Routledge, 1992. 3–16.
Fiske, John. “Popularity and the Politics of Information.” Journalism and Popular Culture. Ed.
Peter Dahlgren and Colin Sparks. London: Sage, 1992. 45–63.
Foucault, Michel. Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings 1972–1977. Ed. Colin
Gordon. New York: Pantheon, 1980.
———. An Introduction. Vol. 1 of The History of Sexuality. 3 vols. 1976. Trans. Robert Hurley.
London: Penguin, 1981.
Greenhouse, Steven. “Nike Supports Women in Its Ads but not Its Factories, Groups Say.” New
York Times 26 Oct.1997: C12.
Hennessy, Rosemary. Materialist Feminism and the Politics of Discourse. London: Routledge,
1993.
———. “Queer Theory, Left Politics.” Rethinking Marxism 7.3 (1994): 142–83.
———. “Queer Visibility in Commodity Culture.” Social Postmodernism: Beyond Identity
Politics. Ed. Linda Nicholson and Steven Seidman. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University
Press, 1995. 142-85.
Jagose, Annamarie. Queer Theory. Melbourne: University of Melbourne Press, 1996.
Mercer, K. “Just Looking for Trouble: Robert Mapplethorpe and Fantasies of Race.” Sex
Exposed: Sexuality and the Pornography Debate. Ed. Lynne Segal and Mary McIntosh.
London: Virago, 1992. 127–41.
Morton, Donald. “The Class Politics of Queer Theory.” College English 58.4 (1996): 471–82.
———, ed. The Material Queer: A LesBiGay Cultural Studies Reader. Boulder, CO: Westview
Press, 1996.
Moyer, Carrie, et al. “Do You Love the Dyke in Your Face.” Queers in Space: Communities/
Public Places/Sites of Resistance. Ed. Gordon Brent Ingram, Anne-Marie Bouthillette, and
Yolanda Retter. Seattle: Bay Press, 1997. 439–46.
Rechy, John. The Sexual Outlaw. New York: Grove, 1977.
Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. 1990. Epistemology of the Closet. London: Penguin, 1994.
Stallybrass, Peter, and Allon White. “Bourgeois Hysteria and the Carnivalesque.” The Cultural
Studies Reader. Ed. S. During. London: Routledge, 1993. 284–92.
Warner, Michael, ed. Fear of a Queer Planet: Queer Politics and Social Theory. Minneapolis:
Wilton, Tasmin. “Which One’s the Man? The Heterosexualization of Lesbian Sex.” Theorising
Heterosexuality: Telling It Straight. Ed. Diane Richardson. Buckingham: Open University
Press (1996): 125–42.
60
I have lived that moment of the scattering
of the people that in other times and other
places, in the nations of others, becomes
a time of gathering. Gatherings of exiles
and émigrés and refugees; gathering at
the edge of “foreign cultures”; gathering
at the frontiers; gathering in the ghettos
or cafés of city centres; gathering in the
half-life, half-light of foreign tongues,
or in the uncanny fluency of another’s
language; gathering the signs of approval
and acceptance, degrees, discourse,
disciplines; gathering the memories of
underdevelopment, of other worlds lived
retroactively; gathering the past in a
ritual of revival; gathering the present.
Also the gathering of people in the
diaspora: indentured, migrant, interned;
the gathering of incriminatory statistics,
educational performance, legal statutes,
immigration status.
— Homi Bhabha,
the loc ation of culture
4
Cross-Mirrorings of Alterity:
and Its Psychological Legacy
monik a fludernik
Although postcolonial issues and terminology form the frame of my analysis,

I am concerned in this article with defining transferential projections of
stereotypes within a fairly traditional imagological framework.1 Imagological
research has for the most part concentrated on the portrayal of foreigners: the
image of the German in English literature, the image of the Englishman in
national European literatures. These heterostereotypes traced in the various
national literatures of Europe are part of a long imagological tradition,2 in
which several key characteristics of the national character have become at-
tached to the national stereotype: the drunken German, the proud Spaniard,
the stingy Scotsman.3 Autostereotypes, by contrast, are rarely discussed, and
the complex transfer between projections that one finds under the conditions
of colonial oppression or, more complicated still, in the circumstances of
migration, exile, and cultural hybridity has not had much attention from
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the discipline of imagology.4 It is no coincidence that poststructuralist ap-

proaches have flourished in postcolonial studies that deal precisely with
this murky realm of dislocated and displaced identities, whether in the area
of racially tinged colonialism (as portrayed in Frantz Fanon’s Black Skin,
White Masks 5), the gender-oriented inflection of colonial oppression (Spivak
197–221, 241–68), or the state of intercultural homelessness,6 a situation that
is portrayed in numerous texts by expatriate Indian writers.
If my analysis initially skirts some of the famous recent studies in post-
colonial theory, such as Homi Bhabha’s The Location of Culture (1994), the
reason for this temporary neglect is not hostility but a strategic bracketing
of the poststructuralist framework. By putting Lacanian and Derridean
formulations of the circulation and displacement of transferential images
under erasure, I want to ensure that the more traditional imagological toolbox
is exhausted for its full conceptual potential before turning to different meth-
odological frameworks. Rather than, as yet, indulging in “reading between
the lines” (Bhabha, Location 188) or employing “catachrestic gesture[s] of
interpretation” (184), I will map out the iteration and circulation of autoste-
reotypes and heterostereotypes in the double bind of colonial and postcolonial
constitutions of the self and discuss the social displacements that these
projections of alterity regularly undergo. My examples come from a small
number of fairly well-known works by Indian expatriates, among which Anita
Desai’s Bye-Bye Blackbird (1985) will receive the most detailed attention since
it covers nearly the full range of possible combinations of image projections.
I present five scenarios that define typical constellations of image transfer:
colony, exoticism/orientalism, exile, globalization/cosmopolitanism, and
third party. Each of these has specific parameters that are relevant to the
scenario. As I will show, the last three categories deploy parameters from
the first two in strategic ways to serve their own political ends.

The colonial scenario is characterized by the appropriation on the part of
the colonial subject of the negative heterostereotype imposed on him7 as his
very own autostereotype. This goes hand in hand with the wish to become
white, to exchange places with the colonizer and therefore induce a positive
heterostereotype projected on the colonizer (which corresponds with the
colonizer’s flattering autostereotype). The colonial scenario lends itself to
psychoanalytic analyses such as those proffered by Frantz Fanon and Albert
Memmi. The colonized subject flounders in self-hatred, whereas – despite the
native’s admiration for the colonizer – the colonizer in turn feels threatened
by the glance of the oppressed. Fanon’s and Memmi’s delineation of the
deliberately inculcated inferiority complex that afflicts blacks is as much part
64
Cross-Mirrorings of Alterity monik a fludernik
of the colonial scenario as the sweeper Bakha’s adoration of things British

in Mulk Raj Anand’s novel Untouchable (1935). This lethal acceptance of
white superiority as portrayed in the Indian texts I will be looking at could
be extended in its application to other contexts of discrimination in which
the deprived connive at their own victimization by the system. Much of the
nineteenth-century discourse about the working-class poor reiterates the
structures that Fanon, and more radically still, Bhabha have outlined for
colonial discourse; indeed the same stereotypes of laziness, stupidity, and sly
servility were projected on the working class, with a corresponding attempt
to create the worker in one’s own (middle-class) image 8 (the “Educate our
masters” slogan), and the same emergence of the fear of retaliation from
the workers can be observed.9 The scenario can be traced additionally in
contemporary discourses that marginalize the poor, whether in the American
social security debates (invariably recipients of welfare are blamed for their
social ineptitude) or in the patronizing First World attitudes about Third
World economic disabilities.
Not only is there a consistent strategy of blaming the victims, with a
familiar set of derogatory stereotypes that also show up in anti-foreigner
discourse (see Essed); there also exists the quite evident fear of aggression
that is projected from the bad conscience of those who “have,” thereby
legitimating repressive measures against the have-nots that are meant to
ensure the preservation of the unequal status quo. Here, too, the poor, the
homeless, and the marginalized frequently cooperate with the strategies
designed to contain the threat that they represent to the privileged classes.
Having internalized the contempt directed at them (which is but an exagger-
ated image of the fear their just demands inspire), they in fact behave as the
deserving poor by blaming themselves, by aspiring to the idealized status of
the moneyed, and by seriously making way for those whom they believe to
be “better.” (Sympathy for, and rescue at the hands of, potentially dangerous
“low elements” is also a recurring theme in Victorian literature.)
In the West, this scenario is increasingly played out in the daily confron-
tation with the homeless in the streets, whereas in Third World countries
one encounters ghosts of the Victorian scene. Thus, in Ngugi wa Thiong’o’s
notorious play Ngaahika Ndeenda (I Will Marry When I Want), the “good”
worker, Kiguunda, has much sympathy for his exploitative superiors, and
they in turn deride the stupidity of those like him but are really afraid of the
workers’ retaliation. In a scene of Sunetra Gupta’s Memories of Rain (1992),
the female protagonist Moni remembers train rides with her parents and
outlines the perpetual bad conscience of middle-class Indians toward their
social inferiors:
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[T]he rancid layers of the child’s rags bit into her senses, she refused
food, her mother shrugged and doled out puffed bread and potato curry
to her brother and her father, she watched the family eat, their gaze
fastened upon their food to avoid the million hungry eyes […] and so it
had been and would ever be, on every journey, except those they took
in the insulated comfort of air-conditioned sleepers, famished eyes
would fall upon them, the food would turn to cinder in her mouth, she
would shrink from the diseased hands that stretched in through the train
window […] she would watch the hungry eyes pass, empty cups would
be flung out of the window, crash against the rail tracks, ashes to ashes,
dust to dust. (86)
It is therefore quite intriguing to trace the interpenetration of economic

deprivation and political discrimination on the basis of the specifically colonial
make-up of the primal scene in Fanon or Bhabha. The colonial scenario seems
to intensify the interplay of transferential images because the political and
economic oppression is part of a calculated strategy of the instrumentaliza-
tion and disciplining of the oriental and racial Other. Bhabha’s formulations
indeed are more pertinent to the African scene: Indian self-derogation never
reached the abysses sounded by the black man; in India, adulation of things
British was excessive with a wide segment of the population.10
Another aspect of internalized colonialism can be located in the con-
spicuous presence of Foucault in postcolonial studies. (Bhabha, for instance,
frequently resorts to Foucauldian formulations.) The connection between the
workings of colonial power and the general archaeology of the imperial age
(automatization, normalization, depersonalization, disciplining) suggests itself
as a matter of course. It should be noted, however, that the structures of the
colonial scenario are not replicated in the relationship between prisoners and
their wardens. Significantly, Foucault’s prototypical emblem for the strate-
gies of disciplining, the panopticon, forbids incorporation into postcolonial
parameters. Although the colonial subject is “known” and “surveyed” (Bhabha,
“Difference” 199), this surveillance is not panoptic in terms of Bentham’s
model penitentiary because the colonial subject turns his look back on the
colonizer and thereby retains access to subversive counter-colonial agency.
Bentham’s prisoners, by contrast, are entrapped within a gaze they cannot
return. The psychological consequences of Bentham’s carceral scheme is
debilitating to the point of annihilating prisoners’ self-determination. Scarry’s
descriptions of the complex bond tying victims to their torturers are much
more appropriate to the panoptic scenario than the colonial landscape of
manipulation and strategic insurgency.11 The colonial subject may come
to love the master, but jailers or torturers never thus endear themselves to
66
their victims. Moreover, penal intimacy and immediacy are to be contrasted

with colonialism’s mediacy through discourse and through institutional
delegation. Bhabha’s point about the conspicuous presence of British colonial
institutions (the barracks next to the church and the bazaar)12 can therefore
be fruitfully contrasted with the secrecy of penitentiary surveillance and
disciplining that are shielded from the public gaze. In the colonies, it is
only the government that remains invisible, behind the scenes, in Delhi
or in England; the tools of colonial subjugation are in clear view of all and
sundry. It is this comparative relaxation of the colonial apparatus of power
that, according to Bhabha, facilitates the enactment of contestual claims and
affects the colonial discourse with splitting and differencing.
In addition to the autostereotypes and heterostereotypes in the prototypical
colonial scenario, there are two complementary scenes located, so to speak,
on the other side of the colonial medal. In the first of these, the colonial
scenario is attacked and inverted in nationalistic counter-colonial discourse.
In the second, effects of hybridity are produced in the subject who comes to
situate himself between the colonial scenario and its nativist inversion, or
finds himself implicated with both.
Nationalist counter-colonial discourse is a reaction to the effects of coloniza-
tion, not an original “natural” state of affairs. Since indigenous cultures have
for the most part not been of the colonizing type, they have not themselves
participated in a colonial scenario as colonizers and have therefore failed
to engage in the discriminating processes of knowledge and power toward
their political enemies. They have therefore tended to have a pragmatic or
even positive attitude toward Europeans, rather than an attitude of typical
colonial superiority with its attendant psychological effects (blaming the
victim, exaggerating the objection or the magic powers of the Other). This
was no doubt due to the actual military superiority of the Europeans, which
at once induced respect and a desire to be like the conqueror – a desire
motivated also by the wish to oust eventually the colonial regime from its
seat of power.13
The nationalist scenario is therefore no mere instantiation of a negative
heterostereotype for the Other, this time the invader; both the colonial
scenario and the nationalist reaction to it are qualitatively different from
the imagological framework underlying the image of the Englishman in
German literature. The main reason for that disparity between colonial and
non-colonial images lies in the operations of power exercised over the colonial
subject (but not over, or by, the individual Englishman entering Germany
during his Grand Tour),14 a power that is again qualitatively different from
social discrimination, as we have seen. The poststructuralist approaches in
postcolonial studies are therefore correct in pointing to the secondariness
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of transferential processes in the colonial scenario, and we can now extend

this insight to apply also to the reactive nature of nationalist inversions of
the already inverted image structure of the colonial situation.
Besides a characteristic celebration of native culture as a political move
against the potent colonial adversary, one can additionally posit a recurring
scenario of hybridity attaching to the state of colonial subjugation. I am here
using the term hybridity to denote both an intermingling of cultures – as
in the irredeemably compromised native culture propagated by nationalist
counterforce15 – and in the more specifically psychoanalytic sense in which
Bhabha defines the term: the colonial subject becomes hybridized as a con-
sequence of the confrontation with the psychological effects of the colonial
scenario and so does the retaliatory but inevitably secondary nationalistic
counterculture. Bhabha’s recurring use of the term ambivalence16 relates
precisely to this complex interplay of transferential images that cannot be
resolved in the plenitude of a subjective identification but constrains the
colonial subject to hover between exchangeable positions of stereotypes
whose fixations prove difficult to escape.
The trajectory traced here from colonial to anti-colonial to hybrid identi-
fications emerges both from Mulk Raj Anand’s Untouchable (1935) and from
R.K. Narayan’s The Guide (1958). In Untouchable, Bakha starts out with an
unmitigated admiration for the British (and also a qualified respect for the
Brahmins),17 only to lapse into a rejection of the Western model (the failed
conversion) and a brief nationalistic enthusiasm (the Gandhi interlude), end-
ing up with the hope for the introduction of the Western contraption of the
toilet. That invention, in its social consequences for Untouchables, constitutes
a typical site of cultural hybridity. Likewise, in Narayan’s The Guide, Raju’s
erstwhile adoption of Western forms of enterprise (Raju as tourist guide, Raju
as manager) and of subservience (Raju as a model prisoner of “sly civility”)
gives way to a spurious self-immersion in the native tradition of the holy
man, an enactment of holy ways that – from mimicry and simulation – turns
into deadly seriousness. The hybridity attaching to the final moments of the
novel relates to the unintended refunctionalization of Raju’s publicity stunt
– rescuing the village from drought by his sacrificial fast – in terms of both
the traditional culture (the open ending makes it possible to read as prophetic
Raju’s final words) and of the foreign media culture in which Raju’s craving
for respect from his fellow villagers is cruelly displaced in the glare of the
sensationalist requirements of television reporting.18
The colonial scenario describes the effects of colonialism on the colonized;
the second scenario – the exoticist/orientalist scenario – defines the same
situation from the perspective of the colonizer. Before dealing with the
issue of exoticism, however, I want to introduce briefly a topic that strongly
68
affects exoticist discourse, the parameter of gender. The prototypical colonial

subject is male, and so is the colonizer – another proof of the imaginary19
relationship subsisting between the two. In the exoticist scenario, on the
other hand, the colonized territory is frequently pictured as female, to be
conquered and penetrated. Moreover, the colonial woman with her charac-
teristic allure plays a prominent role in the cultural imaginary, symbolizing
both the attractions of the colonized land and the treachery and danger of
its seductive charm. (This of course echoes stereotypical views about women
prevalent in the West.)
It is also quite significant to observe the types of women who do get
inscribed into the colonial discourse. Fascination with the Hindu practice of
suttee, for instance, betokens a clearly sensationalist and voyeuristic attitude
on the part of the witnessing Englishmen, as the recent literature on suttee
amply illustrates (see Mani; Fludernik, “Suttee Revisited”), and the topos of
the blood-thirsty princess – another recurrent figure in the colonial novel
– likewise caters to the seamy side of the colonizers’ fantasies. In portrayals
of British womanhood, too, the “primal scene” is that of a gang rape of British
wives and daughters by rioting Indian barbarians (Sharpe), and the inverse
negative image of Western women emerges in the prototype of feminine
cruelty, the memsahib (Ghose). In typical orientalist fashion, one therefore
has two complementary (and contradictory) stereotypes about women – the
victim and the monster – and these are applied to both Indian and British
subjects.20
The implication of womenfolk in the colonial economy of power is always
present on the sidelines in the recent theoretical discussion but is rarely
thematized in the classic texts. Spivak, of course, started a trend in the
opposite direction (see also Minh-ha; Mani; and Mohanty). For example,
Bhabha treats two “primal” scenes in Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks as
constitutive of hybridization and splitting, and both crucially implicate
women in the colonial system. In the first scene the black man is pointed
at by the child 21 who says “Look, a Negro […] Mama, see the Negro. I’m
frightened!” (111–12) – a confrontation in which the discrimination of the
black man is enacted by means of verbal execration by mother and daughter.
In the continuation of this encounter (Fanon’s second scene), a little boy
identifies this fear of the black man as the primeval trauma that the black
man is going to eat him up:
The Negro is an animal, the Negro is bad, the Negro is mean, the Negro
is ugly; look, a nigger, it’s cold, the nigger is shivering, the nigger is
shivering because he is cold, the little boy [!] is trembling because he is
afraid of the nigger, the nigger is shivering with cold, that cold that goes
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Linked Histories
through your bones, the handsome little boy [!] is trembling because he
thinks that the nigger is quivering with rage, the little white boy [!] throws
himself into his mother’s arms: Mama, the nigger’s going to eat me up.
(113–14)
Again, the child seeks refuge with the mother, fleeing from the black man.
Two observations suggest themselves in connection with these scenes.
One concerns Fanon’s situating of the white woman within the colonial and
racial power structure; the other, Bhabha’s complete silence about the issue
of gender in his two key citations from Fanon. In Fanon’s text, the story
continues by relating how the black man fights back:22 “‘Kiss the handsome
Negro’s ass, Madame!’ says the black man. Shame flooded her face. At last
I was set free from any rumination. At the same time I accomplished two
things: I identified my enemies and I made a scene. A grand slam. No one
would be able to laugh” (114).
What exactly are the implications of Fanon’s tale? By locating racism in
the triangle between mother, child, and black man, he not only draws the
production of racist stereotypes into the sphere of the family at its most
intimate core; he also makes women responsible for the racist education of
their offspring. In both cases the woman provides a bulwark of whiteness,
a refuge for the frightened child. The enemy of the black man, the story
implies, is not the white man but the white woman. By shaming the white
woman into admitting her sexual interest in him, the black man turns the
colonial rhetoric back on her: the colonial system had reduced the black man
to an animal precisely because he was said to desire white women. And that
attribution of guilt to the black man, Fanon implies, is a projection of the
white man’s knowledge (or fear) of (white) women’s lust for the “Negro,” a
desire that whites consider to be animalistic and therefore has to be denied,
projected on the black man, and traced to the black man’s mythically exag-
gerated sexual prowess. The inferiority complex inculcated into black men is
thus the projection of white males’ feeling of sexual inferiority (Fanon 41–69).
Fanon’s analysis therefore shifts the entire blame of racial discrimination
onto white women, “blaspheming” against the so-called civilizing powers
of womanhood qua motherhood and thereby transgressing against one of
the most cherished myths of colonial society.
To present-day ears, Fanon’s entire schema sounds entirely gynophobic
and fixated on the male perspective. Whereas Fanon is perfectly capable of
recognizing that ascriptions of abnormal sexual prowess are constructions
designed to reduce the black man to a conceptual position of sheer animal-
ity, the ascription to white women of sexual desire for the black man, which
is as much of a construct – motivated by a sexual inferiority complex and
70
sexual jealousy 23 (with a good measure of misogyny on the part of white

males) – is swallowed by him as the truth pure and simple. Here are two of
the most scandalous passages:
I understand this extra-fragile woman: At bottom what she wants most is
to have the powerful Negro bruise her frail shoulders. (167)
and,
Are we not now observing a complete inversion? Basically, does this fear
of rape not itself cry out for rape? Just as there are faces that ask to be
slapped, can one not speak of women who ask to be raped? (156)
Of course, Fanon tries to “rescue” these lamentably misogynistic statements

by linking them to psychoanalytic theories about women’s sexuality (178–79),
thereby subscribing to the view that masochism is natural to the female psychic
development.24 In fact, he ends up explaining women’s rape fantasies as the
displacement of an unconscious wish for aggression that they turn back on
themselves by locating it in the aggressive male. As Vergès explains,
The fantasy “A Negro is raping me” is thus the conjunction of two desires:
to disembowel the mother and to be beaten/penetrated by the father’s
penis. Both desires are fulfilled through the fantasy of being raped by the
Negro. The Negro occupies both the position of the father fulfilling the
wish to be hurt and the wish to attack the mother. There is a conflation
between the little girl (i.e., Marie Bonaparte’s/Freud’s little girl from their
“A Child is Being Beaten” essays) and the Negro, and the latter becomes
the aggressor of the female/maternal body. The Negro can occupy this
place because culture has constructed him as violent and murderous. In
the Freudian fantasy, beating also means to the child an affirmation of the
father’s love. The Negro capitalized would then give the white woman a
masochistic affirmation of love. (“Creole Skin” 592)
Since the black man’s threat has been fixated on his genitals (Fanon 162–63),
he comes to serve as the primal phantom of the aggressive male.25 This is
tantamount to blaming women for evoking justified sexual jealousy in
their husbands and therefore making them responsible for the subsequent
discriminatory treatment of black men at the hands of white men.
Indeed, one can easily turn the tables on Fanon. For instance, it can be
noted that he is quite willing to leave Freudian psychoanalysis behind if
this serves his own purposes. Thus, in Mozambique, dreams about cruel
black men are no longer to be explained in terms of Freudian neuroses; they
simply relate to the massacres and torture of one in five of every Malagasy
by the Sengalese troops conquering Mozambique (100–04). One is therefore
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perfectly justified to start with Fanon’s own admission of the black man’s
desire for white women, a desire that is ultimately not sexual but symbolic of
the wish to become purely white, an after-effect of the black man’s constitutive
abandonment neurosis under colonialism (76–79). Since in this hypothetical
scenario the black man wants to be loved by the white woman, it is therefore
only logical that he should fantasize about white women’s sexual desires for
black men.
Such fantasies, however, refuse any real understanding of women and
their sexual vulnerability. This is the more shameful on Fanon’s part because
he is quite clearly aware of black men’s vulnerability in their sexual organs,
pointing out that blacks have traditionally been threatened with castration
(162). It should therefore have been possible for him to acknowledge the fact
that for women too the site of their greatest intimacy is precisely the space
that is maximally vulnerable to aggressive invasion, and that such penetra-
tion threatens to destroy their very ego. Fanon not only refuses to engage
with the female experience of vulnerability but also implicitly subscribes to
a version of Freudian psychoanalysis that defines women’s sexual pleasure
as synonymous with a masochistic desire for aggressive penetration – a male
fantasy par excellence since this projects the very parameters of male sexual
pleasure onto female desire.
The screw can in fact be turned further on Fanon by noting that his text
in general gives ample evidence of misogyny, and that it particularly focusses
on his hatred of black women who spurned him for white(r) men. Black
women are accused of social climbing, snobbery, and downright cruelty.
Fanon’s most egregious case is the mulatto who nearly has her dark black
lover prosecuted for his impertinence of writing her a letter (56–57). A very
personal touch to this criticism of black women enters the picture in the
chapter “The Fact of Blackness”:
Shame. Shame and self-contempt. Nausea. When people like me, they tell
me it is in spite of my color. When they dislike me, they point out that it is
not because of my color. Either way, I am locked into the infernal circle.
I turn away from these inspectors of the Ark before the Flood and I
attach myself to my brothers, Negroes like myself. To my horror, they too
reject me. They are almost white. And besides they are about to marry
white women. They will have children faintly tinged with brown: Who
knows, perhaps little by little… (116–17)
There is also the woman who jumps at him for calling her a Negress and the
black “girl” who keeps a list of dance halls “Where-there-was-no-chance-of-
running-into-niggers” (50). This should be read against an earlier passage:
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It is always essential to avoid falling back into the pit of niggerhood, and
every woman in the Antilles […] is determined to select the least black of
the men. […] I know a great number of girls from Martinique, students in
France, who admitted to me with complete candor […] that they would find
it impossible to marry black men. (Get out of that and then deliberately go
back to it? Thank you, no.) (47–48)
One can therefore, reading between the lines, uncover a great hurt, the
wound of hurt pride, the wound of rejection by women black or white and a
subsequent unconscious need for revenge by means of projection. Suitably
so for someone whose vision of love is articulated in terms of ego rather than
the giving or receiving of tenderness and respect: “The person I love will
strengthen me by endorsing my assumption of my manhood” (41).
To return from Fanon’s text to Bhabha’s creative reading of Fanon, Bhabha’s
silence on the gender factor in Fanon is extremely odd because his theory of
splitting literally and explicitly bases itself on a correlation between power
and desire (“Difference” 194), the combination of which is crucial to Bhabha’s
explication of differencing in the field of colonial oppression and rebellion.
Surely, it is significant that the Law of the Father is here represented by the
mother, and that Bhabha, remarking on the self-assurance of the “white
girl” (76) by an exchange of glances with the mother, never points out that
this would need to be read as the girl’s reassurance of her gender status,
whereas in Fanon it is precisely the difference in gender that produces racial
tension.
Bhabha’s unconcern for gender becomes, indeed, even more disquieting
when one looks at Fanon’s text to establish the precise quality of this exchange
of glances between the “white girl” and her mother. Neither the English
translation nor the French original bear any trace of femininity. No gender
indication is provided the first time we read “Look a Negro! […] Mama, see
the Negro! I’m frightened!” (111–12). Nor can such genderization be detected
in the second passage a page and a half later (“Look at the nigger! […] Mama,
a Negro!” [113]), except in the sentence “Take no notice, sir, he does not
know that you are as civilized as we,” which needs to be interpreted as the
mother’s address to Fanon-the-character and hence the “he” must refer to
the “handsome little boy” of the next page. If there is explicit gendering, it is
therefore male. Since in the original “I’m frightened” reads as “J’ai peur” (Peau
noire 115), a gender-nonspecific formula,26 no “girl” can be said to show up in
Fanon’s text.27 Bhabha’s odd and incorrect imposition of female gender on
Fanon’s child protagonist therefore betrays a blind spot in his own analysis
and constitutes an unconscious projection of Fanon’s misogyny onto the
critical postcolonial discourse.
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As a consequence of Bhabha’s gender blindness, he also fails to discuss

the crucial psychoanalytic significance of the little boy. Surely, the scenario
reverberates with the boy’s relationship to the mother – in Freudian terms, he
must by now have noted her lack of the male organ. In this line of interpreta-
tion, the black man’s penis acquires more than symbolic overtones since the
black man comes to embody the threat of replacing the absent father – the
white man – in pars pro toto fashion. In this implicit scenario the small boy
comes to compete with the black man (instead of his real father) for the desire
of the mother (in both readings of the genitive).28 In this symbolic contest,
the “handsome little boy” seems to have an advantage over the “Negro,” since
his competitor has been discredited by the set of contemptuous attributes
applied to him in the text. As Bergner notes perceptively, Fanon’s earlier
self experiences the abasement of a “‘feminine’ position” (80), that of being
subjected to scopic determination by the colonizers. This humiliation is
aggravated by the fact that scopic violence is performed by a woman since
in the traditional scopic regimes women end up being subjected to the male
gaze (79–80). Since the black man’s insult to the woman exposes the mother’s
supposed desire for the “Negro,” however, the little boy in fact loses the
competition in proper Oedipal fashion.
Beyond Bhabha’s silence on the gender issue and beyond the curious absence
of the white man from Fanon’s primal scene, the gendering of the colonial
scenario remains of crucial importance elsewhere. Memmi’s description
of the master/slave typology of the colonial bond(ing) carries remarkably
explicit homosocial tones: the identification of the colonial subject with the
colonizer is quite openly one with his virility – the desire to “become” the
colonizer being tantamount to a desire to regain one’s virility lost in the
emasculating defeat by the white man.29 In other contexts, too, it is always
the sly servant, the peasant, the warrior, the oriental prince in his harem
who confronts the Western government: power relations are by definition
between men. Subaltern studies, by foregrounding the family and the village
community, have contributed significantly to the colonial debate since they
have helped to revise the classic gender-blind analyses of colonial history.
That traditional scenario, by viewing women as mere appendages to the
men, denied them political agency. As Fanon’s anecdote shows, however,
even within postcolonial theory, gender issues are indeed constitutive of
the colonial situation, and women are still unwittingly forced to function
as the neuralgic point in a system of racial discrimination. The historical
implication of women in the colonial power structure thus leaves traces in
the cultural episteme whose reverberations, as we have seen, re-emerge in
odd moments of Bhabha’s poststructuralist discourse.
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The Exoticist Scenario

India has been an exceptionally fruitful ground for exoticist discourses. A
number of typically exotic elements combine in Indian experience, echoing
topoi with which the English have been familiar since William Beckford’s
Vathek (1786). There is, first of all, the sublimity of the Indian landscape
in an ideal combination of the Himalayas (the sublime mountain scenery)
with the deserts and the majestic course of the River Ganga, examples of
the oriental sublime. Among stereotypes of the sublime, only the arctic
regions cannot be supplied by India. Other features of Indian society also
lend themselves to orientalist stereotyping: the harem, suttee, and Mogul
valour in warfare are all welcome extensions of the exoticist fantasy. (It is
particularly interesting to observe, incidentally, how the orientalist typing
of India concentrates on the Mogul empire, with otherwise peaceful Hindus
coming in for consideration only when suttee or the “monstrosities” 30 of the
Hindu plastic arts are being noted.)
These fairly alluring pictures of India are flanked by a depiction of the
Indian landscape as hell, with an emphasis on the oppressive heat, the hordes of
vermin,31 hellish religious rites (suttee), and the monstrosity of its architecture.
Since these descriptions centre on the very elements that lend themselves to
an exotic reading, the exotic can be argued to be intrinsically ambivalent.
The sensual allure of the sublime has an inherent dark undercurrent, with
sexual connotations given prominence in the imagery.
This exoticist scenario needs to be considered alongside its inverse coun-
terpart, the set of stereotypes describing Indians’ views of England. Here,
on the positive side, England’s green valleys with their Wordsworthian
echoes are contrasted with the negative features of England’s coldness and
dreariness, its continual rainfall and lack of human warmth. Whereas the
positive features correspond to a picturesque view of the English landscape
that the British themselves used to articulate with relief, contrasting India’s
excessive heat, drought, and expansiveness with their own country of homely
and manageable proportions, the negative stereotypes of the British Isles are
of external (Indian) origin – with the exception of the rain, perhaps: the one
point that the English themselves would concede to be rather a nuisance. All
these views of England are thematized at great length in Nirad Chaudhuri’s
voluble and cliché-ridden account of his trip to England. In stereotypical
fashion, Chaudhuri contrasts the picturesqueness of the English landscape
in its harmony, moderation, and benignity with the Indian scenario in its
disparity, excessivity, and monstrosity. In Anita Desai’s Bye-Bye Blackbird
(1985), it is Dev’s epiphany in the countryside in which he experiences the
“real” Wordsworthian England (168–72) that aptly illustrates these correla-
tions. Dev has been imbued with English poetry, and this is what he wants
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to find in England. Adit, who has been much more realistic in his attitude
towards England (no Wordsworthian illusions for him when he observes
the discontent of Sarah’s parents – Dev’s in-laws – in their country home),
by contrast succumbs to exoticist fantasies about his home country, thereby
enacting a typical reaction to his prolonged exile from home.
When he had leaned over the bridge and gazed down at the River Test
and laughed at the downy cygnets following their regal parent under the
silver-leaved willows, the insane spectacles on his eyes had actually
shown him the rivers of India – the shameful little Jumna, so unworthy
of its mythical glory; the mud and slush of the Ganges with its temples
and yogis, its jackals and alligators lining the banks; the murderous
Mahanadi, each year going berserk like an elephant, trampling those who
sought to pacify it, in riverside temples, with marigolds and oil lamps; the
uncivilised, mosquito ridden Brahmaputra swirling through the jungles;
the fine silver fingers of Punjab’s rivers raking the scorched earth. […]
The long, lingering twilight of the English summer trembling over the
garden had seemed to him like an invalid stricken with anaemia, had
aroused in him a sudden clamour, like a child’s tantrum, to see again an
Indian sunset, its wild conflagration, rose and orange, flamingo pink and
lemon, scattering into a million sparks in the night sky. (177–78)
Adit’s nostalgia for India does not start out with a craving for the sublime.
His initial view of Indian rivers concentrates not on their grandeur (which
is in fact explicitly rejected as a mythical mystification of an inglorious real-
ity), but on the messiness and squalor of Indian watercourses in contrast to
the idyllic neatness of English river scenes. By the end of the cited passage,
however, Adit has managed to transform the Wordsworthian pastoral into an
emotional desert and has acceded to his violent longings for Indian sunsets
with their aggressive onslaught of colours. Such a “wild conflagration,” like
the earlier depiction of Indian riverscapes in terms of contemptible squalor,
ironically mirrors English attitudes toward the oriental sublime and its
uncivilized counterpart, the abject.
The exoticist paradigm, one can therefore conclude, constitutes an escapist
fantasy, with Westerners thrilling to the allure of the sublime and Indians
basking in the neatness and picturesqueness of the English scene – for which
they have acquired a taste from reading English pastoral romantic poetry where
that landscape served the escapist fantasy of frustrated city dwellers.
The Exile: Criticism of Self and Other

The condition of exile combines a number of recurring features: a nostalgia
for the home country that results in an idealization of India’s positive features
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and an indulgence in fond memories that tend to acquire gilded overtones;

an attempt to create a genuine replica of home in the foreign environment,
thereby producing a false imitation that resembles exoticist simulacra of Indian
culture; an increasing distance from the host culture, with a tendency to move
from open criticism of the colonial past and of Britain’s current patronizing
stance toward Indian immigrants to fantasies of counter-colonization and
the assumption of national superiority over the British. In addition to these
parameters, one can observe a tendency to displace the experience of racial
discrimination in England onto other immigrant groups, transposing racial
epithets into descriptors of class membership or religious affiliation.
This last point has to do with the Indians’ self-image in London rather
than with their views about India or England. British racism against coloured
immigrants is experienced by both Dev and Adit in Desai’s novel. Adit has
simply stopped paying attention, whereas Dev is deeply bothered by the
inscriptions of “Wog” slogans on the underground and by racist remarks
in general (16). Both Dev and Adit, however, immediately agree to label the
Sikh family in the same house as low-class, and to look down upon them
because they live in overcrowded lodgings and are supposedly dirty (28). The
matriarch once corners Dev, who has caught a cold, and tends to his medical
needs, even offering to get a job and a wife for him. As becomes evident from
her remarks, her sons have not shied away from the most menial jobs and
are now engaged in profitable business, whereas Dev, who is looking for a
white-collar job only, has been unemployed since his arrival in England. Dev’s
feelings of disgust toward the Sikhs, therefore, disguise a good measure of
guilty conscience and they help disguise his concern over his own inferiority
in relation to his neighbours’ success story. Such a displacement of the racial
stereotype onto lower-class Indians serves a double function: it deflects the
feelings of inferiority generated by racial remarks onto the already despised
Sikhs, and it pretends that British racist clichés are class-related, that they
do (correctly) apply to the lower-class Sikhs but are inappropriate to the
upper-class Hindus. By means of this double strategy, respect for the English
and a positive (class-related) self-image can be preserved, circumventing
serious puncturing of Brahmin self-respect.
In connection with the class issue, it also becomes apparent that the colonial
inferiority complex is still at work in these Indian exiles. Dev, it is claimed,
would be more than lucky to marry the shop girl whom he woos at the end
of the story, and Adit has of course taken a huge step up the social ladder by
marrying Sarah. Neither man would ever have dreamed of taking a wife from
the working class in India,32 and Sarah’s own choice of an Indian husband is
conspicuously fraught with family scandal, rejection, and loneliness. Sarah is
ashamed of her husband (ch. 2) and has lost all her friends as a consequence
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of the marriage, her relationship to her parents has suffered, and she refuses
to address these problems, repressing them carefully. Her forlorn look as Adit
happens to observe her getting down from the bus (31) tells of the emotional
price she is paying for her mixed marriage, and it can even be argued that her
headlong plunge into motherhood and expatriation to India is yet another
futile attempt to suppress the British side of herself.
The condition of exile is characterized first and foremost, as I have noted,
by nostalgia for the home country. Indian food in retrospect acquires a
lusciousness much exaggerated – as Dev notes when Adit enthuses about
halwa, which one merely takes for granted in India (15–16). This attitude is
part of a complex immersion in nostalgia. The thing to do is to go out to an
Indian restaurant that evokes the Raj period in its decor, a kind of museum
of times past:
Here [at Veeraswamy’s] you have the real thing – the very essence of the
Raj, of the role of the sahib log – in its fullest bloom.
Sarah, listening to a rather drunken Dev’s flamboyant words, looked
about her again and thought she saw what he meant. Through his
eyes, she saw that essence, that living bloom in these halls – brilliant,
exotic, gold-dusted, rose-tinted. Here were the tiger skins and the gold
leaf elephants, the chandeliers and rainbow-coloured Jaipur furniture,
the crimson carpets and the starched turbans of another age, another
world – all a bit outsize, more brilliant than they had been in real life, in
India, for here there was no clammy tropical heat, no insidious dust, no
insecurity, no shadow of history to shake or darken or wilt them. Here was
only that essence, that rose bloom, transported to a climate that touched
more gently on human dreams; here it could flower and shed its perfume
in the safety of mirror-lined, carpet-laid hallucination. Even the grace and
good manners of the Indian servants were a little more theatrical than
they would have been in India. Everyone seemed to be playing a part in a
technicoloured film about the East – even I, thought Sarah, fingering the
gold chain at her neck. (195)
Nostalgia for the home country therefore apparently evokes artificial re-
creations of a past that never existed in such an idealized form, a nativeness
born of postcoloniality. Likewise, at another point in the novel, bad music
comes to be accepted for a good performance (96) simply because rarity and
nostalgia combine to make the fake article precious, to value it as the real
thing. These simulacra of India (which correspond to Western imports from
India – particularly in the case of the decor of the restaurant, a collection of
colonialist plunder from the subcontinent) are appropriated by expatriate
Indians as their own heritage.
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Negative images of India are either completely repressed or subjected to

nostalgic interpretation. Adit, as we have seen, feels affection for the Indian
rivers although they are much less grand than in the mythical shape in which
they have loomed in his mind (177–78), and he enthuses over the glorious
Indian sunsets and the Indian landscape in terms of its “wild, wide grandeur,
its supreme grandeur, its loneliness and black, glittering enchantment” (180).
This exotic picture, too, is a cliché of Western provenance, as is its negative
underside, which Adit has to face later, again in a film. Adit and Sarah are
watching videos of Indian movies set in Indian landscapes, “feeling Bengal,
feeling India sweep into their room like a flooded river, drowning it all and
replacing it with the emptiness and sorrow, the despair and rage, the flat grey
melancholy and the black glamour of India” (224). In all of these instances,
the exotic orientalist cliché of India comes to serve as a substitute for expatri-
ates’ real experience of their home country, memories of which have become
warped by nostalgia and desire. It is only when Adit thinks of taking Sarah
back with the baby that he recalls with a pang the poverty, crowding and
lack of sanitary facilities and what this might mean to his wife. Adit bases
his appreciation of England on his material living standard in London (the
appliances he can afford, the freedom, the privacy) – a view that is manifestly
imbricated with British attitudes of superiority and condescension – and he
is realistic in his description of the Indian situation: not only would he have
been unable to get a job there had he remained, but he also would have had
to live on the brink of destitution (17–18).
Expatriates are therefore caught in a web of false images of India since
the experience of the source has been lost to them. Moreover, they become
embroiled in an orientalist discourse about their home country and are
unable to extricate themselves from the West and the categories it imposes
on them and their culture. This leads to a schizophrenia of sorts, such as
the one Dev experiences soon after his arrival in England when he tries to
decide whether to stay or not:
There are days in which the life of an alien appears enthrallingly rich and
beautiful to him, and that of a homebody too dull, too stale to return
to ever. Then he hears a word in the tube or notices an expression on
an English face that overturns his latest decision and, drawing himself
together, he feels he can never bear to be the unwanted immigrant but
must return to his own land, however abject or dull, where he has, at
least, a place in the sun, security, status and freedom. (86)
England appears to him as either exotically attractive (“enthrallingly rich

and beautiful”) or as hostile, and India has been turned into a familiar but
unloved bogeyman.
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To extricate oneself from these colonial bonds, one has to strike back.
The exile scenario therefore includes criticism of the British colonialist past
as a typical reaction of the expatriate: Dev, for instance, refuses to like St.
Paul’s Cathedral because it symbolizes Britain’s imperial grandeur (67–68).
There is also the attempt at aggressive retaliation under the aegis of a cultural
and economic counter-colonization of England. Thus, Dev is delighted to
find an Indian bazaar in London that evokes in him fantasies of an Indian
takeover of the British Isles (thereby, one can note bemusedly, realizing the
worst Western fears of “Balkanization”):
“It seems to me the East India Company has come to take over England now.”
Dev is delighted with the idea. He is exhilarated by the rowdy, libertine
Indian atmosphere about him. His guard is lowered and “Topping!” he
shouts, remembering the phrase from some schoolboy comic and finding
it appropriate. “Let history turn the tables now. Let the Indian traders come
to England – the Sikhs and Sindhis with their brass elephants and boxes of
spice and tea. Let them take over the City, to begin with – let them move into
Cheapside and Leadenhall and Cornhill. Let them move into Threadneedle
Street and take over the Bank, the Royal Exchange and Guildhall. Then let
them spread over the country – the Sikhs with their turbans and swords
and the Sindhis with their gold bars and bangles. Let them build their forts
along the coast, in Brighton and Bristol and Bath. Then let our army come
across, our Gurkhas and our Rajputs with the camel corps and elephants of
Rajasthan.” (11)
This rather carnivalesque scenario is complemented by Adit’s and Dev’s

talk about Indian ambassadorship in England. Indian hospitality and
“gentlemanliness” are cited by Adit in order to reject accusations of Indian
inferiority. Adit wants to “[show] the English what a gentleman an Indian
can be […] dazzling everyone with [his] Oriental wit and fluency” (154).
This rather half-hearted attempt – Adit has to prove Indian worth against
Western allegations of unworthiness – contrasts with Dev’s markedly more
combative attitude:
I am showing these damn imperialists with their lost colonies complex
that we are free people now, with our own personalities that this veneer
of an English education has not obscured, and not afraid to match ours
with theirs. I am here, he proselytized, to interpret my country to them,
to conquer England as they once conquered India, to show them, to show
them… (123)
Such a turning of the tables, however, remains sheer fantasy. Nobody is

going to take either Dev or Adit seriously, so even their attempts to break
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through the inhibiting straitjacket of Western stereotyping founders on

their hopeless enmeshment with orientalist discourse: the subaltern can
never speak but in the language of the oppressor. The two options outlined
above parallel the nationalist reactions within the colonial scenario. In the
colonial context, however, agency is a distinct opportunity; in the context
of diasporic homelessness, aggressive discourse peters out in ineffective
posturing and utopian wish-fulfillment.
The scenario of expatriate self-definition most clearly illustrates the cross-
mirrorings of alterity apostrophized in my title: exile is a condition of inherent
and ineluctable inauthenticity in which several types of Western stereotyping
are adopted in the attempt to constitute a sort of Indian self-identification
even if at second remove. There is no attempt to become, simply, British.
Such a project would not merely founder on the patent impossibility of a
visible minority becoming invisible (like Ellison’s invisible man), but it
additionally presupposes the utopian scenario of a complete elimination of
one’s past. Thus Bharati Mukherjee’s claim of an American identity (much
more convincing in the melting pot scenario of American immigration) has
elicited a vigorous antagonism within the Indian expatriate community. Her
claim to be “American” is seen as a treachery to inherited cultural values.33
There is, however, more than one way in which to become “British.” One such
option is delineated in the following discussion of globalization.
Globalization
In the scenario of globalization, the emigré is part of a cosmopolitan “scene”
in a major cultural centre in the West. He or she participates in, say, British
culture at the upper level, has a professional – usually academic – job, and has
the privilege to choose eclectically between cultures and between identities.
On the negative side, this position frequently entails an inability to feel at
home anywhere at all, a cultural rootlessness: one is part of the global elite
but no longer Indian or fully British. On the positive side, the class privilege
afforded by the status within a global professional elite allows expatriates to
avoid both racial discrimination and contact with their poorer country-folk
who suffer from it. It is this role of a cosmopolitan subject that is frequently
celebrated in postcolonial work on migrancy and hybridity (Krishnaswamy),
a role that no doubt yields quite noticeable advantages to those able to claim
it, despite the fact that exile itself, even in the best of conditions, induces
nostalgia, homesickness, or a loss of orientation.
The scenario of globalization becomes particularly important in the
handling of cultural clichés. We noted earlier that travelling Indians project
romanticized visions of England (imported into India by means of British
education) on their exotic “occidental” other, thereby inverting the orientalist
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gaze and subjecting England to an inauthentic stereotyping. This inversion of

the colonial paradigm is, however, still rooted in colonial education and does
not significantly escape the clutches of Western discourse. In a globalized
context, however, clichés of Britain lose their counter-colonial specificity
since they now come to be situated on the same level as clichés about France,
the U.S., Japan, or India itself. From a cosmopolitan vantage point, these dif-
ferent countries and their cultural products become exchangeable within an
economy of tourism and international migrancy. Moreover, these symbolic
nationalist simulacra allow the cosmopolitan subject to exercise power over
the image-making process by selecting, combining, and exploiting the clichés
for his or her own purposes.
These processes of appropriation and exploitation can be illustrated by a
passage from Sunetra Gupta’s The Glassblower’s Breath:
Turning for a last farewell glance, he [Avishek] had been hit by the pastry
texture of the snow-dusted spires, and this gentle vision had resurrected
his desire to craft in cake flesh the spires of Oxford, his first dream, his
last dream, his one enduring fantasy, Balliol in bakemeat, a gingerbread
Christchurch. (59)
Avishek the baker not only fantasizes about the architecture of colleges but
he also exploits these clichés for his own industry, producing simulacra of
Christchurch and Balliol in the shape of quite literally consumable bakery.
Avishek therefore commodifies British culture for his own profit in the
same way as souvenir factories bank on the popularity of cultural symbols
like the Taj Mahal, the Eiffel Tower, or Big Ben. Avishek’s commodification
of Christchurch and Balliol is therefore situated within a global culture of
tourism and trade that converts any marketable symbol into simulacra, which
are then distributed in the global consumer culture.
The ascendancy of the global elite over the native culture of the host country
can be signalled in a different manner too. In Gupta’s novels the Indian
expatriates frequently have a higher social status than the British characters,
and some of the Westerners can even be said to possess the traits typically
ascribed to the native from the arrogant colonial perspective. Thus, in The
Glassblower’s Breath, Daniel the butcher is the one Englishman among the
major protagonists of the novel, and he is inferior to the Indian and Persian
expatriates in terms of education, intelligence, elegance, and of course social
status. (Besides Daniel, the only other memorable British character is a
pervert who organizes alphabetical dinners.) The American good-for-nothing
Sparrow, on the other hand, epitomizes the figure of the shlemiel. He is a
lazy, drifting character, a promiscuous, carnivalesque figure, whose actions
are haphazard and therefore indeterminable and who engages in all sorts of
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tricks (pretending to be the butler simply because he is intrigued with the

purloined diary of the gourmet fanatic). In this manner, it could be argued,
Sparrow instantiates precisely those characteristics of laziness, inefficiency,
and slyness typically projected on the colonial subject. Indeed, the parallel
can be extended to Daniel the butcher who evokes images of the native devil;
by enticing the passions of the female protagonist, he eventually is responsible
for her death. Allusions to death prevail in the novel and are particularly
centred on Daniel. Daniel’s coitus with the female protagonist also inverts
the colonial pattern as regards the sexual parameters of colonialism: here it is
the expatriate Indian woman who sleeps with the white male native, and not
the other way round. That intercourse in The Glassblower’s Breath is linked
with death – a fairly standard male topos – can moreover be treated as yet
another inversion on the gender line: this time female passion is figured as
loss and transcendence, relegating the male lover to a position of passivity
and lack of articulation. We never get an insight into Daniel’s mind, so the
woman’s “penetration” of him in the sexual act corresponds precisely to the
epistemological metaphor of penetrating to the truth with which we are so
familiar from the Western male tradition.
In Gupta’s novel, the suppressed national and cultural origins of the
protagonist return, however, with a vengeance. In the final scene of the book,
the protagonist’s husband, Alexander, (who is of Persian background) kills
all three lovers and suitors of his wife. Whatever freedom from her gender-
related cultural anchorings the protagonist may have enjoyed, this freedom
is abruptly nullified by the eruption of patriarchal jealousy and “Eastern”
cruelty. Since most of the novel renders the perceptions of the unnamed
heroine through the eyes of her husband and three suitors, the text moreover
fails to liberate the female figure from the male gaze and ultimately, through
the actions of her husband, ends up catching and entrapping her in traditional
marital possessiveness.
Globalization, it could therefore be suggested, provides a measure of relief
from the colonial trauma, but one must also reckon with one’s nationalist
tradition, which may be equally lethal to the subject’s free development.
Whereas the colonial subject used to be always in the position of a victim
of external forces, in the globalization scenario expatriates have begun to
participate in the processes of cultural dominance – a constellation that is
elsewhere described only in relation to the Third World elite’s implication
with neo-colonial regimes.34 When the native culture, in its nationalist
(and patriarchal) excrescences, catches up with those who have removed
themselves from their victimization, guilt is expiated in a bloodbath of
major proportions.35
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The Third Party

There is one other blind spot in many studies of imagological relevance: the
complication of the scenario by means of a third term in the image/counter-
image relation. I do not mean a Lacanian third term in the sense in which
both Fanon and Bhabha utilize it, but – in a more pedestrian way – the
deflection and doubling of images through a third party that functions as
a catalyst or point of comparison with the basic scenario of the self and the
other in their multi-level mirrorings.
The third party, in most texts, is a figure or group of people that contrast
with the Indian self or the British other. In Desai’s Bye-Bye Blackbird, for
instance, the Sikhs function as a third party, and their treatment by Dev and
Adit significantly affects the extent of Indian self-identification in the novel.
In Desai’s Baumgartner’s Bombay (1988), Jews, Germans, and Indians are
contrasted, and the Germans certainly fare the worst in this comparison.
In Gupta’s The Glassblower’s Breath, the scenario is complicated by the glo-
betrotter Sparrow from the U.S., the Russian Vladimir Jovanovitch, and the
Persian husband, Alexander. In comparison with these, Daniel, the British
protagonist, pales into insignificance.
Baumgartner’s Bombay is particularly sophisticated in complicating the
Indian relationship to the West by means of the vantage point of a third
party or a third term. For instance, this is not a simple situation of Jewish
Baumgartner coming to Bombay, the city of the exotic East. On his way to
Bombay, he passes through Venice, which he experiences in all its exotic
splendour and allure. India, where he finally settles down, turns out to be
a home much like the Germany he has left – a country torn by civil war, a
country that allows him only an existence among the masses of the poor,
and a country in which he is finally killed by a German after all, even though
this does not happen in a concentration camp. In his own experiences in
India, Baumgartner thus repeats the decline of his family’s fortunes and
victimization by the Nazis. His possessions are as little worth robbing as were
his family’s by the time they were killed in the camps. Although the German
tourist turned robber represents “white trash” at its most despicable, the book
leaves no doubt that for the Indian pub owner, himself certainly not well
off, Baumgartner and his girlfriend, Lotte, are the dregs of Western society.
Yet that evaluation needs to be measured against the pub owner’s (but also
Baumgartner’s) inevitable callousness toward the homeless squatter family
on the pavement outside Baumgartner’s execrable hole of a flat.
Stereotypes about the colonized are therefore, in the final analysis, ste-
reotypes about the downtrodden, and the introduction of third and fourth
positions into the central binary constellation of colonizer versus colonized
helps to foreground precisely the class-related underpinnings of recurrent
84
cultural clichés. These resurrect colonial epithets for the bad native in order
to recirculate them as racist or classist language against the poor, the mar-
ginal, or the disadvantaged. Very little “national” content is transported in
these stereotypes and attitudes against immigrants, a new set of others who
are not conveniently housed far away in India but encroach upon the very
centre of the (Westerners’) home country. Thinking through the functions
of the third party, therefore, reveals this textual ploy as a strategy to outline
the dark underside of the globalization scenario. Some former victims of
marginalization and (cultural) oppression have been enabled to turn the
tables on the West, but they thus become implicated in a general Western
economy that continues to exclude and discriminate. The move to the global
elite is a move to domination, and domination in turn inevitably produces
discrimination against the lower social classes. The cross-mirrorings of
alterity have shifted from a colonial to a postcolonial scenario and from the
safe distance of the empire’s furthest reaches to the immediate vicinity of
Western urban environment. Likewise, the former colonial subject has either
sunk to the low level of a postcolonial subject in a neo-colonial state or to the
uneasy position of an unwanted immigrant. In both places, he or she must
face not merely the continuing presence of the former colonial master but
also the new faces of the neo-colonial and cosmopolitan elites, those among
his own who have “made” it to the enviable position of postmodernity. Yet
the guilt-ridden vision of their native alter egos continues to haunt these
lucky ones in the very web of cultural hybridity that both sustains them
and ultimately threatens to give way, to drop them back into the abyss from
which they escaped with such heroic endeavour. The assumption of Western
superiority remains an unstable and risky, even hazardous, achievement
that compounds the miseries of the colonial inferiority complex with the
acquisition of the guilt suffered by the rich. Indeed, the expatriate elite re-
enacts the colonial scenario with a vengeance, clinging to the proven colonial
strategies of marginalization of the other as a means of exorcizing their own
selves in the place of that other. After all, the colonizer always felt superior
or pretended to feel superior against manifest evidence of his physical and
moral degeneration in the colonies.36 The former colonial subject, by contrast,
has to repress the knowledge of his (erstwhile) inferiority and therefore
needs to re-enact colonialist strategies of discrimination, expropriation, and
victimization to secure the still shaky new position at the top of the social
or global scale. Cross-mirrorings of alterity, one can conclude, constitute
unending processes of projection that apparently never get resolved;37 they
merely intensify the doubling by yet one more turn of the screw.
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Notes
1 This paper, in its original shorter version, was first read at the gnel conference at Konstanz in
September 1996. The research is part of a larger project on expatriate Indian writing funded by
the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (dfg) in the context of an interdisciplinary study group
(Sonderforschungsbereich 541) on “Identities and Alterities” at Freiburg University.
2 See “maps” of national stereotypes such as, for example, the one referred to in Stanzel
(“National Character”; Europäer). See also the essays in Zacharasiewicz. Perhaps the best two
contributions to imagology are Bleicher and Dyserinck.
3 It is mainly the male representative of a European culture that is thus figured.
4 A laudable exception is Godzich in his article “Emergent Literature,” in which he applies
imagological research to a South African context.
5 Fanon’s text from 1952 (Peau noire, masques blancs) is used strategically in Bhabha’s post- or
para-Lacanian readings in the colonial deployment of the economy of desire and power. See
Bhabha (“Difference” and Location).
6 This condition of cultural hybridity, in the theoretical literature, is frequently portrayed in
celebratory terms, ignoring the plight of exiles in the contexts of forced emigration and refugee
existence, or that of bonded labourers belonging to a migrant workforce. (For a criticism of
the “sweet sorrows of exile” suffered by the self-exiled intellectual, see Krishnaswamy’s
“Mythologies of Migrancy.”)
7 See below for a problematization of the gender issue which remains off limits in most “classic”
accounts.
8 The figure of Stephen Blackpool in Dickens’s Hard Times (1854) is a typical example of the meek
and self-deprecatory ideal from the factory owners’ point of view.
9 See Isaac for a discussion of the representation of the working class in political writings of the
period. Middle-class conceptualizations of the poor reach back to formulae about the deserving
and undeserving poor, the lazy apprentice, and wholesome beer versus debilitating gin
(Hogarth), all of which had been in currency since the Renaissance vagrancy laws.
10 One can still measure this excessive admiration for British culture in Chaudhuri’s aptly named
A Passage to England (1971). Responsible for Indian anglophilia was, of course, the thorough
indoctrination of Indians with British culture in the colonial educational system, whose influence
did not affect to the same extent either the African colonies or the Caribbean.
11 I am thinking of Bhabha’s sly natives in “Signs Taken for Wonders” (Location 102–22).
12 See Bhabha’s “Difference”: “Such visibility of the institutions and apparatuses of power is
possible because the exercise of colonial power makes their relationship obscure, produces
them as fetishes, spectacles of a ‘natural’/racial pre-eminence. Only the seat of government is
always elsewhere – alien and separate by that distance upon which surveillance depends for its
strategies of objectification, normalization and discipline” (209).
13 See Fanon (Black Skin 99) on the natives’ welcoming even shipwrecked Europeans as
“honorable stranger[s].” The white man is either “deified or devoured” (92; qtd. in Mannoni).
1 4 Note that the typical scenes of imagological study treat the experience of the tourist abroad, in
both directions: the tourist in a strange environment being judged by the natives, or the tourist
judging the indigenous culture in its natural habitat. The situation becomes more “colonial,”
however, in the study of anti-Semitic clichés and, even more so, in the analysis of Anglo-lrish
relationships in Ireland.
15 Note too that all nationalistic propaganda constructs an image of a nativist culture that was
never in existence in such a form, first, because native culture never tended to see itself as
a unitary field of reference before its confrontation with the colonizer’s Other, and, second,
because by the time of the national countermovement, native culture has already been
irremediably changed: some practices have been lost, some have become modified through
the contact with the colonizer, some have acquired new functions, and foreign ways have been
adopted in other areas. (Cf. Appiah’s apt remarks on African art in Critical Inquiry.)
86
16 Bhabha’s commitment to never defining his terminology in a consistent manner – no doubt

a deliberate poststructuralist ploy – makes this somewhat frustrating to pin down in precise
terms. The term ambivalence of course originally refers to Freud’s theories, where it denotes a
simultaneous presence of contradictory effects (love and hate, trust and distrust) toward the
object of desire.
17 Note also that Bakha’s treatment by the Brahmins is charged by the same protocolonial effects
that we earlier observed to apply in nineteenth-century attitudes toward the working-class poor.
18 For a much more extensive analysis of hybridity in these novels and for a distinction between
different kinds of hybridity, see my “Colonial vs. Cosmopolitan Hybridity,” in Hybridity and
Postcolonialism.
19 This, naturally, is here used in a Lacanian sense, and is so used by Bhabha. Cf. also Fanon (Black
Skin 161 n25).
20 I am of course aware of the fact that the heroism of the sati or suttee does not entirely “fit” the
role of the victim, but female heroism also sometimes occurs on the British side in the colonial
novel – so the parallelism does hold true.
21 I come back to the fact that Bhabha later calls this child “the girl.”
22 Bhabha never mentions this conclusion to the trauma.
23 Cf. “Projecting his own desires onto the Negro, the white man behaves ‘as if’ the Negro really
had them [i.e., the white women]” (Fanon Black Skin 165).
24 Fanon’s problematic gynophobic discourse has recently been the subject of work by Diana Fuss,
Gwen Bergner, and Lola Young (89–97); and Françoise Vergès (“Heritage” and “Creole Skin”).
See, for example, Bergner’s critique of this line of argument: “Bhabha’s ostensibly ameliorative
observation that Fanon, in a later chapter, ‘attempts a somewhat more complex reading of
masochism’ leaves disturbingly intact Black Skin, White Masks’s equation of (white) women’s
sexuality with masochism” (85).
25 As Fuss notes, it “is, however, important to recall at this juncture that Fanon elaborates his
reading of this particular fantasy during a period when fabricated charges of rape were used
as powerful colonial instruments of fear and intimidation against black men. Fanon’s deeply
troubling comments on white women and rape are formulated within a historical context in
which the phobically charged stereotype of the violent, lawless, and oversexed Negro put all
black men at perpetual risk. What we might call Fanon’s myth of white women’s rape fantasies is
offered as a counter narrative to ‘the myth of the black rapist”’ (31).
26 Other syntagms might have enforced obligatory gender agreement (e.g., je suis epouvantée).
27 The oddity of this mistranslation has been noted by Bergner (86, n.4): “In discussing this
scene Rhabha makes a telling slip. He writes that ‘a white girl fixes Fanon in a look and word as
she turns to identify with her mother.’ […] But nowhere does Fanon say that the child is a girl.
Moreover, he seems to refer to the child’s gender on the next page: ‘the handsome little boy […]
le beau petit garçon.’ […] Bhabha’s slip suggests that preconceptions of how race, gender, and
sexuality intersect run deep.”
28 Cf. also Chow’s claim about Fanon’s Oedipal construction of the native: “The native (the black
man) is thus imagined to be an angry son who wants to displace the white man, the father” (125).
29 Thus, Suleri, in The Rhetoric of English India, traces strong homoerotic reverberations in key
Anglo-Indian texts.
30 See Mitter for a history of Western representations of Indian sculpture.
31 See, for instance, the travel accounts that Ghose quotes.
32 Dev teases Adit for trying “to show Sarah what a sahib a babu can be” (28). Compare Adit’s
words to Dev, “I predict that in six months – no, three months from now, it will be Dev himself
who will be rolling in the grass in Hyde Park with some blonde landlady’s daughter” (66).
33 Recently Mukherjee has thrown further oil on the firebrand by repeating her unpopular
standpoint in an article in Mother Jones.
3 4 This theme is of course particularly prominent in the African novel (for example, in Ngugi’s
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Petals of Blood or Armah’s The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born), but can also be observed in the
Indian novel, particularly in the work of Nayantara Sahgal.
35 Gupta’s work is the only example of celebratory globalization. All the other texts about
cosmopolitan migrants that I am aware of are fraught with ambivalence, nostalgia for the
home country, unhappiness, the problems of expatriation and exile. Adib Khan’s superb novel
Seasonal Adjustments (1994) provides particularly subtle delineations of these problems.
36 See Orwell’s clear-headed delineation of this process in Burmese Days (1934).
37 For a similar argument in relation to the deadlock in which postcolonial criticism finds itself in its
dependence on the colonial scenario, see my “The Hybridity of Discourses about Hybridity.”
Works Cited
Anand, Mulk Raj. Untouchable. 1935. London: Penguin, 1940.
Appiah, Kwame. “Is the Post- in Postmodernism the Post- in Postcolonialism?” Critical Inquiry
17.2 (1990–91): 336–57.
Armah, Ayi Kwei. The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born. London: Heinemann, 1975.
Bentham, Jeremy. Panopticon; or The Inspection-House. Dublin: T. Payne, 1791.
Bergner, Gwen. “Who Is that Masked Woman? or, The Role of Gender in Fanon’s Black Skin,
White Masks.” PMLA 110.1 (1995): 75–88.
Bhabha, Homi. “Difference, Discrimination and the Discourse of Colonialism.” The Politics
of Theory: Proceedings of the Essex Conference on the Sociology of Literature, July 1982. Ed.
Francis Barker, et al. Colchester: University of Essex Press, 1983. 194–211.
———. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge, 1994.
Bleicher, Thomas. “Elemente einer komparatistischen Imagologie.” Komparatistische Hefte 2
(1980): 12–24.
Chaudhuri, Nirad C. A Passage to England. 1959. New Delhi: Orient Paperbacks, 1994.
Chow, Rey. “Where Have All the Natives Gone?” 1993. Contemporary Postcolonial Theory. Ed.
Padmini Mongia. London: Arnold, 1996. 122–46.
Desai, Anita. Baumgartner’s Bombay. 1988. London: Penguin, 1990.
———. Bye-Bye Blackbird. 1985. New Delhi: Orient Paperbacks, 1991.
Dickens, Charles. Hard Times. 1854. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989.
Dyserinck, Hugo. “‘Komparatistische Imagologie’: Zur Politischen Tragweite einer
curopäischen Wissenschaft von der Literatur.” Europa und das Nationale Selbstverständnis:
Imagologische Probleme in Literatur, Kunst und Kultur Des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts. Ed.
Hugo Dyserinck and Karl-Ulrich Syndram. Bonn: Bouvier, 1988. 13–37.
Essed, Philomela. Everyday Racism: Reports from Women of Two Cultures. Claremont, CA:
Hunter House, 1990.
Fanon, Frantz. Black Skin, White Masks. 1952. Trans. Charles Lam Markmann. New York:
Grove, 1967.
———. Peau noire, masques blancs. Paris: Seuil, 1952.
Fludernik, Monika. “Colonial vs. Cosmopolitan Hybridity: A Comparison of Mulk Raj Anand
and R.K. Narayan with Recent British and North American Expatriate Writing.” Hybridity
and Postcolonialism: Twentieth-Century Indian Literature. Ed. Monika Fludernik. Tübingen:
Stauffenburg, 1998. 261–90.
———. “The Hybridity of Discourses about Hybridity.” Crossover: Ethnicity, Gender and Ethics
in Literary and Visual Worlds. Ed. Therese Steffen. Tübingen: Stauffenburg, 1999.
———. “Suttee Revisited: From the Iconography of Martyrdom to the Burkean Sublime.” New
Literary History 30.2 (1999): 411–37.
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Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. 1975. New York: Vintage, 1979.
Fuss, Diana. “Interior Colonies: Frantz Fanon and the Politics of Identification.” Diacritics 24
(1994): 20–42.
Ghose, Indira. “Der Memsahib-Mythos: Frauen und Kolonialismus in Indien.” Feministische
Studien 2 (1995): 34–45.
Godzich, Wlad. “Emergent Literature and the Field of Comparative Literature.” The
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Koelb and Susan Noakes. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1998. 18–36.
Gupta, Sunetra. The Glassblower’s Breath. 1993. London: Penguin, 1994.
———. Memories of Rain. 1992. London: Phoenix House, 1993.
Isaac, Judith. “The Working Class in Early Victorian Novels.” DAI 33 (1973): 12A.
Khan, Adib. Seasonal Adjustments. St. Leonards, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 1994.
Krishnaswamy, Revathi. “Mythologies of Migrancy: Postcolonialism, Postmodernism and the
Politics of (Dis) location.” ARIEL 26.1 (1995): 125–46.
Mani, Lata. “Contentious Traditions: The Debate on Sati in Colonial India.” The Nature and
Context of Minority Discourse. Ed. Abdul R. JanMohamed and David LIovd. Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1990. 319–56.
Mannoni, 0. Prospero and Caliban: The Psychology of Colonization. Paris: Seuil, 1950.
Memmi, Albert. Der Kolonisator und der Kolonisierte [Portrait du colonisé précédé du Portrait
du colonisateur]. 1957. Hamburg: Europäische Verlagsanstalt, 1994.
———. The Colonizer and the Colonized. New York: Orion Press, 1965.
Minh-ha, Trinh T. Woman, Native, Other: Writing Postcoloniality and Feminism. Bloomington,
IN: Indiana University Press, 1989.
Mitter, Partha. Much Maligned Monsters: A History of European Reactions to Indian Art.
Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1977.
Mohanty, Chandra. “Under Western Eyes: Feminist Scholarship and Colonial Discourses.”
Feminist Review 30 (1988): 60–88.
Mukherjee, Bharati. “American Dreamer.” Mother Jones Jan.-Feb. 1997: 32–35.
Narayan, R.K. The Guide. 1958. London: Penguin, 1988.
Ngugi wa Thiong’o. Ngaahika Ndeenda (I Will Marry When I Want). London: Heinemann, 1982.
———. Petals of Blood. 1977. London: Heinemann, 1993.
Orwell, George. Burmese Days. New York: Harper, 1934.
Scarry, Elaine. The Body in Pain: The Making and Unmaking of the World. Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1985.
Sharma, Arvind, ed. Sati: Historical and Phenomenological Essays. Delhi: Motilal, 1988.
Sharpe, Jenny. Allegories of Empire: The Figure of Woman in the Colonial Text. Minneapolis:
Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. In Other Worlds: Essays in Cultural Politics. New York: Routledge,
1988.
Stanzel, Franz K. Eurpoäer: Ein imagologischer Essay. Heidelberg: Winter, 1997.
———. “National Character as Literary Stereotype: An Analysis of the Image of the German in
English Literature before 1806.” London German Studies 1 (1980): 101–15.
Suleri, Sara. The Rhetoric of English India. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1992.
Vergès, Françoise. “The Heritage of Frantz Fanon.” The European Legacy 1.3 (1996): 994–98.
———. “Creole Skin, Black Mask: Fanon and Disavowal.” Critical lnquiry 23.3 (1997): 578–95.
Young, Lola. “Missingpersons: Fantasising Black Women in Black Skin, White Masks.” The Fact
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5
Mythologies of Migrancy:
Postcolonialism, Postmodernism,
and the Politics of (Dis)location
revathi krishnaswamy
A new type of “Third World” 1 intellectual, cross-pollinated by postmodern-

ism and postcolonialism, has arrived: a migrant who, having dispensed with
territorial affiliations, travels unencumbered through the cultures of the
world bearing only the burden of a unique yet representative sensibility that
refracts the fragmented and contingent condition of both postmodernity
and postcoloniality. Journeying from the “peripheries” to the metropolitan
“centre,” this itinerant intellectual becomes an international figure who at
once feels at home nowhere and everywhere. No longer disempowered by
cultural schizophrenia or confined within collectivities such as race, class,
or nation, the nomadic postcolonial intellectual is said to “write back” to the
empire in the name of all displaced and dispossessed peoples, denouncing
both colonialism and nationalism as equally coercive constructs.
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The ideological lineage of this itinerant postcolonial intellectual is typically

hybrid because postcoloniality, as Kwame Anthony Appiah observes, “is the
condition of what we might ungenerously call a comprador intelligentsia:
a relatively small, Western-style, Western-trained group of writers and
thinkers, who mediate the trade in cultural commodities of world capitalism
at the periphery” (348). These cultural mediators are invariably dependent
on and inevitably influenced by Euro-American publishers and readers,
Western universities, and Westernized elite educational institutions in Asia
or Africa. Not surprisingly, then, the first generation of postcolonial novels
largely reflected the belief held by both “Third World” intellectuals and
the high culture of Europe – that new literatures in new nations should be
anti-colonial and nationalistic. For instance, Indian subcontinental as well
as African novels of the 1950s and 1960s frequently are represented as the
imaginative re-creations of a common historical/cultural past crafted into a
shared tradition by the writer in the manner of Walter Scott: “they are thus
realist legitimations of nationalism: they authorize a ‘return to traditions’
while at the same time recognizing the demands of a Weberian rationalized
modernity” (Appiah 349).
Since the late 1960s, however, such celebratory novels have gradually faded
away.2 Their place has been taken by novels that aimed to expose corrupt
national bourgeoisies that had championed the cause of rationalization,
industrialization, and bureaucratization in the name of nationalism and
nativism, only to keep the national bourgeoisies of other nations in check. In
addition to stridently opposing nationalism and nativism, the novels of the
1970s and 1980s strongly repudiated the realist novel because it naturalized
a failed nationalism. Appiah observes:
Far from being a celebration of the nation, the novels of the second
postcolonial stage are novels of delegitimation: they reject not only
the Western imperium but also the nationalist project of the national
bourgeoisie. The basis for that delegitimation does not derive from a
postmodernist relativism; rather it is grounded in an appeal to an ethical
universal, a fundamental revolt against oppression and human suffering.
(353)
It is precisely as spokespersons for the dislocated and the disenfranchised

that postcolonial immigrant intellectuals have gained legitimacy in the
international media-market.
Thus, from his distinct (dis)location within the metropolis, Salman Rushdie
declares that “to be a migrant is, perhaps, to be the only species of human
being free of the shackles of nationalism (to say nothing of its ugly sister,
patriotism). It is a burdensome freedom” (“Location” 124). A whole mythology
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Mythologies of Migrancy re vathi krishnaswamy
of migrancy and a concomitant oppositional politics, of course, has been

formulated by Rushdie, who sees the development of the “migrant sensibility”
to be “one of the central themes of this century of displaced persons” (124).
Not only does Rushdie endow the migrant sensibility with the freedom
and facility to construct its own (contingent) truths, but he also makes it a
singular repository of experience and resistance. Like the Afghan refugee
in Bharati Mukherjee’s story “Orbiting” (in her collection The Middleman
and Other Stories) who is forced to circle the world, camping only in airport
transit lounges, Rushdie’s migrant is a fractured yet autonomous individual,
segregated from the collective sites of history.
By focussing attention on Rushdie, I do not mean to imply that he is
somehow unproblematically paradigmatic of the postcolonial (exilic) writer.
However, it cannot be denied that he stands foremost among those “spokes-
persons for a kind of permanent immigration” (Brennan 33) who have been
elevated by global media-markets and metropolitan academies as the pre-
eminent interpreters of postcolonial realities to postmodern audiences. With
the cultural productions of “cosmopolitan celebrities” (Brennan 26) such as
Rushdie increasingly forming the critical archival material of alternative
canons in the metropolitan academy, the language of migrancy has gained
wide currency among today’s theorists of identity and authority. Thus, for
instance, Edward Said’s essay “Third World Intellectuals and Metropolitan
Culture” foregrounds the “exile figure” as the most authentic embodiment
of the postcolonial intellectual. In a more recent essay entitled “Identity,
Authority and Freedom: The Potentate and the Traveler,” Said has suggested
that “our model for academic freedom” should be “the migrant or travel-
ler” (17). James Clifford’s travelling theory goes a step further, metaphorizing
postcoloniality into a restructured relationship between anthropologist and
informant and casting the theorist in the role of “traveller.”
The critical centrality migrancy has acquired in contemporary cultural
discourse raises important questions about the nature of postcolonial “dias-
pora,” the role of “Third World” immigrants, and the function of metropolitan
academic institutions. How has the uprooting of postcolonial populations
helped to generate a vocabulary of migrancy? What part has the “cosmo-
politan,” “Third World” intellectual played in the manufacture of “diasporic
consciousness”? How have metropolitan discourses framed contemporary
conceptions of hybridity and migrancy? Has the mythology of migrancy
provided a productive site for postcolonial resistance or has it willy-nilly
become complicit with hegemonic postmodern theorizations of power and
identity? To answer these questions, we must consider the nexus of historical,
political, economic, cultural, and ideological forces affecting the construction
and consumption of postcolonial realities and representations.
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The figure of migrancy indeed has proved quite useful in drawing atten-
tion to the marginalized, in problematizing conceptions of borders, and in
critiquing the politics of power. However, it also appears to have acquired
an excessive figurative flexibility that threatens to undermine severely the
oppositional force of postcolonial politics. The metaphorization of postcolonial
migrancy is becoming so overblown, overdetermined, and amorphous as to
repudiate any meaningful specificity of historical location or interpretation.
Politically charged words such as “diaspora” and “exile” are being emptied of
their histories of pain and suffering and are being deployed promiscuously to
designate a wide array of cross-cultural phenomena. For instance, the editor
of a recent collection of essays subtitled The Literature of the Indian Diaspora
argues that the term diaspora can be used legitimately to describe not only
“those Indian indentured workers who braved long voyages on ill-equipped
ships to Mauritius, Trinidad, and Fiji during the nineteenth century” but also
“young subcontinental scientists, professors, surgeons, and architects who
now emigrate” to the West as part of the brain-drain (Nelson x). Refugees
of any brand take the wind out of the sails of even those intellectuals who
have been forced to become real political exiles; what then can be said for the
inflated claims of upper-class professionals whose emigration fundamentally
has been a voluntary and personal choice?
The compulsions behind such claims are not only enormous but actu-
ally symptomatic of the discursive space in which many “Third World”
intellectuals who choose to live in the “First World” function. The entry
of postcolonialism into the metropolitan academy under the hegemonic
theoretical rubric of postmodernism obviously has been a powerful factor
in determining how the “Third World” is conceived and consumed. All too
frequently, the postcolonial text is approached as a localized embellishment
of a universal narrative, an object of knowledge that may be known through
a postmodern critical discourse. Analytical attention is focussed primar-
ily on the formal similarities between postmodern and postcolonial texts,
while the radical historical and political differences between the two are
erased (Sangari 264–69). The complex “local” histories and culture-specific
knowledges inscribed in postcolonial narratives get neutralized into versions
of postmodern diversity, allowing “others” to be seen, but shorn of their
dense specificity. Class, gender, and intellectual hierarchies within other
cultures, which happen to be at least as elaborate as those in the West, are
frequently ignored. Thus Fredric Jameson’s paradigm of postcolonial literature
as national allegory uniformly constitutes all “Third World” intellectuals,
regardless of their gender or class, as marginalized insurgents or as nationalists
struggling against a monolithic Western imperialism. Difference is reduced
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to equivalence, interchangeability, syncretism, and diversity, as a levelling

subversive subalternity indiscriminately gets attributed to any and all.
Given that metropolitan attitudes toward the postcolonial are caught
between Orientalism and nativism, between unmitigated condemnation
and uncritical celebration of Otherness, identification with subalternity and
commodification of the “Third World” often seem the only assured means
to authority for many “Third World” intellectuals. The very modes of access
to power are thus rife with the risk of reification and subordination under
such currently popular theoretical categories as cultural diversity, hybridity,
syncretism, and migrancy. However, if postcolonial politics is to retain its
radical cutting edge, what “Third World” intellectuals must confront is not
our “subalternity” or even our “subalternity-in-solidarity-with-the-oppressed,”
but the comparative power and privilege that ironically accumulate from our
“oppositional” stance, and the upward mobility we gain from our semantics
of subalternity. As Arif Dirlik points out, to challenge successfully culturalist
hegemony, it is not enough to concentrate exclusively on the unequal relations
between nations, such as those between the “First” and the “Third” worlds,
but to include an investigation of the unequal relations within societies
as well (37). We therefore must face up to the fact that any mythology of
migrancy that fails to differentiate rigorously between diverse modalities of
postcolonial diaspora, such as migrant intellect, migrant labour, economic
refugees, political exiles, and self-exiles, exploits the subordinate position
of the “Third World,” suppresses the class/gender-differentiated histories of
immigration, robs the oppressed of the vocabulary of protest, and blunts the
edges of much-needed oppositional discourse.
A myopic focus on migrancy also may potentially shut out alternative
figurations of postcoloniality by marginalizing the visions of those who may
not be (dis)located within the metropolis or who may be dislocated in ways
not recognized in metropolitan circles. Thus to argue that “the ability to see
at once from inside and out is a great thing, a piece of good fortune which
the indigenous writer cannot enjoy” (Rushdie, “Dangerous Art Form” 4) or to
declare that “the contest over decolonization has moved from the peripheries
to the center” (Said, “Third World Intellectuals” 30) seems to militate against
postcolonial struggles for greater inclusiveness by reinscribing the binary
opposition between centre and periphery in the very discourse that seeks
to contest such a dichotomy.
The problematic discourse of diaspora and exile in contemporary critical
discourse clearly calls for a systematic examination of the material con-
ditions and ideological contexts within which migrancy has emerged as
the privileged paradigmatic trope of postcolonialism in the metropolis.
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Attempting such an examination, this essay considers such factors as the

circulation of “Third World” populations, the peripheral position of the
“Third World,” the pedagogic presence of the metropolitan academy, and
the influence of its poststructuralist/postmodern theories. The first section
traces the historical patterns of immigration from the Indian subcontinent
in order to bring out the heterogeneous and uneven nature of that diaspora
– a fact that, as I try to show, is strategically marginalized or neutralized
by Salman Rushdie. Based on a critical review of Rushdie’s formulation of
migrancy, the second section explores the ideological intersection between
postcolonialism and postmodernism. My discussion reveals that the rhetoric
of migrancy in postcolonial discourse is not only accessible and acceptable
but also assimilable to dominant postmodernist theories. The irony of this
exchange becomes evident in the simultaneous elevation and subordination
of the immigrant intellectual in the metropolis. Throughout the discussion, I
draw very selectively from Rushdie’s writings, for I intend my comments less
as exhaustive interpretations of this individual author’s works and more as
symptomatic pointers toward a larger ideological field. The essay concludes
by arguing that the overblown rhetoric of diaspora and exile in vogue today
calls for a vigilance over the excesses marginal discourses accrue in the very
process of theorizing the obsolescence of marginality. In addressing the issue
of migrancy from a location within the circuits of metropolitan power and
knowledge, I take up Gayatri Spivak’s contention that “even as we join in
the struggle to establish the institutional study of marginality we must still
go on saying ‘And yet…’” (154).
The rhetoric of migrancy, exile, and diaspora in contemporary post-
colonial discourse owes much of its credibility to the massive and uneven
uprooting of “Third World” peoples in recent decades, particularly after
large-scale decolonization in the 1960s. As the euphoria of independence
and the great expectations of nationalism gave way to disillusionment and
oppression, emigration increasingly became the supreme reward for citizens
of impoverished or repressive ex-colonies. Millions of people dream of
becoming exiles at any cost, and many government officials make a living
helping or hindering the fulfillment of this mass fantasy.
The rhetoric of migrancy in contemporary postcolonial discourse, however,
does not stress the economic and political forces behind immigration. Salman
Rushdie thus observes:
[T]he effect of mass migrations has been the creation of radically new
types of human being: people who root themselves in ideas rather than
places, in memories as much as in material things; people who have been
obliged to define themselves – because they are so defined by others
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– by their otherness; people in whose deepest selves strange fusions

occur, unprecedented unions between what they were and where they
find themselves. (“Location” 124)
This passage employs an almost spiritual or mystic vocabulary to describe the

formation of the “migrant sensibility.” By emphasizing mental or psychologi-
cal processes over sociological or political forces, Rushdie dematerializes
the migrant into an abstract idea. The insistent and pervasive use of such
psychological terminology tends to obscure or at least minimize the material
and historical contexts of “Third World” immigration. It fails to account for
two fundamental factors that fracture immigrant experience: the exigen-
cies of neo-colonial global capitalism determining the dispersal of “Third
World” peoples, and the distinctly class- and gender-differentiated nature
of immigrant experience.
The historic pattern of Indian emigration since the 1960s alone is quite
revealing. Until the last decade, women formed but a small percentage of im-
migrant populations and often subsisted in conditions of complete dependency,
if not abuse and exploitation.3 In addition, there is a distinct class character
to the current pattern of Indian emigration. The vast majority of Indians
emigrating to the United States and, secondarily, to Britain are members of
the commercial or professional bourgeoisie and typically have little to do with
the working class inside or outside India. By contrast, the oil-rich countries
of the Persian Gulf, and to a lesser degree Britain, attract a predominantly
working-class population (the trade to the Gulf being as much a traffic in
female flesh as in cheap labour). Lured by unscrupulous job-recruitment
agencies and victimized by greedy travel agents, these working-class immi-
grants frequently end up as little more than indentured labourers subsisting
on the margins of alien(ating) societies. Their dehumanized condition casts
an inescapable shadow upon the exuberance that characterizes metropolitan
perceptions of migrancy. Clearly, the grim realities of migrant labour inflect
the notion of migrancy in ways that make it difficult to link consistently
freedom and liberation with movement and displacement.
By contrast, what takes place for many postcolonial intellectuals is a
transition to an industrially advanced capitalist society with the latest word
on individual liberty on its lips. Taking this route is in many ways like going
home because it brings one closer to a world that one had imagined all along.
As Rushdie observes, “In common with many Bombay-raised middle-class
children of my generation, I grew up with an intimate knowledge of, and
even sense of friendship with, a certain kind of England: a dream-England.
[…] I wanted to come to England. I couldn’t wait” (“Imaginary Homelands”
18). Edward Said, therefore, is quite correct in describing the migration of the
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superior scholar from the non-Western “periphery” to the Western “centre”

as a “voyage in” (“Third World Intellectuals” 31).
Once they find themselves within the belly of the metropolitan beast,
immigrant intellectuals do indeed face the grim facts of racism and Euro-
centrism. For most, however, what Bharati Mukherjee calls “loss-of-face
meltdown” (“Prophet and Loss” 11) rarely involves floundering around among
disempowered minorities. In fact, Mukherjee’s fiction typically casts im-
migrant aspirations in terms of class expectations: “Great privilege had
been conferred upon me; my struggle was to work hard enough to deserve
it. And I did. This bred confidence, but not conceit. […] Calcutta equipped
me to survive theft or even assault; it did not equip me to accept proof of
my unworthiness” (“Invisible Woman” 36, 38). Indeed, class origins and
professional affiliations open up an adversarial kind of assimilation into
metropolitan institutions. Thus Rushdie is able to actually use his class
privilege as a platform to chastise English society for failing to live up to its
promise of “tolerance and fair play”:
England has done all right by me; but I find it difficult to be properly
grateful. I can’t escape the view that my relatively easy ride is not the
result of the dream-England’s famous sense of tolerance and fair play,
but of my social class, my freak fair skin and my “English” English
accent. Take away any of these, and the story would have been very
different. Because of course the dream-England is no more than a dream.
(“Imaginary Homelands” 18)
In this passage, an acknowledgment of class privilege is countered neatly by

an indictment of England’s racist/classist attitudes. The author’s refusal to be
“properly grateful” for the advantages he has derived from his class position
rhetorically aligns him with the less privileged members of the immigrant
population and thereby helps to legitimize him as an authentic spokesman
for whole groups of dispossessed migrants.
Self-conscious contextualizations of class privilege through parody or irony
are not difficult to find in the writings of such astute writers as Mukherjee and
Rushdie. However, these rhetorical gestures rarely add up to anything more
than momentary indulgences in self-pleasuring destabilization. Ultimately,
they offer little radical challenge to metropolitan methods of thematizing
diversity in ways that make “difference” a mere matter of adding new labels
or categories to an ever-expanding pluralist horizon. As such, they can
neither form a firm basis for historical awareness nor constitute an adequate
confrontation of the heterogeneity of postcolonial/immigrant experience.
Rushdie’s self-fashioned public persona, of course, is intertwined inextri-
cably with his own ambiguous status as a migrant postcolonial intellectual
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writing for a predominantly metropolitan readership. It therefore may be

necessary to remind ourselves that, like Rushdie, most immigrant intel-
lectuals, especially those from the Indian subcontinent, are not forced exiles
but voluntary self-exiles. (Rushdie’s status, of course, has been transformed
into a grimly real exile by the Ayatollah Khomeini’s ominous fatwa.) Unlike
the prolonged pain of exile, the anguish of self-exile is usually more accom-
modating. Often no more than a longing for the imaginary homeland’s
sensuous characteristics, it is easy to summon up, especially if emigration
has turned out to be a financial and professional success. Words such as
“exile” or “diaspora” barely describe the moment of departure; what follows
is both too comfortable and too autonomous to be called by these names,
which suggest so strongly a comprehensible and sustained grief.
It is not my intention to question the motives of any “Third World” im-
migrant – motives that are always heterogeneous and personal, ranging from
political persecution and economic desperation to professional ambition
and cultural preference. Nor do I mean to imply that class privilege alone
necessarily delegitimizes one’s testimony against the injustices of bourgeois
racism, colonialism, or nationalism. What I wish to do, however, is to draw
attention to the complex historical and material context within which a
highly charged mythology of migrancy is being fabricated to legitimize a
particular public (literary) persona. Clearly, if “diasporic consciousness”
is fundamentally “an intellectualization of [the] existential condition” of
dispersal from the homeland (Safran 87), then we must acknowledge the
fact that this consciousness has been shaped not so much by the haphazard
accidents of history as by the material and ideological realities of immigrant
intellectuals.
The image of the postcolonial writer as migrant is, of course, central to
Salman Rushdie’s politico-aesthetics, which regard the experience of multiple
dislocation – temporal, spatial, and linguistic – to be crucial, even necessary,
for artistic development:
It may be argued that the past is a country from which we have all
emigrated, that its loss is part of our common humanity. Which seems to
me self-evidently true; but I suggest that the writer who is out-of-country
and even out-of-language may experience this loss in an intensified form.
It is made more concrete for him by the physical fact of discontinuity,
of his present being in a different place from his past, of his being
“elsewhere.” This may enable him to speak properly and concretely on a
subject of universal significance and appeal. (“Imaginary Homelands” 12)
The passage, which begins by presenting immigration as a metaphor for a

common human experience, quickly proceeds to privilege the geographically/
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culturally displaced writer as someone uniquely equipped to at once reclaim

the faded contours of a specific lost homeland and to speak of things that
have “universal” significance. In contemporary corporate parlance, we might
say the migrant writer combines “local touch with global reach.”
The experience of dislocation apparently gives the writer an enhanced abil-
ity to self-consciously reflect on the constructedness of reality: “The migrant
suspects reality: having experienced several ways of being, he understands
their illusory nature” (Rushdie, “Location” 125). Yet, if “to see things plainly,
you have to cross a frontier” (125), for Rushdie, the frontier seems to be a
movable line going wherever the writer goes:
I mean there’re all kinds of dislocations. […] First of all as you say, I live
in England and I’ve written about India. That’s one dislocation. Secondly,
my family went to Pakistan so that’s three countries anyway. […] Then
Bombay is not like the rest of India. People who come from Bombay
anyway feel different from the rest of India and quite rightly. On top of
that, my family comes from Kashmir and Kashmir is not like the rest of
India. So that’s four or five separate dislocations. (“Interview” 353)
Moving geographic borders around with dexterity, Rushdie makes his dis-
location from the Indian subcontinent appear to be a mere extension of his
many dislocations within the subcontinent itself. What he erases with one
hand, he redraws with the other, for the notion of border, after all, is critical
to Rushdie’s literary persona/project.
Indeed, it is precisely along the border that Rushdie, in an explicit gesture
of exclusion, opposes the migrant to the non-migrant, privileging the former
over the latter: “the ability to see at once from inside and out is a great thing, a
piece of good fortune which the indigenous writer cannot enjoy” (“Dangerous
Art Form” 4 ). Surely, however, such a binary distinction between “migrant”
and “indigenous” is quite obsolete unless we allow for an excessively literal
recuperation of the opposition between “inside” and “outside.” If, on the
other hand, we read the frontier as a metaphor for the margin, as Rushdie
does when he wants to present migrancy as a shared existential condition,
we could include “internal exiles” such as women living within patriarchy,
minorities living on the margins of hegemonic cultures, or oppressed majori-
ties living under occupation, thereby undermining the migrant’s claim to
an exclusive uniqueness. This discursive “contradiction” may be seen as a
result of a strategic process of exclusion-inclusion through which Rushdie
represents the migrant writer as atypical as well as representative, unique
yet universal.
The proliferating and shifting definition of borders in Rushdie’s writing
is linked intimately to the ideological issue of control:
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It may be that writers in my position, exiles or emigrants or expatriates,

are haunted by some sense of loss, some urge to reclaim, to look back,
even at the risk of being mutated into pillars of salt. But if we do look
back, we must also do so in the knowledge – which gives rise to profound
uncertainties – that our physical alienation from India almost inevitably
means that we will not be capable of reclaiming precisely the thing that
was lost; that we will, in short, create fictions, not actual cities or villages,
but invisible ones, imaginary homelands, Indias of the mind. (“Imaginary
Homelands” 10)
Inscribed in this passage is a notion of margins waiting to be destroyed,

replaced, expanded, and incorporated as new territorial acquisitions, as novel
“fields” of inquiry. The migrant writer’s project is defined as one of drawing
new or imaginary borders, of re-creating and reclaiming new or imaginary
territories. Although fractured, the migrant imagination is an imperializing
consciousness imposing itself upon the world. As the narrator of Rushdie’s
Shame declares, “I too, like all migrants, am a fantasist. I build imaginary
countries and try to impose them on the ones that exist” (92).
From this brief overview of Rushdie’s formulation of migrancy, two varia-
tions on the theme may be detected: one invokes an existential condition of
homelessness with a concomitant attitude of autonomy and detachment as
the privileged locus of imaginative experience; the other validates multiplic-
ity and hybridity of subject positions, generating a feeling of belonging to
several, even too many, homes. These conceptions of migrancy, Aijaz Ahmad
has pointed out, have much in common with the philosophical positions of
poststructuralism/postmodernism and the literary traditions of modern-
ism. The overlap is hardly surprising, since the discourses of European
bourgeois humanism and anti-humanism are available to (and perhaps
even constitutive of) the postcolonial writer. The image of the intellectual
as an embattled figure of exile is not new; all the major icons of modernism
– Conrad, Joyce, James, Pound, T.S. Eliot – embody and represent exile as
a painful yet exquisitely enabling experience for the artistic consciousness
(Ahmad 134). What is novel and decidedly postmodern, however, is the
delinking of distress from dislocation and the attendant idea of belonging
everywhere by belonging nowhere:
What is new in the contemporary metropolitan philosophies and
the literary ideologies which have arisen since the 1960s, in tandem
with vastly novel restructurings of global capitalist investments,
communication systems and information networks – not to speak of
actual travelling facilities – is that the idea of belonging is itself
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being abandoned as antiquated false consciousness. The terrors of

High Modernism at the prospect of inner fragmentation and social
disconnection have now been stripped, in Derridean strands of
postmodernism, of their tragic edge, pushing that experience of loss,
instead, in a celebratory direction […] (Ahmad 129)
In modernism, exile is an inexorable double-bind, signifying both loss and

gain, deprivation and surplus, alienation and unity. Fragmentation is never
quite disjoined from pain and terror. Postmodernism, rather than being
terrorized by the fragment, celebrates the impossibility of totality and valo-
rizes the partial, plural nature of human consciousness. Delegitimizing the
self-privileging affirmations of bourgeois humanism through its ironic
negations, postmodernism has transformed the world into a vast playful text
and legitimized the pleasures of non-attachment and non-commitment.
The change from a comparatively modernist to a more postmodernist
interpretation of exile may account, in part, for some of the differences
between writers such as Salman Rushdie and V.S. Naipaul – a point implied
in Bharati Mukherjee’s assessment of the two authors: “one of Rushdie’s
most appealing notions (which I hope is not an unfounded flattery) is that
immigration, despite losses and confusions, its sheer absurdities, is a net gain,
a form of levitation, as opposed to Naipaul’s loss and mimicry” (“Prophet
and Loss” 11). Although it is the creative impulse of exile that generates
novels such as The Mimic Men and Mr. Stone and the Knights Companion,
exile, especially in Naipaul’s early works, is often an experience of division
and defilement, alienation and isolation, frustration and futility. Instead of
discovering new and exciting worlds in the mode of the imperial explorer,
Naipaul’s postcolonial traveller frequently ends up in the same arid place
from which he has been physically but not quite psychologically unmoored.
In the end, Naipaul’s apparently “objective” eye tends to leave the observer as
maimed as the observed. A markedly different view is evident in The Satanic
Verses, which offers a whole typology of postcolonial migrancy. Rushdie’s
narrative divides the postcolonial into two basic identities: the migrant and
the national, as polarized most sharply in Saladin Chamcha and the Imam,
respectively. While Saladin as postcolonial migrant seeks to assimilate into
the metropolis, the Imam lives segregated from the metropolis within the
metropolis. Although Saladin’s definition of migrant as metropolitan is not
endorsed unequivocally by the text, the novel’s condemnation of the Imam’s
view of migrant as (fanatic) national is far more stinging and forthright:
“Exile is a soulless country” (Satanic Verses 208).
If Naipaul’s position may be characterized as one of eternal exile, Rushdie’s
may be defined as one of permanent migrancy. Unlike the painful condition
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of eternal exile, the state of permanent migrancy emanates an exuberance

that dissipates the pain of multiple dislocation and translates migrancy
into a positive and prolific idiom. Instead of disempowering the self, dis-
location actually opens up an abundance of alternative locations, allowing
the individual to own several different homes by first becoming homeless.
Notwithstanding these differences, however, one feature is shared by both
paradigms: a deterritorialized consciousness freed from such collectivities as
race, class, gender, or nation, an unattached imagination that can conveniently
become cosmopolitan and subaltern, alternately or simultaneously.
In emphasizing a deterritorialized postcolonial consciousness, the views
of Indian immigrant writers such as Naipaul and Rushdie depart from
the positions taken by many African writers who, in the wake of colonial-
ism, have sought to reterritorialize rather than deterritorialize themselves.
Comparing African with Indian postcolonial writing, Meenakshi Mukherjee
observes:
All the major writers in Africa today who write in English – including
Chinua Achebe, Wole Soyinka, and Ngugi wa Thiong’o – have powerfully
articulated their critical norms and defined their positions regarding life
and literature, assuming the centrality of Africa to their experience. This
is very different from the situation in India, where there is generally much
more cultural acquiescence, a greater acceptance of literary and critical
fiats issued from the Western metropolis and a wider separation between
political engagement and literary or critical pursuits. (45)
The obdurate presence of the “local” seems to have made the territorialized
narratives of African writers comparatively less compatible with hegemonic
postmodern theories. Thus, for instance, the authors of The Empire Writes
Back conclude that “nationalist and Black criticisms” fail to offer “a way out
of the historical and philosophical impasse” of imperialism because they
continue to assert a localized postcolonial identity based on essentialist
notions of purity and difference (Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin 20–22, 36).
Obviously, the practice of challenging imperialism by asserting and affirming
a denied or alienated subjectivity does not accord with the postmodernist
project of deconstructing the coherent, autonomous subject.
Notwithstanding the authors’ avowed intention to avoid collapsing the
postcolonial into the postmodern, the preferred model of postcolonialism
in The Empire Writes Back is a decidedly postmodernist one: it provides “a
framework of ‘difference on equal terms’ within which multi-cultural theories,
both within and between societies, may continue to be fruitfully explored”
and offers a “hybridized and syncretic view of the modern world” (36–37;
emphasis added).4 Bracketed thus, the polyglot, multiracial world envisioned
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by a writer such as Salman Rushdie becomes increasingly visible as a veritable

supermarket of identities in which difference, instead of being a complex
codification of power, manifests itself as a plethora of alternatives jostling
one another in entrancing fluidity. Such a postcoloniality indeed can seem
seamlessly postmodernist.
The possibility of locking postcolonial practices into postmodern posi-
tions has made postcolonialism aesthetically and formally accessible to
postmodern audiences. For instance, the fact that the postcolonial novel
is in a way “post-realist,” allowing the author to borrow, when needed, the
techniques of modernism, which are often the techniques of postmodernism
as well, frequently elides the very different motivations behind postcolonial
post-realism and postmodernist post-realism (Appiah 350). In addition to such
aesthetic or formal assimilation, postcolonial practices are ideologically and
politically domesticated to dominant postmodernist theories. Postcolonial
repudiations of fixity and purity, for instance, cease to be potent political
strategies of subversion within specific historical contexts by being bracketed
as playful postmodernist rejections of transcendental unities. Thus, many
postmodernist defences of The Satanic Verses minimize, if not ignore, the
destabilizing political arguments and culture-specific allusions in the text
(such as the “420” reference) by invoking notions of postmodern parody,
alterity, and multiplicity.5
Varying conceptions of marginality, lack, victimization, and subalternity
are assimilated indiscriminately into the figure of migrancy without regard
to the elaborate socio-political (class, gender, intellectual) hierarchies of
postcolonial cultures. As a result, metropolitan readers continue to view
Salman Rushdie primarily in monochromatic tones as a champion of the
oppressed “Third World” (especially of “Third World” women), while the
classist and sexist biases of his fictions remain inadequately problematized.6
Thus Timothy Brennan accepts the overtly textualized “feminist” intent of
Shame at face value, proclaiming women to be “Shame’s only rebels” (Brennan
126). What Brennan’s study overlooks, however, is the demeaning and of-
fensive manner in which women are sexualized systematically in the text.
Even in the comparatively more generous novel about India, Midnight’s
Children, Rushdie almost always links in overdetermined ways the women
and the working class to sexual prowess, while connecting upper-class male
impotence (as embodied in Saleem) to intellectual capability. Further, in
The Satanic Verses, in which so much else is challenged or subverted, an
unquestioned gendered sexual code continues to serve as the ground on
which postcolonial male desire is played out. Ironically, the highly charged
erotic register employed by Rushdie ultimately undermines his anxiety to
write woman into postcolonial history.
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Metropolitan perceptions of Rushdie are complicated further by the com-

modification of the immigrant writer as the ultimate authentic representor
of subcontinental affairs. Of course, Rushdie himself has played an active
role in promoting his public image as the itinerant insider-outsider endowed
with a unique, although splintered, sensibility. Thus the narrator of Shame
confesses he has “learned Pakistan in slices” and must therefore reconcile
himself to “the inevitability of the missing bits” (70–71). What exactly are
these “missing bits” to which the immigrant must reconcile himself? On
what basis does a writer decide to include/exclude a particular “bit”? These
questions do not trouble us when we frame Rushdie’s reclamation project
within the postmodernist epistemology of the fragment. We can then see
the migrant’s fractured vision as an affirmation of the partial nature of all
perception, conveniently overlooking the ideological choices that determine
what “bits” get included or excluded. Calling attention to dangers underlying
such critical omissions, Aijaz Ahmad has pointed out that the “missing bits”
in Rushdie’s narratives are precisely those aspects of life that the immigrant’s
absence inevitably shuts out: the resilient texture of everyday life, the healing
quality of ordinary friendships, and those commonly shared experiences
that provide people with secret spaces of refuge or even subterraneous sites
of resistance (139).
Rushdie’s novels are most astute and insightful when the author uncovers
the delusions and distortions of the paternal ruling class with which he is
closely acquainted. Combined with the candid observations of an immigrant,
his intimate knowledge of bourgeois society enables Rushdie to write alterna-
tive histories that offer many moving accounts of the frustrations and failures
on the Indian subcontinent. Yet this field of vision inevitably is circumscribed
by the material facts and ideological lures of migrancy. As a result, Rushdie’s
“imaginary homelands” are almost always wrapped in a miasmic atmosphere
of guilt, complicity and folly in which individual resistance seems futile and
collective resistance practically inconceivable. Belying the exorbitance of
their fictional forms, India and Pakistan thus collapse with a frighteningly
predictable finality at the end of Midnight’s Children and Shame.
Immigrant writers gazing back at their “imaginary homelands” often seem
unable to recognize or accept the healing balm from within that gradually
fills up the wound left by their departure. I am reminded here of another
immigrant, who wrote in another context – of Milan Kundera, who, upon
deciding not to return to Prague, wrote an article in which he attempted
to attract the attention of the West to the predicament of Czech culture in
general and that of the Czech intellectual in particular. The article described
Czechoslovakia as a cultural desert where everything had died and every-
one was stifled. Kundera had only recently emigrated and was full of good
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intentions in writing such an article, but the response he got from Czecho-
slovakia horrified him. He was taken to task for presuming to think that
everybody had died just because he had left the country!
Immigrant postcolonial writers have indeed offered us some profound
insights into culture and society, but unless we alert ourselves to the specific
realities within which their works are manufactured and marketed, we are likely
to grant their formulations much more than they can, or should, rightfully claim.
The embarrassingly absolute, even exclusive, centrality currently commanded
by “cosmopolitan celebrities” such as Rushdie in the emerging metropolitan
counter-canon of postcolonial literature often obscures the material condi-
tions and ideological contexts of their cultural production/consumption.
Consequently, the public persona of the postcolonial writer as an autonomous
and exuberant exile uniquely equipped to mediate “Third World” realities to
“First World” readers has remained inadequately problematized.
Resisting the lures of diaspora, we must recognize that the mythology of
migrancy decontextualizes “Third World” immigration in order to minimize
or obscure differences of class and gender. The mythology also exploits
the peripheral position of the “Third World” to conflate falsely personal
convenience with political persecution. Moreover, by decontaminating the
migrant of all territorial affiliations and social affinities, the mythology of
migrancy ironically reinvents, in the very process of destabilizing subjectiv-
ity, a postmodernist avatar of the free-floating bourgeois subject. Once this
autonomous and unattached individual, this migrant, exiled, or nomadic
consciousness, is legitimized as the only true site of postcolonial resistance,
all other forms of collective commitment automatically get devalued as
coercive and corrupt.
Clearly, not all “Third World” literature is produced by immigrants, and
as Kwame Anthony Appiah has pointed out, neither is all cultural production
in the “Third World” postcolonial in ways recognized by the postmodern
West (348). If both postmodernism and postcolonialism are, to an extent,
space-clearing gestures that seek to reject and replace prior practices that
claimed a certain exclusivity of vision (for example, modernism and colo-
nialism, respectively), many areas of contemporary cultural productions
in/from the “Third World” are not in this way self-consciously concerned
with transcending or going beyond coloniality: “Indeed it might be said to
be a mark of popular culture that its borrowings from international cultural
forms are remarkably insensitive to, not so much dismissive of as blind to,
the issue of neo-colonialism or ‘cultural imperialism’” (Appiah 348). Yet in
the international marketplace, such cultural commodities do not attract
the kind of attention and respect currently reserved for the more “proper”
postcolonial productions.
106
The uncritical privileging of immigrant writers prevents us from seriously

considering figurations of postcoloniality that may be grounded in alternative
strategies for change. If postcolonial politics is to retain its radical cutting
edge in dismantling the dichotomy between margin and centre, we cannot
afford to indulge in self-legitimizing mythologies and self-aggrandizing
manoeuvres that dilute efforts toward decolonization.
Notes
1 The term/category “Third World” obviously has little theoretical validity. I therefore use
quotation marks to indicate its political rather than sociological signification.
2 Neil Lazarus’s Resistance in Postcolonial Fiction (especially 1–26) offers a useful periodization of
African fiction in relation to the “great expectation” of the independence era and the “mourning
after.”
3 For instance, before the law finally was repealed in 1992, female Indian nationals did not have
the right to pass on citizenship to children born overseas.
4 For an extensive critique of The Empire Writes Back, see Mishra and Hodge.
5 For examples of such readings, see McLaren; Watson-Williams; and Malak.
6 These attitudes continue to prevail despite the efforts of such immigrant scholars as Spivak,
Suleri, Grewal, and Ahmad to focus on issues of class and gender in Rushdie’s writing.
Works Cited
Ahmad, Aijaz. “Salman Rushdie’s Shame: Postmodern Migrancy and the Representation of
Women.” Theory: Classes, Nations, Literatures. London: Verso, 1992. 123–58.
Appiah, Kwame Anthony. “Is the Post- in Postmodernism the Post- in Postcolonial?” Critical
Inquiry 17 (Winter 1991): 336–57.
Brennan, Timothy. Salman Rushdie and the Third World. New York: St. Martin’s, 1989.
Clifford, James. “Travel and Identity in Twentieth-Century Interculture.” The Henry Luce
Seminar, Yale University, Fall 1990.
Dirlik, Arif. “Culturalism as Hegemonic Ideology and Liberating Practice.” Cultural Critique 6
(Spring 1987): 13–50.
Grewal, Inderpal. “Salman Rushdie: Marginality, Women and Shame.” Genders 3 (Fall 1988):
24–42.
Kundera, Milan. “The Tragedy of Central Europe.” New York Review of Books 26 April 1984:
33-38.
Jameson, Fredric. “Third World Literature in the Era of Multinational Capitalism.” Social Text
15 (Fall 1986): 65–88.
Lazarus Neil. Resistance in Postcolonial Fiction. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1990.
Malak, Amin. “Reading the Crisis: The Polemics of Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses.”
ARIEL 20.4 (1989): 176–86.
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McLaren, John. “The Power of the Word: Salman Rushdie and The Satanic Verses.” Westerly 1
(March 1990): 61–65.
Mishra, Vijay, and Bob Hodge. “What is post(-)colonialism?” Textual Practice 5 (1991): 399–414.
Mukherjee, Bharati. “An Invisible Woman.” Saturday Night March 1981: 36–40.
———. The Middleman and Other Stories. New York: Viking Penguin, 1987.
———. “Prophet and Loss: Salman Rushdie’s Migration of Souls.” Village Voice Literary
Supplement 72 (March 1989): 9–12.
Mukherjee, Meenakshi. “The Centre Cannot Hold: Two Views of the Periphery.” After Europe:
Critical Theory and Post-Colonial Writing. Ed. Stephen Slemon and Helen Tiffin. Sydney:
Dangaroo, 1989. 41–49.
Nelson, Emmanuel S., ed. Reworlding: The Literature of the Indian Diaspora. New York:
Greenwood Press, 1992.
Rushdie, Salman. “A Dangerous Art Form.” Third World Book Review 1 (1984): 3–5.
———. “Imaginary Homelands.” Imaginary Homelands: Essays and Criticism. 1981–1991.
London: Granta & Viking, 1991. 9–21.
———. “An Interview with Salman Rushdie.” By Rani Dharkar. New Quest 42 (Nov.–Dec. 1983):
351–60.
———. “The Location of Brazil.” Imaginary Homelands: Essays and Criticism. 1981–1991. London:
Granta & Viking, 1991. 118–28.
———. Midnight’s Children. New York: Avon, 1980.
———. The Satanic Verses. New York: Viking, 1989.
———. Shame. New York: Vintage, 1984.
Safran, William. “Diasporas in Modern Societies: Myths of Homeland and Return.” Diaspora
1.1 (1991): 83–99.
Said, Edward. “Identity, Authority and Freedom: The Potentate and the Traveler.” Transitions 54
(1991): 131–50.
———. “Third World Intellectuals and Metropolitan Culture.” Raritan 9 (Winter 1990): 27–50.
Sangari, Kumkum. “The Politics of the Possible.” Interrogating Modernity: Culture and
Colonialism in India. Ed. Tejaswini Niranjana, P. Sudhir, and Vivek Dhareshwar. Calcutta:
Seagull Books, 1993. 242–72.
Spivak, Gayatri. “Theory in the Margin.” Consequences of Theory. Ed. Jonathan Arac and
Barbara Johnson. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1991. 154–80.
Suleri, Sara. “Salman Rushdie: Embodiments of Blasphemy, Censorships of Shame.” The
Rhetoric of English India. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992. 174–206.
Watson-Williams, Helen. “Finding a Father: A Reading of Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic
Verses.” Westerly 1 (March 1990): 66–71.
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6
“Home” has become such a
scattered, damaged, various
concept in our present travails.
— Salman Rushdie
e ast, west (93)
Postcolonial Differend:
Diasporic Narratives
of Salman Rushdie
vijay mishr a
For large groups of people around the world – Cubans and Mexicans in the
U.S.; Indians and Pakistanis in Britain, Canada, and the U.S.; Meghrebis
in France; Turks in Germany; Chinese in Southeast Asia; Greeks, Poles,
Armenians in various parts of the world; Chinese and Vietnamese in Australia,
Canada and the U.S.; Indians in Mauritius, Fiji, the Caribbean (the list can
go on and on) – the idea of “home” has indeed become a damaged concept.1
The word damaged forces us to face up to the scars and fractures, to the
blisters and sores, to the psychic traumas of bodies on the move. Indeed,
“home” (the heimlich) is the new epistemological logic of (post)modernity
as the condition of “living here and belonging elsewhere” begins to affect
people in an unprecedented fashion (Clifford 311). No longer is exile rendered
simply through an essentially aesthetic formulation (note the geographical
breaks, the “damaged” hyphens of Joyce [Dublin-Trieste], Pound [London-
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Paris-Rome], or Eliot [New England-London], for instance); on the contrary,

it is a travail/travel to which we are becoming inextricably linked as we get
progressively dragged into a global village. “Home” now signals a shift away
from homogeneous nation-states based on the ideology of assimilation to
a much more fluid and contradictory definition of nations as a multiplicity
of diasporic identities. The Indian shopkeeper in Vancouver who comes to
Canada via Fiji already has held two previous passports; his (for he is a man)
third, the Canadian passport, is one that gives him the greatest difficulty
in reconciling his body with the idea of Canadian citizenry. He remains a
negative yet to be processed, a penumbra in the new nation-state of Canada,
his privileges as a Canadian citizen most obvious only when he is travelling
overseas. Back at home his condition remains hyphenated because in Canada
(as in Australia, Britain, and Europe, but not to the same degree in the U.S.),
“home” is only available to those passport holders, those citizens whose bodies
signify an unproblematic identity of selves with the nation-state. For Indian
shopkeepers who are outside of this identity politics, whose corporealities
fissure the logic of unproblematic identity of bodies with citizens, the new
dogma of multiculturalism constructs the subject-in-hyphen forever negotiat-
ing and fashioning selves at once Indian and Canadian: Canadian Indian
and Canadian Indian.
It is becoming increasingly obvious that the narrative of the damaged
home thus takes its exemplary form in what may be called diasporas, and
especially in diasporas of colour, those migrant communities that do not
quite fit into the nation-state’s barely concealed preference for the narrative of
assimilation. Diasporas of colour, however, are a relatively recent phenomenon
in the West and, as I have already suggested, perhaps the most important
marker of late modernity. In the larger narrative of postcolonialism (which
has been informed implicitly by a theory of diasporic identifications), the
story of diasporas is both its cause and its effect. In the politics of transfer
and migration, postcolonialism recovers its own justification as an academic
site or as a legitimate object of knowledge. To write about damaged homes,
to reimage the impact of migration in the age of late capital, requires us to
enter into debates about diasporic theory. This is not my primary concern
here, but a few words about it will not be out of place.
One of the overriding characteristics of diasporas is that they do not,
as a general rule, return. This is not to be confused with the symbols of
return or the invocations, largely through the sacred, of the homeland or
the home-idea. The trouble with diasporas is that while the reference point
is in the past, unreal as it may be, there is, in fact, no future, no sense of a
teleological end. Diasporas cannot conceptualize the point toward which the
community, the nation within a nation, is heading. The absence of teleolo-
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Postcolonial Differend vijay mishr a
gies in the diaspora is also linked to Walter Benjamin’s understanding of

the ever-present time of historical (messianic) redemption. In this lateral
argument, an eventual homecoming is not projected into the future but
introjected into the present, thereby both interrupting it and multiplying it.
Diasporic history thus contests both the utopic and irreversible causality of
history through heterotopic (Foucault) or subversive (Benjamin) readings.
In these readings, time is turned back against itself in order that alternative
readings, alternative histories, may be released.
In this “diverse scansion of temporality,” 2 in this active re-membering
(as opposed to the mere recalling) of traces and fragments, a new space in
language and time is opened up, and historical moments are sundered to
reveal heterotopic paths not taken. The absence of teleologies, this intense
meditation on synchronicity, thus opposes the tyranny of linear time and
blasts open the continuum of history to reveal moments, fragments, traces
that can be recaptured and transformed into another history. As Salman
Rushdie writes:
It may be that writers in my position, exiles or emigrants or expatriates,
are haunted by some sense of loss, some urge to reclaim, to look back,
even at the risk of being mutated into pillars of salt. But if we do look
back, we must also do so in the knowledge – which gives rise to profound
uncertainties – that our physical alienation from India almost inevitably
means that we will not be capable of reclaiming precisely the thing that
was lost; that we will, in short, create fictions, not actual cities or villages,
but invisible ones, imaginary homelands, Indias of the mind. (Imaginary
Homelands 10)
We cannot trace the growth of diasporas in any systematic form here. All we
can do is refer very schematically to one particular diasporic development
that has a direct bearing on the texts discussed in this paper. 1963, the year
the Beatles exploded on the world scene, may also be chosen as the watershed
year in global migration. Demand for labour in western Europe and Britain,
and the collapse of the colonial empires of Britain, France, and Holland meant
that millions of non-white migrants from the outposts of the Empire, as well
as guest workers from Turkey, began to enter the European city on a scale
unprecedented since the Moorish invasions. The contemporary European
city, for instance, is now a very different demographic fact. It is no longer
the centre out of which radiates imperial activity. Instead, European cities
are no longer controlled by the logic of centre and periphery which was the
traditional metaphor of empire. What we have, in Iain Chambers’s words,
is a new kind of demographic redistribution “along the spatio-temporal-
information axes of a world economy” (Migrancy, Culture, Identity 108). He
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continues, “[T]he national, unilateral colonial model has been interrupted by

the emergence of a transversal world that occupies a ‘third space’ (Bateson,
Bhabha), a ‘third culture’ (Featherstone) beyond the confines of the nation
state” (108). It is symptomatic of a greater awareness of the transnational
nature of nation-states and the presence within them of degrees of difference
that led Khachig Tölölyan, editor of the new journal Diaspora, to maintain
that struggles from the margins for the centre and for definitions of the
“national” subject are equally legitimate concerns for the constructions of
identity or selfhood. Nevertheless, Tölölyan’s cautious remarks toward the
end of his editorial warn us of the difficult space occupied by diasporas and
the dangers of displacing the centre (made up of the vast majority of citizens
who do not define themselves in diasporic terms) totally by the margins.
Tölölyan writes: “To affirm that diasporas are the exemplary communities
of the transnational moment is not to write the premature obituary of the
nation-state as in original, which remains a privileged form of polity” (5).
This proviso is important.
Elsewhere I have spoken about this condition as the indeterminate, the
contaminated condition of diaspora. Here I want to do something slightly
different, something at once bold and fraught with difficulties. I want to
examine the literary production of an author – Salman Rushdie – whose
works exemplify the blasting open of agonistic politics in embattled ethnicities
within nation-states that can no longer construct their nationalisms through
a homogeneous and synchronous imagining of a body collective consensually
reading its newspapers or responding to global events as a totality. Indeed, if
we are to follow the hidden text of the previous sentence – Benedict Anderson’s
influential Imagined Communities – we begin to detect not so much the
logic of capitalism at work here but the religious, millenarian dogma of an
earlier age in which the issue was not necessarily that of imagining national
identities but of participating, through sacred languages (Latin, Sanskrit,
Pali, or Arabic) with communities across “nations.” There is, then, a reverse
scansion of history at work here, a desire for a lost unity within the ethnicized
state that minorities continue to inhabit. In the cultural sphere, this leads to
the end of consensual politics, the end of a community of speakers/thinkers
that could be relied upon to arbitrate for the national good. In short, what
is emerging is “the postcolonial differend.” What I would like to offer in the
following pages is an instance of this postcolonial differend with reference
to the Indian-Pakistani diaspora in Britain.
The diaspora, however, stages a “difference” that can be accommodated only
if consensual politics also takes into account the possibility of the diasporic
subject itself initiating the consensus. In other words, the majority population
has to concede that the diaspora’s ground rules (what constitutes belief, what
114
is a work of art, what is literary freedom) may be different from its own. It is
here that postcolonial theory, through a careful study of diasporic archive(s),
could address what Lyotard has called the differend. This is to anticipate
my concluding remarks, however. What I would like to continue here is an
examination of key texts of an author whose works have something of an
exemplary status as proof-texts of diaspora as an intermediate, increasingly
mobile idea. In the works of Salman Rushdie, the Indian-Pakistani diaspora
in Britain is seen as a powerful source for the hermeneutics of the liminal, the
borders of culture, the unassimilable, the margins, and so on. The critique
of the centre through the kinds of hybrid, hyphenated identities occupied by
this diaspora has been one of the more exciting and original theorizations
of the project of modernity itself. As an ideological critique of, as well as a
corrective to, established working-class British social histories, the payoff
has been considerable: one remembers how historians of the working class
consistently overlooked the diaspora as a significant formation in class
histories. There are no people of colour in E. P. Thompson.
The Texts of Salman Rushdie

Few works of fiction have been the subject of debates as intense as those that
have surrounded The Satanic Verses since its publication in 1988. Books have
now been written on the Rushdie Affair, and a film made on the author’s death
(much-deserved, as portrayed in the film) by the Pakistani film industry,
and Tehran continues to re-emphasize Khomeini’s fatwa during any staged
denunciation of the West. The author’s life, meanwhile, is one of double exile
in the company of his “protectors” in the Welsh countryside of “unafraid
lambs,” country houses, and farmers from whom he must “hide [his] face,”
as Rushdie describes it in his poem “Crusoe.” 3 However, he still hankers after
travel, the diasporic condition, even though this travel, like V.S. Naipaul’s
“arrival,” is toward the Arthurian “once and future Avalon.” The cause of
Rushdie’s second exile, of course, is a book about migrancy, dispossession,
cultural hybridity, and the absence of centres in diasporic lives. To give these
themes an intertext, a frame, or a narrative template, they are hoisted on
another moment in history when “newness” enters the world. The entry of
strange people into so many parts of the globe presents the older inhabitants
with precisely the threat of the new, the threat of “ideas” no longer commen-
surable with its pre-existing epistemologies. In this retelling, Indian Islam
(always contaminated by autochthonous gods, dervishes, the figure of the
ascetic, and other borrowings from Hinduism) is seen as a hybrid, contradic-
tory phenomenon that conjures strange dreams about the founding text and
prophet of that religion. Indian Islam thus has a polytheistic splinter in the
side of its monotheism in which the intercession of female gods in any act of
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worship is not excluded outright. Moreover, this kind of syncretism is truer

still of Bombay, Rushdie’s magical metropolis, the postcolonial city, which
challenges the erstwhile metropolises of London and Paris. What is true of
Indian Islam is also true of Indian narrative forms and culture generally. The
Aryans, the Moguls, the British have all been invaders, leaving their traces
behind as the nation gradually reabsorbs multiplicity into a totality. Thus
the central themes of the book – how “newness” enters the world, how the
many co-exist within the one, and why love remains the only organizing
principle of our lives – get written in a hybrid discourse that is borrowed
from the Bombay film industry, the idioms of Hobson-Jobson,4 a colonial
English curriculum, the Katha-Sarit-Sagar (342), the nativist jokes on the
ooparvala-neechayvala (he who lives upstairs, he who lives downstairs), the
narrative of the epic recast as the battle for the Mahavilayat (283), the populist
narratives of Phoolan Devi,5 the female dacoit, the fundamentalist world of
the post-Ayodhya Hindus, the references to the Indian Penal Code section
420 (Gibreel sings Raj Kapoor’s well-known song from Shree 420), as well
as the Indian Civic Code section 125, and many more.
The Satanic Verses situates itself in the midst of these heterogeneous
discourses. It is from the space of hybridity, of multiplicity, that many of
the characters speak. Mimi Mamoulian, for instance, knows very well the
meaning of the world as “pastiche: a ‘flattened’ world” (261), and the author’s
own, very postmodern intervention makes this clearer still:
Gibreel […] has wished to remain, to a large degree, continuous – that
is, joined to and arising from his past; […] whereas Saladin Chamcha
is a creature of selected discontinuities, a willing re-invention; his
preferred revolt against history being what makes him, in our chosen
idiom, “false”? [Where Chamcha is therefore perceived as “evil”] Gibreel,
to follow the logic of our established terminology, is to be considered
“good” by virtue of wishing to remain, for all his vicissitudes, at bottom
an untranslated man.
– But, and again but: this sounds, does it not, dangerously like an
intentionalist fallacy? – Such distinctions, resting as they must on an
idea of the self as being (ideally) homogeneous, non-hybrid, “pure,” – an
utterly fantastic notion – cannot, must not, suffice. (427)
Rushdie begins by offering the usual binarism between the continuous and
the discontinuous, between tradition and modernity, between good and evil,
only to undercut it through the intervention of the hybrid. Indeed, what this
extended statement about the construction of the self indicates, in the context
of the diaspora and margins, is that subjectivity is now formed through
modes of translation and encoding because erstwhile distinctions “cannot,
116
must not, suffice.” This last phrase, in fact, sums up the agenda of the book
as a whole: distinctions made through established cultural epistemologies
(including the ubiquitous self-other distinction) will always fail. Yet, even
as hybridity is celebrated, one gets the feeling that the disavowed leaves its
traces behind because, as we shall see, The Satanic Verses itself failed to
convince the diaspora that there is no such thing as an “untranslated man”:
large sections of the diaspora wish to retain this nostalgic definition of the
self and cling to “millenarian” narratives of self-empowerment in which
only the untranslated can recapture a lost harmony but, paradoxically,
the desire to retain a pristine sense of the past is only possible through the
technologies of mechanical reproduction such as cassette tapes, films, and
so on.6 Since historical reconstructions through these apparatuses introduce
the heterotopic into the utopian or the linear, what we get here is precisely
a heterogeneous, contradictory rendition of history by making memory
and cultural fragments metonymic representations of the whole. While
cassette culture reconstructs the past as a synchronic moment (old Indian
films can be viewed endlessly), it also contaminates the diasporic idea of
culture as belonging to the homeland alone. As Paul Gilroy has argued so
persuasively in The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness,
the newer technologies of cultural transmission accentuate the fact that
cultural commodities travel swiftly, criss-crossing geographical boundaries,
creating new and vibrant forms. The Bhojpuri-Hindi songs of the Indian
singers Babla and Kanchan, for instance, combine Hindi film music with
calypso/hip hop, while in Britain, Asian Bhangra and Indian groups such
as Loop Guru (post-Ravi Shanker music crossed with cyber-religion) show
obvious influences of reggae and soul music of black Africa.
In this respect, The Satanic Verses affirms the impossibility of millenarian
diasporic narratives while at the same time stressing that these narratives
invariably will be the starting point of any radical retheorizing of the diasporic
imaginary, which, for Rushdie, is identical with modernism itself and may
be read as a “metaphor for all humanity”:
If The Satanic Verses is anything, it is a migrant’s-eye view of the world.
It is written from the very experience of uprooting, disjuncture and
metamorphosis […] that is the migrant condition, and from which,
I believe, can be derived a metaphor for all humanity. (Imaginary
Homelands 394)
Rushdie goes on:

The Satanic Verses celebrates hybridity, impurity, intermingling, the
transformation that comes of new and unexpected combinations of
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human beings, cultures, ideas, politics, movies, songs. It rejoices

in mongrelization and fears the absolutism of the Pure. Mélange,
hotchpotch, a bit of this and a bit of that is how newness enters the world.
It is the great possibility that mass migration gives the world, and I have
tried to embrace it. The Satanic Verses is for change-by-fusion, change-
by-conjoining. It is a love-song to our mongrel selves. (394)
The celebration of the hybrid – “the process of hybridization which is the

novel’s most crucial dynamic means that its ideas derive from many sources
other than Islamic ones,” writes Rushdie (403) – however, also leads to the
endowing of the fiction itself with what Gilroy has called “an absolute and
non-negotiable privilege” (“Cultural Studies” 190). The aesthetic order as
somehow immune to a counter-attack through a non-aesthetic reading of
the text has dominated much of the criticism that has been directed against
Rushdie in the wake of Khomeini’s fatwa. We shall return to the question
of aesthetic privilege.
The Diasporic Avant-garde

The story of “migration, its stresses and transformations, from the point of
view of migrants from the Indian subcontinent,” 7 nevertheless drops the
old realist modes of writing and embraces the European avant-garde. Yet it
also keeps its realist nose sharply in focus. This is partly because the book is
as much about South Asians in a racialized Britain as it is an avant-gardist
break in the history of “English” fiction.8 Rushdie, in fact, is quite explicit
about this dual agenda:
[The Satanic Verses] begins in a pyrotechnic high-surrealist vein and
moves towards a much more emotional, inner writing. That process of
putting away the magic noses and cloven hoofs is one the novel itself
goes through: it tells itself, and by the end it doesn’t need the apparatus
any more. (Interview with Blake Morrison 120)
It is, however, the use of non-European narrative forms, summed up in

the Arabic narrator’s correction of the reader’s processes of naturalization
through a phrase such as “it was so, it was not,” that led Gayatri Spivak to
remark that while The Satanic Verses was not part of the linear narrative
of the European avant-garde, “the successes and failures of the European
avant-garde is available to it” (41). Let us accept Spivak’s proposition but give
the text a further twist. Instead of using the phrase “European avant-garde,”
let us use the phrase “diasporic avant-garde” to mark out a generic space for
a variety of literary texts that would use the European avant-garde to inter-
rogate subject positions excluded or silenced by modernism by constructing
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allegorical or counter-hegemonic subaltern renditions of the geopolitical

imaginary of South Asians in Britain.
At the risk of repetition, let me underline once again that The Satanic
Verses is the text about migration, about the varieties of religious, sexual, and
social filiations of the diaspora.9 The work is the millenarian routed through
the space of travel (the aeroplane replaces the ship) and then problematically
rooted in the new space of the diaspora. In this respect the text’s primary
narrative is a tale of migrancy and the ambiguities of being an Indian (or
Pakistani) in Britain. In the process, the work explores the disavowal of so
many fundamental assumptions and values because of a massive epistemic
violence to the intellect. The narrative, in fact, begins with people who
have already lost their faith in religion and who now have a truly diasporic
relationship with India. As Rushdie has explained, these people are the new
travellers across the planet; having lost their faith, they have to rethink what
death means to the living and how desire can find expression when people
cannot love (Interview with Blake Morrison 120–21). One of the key phrases
that recurs deals with being born again (to be born again, you have to die,
says Gibreel to Saladin), and the diasporic world is very much the world
in which one undergoes a rebirthing. In the case of Gibreel and Saladin,
the context in which this occurs combines the fantastic free fall from an
exploding plane (AI 420 from the height of Mt Everest, a full 29,002 feet 10)
with the realistic narrative of terrorism and hijacking. The combination
of these two generic modes is striking, since it forecloses the possibility of
naturalistic readings because the work reveals a kind of simultaneous karma
and reincarnation: two people die and are immediately reborn as they were
at the moment of their deaths. The rebirthing of Gibreel and Saladin, then,
parallels, say, the rebirth of Amba as Shikhandin in the Mahabharata, the
founding Indian text that is simultaneously diachronic and synchronic: it
happened then, it happens now. One becomes someone else but keeps the
earlier history/biography intact. The relationship between Rushdie’s writings
and the Indian epic tradition of generic mixing is a narrative we cannot go
into here, but it is nevertheless important to refer to it, if only because it
reminds us of the fictiveness of the text and its relationship to the traditional
hybridity of Indian culture. Moreover, as Gibreel’s song (from the film Shree
420) shows, the dominant cultural form of modern India, the Bombay film,
the successor to the encyclopaedic pan-Indian epic tradition, constantly
adapts itself to and indigenizes all global cultural forms, from Hollywood
to Middle Eastern dance and music.
The “emigration” of Salahuddin Chamchawala from Bombay has close
parallels with Salman Rushdie’s own pattern of emigration. From the insertion
of the well-known autobiographical “kipper story” (the young Rushdie was
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not allowed to get up from the dinner table until he had finished his kipper,
which he didn’t know how to eat!) to his own uneasy relationship with his
father, there are striking parallels between Saladin and his creator. It is not
Gibreel but Saladin who is reborn and who accepts the need for change:
the nostalgia for the past (a house, one’s ancestral religion, and so on) is
not something one can live by but to which, in an act of both homage and
acceptance of his father Changez Chamchawala, Saladin returns. The use
of a fused sign – Salman and Saladin – allows Rushdie to enter into those
areas, notably the body and the religious body-politic, that accentuate the
diasporic condition. Relationships with women – Pamela Lovelace (wife),
Mimi Mamoulian (professional partner), and Zeeny Vakil (mistress) – raise
the interesting question of diasporic sexuality and gender relations. At the
same time, the other autobiographical figure around “Salman” – Salman from
Persia in the Mahound and Jahilia sections of the book – is also diasporic
and connects with Islam as a political as well as religious revolution staged by
“water-carriers, immigrants and slaves” (101). Even the radical Iranian cultural
critic suppressed under the Shah’s regime, and for many the harbinger of
Khomeini’s revolution, Jalal Al-e Ahmad (1923–1969), refers to one Salman-e
Faresi (Salman the Persian) who “found refuge in Medina with the Muslims
and played such an important role in the development of Islam” (16). This
Salman-e Faresi may not have been the prophet’s contemporary, but the
connection between Iran (through the figure of Salman) and the advent of
Islam underscores the strength of the Iranian furore against Rushdie. In Al-e
Ahmad’s reading of the Islamization of Iran, what is emphasized, perhaps
too simplistically, is the idea of Islam being invited into Iran. Unlike earlier
Western incursions, Islam, another Western ideology, is not an invasion but a
response to Iran’s own need to embrace the austere harmony of the “one.”
It is through Saladin/Salman (Rushdie) that the new themes of diasporic
interaction are explored. Saladin sees in the relics of Empire in the heart of
London “attractively faded grandeur.” Gibreel, on his part, sees only a “wreck,
a Crusoe-city, marooned on the island of its past.” When asked about his
favourite films, Saladin offers a cosmopolitan list: “Potemkin, Kane, Otto e
Mezzo, The Seven Samurai, Alphaville, El Angel Exterminador” (439), whereas
Gibreel (the larger-than-life Bombay film actor modelled on Amitabh Bachchan
and N. T. Rama Rao, the latter a hero-god in countless mythological films
turned politician) offers a list of successful commercial Hindi films: “Mother
India, Mr India, Shree Charsawbees: no Ray, no Mrinal Sen, no Aravindan,
or Ghatak” (440). The lists, the choices made, the implied discriminations,
the negotiations with the migrant’s new land, all indicate the complex ways
in which two diaspora discourses (the millenarian and the diasporic) work.
Gibreel, for his part, does not undergo mutation but remains locked in the
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worlds of memory and fantasy. Saladin thus becomes the figure who is both
here and elsewhere, and his return to the Motherland to be at his father’s
deathbed is perhaps the more cogent statement about the diasporic condition.
Gibreel, on the other hand, acts out his actor’s fantasies and becomes the
conduit through whom (in his imagination) the Prophet receives the Quran.
Blasphemy, therefore, falls not to the hybrid mutant but to the nostalgia-ridden
Gibreel. Further, the mutant condition of Saladin (names in the diaspora
are similarly mutated, a Hobson-Jobson discourse gets replayed) is both
linguistic as well as physical: the he-goat with an erratic pair of horns and
the owner of a name that moves between the Indian Chamchawala to the
trans-Indian Spoono (English for chamcha, “spoon,” though in Hindi/Urdu
a chamcha is a sycophant gleefully doing his/her master’s work). In all this,
two ideas –newness and love – keep cropping up. For Dr. Uhuru Simba,
“newness will enter this society by collective, not individual actions” (415).
As for love, the combinations it takes – Gibreel/Rekha Merchant/Allie Cone;
Saladin/Pamela Lovelace/Zeeny Vakil/Mimi Mamoulian – get complicated
by other alignments: Jumpy Joshi/Pamela; Saladin/Allie Cone; Billy Bat-
tuta/Mimi; Hanif Johnson/Mishal Sufyan. All these relationships are part
of the new diasporic combinations, a kind of necessary reprogramming of
the mind in the wake of the diasporic newness. At the point of interaction
where the old and the new come together – as is the case with the diaspora’s
encounter with the vibrant politics of the metropolitan centre – new social
meanings get constructed, especially in the domain of psychosexual politics.
Thus the capacious Hind and not the bookish Muhammad effectively runs the
Shaandaar café: her great cooking is what improves the material condition of
the family rather than Muhammad’s Virgilian rhetoric, which has no value
in Britain. Gender relations therefore get repositioned in the diaspora, and
women begin to occupy a different, though not necessarily more equitable,
kind of space. The manner in which a diasporic restaurant culture in Britain
is actually based on wives as cooks is quite staggering. In another world, in
the world of Jahilia, however, it is Hind, the powerful wife of the patriarch
Abu Simbel who has to battle with another new idea: “What kind of an
idea are you?” (335) is the question asked of the Prophet. Yet the idea of the
“new” (the idea of the “post” in any modernity) also has a tendency to get
fossilized, which is where another narrative of the diaspora, the millenarian,
becomes the attractive, and easy, alternative. As a heterogeneous, “unread”
text, The Satanic Verses has been appropriated, positively and negatively,
toward both diasporic (hybrid) and essentialist ends. I will return to the
latter in the context of Rushdie and the sacred. For the moment, I want to
explore further the question of racial politics and diasporic identity.
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Race, Identity, and Britishness

The late 1960s saw the emergence of a new racism in Britain for which Enoch
Powell was the best-known, but not the only, spokesperson. In what seemed
like a remarkable reversal of old Eurocentric and imperialist readings of the
black colonized as racially inferior, the new racists began to recast races on the
model of linguistic difference. This difference, however, had to be anchored
somewhere, and the easiest means of doing this was by stipulating that nations
were not imagined communities constructed historically but racial enclaves
marked by high levels of homogeneity. Thus a race had a nation to which
it belonged. The British had their nation and belonged to an island off the
coast of Europe, and so on. In the name of racial respect and racial equality,
this version in fact gave repatriation theorists such as Enoch Powell a high
level of respectability in that, it was argued, what Powell stood for was not
racism but a nationalism that the immigrants themselves upheld. What the
argument simplified was the history of imperialism itself and the massive
displacement of races that had taken place in the name of Empire. Nowhere
was this more marked than in the Indian, African, and Chinese diasporas of
the Empire. More importantly, however, the new racism was used to defend
Britishness itself, to argue that in fact multiculturalism is a travesty of the
British way of life, which now becomes extremely vulnerable. The only good
immigrant is one who is totally assimilable, just as the only good gay or lesbian
is someone who leads a closet life. Writes Anna Marie Smith:
Only the thin veneer of deracializing euphemisms has shifted over this
period, with blatantly racist discourse on immigration being recoded in
discourse on criminality, inner-cities’ decay and unrest, anti-Western
terrorism, and multiculturalism. Indeed, the fundamentally cultural
definition of race in the new racism allows for this mobile relocation of the
racial-national borders to any number of sociopolitical sites. (62)
It is by way of the Sufyan family (Muhammad, the Bangladeshi schoolmaster

with a weakness for European classics, his wife, Hind, and their daughters,
Mishal and Anahita) that we enter into changing demographic patterns and
race relations in Britain, as well as see how homeland family norms negotiate
the new gender politics of diasporas. The Sufyan family lives on Brickhall
Street, the old Jewish enclave of tailors and small-time shopkeepers. Now it is
the street of Bangladeshi migrants or Packies/Pakis (“brown Jews” [300]) who
are least equipped for metropolitan life. Thus, in Brickhall, synagogues and
kosher food have given way to mosques and halal restaurants. Yet nothing is
as simple as it seems in this world of the diaspora. The space of the Shaandaar
Cafe B&B becomes the space of new labour relations between husband
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and wife but also of new forms of sexuality. Mishal becomes pregnant by
the second-generation diaspora Hanif Johnson, while Jumpy Joshi has sex
with Pamela, even as her husband, Saladin, sleeps under the same roof. The
diaspora here finally crumbles and falls apart because the pressures come
not only from the newly acquired sociosexual field of the participants in
the diasporic drama but also because that drama has to contend with racist
hooliganism as the diaspora becomes progressively an object of derision to
be represented through the discourse of monsterism. It is through this brand
of fascism that death finally comes to the diaspora and to those associated
with it. Both the café and the community centre are burned down. Hind,
Muhammad, and Pamela die and suddenly there is no room for nostalgia, no
room for the discourse of mysticism (469) that had sustained the discourses
of the homeland. Instead, the imperative is to transform one’s memory into
modes of political action because the world is far too real (469). It is at this
point in the narrative that diasporic identities get complicated by the presence
in Britain of people who have already gone through the diasporic experience
in other parts of the world. Having co-existed with Afro-West Indians, the
Indian diaspora of the West Indies, for instance, is already a hybrid form. Thus
Sewsunker Ram (Pinkwalla), the DJ, and John Maslama, the club proprietor,
have political and cultural orientations that bring them close to the kinds of
diasporic politics endorsed by a Dr. Uhuru Simba. The alignments at work
here – Bengali, Afro-Caribbean, East Indian Caribbean, East African Indian,
Sikh, Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, and so on – gesture toward new forms
of diasporic awareness and coalitional politics. From the Africanist ideal of
Dr. Uhuru Simba to the multifaceted, decentred, simulative worlds of the
Sufyan girls, Jumpy Joshi, and Hanif Johnson, one now begins to see not
one legitimation narrative of the diaspora but many.
“The trouble with the Engenglish is that their hiss hiss history happened
overseas, so they dodo don’t know what it means,” stutters S. S. Sisodia
(343). When those who were instrumental in creating that history (as sub-
ject peoples on whose behest the Empire believed it was acting) are now
within the metropolitan centres of the Empire itself, the idea of Britishness
is threatened. Both the challenge and the threat are summarized elegantly
by Iain Chambers, who writes:
It is the dispersal attendant on migrancy that disrupts and interrogates
the overarching themes of modernity: the nation and its literature,
language and sense of identity; the metropolis; the sense of centre;
the sense of psychic and cultural homogeneity. In the recognition of the
other, of radical alterity, lies the acknowledgement that we are no longer
at the centre of the world. (Migrancy, Culture, Identity 23–24)
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Chambers’s “we” here is the British, but the definition that he gives of the
British is very much an intermediate one. It is a definition in which the
subjects of the centre – the British as an ethnic entity – also begin to find
that subjectivity is “interactively” constructed, on the move, so to speak.
The cultural imperative that underlies Chambers’s move is that the diaspora
now invades the centre and makes prior, essentialist definitions of nation-
states based on notions of racial purity (Enoch Powell), a historical relic of
imperialism itself. It is the privileged site of that imperialist history and its
constructions of Britishness that gets replayed in the doctrines of purity in
postcolonial Britain. Yet, as I say this I think what is implicit in the Chambers
thesis – the need for a radical pedagogy about ethnic identities – is precisely
what needs underlining. How does one make decisive interventions in the
curriculum so that Britishness itself is opened up for debate? It is the agenda
of the agents who would transform the apparatuses of control through which
the idea of the self is constructed that requires further examination.
A “post-diaspora community” in Britain, to use Rushdie’s own phrase
(Imaginary Homelands 40), now becomes a site from which a critique of
Britishness itself (and the imperial relationship between the British and
Indians that has a 300-year history) is now being mounted. The migrant
living here and elsewhere would find it difficult to fit into, say, Margaret
Thatcher’s imperious definition of a Briton during the Falklands War. As
Chambers again has stressed, any attempt to decipher this appeal to “British-
ness” necessarily draws us into complex, contradictory, and even treacherous
terrain, in which the most varied elements “entwine, coexist and contaminate
one another” (Border Dialogues 15). For the Indian diaspora, this trope of
“Britishness” has multiple identities and can be expressed in a variety of
ways. To be British in a post-diaspora Britain is to be conscious of multiple
heritages and people’s conflicting participation in the long history of Britain.
For many, an easy, unproblematic reinsertion into a utopic or linear narrative
of the British nation is impossible. In The Satanic Verses, we get a strong
affirmation of the undesirability of this version of linear history.
We are therefore faced with “the possibility of two perspectives and two
versions of Britishness” (Chambers, Border Dialogues 27). One is Anglocen-
tric, frequently conservative, backward-looking, and increasingly located
in a frozen and largely stereotyped idea of the national – that is, English
– culture. The other is ex-centric, open-ended, and multi-ethnic. The first is
based on a homogeneous “unity” in which history, tradition, and individual
biographies and roles, including ethnic and sexual ones, are fundamentally
fixed and embalmed in the national epic, in the mere fact of being “English.”
The other perspective suggests an overlapping network of histories and
traditions, a heterogeneous complexity in which positions and identities,
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including those relating to the idea of the “citizen,” cannot be taken for
granted and are not “interminably fixed but tend towards flux” (Chambers,
Border Dialogues 27).
The peculiar irony of Rushdie’s own anti-racist rhetoric is that he has been
used to fuel racism: Muslim threat against Rushdie’s life is used by the white
majority to portray all Muslims as fundamentalists. As Rushdie himself has
pointed out, “The idea that the National Front could use my name as a way
of taunting Asians is so horrifying and obscene to my mind that I wanted to
make it clear: that’s not my team, they’re not my supporters, they’re simply
exploiting the situation to their own ends” (Interview with Blake Morrison
115). The uses made of Rushdie in defence of “Britishness” imply a problematic
incorporation of the name “Rushdie” into British citizenry. The appropriation
of Rushdie by British writers in the name of the autonomy of the aesthetic
order again has a similar agenda. Rushdie, the politically correct defender of
the diaspora, is now the equally correct “British” citizen under the protection
of Scotland Yard who is defended by Harold Pinter.
The Diaspora, the Sacred, and Salman Rushdie

The Satanic Verses is one radical instance of diasporic recollection or re-
memoration. Any such rememoration asks questions of the diasporic subject:
What is the status of its past, of its myths, of its own certainties? How has it
constructed these certainties? Does anything or anybody have a hegemonic
status within the diaspora itself? Or do we read diasporas, as I have sug-
gested, through the Gramscian definition of the subaltern? Do the Imams
of Islam (in Bradford or in Tehran or in Bombay) constitute a ruling group
within the subaltern?
Can one reinvigorate one’s myths? One kind of reinvigoration was endorsed
by Indian diasporas created in the wake of the British indenture system. In
these nineteenth-century diasporas, loss was rewritten as a totality through
the principle of a reverse millenarianism. There was a golden age back there
that we have forfeited through our banishment. Let us imaginatively re-cre-
ate this golden age, which would leap over the great chasm created in our
history through indenture. One of the grand templates of Indian diasporic
millenarianism is the myth of Rama and his banishment. The alternative to
this millenarian ethos is a version of rememoration in which the continuum
of imperial history is blasted through a radical mediation on the conditions
of migrancy and displacement. The recapitulation of one’s history (and not
just the reinvigoration of myth) leads to a confrontation with the narratives
of imperialism itself. Where the old diaspora’s myths, after all, were com-
mensurate with the imperial narratives of totality (insofar as these myths
were considered to be equally forceful from the subject’s point of view), the
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new diaspora attempts to penetrate the history of the centre through multiple
secularisms. When, however, the interventions into secularity threaten an
earlier memory, diasporas turn to versions of millenarian rememoration and
retreat into an essentialist discourse, even though they know full well that
the past can no longer redeem.
It is in this context that I would like to explore the intersection of the radical
agenda of diasporas and the idea of the sacred. No reading of The Satanic
Verses can be complete without considering the reception of the text in terms
of the sacred. The sacred, in this instance, refuses to accept the aesthetic
autonomy of the text and connects the narrator’s voice unproblematically
with that of the author. In his defence – and in the defence mounted on his
behalf by the world literati – it is really the relative autonomy of art that has
been emphasized. What this defence raises is a very serious question about
whether a diasporic text that celebrates hybridity and rootlessness can be
defended with reference purely to the privileged status of the aesthetic order.
In the ensuing debates, the British South Asian diaspora has been read as
a group that does not quite understand the values of a civic society and has
the capacity to relapse into barbarism, precisely the condition that gave
the Empire its humanist apology. If I return to the saturated discourses
surrounding the Rushdie Affair, it is because the discourse reminds us of
yet another kind of privilege, and one that questions the non-negotiable
primacy of modernity itself.
Now here comes the difficult part of the presentation in the context of
The Satanic Verses as a commodity with quite specific effects. The British
Muslim response to The Satanic Verses has not been through the narratives of
hybridity nor through an interventionist politics that would use The Satanic
Verses to point out the massive contradictions between the diaspora and the
ideology of “Britishness”; rather, it has been through a reappropriation of the
myths of totality, of millenarianism, which were the survival mechanism of
the old diaspora. In other words, the defence has been mounted not through a
constantly revalidating and contingent subjectivity in medias res but through
an unreal resistance based on the discourse of a prior diasporic mode of nar-
rativization. The Satanic Verses as an intervention into the project of modernity
now faces modernity itself as an unnecessary formation in diasporic culture.
Clearly, the Bradford Imams cannot be both modern and anti-modern, but
such indeed is the complex/contradictory narrative that is being articulated.
Thus what we get is the second diaspora trying to cling to totalities, to the
unreal completedness of the first, where, even for a Naipaul, there was never
an unproblematic totality to aspire to in the first instance. The old diaspora,
in spite of its ideologies of totality, could not have responded to The Satanic
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Verses with the same sense of unqualified rejection. The fatwa against Rushdie
originated in the diaspora – in Bradford – and not in Iran.
From the borders, from the interstices of existence, from the liminal, the
diasporic subject uses, in Rukmini Nair and Rimli Bhattacharya’s words,
fragments of religious faith […] [to] ‘shore’ up his existence, give him
much needed stability in a hostile environment. When that stability is
blown to bits by an author as well ensconced and integrated as Rushdie,
panic results. The neurosis of nemesis replaces the certainties of
nostalgia. (28–29)
One may disagree with Nair and Bhattacharya’s use of “certainties,” but
the point is valid. What is missing from diasporic theory is a theory of the
sacred based not on the idea of the sacred as a pathological instance of the
secular in itself defined along purely modernist lines but as a point from
which interventions can take place. In short, as Al-e Ahmad points out, the
sacred is a source of metaphors of empowerment easily available for ethnic
mobilization. In all our debates about the diaspora, the sacred is missing. I
return to The Satanic Verses, which, by its very title, foregrounds something
highly contentious in Islam and in Islamic definitions of the sacred. Racialized
politics meets its sacralized other here. To emphasize this, to find how Rushdie
reads the sacred and how the unified discourse of the sacred is used by the
diaspora to defend a lost purity from within the hybrid, the hyphen, is not
to say that The Satanic Verses is best read along these lines. What I am do-
ing is using The Satanic Verses selectively to underline the dual narrative of
the diaspora: the hyphen and the total, the fracture and the whole. Clearly,
each has different historical antecedents for the diaspora: the hyphen is the
presencing of the boundary where the politics of epistemic violence and
a self-conscious redefinition of the project of modernity is located firmly
within the global politics of migrancy (which also affects the construction
of the non-diasporic subject); the sacred is a function of narratives that the
almost self-contained diasporic communities constructed out of a finite
set of memories. They gave permanence to mobility (the mothered space is
always mobile – the child in the womb moves) by creating a fixed point of
origin when none existed. The sacred refuses to be pushed to the liminal, to
the boundary. It wants to totalize by centring all boundaries: the many and
the one cease to be two dialectical poles. Since its narratives are transhistori-
cal, the absurdity of the move for a disempowered diasporic community is
overtaken completely by the illusory power of the act itself, from which the
colonizer is excluded. This is true of all religious attitudes in the diaspora.
As Ashis Nandy writes, “Hinduism in the diaspora, for example, is much
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more exclusive and homogenic. Out of feelings of inferiority, many Hindus

have tried to redefine Hinduism according to the dominant concept of
religion” (104).
In The Satanic Verses, Rushdie, in fact, connects the moment of newness
itself with the diasporic performance in the sense that the Prophet’s interven-
tion into the staid politics and religion of Jahilia is made possible only through
people who are always on the margins of society, “water-carrier immigrant
slave” (104). The sacred is thus a means of radical self-empowerment, especially
for those who work under the tyranny of the merchant classes of the Arab
world. In that sacred discourse, the language, however, was not of the many,
of the hybrid, but of the one. The radical, in other words, was not the idea
of multiple narratives and contingency or coalitional politics, it was not the
affirmation of the hyphen, but the starkness of the total, of the one:
Why do I fear Mahound? [thinks the Grandee of Jahilia Abu Simbel]. For
that: one one one, his terrifying singularity. Whereas I am always divided,
always two or three or fifteen. […] This is the world into which Mahound
has brought his message: one one one. Amid such multiplicity, it sounds
like a dangerous word. (102–03)
The radical “one,” however, also carries a dangerous principle of female

exclusion. Where the many have always found space for female goddesses,
the Prophet, finally, excludes them from the position of divine intermediar-
ies, though not before toying with the idea of their symbolic incorporation
into the “new”:
Messenger, what are you saying? Lat, Manat, Uzza – they’re all females!
For pity’s sake! Are we to have goddesses now? Those old cranes,
herons, hags? (107)
In the deserts of Arabia and at a particular historical moment, the radical, the
new, could be conceived of only as an austere unity around the mathematical
one. In the version of radical alterity that defines the modern diaspora, it
is the many that must now splinter the impregnable fortresses of the one.
This is the monumental irony of the debates around the book. The trouble
is that the nation-state has never acknowledged the diasporic contribution
to modernity, always reading them as the “one,” always reading them as a
dangerous presence in the West. At the height of the controversy surrounding
the burning of the book, the British Home Minister responsible for Race
Relations, John Patten, issued a news release entitled “On Being British” (18
July 1989), in which the ideology of the one is used to berate the excesses
of another ideology of oneness. It can be seen that race relations in Britain
itself produced a desire to return to the security of the past: both whites
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and Muslims in Britain return to their own essentialisms in moments of

(perceived) crisis. Have the efforts of those who have struggled for a multiply
centred nation-state therefore collapsed because the state itself created an
environment in which a historical moment (that of the Prophet) would be
dehistoricized, reshaped, and used as a defence of the diaspora itself? Homi
Bhabha confronts these questions in The Location of Culture:
The conflict of cultures and community around The Satanic Verses
has been mainly represented in spatial terms and binary geopolitical
polarities – Islamic fundamentalists vs. Western literary modernists,
the quarrel of the ancient (ascriptive) migrants and modern (ironic)
metropolitans. This obscures the anxiety of the irresolvable, borderline
culture of hybridity that articulates its problems of identification and
its diasporic aesthetic in an uncanny, disjunctive temporality that
is, at once, the time of cultural displacement, and the space of the
“untranslatable.” (225)
Bhabha’s examination of the politics of The Satanic Verses very quickly becomes
a kind of aestheticization of the diaspora. The dominant semantics of this
aesthetic may be stated through one of Bhabha’s favourite metaphors, the
metaphor of the “trans-.” Applied to the diaspora, it means that for the diaspora
a double time frame, a double space, is always, everywhere present. This is a
good point, since the disjunctive temporality (both here and elsewhere; the
space of present location and the rememoration of the past) is the diasporic
condition. To ask the diaspora to function from one space, from one time, is
to create what William Godwin in Political Justice (1793) called “impostures.”
Yet the decisive question remains: what political articulations indeed can
be made from the position of a disjunctive temporality? And if this is also
the condition of hybridity (the term goes back to the nineteenth-century
botanists), then what hope is there for hybrids to become agents of change
and not just positions that one may occupy for purposes of critique?
Clearly, Bhabha’s reading of the diasporic subject within the European
nation-state is more or less identical with the non-hegemonic or pre-hegemonic
Gramscian subaltern whose histories are fragmented and episodic. In the
context of the Rushdie Affair, we may ask, Does hegemony always suppress
difference? Or does it entertain and even encourage difference provided that
it is a difference that can be footnoted adequately in the grand history of
Empire, which Sir Ernest Baker once referred to as a “mission of culture – and
of something higher than culture” (qtd. in Asad 250)? When the hegemonic
power loses its clarity of vision in terms of its own definition of unity, then
a crisis erupts – and both Salman Rushdie and Homi Bhabha believe that
post-imperial British society is in crisis. Terms such as cultural minorities,
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ethnics, blacks, New Commonwealth immigrants, multiculturalism, are all

terms used by a hysterical centre that no longer knows how to normalize the
Other in the nation within. It is then the celebration of difference by Rushdie
that is endorsed by Bhabha:
It has achieved this by suggesting that there is no such whole as the
nation, the culture or even the self. Such holism is a version of reality that
is most often used to assert cultural or political supremacy and seeks
to obliterate the relations of difference that constitute the language of
history and culture. […] Salman Rushdie sees the emergence of doubt,
questioning and even confusion as being part of that cultural “excess”
that facilitates the formation of new social identities that do not appeal
to a pure and settled past, or to a unicultural present, in order to
authenticate themselves. The authority lies in the attempt to articulate
emergent, hybrid forms of cultural identity. (qtd. in Asad 262–63)11
It goes without saying that social identities do need authenticating (Asad), but
their authentication, according to both Rushdie and Bhabha, derives from our
ability to continuously reinvent ourselves out of our hybrid cultural condition
(Asad 263).12 The sacred asks different questions: Hybridity for whom? Does
the state apparatus always want homogeneity? Is it in its interest to pursue
this? Or is difference (but difference within a panoptical power) the desired
aim of the nation-state? At one level, how is postcolonial difference (as hybrid)
to be rretheorized as postcolonial hybridity? Is hybridity the desirable aim
or a fact of life? Does the sacred reject the aestheticization of culture? Is the
sacred point of view homogeneous to begin with? The debates surrounding
the aesthetic order, the diaspora, and the sacred reached a point of extreme
dissonance once Khomeini invoked the fatwa against Rushdie. What the
debates also underlined, in the general context of the relationship between
diasporas and the nation-state, is that often the ground rules that govern
the nation itself may not be applied uncritically to inhabitants who fashion
themselves in ways that are not identical with those of the majority of the
citizens of the state. By way of a lengthy conclusion, I want to examine the
Rushdie Affair and its (mis)readings on the assumption that what we have
in a diaspora’s relationship to the nation is a case of what Lyotard referred
to as the differend.
The Rushdie Affair and the Postcolonial Differend

The Rushdie Affair draws us toward what Jean-François Lyotard has referred
to as the case of the differend, in which the aesthetic and the sacred are so
opposed to one another that there is no equitable resolution of the differences.
Indeed, I would be even more forthright. The Satanic Verses has generated
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a number of discourses that quite simply are incommensurable with each

other on any count. Indeed, if one were to use Lyotard’s legal terminology,
we have a case of litigation in which there are no ground rules acceptable to
all the parties concerned. At the extreme end is a position theorized by the
Iranian intellectual Jalal Al-e Ahmad. In his intriguing book, Plagued by the
West, Al-e Ahmad calls Westernization a pathology (Gharbzadegi or “western
strickenness”), by which he means the manner in which Westernization
functioning as a cosmetic ideal in the Orient effectively destroys the Iranian’s
understanding of his or her own culture. There is no room here for any kind
of hybridity. Indeed, Al-e Ahmad writes,
The west-stricken man has no personality. He is a creature lacking in
originality. He, his house, and his speech are colorless, representative
of everything and everybody. Not “cosmopolitan.” Never! Rather he is a
nowhere man, not at home anywhere. He is an amalgam of individuals
without personality and personality without specificity. Since he has no
self-reliance, he puts on an act. Although he is a master of politesse and
charm, he never trusts those with whom he speaks. And, since mistrust
is a watchword of our times, he never reveals his true feelings. The only
thing which might give him away and is visible is his fear. Whereas in
the West the individual’s personality is sacrificed to the requirements
of specialization, in Iran the west-stricken man has neither personality
nor speciality. Only fear. Fear of tomorrow. Fear of dismissal. Fear of
anonymity and oblivion. Fear that he will be discovered for what he is, a
blockhead. (70)13
Clearly, Al-e Ahmad’s pathologization of the hybrid would sit uncomfortably

with hybridity as an essential component of the diasporic aesthetic – not
simply uncomfortably, in fact, but in an incommensurable manner, because
between Al-e Ahmad and Rushdie we see a clear instance of the differend
at play. In the aesthetic domain, Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses, then, bears
witness to differends by finding idioms for them. Yet in the political domain
the reaction to the text has been articulated through conflicting discourses
that cannot lead to equitable resolution because the discourses presuppose
rules of judgement that are totally at variance with each other. There is no
effective law that could accommodate these two competing positions because
there is nothing in law that relates, with equal detachment and validity, to
both. It is here that the Rushdie Affair itself becomes modernity’s test case
for the differend, and one, I would argue, that is more interesting than other
literary debates such as those over Lady Chatterley’s Lover or Lolita or The
Power and the Glory. To pursue the differend here, I will limit myself to a
handful of statements made both for and against Rushdie.
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The Satanic Verses had a dual audience: English readers in the West and
people from the Indian subcontinent, whether in India, Pakistan, and Ban-
gladesh, or the eight-million-strong Indian diaspora overseas. The fantasies
recounted in the book are those of people who are Indian (especially Bom-
baywallahs), and much of the humour in the book is also very distinctly
Indian, as are innumerable allusions that are readily accessible only to the
ideal Indian reader. Rushdie’s Islam, too, is Indian Islam with its mixture of
strong Hindu elements. Not surprisingly, among non-white readers the book
has been discussed most intensely by British Asians (largely British Muslims)
and by Indians in India. In Pakistan and in Bangladesh, the critical reception
has not been as great. For Indian Muslims its publication could not have come
at a worse time. Already on the defensive in the wake of Hindu revivalism,
the last thing the Muslims in India wanted to see was a book that exploded
(or attempted to explode) Islam’s non-negotiable position about Muhammad
and the text of Gibreel’s revelation. As the Persian saying goes, Ba khuda
diwana bashad/ Ba Muhammad hoshiyar (“Take liberties with Allah, but
be careful with Muhammad” [Naqvi 179]). Yet the Indian audience must
have been of special significance to Rushdie because the first review of the
book, by Madhu Jain (even before the book was launched in Britain), and
interview with the author appeared in India Today on 15 September 1988.
This was followed immediately by another interview with Shrabani Basu in
Sunday (18–24 September 1988). The India Today issue also carried excerpts
from the Mahound section of the book, clearly with the author’s permission.
The cynic could argue that this was a calculated risk by both Rushdie and
Viking/Penguin, his publisher, and was aimed at creating vigorous but critical
debates among the Indian intelligentsia.14 However, politicians, too, read the
review, and the Muslim Opposition MP Syed Shahabuddin, eager to fill the
Muslim leadership vacuum in India, immediately asked the Government
of India to ban the book.15 Whether it was out of political expediency (the
Muslim vote bank in India is huge) or out of a genuine worry that the book
was indeed blasphemous, one does not know, but the book was banned
within a month of the publication of Madhu Jain’s review. Because the book
was not officially launched until 26 September, it is unlikely that too many
people had even seen the book before it was banned in India. In fact, the
excerpts published in India Today were probably the only sections of the
book that people had read. Before looking at Shahabuddin’s own reading
of the book, I want to go back very briefly to Jalal Al-e Ahmad’s critique of
Westernization in his remarkable Plagued by the West, because Al-e Ahmad
positions the differend as the failure on the part of the Iranian Westernized
bourgeoisie to understand and transform Iran’s real, democratic concerns
in the postwar period. Whether in regard to oil or to the dissemination of
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knowledge, Iran functioned under the Shah as an imperial outpost of the West.
The Iranians themselves – at least those who belonged to the establishment
– had acquired Western habits (through mimicry) but had lost their own
much longer traditions of social concern and equity. Yet Al-e Ahmad also
notes the crucial differend at the level of disputation when he writes, “whereas
at one time a verse from the Koran or one of the traditions [hadiths] of the
Prophet was enough to win an argument and put an opponent in his place,
today quoting some foreigner on any subject silences all critics” (72). The
other fear that Al-e Ahmad has is that Western liberalism contains within
itself the seeds of fascism.16 More precisely, and Al-e Ahmad returns to this
point over and over again, he fears the manner in which an instrumental
reason at the core of nineteenth-century Western liberalism transforms the
self-reflexive and self-critical reason of the Enlightenment into an instrument
of coercion that transforms the Orient into a collective body of superstitions
from which Oriental subjects can be saved only if they can be made to think
like Europeans. The massive investment in Oriental archives in the West, to
which imperialists sent their Oriental students, is symbolic of a belief that
only when the Orient can be archived in the West, and Orientals exposed to
research principles based on Western bibliographic principles, will they ever
be able to study their own cultures. Reformulated, the Western Orientalist
argument goes something like this: Orientals cannot understand themselves
because they have no theory of research. Nor do they have a systematic archive
collected in one place that they can use as their data. They must either learn
from the West or use the work of Western scholars who have had the benefit
of years of training in analytical techniques. The Oriental replies: But you
plundered our resources, and you never allowed us to develop research skills
in languages that came naturally to us, because you connected research with
the acquisition of a Western language.
If we return to Syed Shahabuddin’s argument in the context of the foregoing,
it soon becomes clear that he continues to read imperialism’s instrumental
reason as if this were the same interpretation of reason as that of the Enlight-
enment (and certainly Kant). It is also of some concern that in defending
“Islam” from a perceived threat, he played into the hands of the Hindu
fundamentalists for whom Shahabuddin’s ire confirmed Islam’s perceived
(and erroneous) inflexibility and totally closed world view. In this version,
Shahabuddin made a religiously correct statement but a politically naïve
one. Let us explore the case a bit more. Shahabuddin’s essay appeared in The
Times of India on 13 October 1988. It is important to realize that by 1988 the
right-wing Hindu fundamentalist Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) had become an
extremely powerful political party with strong grassroots support, especially
in North India. The Ayodhya Affair had reached a point of no return, and,
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looking back, one can see that the destruction of the mosque was simply a
matter of time. It is important for us to invoke Ayodhya here because what
Shahabuddin is really speaking about is the feeling of the average Muslim in
India who is now being told about this unpardonable affront to the Prophet
on the part of a renegade Muslim. This information was not available to the
average Indian Muslim before Shahabuddin politicized Rushdie. In the same
essay, Shahabuddin then becomes a defender of the many avatars, rishis (“our
religious personalities”), for which the Quran has no place at all. In making
this naïve political remark, he in fact begins to speak precisely like the devil
who can entertain a multiplicity of gods in the pantheon for the sake of civic
harmony. In short, Shahabuddin speaks less like a Muslim and more like
Rushdie at this point and fails to appease precisely the electorate he most
needs to convince – the vast Hindu electorate. This kind of counter-reading is
possible because even Shahabuddin’s non-fictional prose has another agenda:
to speak of national harmony, even as he invokes a fundamental fact of Indian
life, which is that there is precious little intellectual dialogue between Hindus
and Muslims in India precisely because Islam cannot countenance idolatry.
The Hindu, on the other hand, cannot live without it. As an instance of the
differend at play, Shahabuddin’s rhetoric exposes the differend within India,
and the need in that country too to discover other means by which dialogue
can take place. The Hindu intellectual speaks with ease with the Marxist
Aijaz Ahmad but has great difficulty following Shahabuddin. There are,
then, three levels at which Shahabuddin operates. At the level of the Islamic
defender of the faith, the claim is a simple one of Rushdie giving offence to
Muslims who revere the Prophet as the perfect man and whose name the
devout Muslim chants five times a day. The connection between Mahound
and the Prophet is made explicitly in The Satanic Verses, which, of course,
suggests that the book was written to offend.
The second text of Shahabuddin is different. It is based on Indian legal
codes that explicitly state that offence to anyone’s religion in India is punish-
able by fine and/or imprisonment (not by death, let us add) (Article 295A
of the Indian Penal Code). Shahabuddin here invokes a variant of a law
that exists, in different forms, in the West. In this instance, it is a case of
litigation that can be mounted and/or defended successfully. However, it
is the third text of Shahabuddin, the use of the Affair to underline Islam’s
own respect for other religions (even those that are not religions of the Book
and condemned in the Quran), that is interesting. The Satanic Verses thus
becomes a means by which Indian Islam distances itself from one of the
fundamental characteristics of Islam (that the Hindu is essentially a kafir).
In 1989 this was an important move on the part of thinking Muslims in India
who saw Hindu fundamentalism as their greatest threat. How to appease
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the Hindu, how to emphasize that Islam never condoned the destruction
of temples, how to use The Satanic Verses to become a defender not only
of Islam but of the multitude of religions within India? Indeed, how to be
another Rushdie and yet uncompromisingly anti-Rushdie? These are the
texts that have emerged from the debates thus far, as they touch on Indian
social and political life. And the strategy backfired. The vernacular press
did not support Shahabuddin, and Rajiv Gandhi’s banning of the novel was
seen as another act of appeasement of the Muslims not long after the Shah
Bano case, in which Muslim Sharia laws were allowed to override Indian
secular law. In Britain, where the protest began with the Islamic Foundation
in Leicester’s director, Faiyazuddin Ahmad, and where Muslims did read
the book closely, the protests were directed not so much against the author
as against his publisher, Penguin Books, which was asked to withdraw the
book and pay compensation to the Muslim community for sacrilege. It was
also in Britain that pan-Islamic support was mustered and, finally, if we are
to believe one version of the events, a request made to Khomeini to act on
behalf of all aggrieved Muslims. The request, however, seems to have been
anticipated in remarks made by a number of British Muslims, one of whom,
M.H. Faruqi, in fact, wrote, “Perhaps it would be more salutary if the author
is allowed to enter into Islamic jurisdiction and prosecuted under relevant
law” (49). It hardly needs to be added that this “relevant law” condemns the
offenders of Islam to death. Two points to Rushdie, two points to Islam, one
to Hinduism (unwittingly).
It was against this furore that one would like to read Rushdie’s most im-
portant defence, which was published on 22 January 1989. It is an interesting
defence because it is straight out of the project of modernity that began – as
many would argue persuasively, I believe – with the Enlightenment. The key
to Rushdie’s argument is to be found in his carefully written sentences against
what he sees is the essentialist Islam of the “tribe of clerics,” a “contemporary
Thought Police” (Appignanesi and Maitland 74–75). The “Thought Police”
have established the ground rules for the discussion of Islam, not Islam
itself. Rushdie writes:
They have turned Muhammad into a perfect being, his life into a perfect
life, his revelation into the unambiguous, clear event it originally was not.
Powerful taboos have been erected. One may not discuss Muhammad
as if he were human, with human virtues and weaknesses. One may not
discuss the growth of Islam as a historical phenomenon, as an ideology
born out of its time. (Appignanesi and Maitland 74–75)
These are perfectly reasonable arguments, and not at all unusual among
liberal intellectuals in the West, or, for that matter, in other parts of the
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world as well. However, in presenting the argument in these terms, Rushdie

implicitly accepts that the book is a critique of Islam and, furthermore,
assumes, against the evidence, that any religion can survive the kind of
historicization that he has in mind. Since the spheres of religion and the
state are not at all clearly demarcated in Islam, Rushdie’s case makes sense
only if the two spheres indeed were separate. The choice for civilization, as
Rushdie argues, is simple: one has to choose between Enlightenment and
barbarism. However, is the choice so straightforward that one can state quite
simply, “It is time for us to choose”? Choose what? A secular sphere from
which the Muslims are excluded and a religious sphere to which the laws of
blasphemy do not apply? Diasporic ideology, as we have argued, resists the
historical in favour of the mystical and universal. No matter how powerfully
the argument is presented, it cuts no ice, even with British Muslims, as may
be seen from Michael Foot’s elegant defence of Rushdie. Foot’s target text is
Dr. Shabbir Akhtar’s defence of the burning of the book in Bradford: “Any
faith which compromises its internal temper of militant wrath is destined
for the dustbin of history, for it can no longer preserve its faithful heritage
in the face of corrosive influences,” wrote Akhtar (Agenda, 27 February
1989; qtd. in Foot 243). The point that Akhtar misses is that if all religions
were similarly militant against each other, especially in those nation-states
in which one of the religious groups has been defined traditionally as the
outsider, we would all be in a dreadful mess. What is there in Islam that
needs the temper of militancy, and what is the political and social payoff
of underlining this militancy? Foot’s counter-argument is that the retreat
from militancy has been Christianity’s new-found strength, an argument
with which Akhtar would not agree, or refuses to see. Clearly, the force of
the argument (and Foot clearly scores strongly against Akhtar here) is not
at issue. What is at issue is whether Foot (and Rushdie) can see Akhtar’s
argument. Millions of Muslims can, just as many Westerners cannot. Two
points to Rushdie here, two to Islam.
We can, of course, go through any number of defences of Rushdie. One,
however, that is of some importance is Carlos Fuentes’s essay “Words Apart,”
which appeared in The Guardian on 24 February 1989, just over a week after
the proclamation of the fatwa. Fuentes invokes Mikhail Bakhtin to make
the case that the novel is the form of modernity, in which a multiplicity of
languages and voices can expose the folly of a world view that locks itself
into meaning. Such a world view – where “reality is dogmatically defined”
– is that of the ayatollahs of this world. For them, the source of all meaning
is a closed sacred text that allows for no disagreement. Fuentes then goes on
to counterpoint absolute truth against the idea of constantly searching for
the truth. He affirms Luis Buñuel’s position: “I would give my life for a man
136
who is looking for the truth. But I would gladly kill a man who thinks that he
has found the truth” (246). The statement exaggerates, in a surrealist sort of
way, but the point comes across clearly. It is this position that is reversed for
those who have condemned Rushdie. They would gladly give their lives for
those who claim to have found the truth and would murder the unbelievers
or those incapable of living with absolutes.
We can cite many more instances of the debates surrounding the Rushdie
affair, but the lines of the differend return to a simple opposition. Rushdie
views the case as one in which justice can be meted out provided all parties
concerned can talk about the issues, but within an Enlightenment framework
in which the aesthetic object has a special place. As the Affair dragged on,
Rushdie began to repeat the aesthetic argument. The book is fiction, a work
of art, and therefore not subject to absolutely realist readings. In Imaginary
Homelands, this position is extensively and monotonously argued. In an
October 1994 interview, Rushdie stated that the work of art is essentially an
aesthetic object and should be read through aesthetic categories (sensibil-
ity, organization, design, etc); its politics is only of secondary significance
(Interview with Kerry O’Brien).
Conclusion: The Postcolonial Differend

Can one theorize the Rushdie Affair and make an intervention into diasporic
aesthetic without repeating the rhetoric of intractability? I have suggested
in the second half of this paper that the Rushdie Affair dramatically draws
our attention to diasporic politics within a nation-state as an instance of the
differend. Through the use of the phrase “the postcolonial differend,” I now
want to make some (in)conclusive remarks about the uses of the differend as
a mode of analysis that goes beyond consensual politics. This is how Lyotard
defines differend in the opening page of his book The Differend:
As distinguished from litigation, a differend [différend] would be a case
of conflict, between (at least) two parties, that cannot be equitably
resolved for lack of a rule of judgment applicable to both arguments. One
side’s legitimacy does not imply the other’s lack of legitimacy. However,
applying a single rule of judgment to both in order to settle their differend
as though it were merely a litigation would wrong (at least) one of them
(and both of them if neither side admits this rule). (xi)
The most obvious modern instance of the differend is the claim on the part of
certain revisionist historians such as Robert Faurisson and David Irving that
the Holocaust needs to be rethought and the “facts” modified.17 Faurisson,
for example, disputes the very existence of gas chambers because he could
not find a single individual who had actually seen a gas chamber with his
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own eyes. What is at issue here is the nature of the referent. Since reality is
not “what is ‘given’ to this or that ‘subject’” but a “state of the referent (that
about which one speaks) which results from the effectuation of establishment
procedures defined by a unanimously agreed-upon protocol” (Lyotard 4), it
follows that any object of analysis or knowledge comes into being only insofar
as it “require[s] that establishment procedures be effectuated in regard to
it” (Lyotard 9). When the establishment procedures unproblematically link
up diverging phrase regimens within discursive laws that are fixed, laws such
as dialogue, consensus, and so on, the matter is resolved. However, when the
linkages cannot be effectuated by virtue of a radical heterogeneity of the items
– by virtue of their intrinsic incommensurability – then we begin “to bear
witness to the differend.” Lyotard continues: “A case of differend between
two parties takes place when the ‘regulation’ of the conflict that opposes
them is done in the idiom of one of the parties while the wrong suffered by
the other is not signified in that idiom” (9). To give the differend any real
presence or effectiveness, to make it legitimate in spite of the absence of
assimilative linkages between the phrase regimens of the competing ideas,
one needs to recast the phrases themselves through new idioms in order
that the elements that make up a phrase – its referent (what it is about, the
case), its sense (what the case signifies), the person to whom it is addressed
(the addressee), the person through whom the case is made (the addressor)
– can be given new meaning. Lyotard speaks of silence, a negative phrase,
as an example of something that has yet to be phrased: since it cannot be
staged, it has no effectiveness.
The claim here is not that every dispute must be resolved but “how to argue
for a nonresolvable heterogeneity (the basis for all true discussion) that is
not a simple pluralism” (Carroll 80). What the Rushdie Affair dramatizes
so forcefully is that “the diasporic imaginary” and “the postcolonial” are
phrases in dispute because in moments of crisis the parties concerned present
their case in a language and through sets of manoeuvres unacceptable to
the other in a court of law. The conflict is not a simple opposition between
us and them, the postcolonial and the nation-state, or the colonizer and the
colonized; rather, it is a consequence of phrase regimens endemic to the
worlds engendered by these terms.
It seems that Rushdie’s works confirm the radical practice of heterogeneity
where the differend is affirmed and not “suppressed or resolved” (Carroll 75).
The subjects in his works do not exist outside or prior to the phrases through
which they are constituted. There is, then, no supra real or a real outside the
subject positions so constructed through which arbitration can take place.
This does not mean that there is no room for correct or proper political action
from a position of consensus or detachment (the image of the law); rather,
138
the flight from spurious ground rules (the “authentic base,” as some would
say) draws attention to the problematic nature of the subjects in these works.
A refusal to grant objective history (the real) priority and, furthermore, to
see this reality as an instrument of totalitarianism and injustice because the
victim’s testimony is considered to be without authority leads Lyotard to
claim that history (rationality) is really unjust in cases of the differend. One
has to return to disarticulations, to silence, to feelings, to the corporeal, and
not simply to the mental, for counter-hegemonic positions.
In this respect, the aesthetic order especially signals the possibility of
alternative worlds that do not seek legitimation purely through facts. The
aesthetic then contains unresolvable “heterogeneities” – Keats came close
to it with his phrase “negative capability” – because unbridgeable gaps are
left in “dispute.” Lyotard sees this in Kant’s own claim that the ethical, for
instance, could not be deduced from the cognitive. The aesthetic, too, cannot
be demonstrated through recourse to the cognitive and hence to reality.
The Kantian sublime is thus a celebration of heterogeneity because, while
it demands a certain universality, it does not assume that the universal is a
given. The sublime celebrates antimony as the mind stretches it as far as it
can. The mind embraces the sublime as if this were desirable and necessary
and would continue to do so if reason were not to re-establish its law. Yet
in that moment of celebration, in that dispute between faculties, in that
incommensurable differend, no object can be represented that equals the
idea of the totality.
In all this the urgent demand is that the differend should be listened to.
The diasporic imaginary, as the littoral, is that which defies social assimilation
with ease. If and when that assimilation occurs, diasporas disappear. Until
then what we have to address – as a matter of justice – is the radical politics
of heterogeneity. Since the differend ultimately is unresolvable, and phrases
cannot be linked unproblematically, the differend, as David Carroll explains,
“proposes strategies […] of resisting […] homogenization by all political,
aesthetic, philosophical means possible” (87) – except, of course, for a genre
of discourse such as the novel, which does link the various phrase regimens
together. These phrase regimens, such as the cognitive, the prescriptive, the
performative, the exclamative, the interrogative, in themselves represent
mutually exclusive modes of representing the universe (Lyotard 128). The
aesthetic then becomes a site for the differend to be presented even as the
phrase regimens themselves remain incommensurable.
Ultimately, of course, Rushdie is speaking about justice for the diaspora.
Is the concept of justice (not just the legal bourgeois term surrounding
specific legal codes and acts) equally available to all citizens or is justice the
prerogative of only those citizens who are part of a homogeneous British
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family that includes not only white Britons but also the assimilable black?
What I have done is think through some of the radical incommensurabilities
in the texts of Rushdie from the perspective of what Lyotard has called the
differend, as both the staging of and engagement with difference as dispute.
In the politics of the Rushdie Affair, we encounter phrase regimes that are in
conflict. So firmly grounded are the opposing views in a particular ideologi-
cal and epistemological formation that either, from the point of view of the
given epistemology or truth conditions, is equally true and valid. Given such
a persuasive rhetoric, even the question of a communicative community
capable of arbitrating, consensually, is out of the question. In the case of the
Rushdie Affair, compromise or justice is not possible because the grounds
of the arguments are incommensurable. There are no winners and losers in
the Rushdie Affair, only the presencing of the differend through agonistic
discourses and politics. What must be recognized is that in this presencing
there is no possibility of a recourse to the grand narratives of the centre or
the nation-state (recall both Powell and Thatcher here). The grand narrative
therefore is replaced by the local and by the differend, which, as I read it, is a
phrase that designates precisely those conditions such as Rushdie’s, where the
rupture, the drift, the inconclusive begin to designate the diasporic condition
itself. In diasporic theory we must bear witness to the differend.
Notes
1 My thanks to Jim Clifford, Iain Chambers, Christopher Connery, Stephen Slemon, Brett Nicholls,
Maria Degabriele, Abdollah Zahiri, and Horst Ruthrof for their help in writing this paper.
2 I owe this phrase to Iain Chambers.
3 The poem reads:
Let me tell you, boyo, bach: I love this place,
where green hills shelter me from fear,
jet fighters dance like dragonflies
mating over unsteady, unafraid lambs,
and in the pub a divorcée, made needy
by the Spring, talks rugby and holidays
with my protectors, drinks, and grows
more lovely with each glass. So, too, do they.
As for me, I must hide my face
from farmers mending fences, runners, ponied girls;
must frame it in these whitewashed, thickstoned walls
while the great canvas of the universe
shrinks to a thumbnail sketch. And yet
I love the place. It remembers, so it says, a time
older than chapel, druid, mistletoe and god,
and journeys still, across enchanted pools,
towards that once and future Avalon. (128)
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4 See Rushdie, “Hobson-Jobson,” in Imaginary Homelands (81–83).

5 Phoolan Devi was released on 19 February 1994 after spending eleven years in prison. She was
imprisoned on charges of murdering eighteen upper-caste landowners. She turned a dacoit
after she was gang-raped in her village of low-caste Hindus. Wanted in fifty-five criminal cases
on charges including murder, kidnapping, and robbery, she gave herself up in February 1983,
turned to politics, and was murdered in 2001. Her story has already been recorded in films and
books. See Sen and Shekhar Kapu’s film The Bandit Queen.
6 Millenarian narratives are an integral part of diasporic recollections and may be designated,
for their respective diasporas, through terms such as the Indological, the Africological, and the
Zionist.
7 Observer, 22 January 1989 (quoted in Apignanesi and Maitland, 75).
8 Two of the novels that Rushdie admires most are Moby Dick and Ulysses.
9 “[T]he book isn’t actually about Islam, but about migration, metamorphosis, divided selves,
love, death, London and Bombay,” wrote Rushdie to the Indian Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi
(Apignanesi and Maitland 44).
10 Air India Flight 182 exploded in 1985, one of the more audacious acts of Sikh terrorism that
actually originated, it seems, in the Canadian Indian diaspora. 29,002 feet was compulsory
knowledge for geography students in the colonies.
11 Asad asks: “Does Bhabha mean (a) that it is not worth appealing to the past as a way of
authenticating social identities because the act of articulating emergent identities authenticates
itself or (b) that the past, albeit unsettled, is not worth contesting because it is merely an
aesthetic resource for inventing new narratives of the self?” (263 n21).
12 Asad notes that to speak of cultural syncretism or cultural hybrids presupposes a conceptual
distinction between pre-existing (“pure”) cultures. Of course, all apparent cultural unities are
the outcomes of diverse origins, and it is misleading to think of an identifiable cultural unity as
having neutrally traceable boundaries (262).
13 Note that on his visit to an Islamic seminary in Qom, Naipaul chanced upon a book with a sepia-
coloured cover that had been written by an Iranian who, the director of the seminary said, “had
spent an apparently shattering year in England. This book was called The West Is Sick” (Naipaul
50).
1 4 See Naqvi 166–69.
15 Unless otherwise stated, my source for the debates surrounding The Satanic Verses and the
fatwa against Rushdie’s life is The Rushdie File, edited by Apignanesi and Maitland. See also
Fischer and Abedi, chapter 7.
16 “One of the basic problems of Western civilization (in the Western countries themselves) is the
constant threat of the seeds of fascism within the body of 19th century liberalism” (97).
17 See Lipstadt.
Works Cited
Al-e Ahmad, Jalal. Plagued by the West (Gharbzadegi). Trans. Paul Sprachman. New York:
Caravan Books, 1982.
Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of
Nationalism. London: Verso, 1991.
Appignanesi, Lisa, and Sara Maitland, eds. The Rushdie File. London: Fourth Estate, 1989.
Asad, Talal. Genealogies of Religion. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993.
The Bandit Queen. Dir. Shekhar Kapu. Perf. Seema Biswas. 1994.
141
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Basu, Shrabani. Interview with Salman Rushdie. Sunday, India. 18-24 Sept. 1988. Appignanesi
and Maitland. 32-33.
Bhabha, Homi. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge, 1994.
Carroll, David. “Rephrasing the Political with Kant and Lyotard: From Aesthetic to Political
Judgements.” Diacritics 14.3 (1984): 74–88.
Chambers, Iain. Border Dialogues: Journeys in Postmodernity. London: Routledge, 1990.
———. Migrancy, Culture, Identity. London: Routledge, 1994.
Clifford, James. “Diasporas.” Cultural Anthropology 9.3 (1994): 302–38.
Faruqi, M.H. “Publishing Sacrilege Is Not Acceptable.” Appignanesi and Maitland 48-49.
Fischer, Michael M. J., and Mehdi Abedi. Debating Muslims: Cultural Dialogues in
Postmodernity and Tradition. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1990.
Foot, Michael. “Historical Rushdie.” Appignanesi and Maitland 242–44.
Fuentes, Carlos. “Words Apart.” The Guardian 24 February 1989. Appignanesi and Maitland
245–49.
Gilroy, Paul. The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness. Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 1993.
———. “Cultural Studies and Ethnic Absolutism.” Cultural Studies. Ed. Lawrence Grossberg,
Cary Nelson, and Paula A. Treichler. New York: Routledge, 1992. 187–98.
Jain, Madhu. Interview with Salman Rushdie. India Today. 15 Sept. 1988. Appignanesi and
Maitland. 30-32.
Lipstadt, Deborah. Denying the Holocaust. New York: The Free Press, 1993.
Lyotard, Jean-François. The Differend: Phrases in Dispute. Trans. Georges Van Den Abbele.
Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1988.
Naipaul, V.S. Among the Believers: An Islamic Journey. London: André Deutsch, 1981.
Nair, Rukmini Bhaya, and Rimli Bhattacharya. “Salman Rushdie: The Migrant in the
Metropolis.” Third Text 11 (Summer 1990): 17–30.
Nandy, Ashis. “Dialogue and the Diaspora: Conversation with Nikos Papastergiadis.” Third
Text 11 (Summer 1990): 99–108.
Naqvi, Saeed. Reflections of an Indian Muslim. Delhi: Har-Anand Publications, 1993.
Rushdie, Salman. “Crusoe.” Granta 31 (Spring 1991): 128.
———. “Hobson-Jobson.” Imaginary Homelands: Essays and Criticism 1981–1991. London:
Granta/Viking, 1991. 81–83.
———. Imaginary Homelands: Essays and Criticism 1981–1991. London: Granta/Viking, 1991.
———. Interview with Blake Morrison. Granta 31 (Spring 1991): 113–25.
———. Interview with Kerry O’Brien. “Lateline.” Australian Broadcasting Corporation
Television. 4 October 1994.
———. The Satanic Verses. London: Viking, 1988.
Sen, Mala. India’s Bandit Queen: The True Story of Phoolan Devi. Delhi: Indus/HarperCollins,
1993.
Shahabuddin, Syed. “You Did This with Satanic Forethought, Mr. Rushdie.” The Times of India
13 October 1989. Appignanesi and Maitland 45–49.
Smith, Anna Marie. “The Imaginary Inclusion of the Assimilable ‘Good Homosexual’: The
British New Right’s Representations of Sexuality and Race.” Diacritics 24.2–3 (1994): 58–70.
Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. “Reading The Satanic Verses.” Third Text 11 (Summer 1990): 41–60.
Tölölyan, Khachig. “The Nation State and Its Others: In Lieu of a Preface.” Diaspora 1.1 (1991):
3–7.
142
Postcoloniality is the condition of what we might
ungenerously call a comprador intelligentsia: of a
relatively small, Western-style, Western-trained, group
of writers and thinkers who mediate the trade in cultural
commodities of world capitalism at the periphery
— Anthony Appiah
“The Postcolonial and the Postmodern” (149)
As soon as any radically innovative thought becomes

an -ism, its specific groundbreaking force diminishes,
its historical notoriety increases, and its disciples
tend to become more simplistic, more dogmatic, and
ultimately more conservative, at which time its power
becomes institutional rather than analytical.
— Barbara Johnson
“Nothing Fails Like Success” (11)
In the third world no one gets off on being third world.

— Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak
“What Is It For?” ( 77)
7
At the Margins
of Postcolonial Studies
k alpana sheshadri-crooks
As the epigraphs above suggest, the “field” of (so-called) postcolonial studies,

despite the ambiguity of its object of study, has reached that phase in its
development in which, like every other revisionary discourse, it is melancholic
about its new-found authority and incorporation into institutions of higher
learning. This melancholic condition derives not only from postcolonial
scholars’ apprehension that institutionalizing the critique of imperialism
may render it conciliatory but from other significant factors as well, such
as their own (First World) place of speaking (which implicates them in the
problematic of neo-colonialism), their criteria for political self-legitimation
(that is, the impossibility of representing the Third World as anti-imperialist
constituency, especially in the face of the retreat of socialism), and their
peculiar immobility as a positive oppositional force for curricular change
within the (American and British) academies. It is especially in the last sense
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that postcolonial studies differs from ethnic studies: for instance, it cannot,
unlike African or Asian-American studies, commit itself to canon revision,
which is essentially a minoritarian project. Although it is often associated with
the impossible category of Third World literature, as a specific form of cultural
studies it continually questions such totalizing concepts and thus maintains
a critical if not hostile relationship to multiculturalism. The melancholia of
postcolonialism also derives from the fact that today it faces, from within
its own ranks, major criticisms and attacks against its very legitimacy and
political viability.1 The term itself has become suspect: a catch-all phrase for
a post (read fashionable) Third Worldism.2
While postcolonial studies has yet to inform positively all scholarly inquiry
today, it is not far-fetched to suggest that it has certainly acquired, if not
power, a certain institutional cachet, or, to use Arif Dirlik’s term, an “aura”
of innovativeness. Evidence of this new-found cachet or mystique is lodged,
for instance, in a footnote in Naomi Schor’s fascinating defence mounted on
behalf of French departments in the U.S. She writes:
Commenting on the interest in postcolonialism, an eminent and respected
colleague recently opined that Europe was dead. The statement
seems astonishing in view of current (political) and future (economic)
developments in that part of the world, which represents a population
of 325 million and constitutes the second largest economic block in the
world. (33)
What is interesting here is the assertion, by a scholar of such perspicuity

as Schor, of the importance of Europe rather than the noting, for instance,
of the imbrication of Europe and postcolonial states, or her colleague’s
peculiar disengagement of Europe from its others. In other words, she seems
aware of the growing influence of a so-called postcolonial studies but seems
unclear about its scholarly focus, be it the critique of the continuing power
of Europe and North America over the Third World (as the work of Edward
Said and Samir Amin would testify) or of its institutional place – that it is
not a parallel discipline to English or French literary studies, but offers a
critique of “national” literatures as such. It is inevitable that this sense of
the postcolonial mystique renders the field, for most area- or period-based
scholars, incoherent if not totally “bankrupt,” to use Emily Apter’s term.3
While there is no doubt that the field has grown rapidly in the past few
years, producing its own journals, conferences, book-publishing series,
and jobs (the recent spate of readers and anthologies bears testimony to the
phenomenon4), the field itself remains undefinable and amorphous in its
outlines. While it is possible to valorize rather than lament specific aspects
of this amorphousness (I will address this issue later in this essay), much of
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At the Margins of Postcolonial Studies k alpana sheshadri-crooks
the melancholia from within and the mystification from without emerges,
I would argue, from an inadequately enunciated notion of the margin. The
largely mechanical connection, even conflation, of postcolonialism with
American multiculturalism, despite its perceived difference, even distance,
from the latter, has meant that the relation between postcolonial studies and
other minority studies has remained under-theorized. What we compromise
by neglecting to articulate the linkages between these two (largely academic)
initiatives is not only a more textured or nuanced notion of the margin but
the very possibility of a postcolonial critique. In the following, I consider
briefly the ideological thrust of multiculturalism and postcolonialism through
a reading of individual works by Charles Taylor and Iain Chambers, not so
much to rehearse their differences as to show how both discourses share a
notion of the margin (as a spatial category) and thus once more overlook
the possibilities of a postcolonial critique.
According to Taylor in his “The Politics of Recognition,” multiculturalism
is based on the recognition of the dialogical nature of identity. The politics
of recognition, as he defines it, is based not so much on the admission of
historical injustice (as with affirmative action) but on contemporary coevality.5
According to Taylor, insofar as identity is constituted in our relations with
others, being ignored or being negatively represented could have a detrimental
effect on one’s sense of self. Thus the right of the powerless or of people in
the minority to agitate for proper recognition (through inclusion of their
cultural contributions into the curriculum) is deemed consistent with our
notions of authenticity and dignity. As Taylor puts it,
The reason for these proposed changes is not, or not mainly, that all
students may be missing something important through the exclusion
of a certain gender or certain races or cultures, but rather that women
and students from the excluded groups are given, either directly or by
omission, a demeaning picture of themselves, as though all creativity and
worth inhered in males of European provenance. Enlarging and changing
the curriculum is therefore essential not so much in the name of a broader
culture for everyone as in order to give due recognition to the hitherto
excluded. The background premise of these demands is that recognition
forges identity. (65–66)
The key terms in Taylor’s analysis of multiculturalism are recognition and

respect, or the equal right to dignity. Taylor locates the concept of multicul-
turalism squarely in Western liberalism, and much of his characterization of
multiculturalism as the quest for recognition is undergirded by a subjectivist
notion of authenticity:
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Being true to myself means being true to my own originality, which is

something only I can articulate and discover. In articulating it, I am also
defining myself. I am realizing a potentiality that is properly my own. This
is the background understanding to the modern ideal of authenticity, and
to the goals of self-fulfillment and self-realization in which the ideal is
usually couched. (31)
This sense of authenticity, Taylor (quoting Herder) suggests, can be extended

to “the people” as well, an idea that then inaugurates the modern form of
nationalism. Decolonization, according to Taylor, is “to give the peoples
of what we now call the Third World their chance to be themselves unim-
peded” (31); in other words, it is a way of returning them to their authentic
selves. It is obvious from this emphasis on authenticity that Taylor will
privilege traditional and integrated societies, but the key issue in his argu-
ment apropos multiculturalism is judgement. No society, he argues, can
be judged (as worthy or worthless) before it has been studied with respect.
Taylor deplores as hypocritical at worst and condescending at best the form
of multiculturalism that demands not just respect and recognition but equal
worth before study. As a presumption, he will allow
that it is reasonable to suppose that cultures that have provided the
horizon of meaning for large numbers of human beings, of diverse
characters and temperaments, over a long period of time – that have, in
other words, articulated their sense of the good, the holy, the admirable
– are almost certain to have something that deserves our admiration and
respect, even if it is accompanied by much that we have to abhor and
reject. (72–73)
Yet real judgements of worth, he suggests, must be reserved until after study,
a study that will transform our standards of judgement, that will achieve “a
fusion of horizons,” in Gadamer’s sense of the phrase, which will then enable
us to form judgements of worth on a comparative basis. Judgements of value
and worth “cannot be dictated by a principle of ethics,” writes Taylor; they
“are ultimately a question of the human will” (69). Of course, the fact that a
transformation of one’s standards of judgement in studying a given culture
may make comparative study impossible does not seem to trouble Taylor too
much, invested as he is in the core authentic self that apparently can alter its
perceptions of a culture without changing its fundamental vision of global
cultural differences. To sum up, in Taylor’s notion of multiculturalism,
hierarchy between groups can be redressed through recognition and respect
for the other’s authenticity. Marginalized people must be dealt with fairly
(63), and all cultures must be given the right to survive in their authenticity.
148
Such a formulation necessarily assumes the following: integrated cultures;

traditional long-surviving cultures; stable national, ethnic, and cultural
identities; the possibility of studying and completely understanding the
other; comparative studies; and finally, “authentic” judgements of others
based not on ethics but on human will. Taylor’s multiculturalism is thus an
epistemology of the other that can only make sense within the Christian
liberal tradition that he invokes as its proper context. For our purposes, his
analysis is useful as a reminder of two aspects of multiculturalism as practiced
in the U.S.: a) it is essentially supplicatory; for all its talk of revisionism,
it asks to partake in the privileges of the centre; and b) it is essentially a
reinforcement of Western liberalism. On a more mundane level, we see these
claims borne out in Peter Brooks’s letter to the editor of the New York Times
on 19 December 1994. Addressing Yale’s latest albatross, the $20-million
gift from Lee Bass (which has since been returned) to establish a Western
civilization program, Brooks says most trenchantly: “Western civilization
versus multiculturalism is a false opposition.” As Roger Rouse argues in his
recent analysis of the bourgeois management of the crisis of the nation-state
in the age of transnationalism, the greatest significance of conservative
monoculturalism, which argues for “a single culture and identity” for the
U.S. (381), and of corporate liberal-multiculturalism, which appropriates the
radicalism of left/liberal arguments, lies in their
relationship of complementary opposition. Always offering at least the
illusion of significant choice, they have seemed to fully exhaust the
field of imaginable alternatives and, in doing so, they have endowed
their commonalities [their emphases on bourgeois class positions,
nationalism, and educational and political reform] with a powerfully
constraining force. (385)
We would do well to remember this point in our discussions of the alliance

between postcolonialism and multiculturalism: far from undermining the
hegemony of Western civilization, multiculturalism merely expands its
frontiers both geographically – world culture itself is appended to the United
States – and pedagogically – as the universal system of knowledge both in
terms of method and ideology.
The discipline of a so-called postcolonial studies, however, is a much more
ambiguous one pedagogically, given that it is not really a minority studies.
Rather than enhancing the girth of Western liberalism, postcolonial studies,
if it is possible to speak of it as a unity or to generalize its political impulse,
would work to examine the conditions by which a group arrogates to itself
the function of granting or denying recognition and respect. Furthermore,
it would seriously call into question Taylor’s advocacy of studying the other
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for comparative purposes as another form of imperialism or orientalism: one

that reinscribes the Western cultural relativist as universal subject with the
other serving as informant.6 However, I would argue that it is the critique
of positive knowing, of rationalism, even of humanism and values of radical
transformation when undertaken under the sign of postcoloniality, which
awkwardly positions postcolonialism as neither liberalism nor (an orthodox)
Marxism, that has generated the crisis within this subdiscipline. In other
words, it is at this point of differentiation from liberal multiculturalism
(which characterizes itself as marginality studies) that postcolonial discourse
becomes politically vulnerable. Before I take up this theme with reference to
Aijaz Ahmad’s influential Marxist denunciation of the field on the grounds
of its postmodern biases, however, it is imperative to see how the agenda of
postmodern criticism again embarrasses “postcoloniality” by once more
characterizing it as the discourse of the margin (as the space of otherness),
by placing it at the vanguard of cultural and political critique.
Affirmative action and multiculturalism, in their liberal modes, con-
ceptualize the margin spatially, as the excluded and unintegrated other. In
some ways, these initiatives posit a utopian moment in which the marginal as
such will cease to exist, with power circulating freely and fluidly connecting
and equalizing all points of habitation. In this conception, the marginal is
the space of agitation, of subversion, and thus of theoretical innovation.
Yet, if, with George Yudice, we re-examine the notion of marginality as an
“essentially” innovative space, we realize the futility of such a claim, which
can only be made through an evasion of material history:
There was a time when to be “marginal” meant to be excluded, forgotten,
overlooked. Gradually, throughout this century, first in the discourses
of anthropology, sociology, and psychoanalysis, “marginality” became
a focus of interest through which “we” (Western culture) discovered
otherness and our own ethnocentric perspectives. Today, it is declared,
the “marginal” is no longer peripheral but central to all thought. (214)
What is worth noting here is the way in which the spatial margin – that is,
margin as subject position – becomes also the source of rejuvenation of the
centre, where knowledge as positive knowing is made possible. The academic
industry of postcolonial studies has gained the status of a phenomenon within
this paradigm of positivity. Thus, despite its contrary political impulses (as
I will show in my reading of Iain Chambers), it is aligned uncritically (by
liberalism and postmodernism) in an analogical relationship with multicul-
turalism and thus faces the consequence of melancholia or debilitation. To
elaborate: what this subdiscipline is perceived to offer today that, ostensibly, no
150
other minority or ethnic studies does is not so much a revolutionary method,

inventive theories, or even new fields of inquiry, but quite literally (and
perhaps crudely) an exotic new frontier, a hitherto unaccounted-for margin
that must be tamed or theorized: it is here we tell ourselves that a theory
will be made that will express in dazzling synchronicity and relationality
the disparate and incorrigible issues of race, ethnicity, gender, nation, class,
and Eurocentrism, as well as the conditions of marginality, migration, and
minoritization. For many scholars situated outside of the field, postcolonial
cultural studies seems to or is exhorted to offer the possibility of a radically
revised history: a relentlessly dissident method of reading that will alter the
way business is done in and out of academia. An excellent and particularly
compelling example of this kind of exhortation is Iain Chambers’s Migrancy,
Culture, Identity, in many ways an exemplary book.
In the chapter entitled “The Broken World,” Chambers argues that the
presence of increasingly vocal postcolonials in the metropolis not only chal-
lenges the univocity of European thought construed as reason, logic, universal,
and objective but further confounds the comfortable binarisms of self and
other, margin and periphery, English and native. The significant consequence
of this disruption of categories, according to Chambers, however, is the
exposure of the notion of authenticity: its fascist potential when deployed as
Europeanness or Englishness, and its derivativeness when deployed simplisti-
cally as Negritude (pace Senghor) or nativism. For Chambers, unlike Taylor,
authenticity is not a subjective category but a structural one that positions
actors outside modernity. “To relinquish such a perspective” of authenticity
or of returning to the roots, writes Chambers (quoting Johannes Fabian),
“leads us to recognise a post-colonial and post-European context in which
historical and cultural differences, while moving to different rhythms, are
coeval, are bound to a common time. ‘Communication is, ultimately, about
creating shared Time’” (74). In other words, insofar as (that suspect category
of) authenticity, either of the self or the objectifiable other, is enabled by the
imperialist logic of modernity that positions others as occupying another
temporality, the recognition of coevality in the postcolonial world means that
claiming authenticity is no longer “feasible.” “Post-colonialism is perhaps the
sign of an increasing awareness that it is not feasible to subtract a culture, a
history, a language, an identity, from the wider, transforming currents of the
increasingly metropolitan world. It is impossible to ‘go home’ again” (74). For
Chambers, the poetics of postmodernism best expresses this condition of
homelessness and inevitable hybridity. Naming the cultural fusions in world
music and other art forms as the “metropolitan vernacular,” he interestingly
circumvents the Marxist problematic of postmodern aesthetics as a symptom
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of late capitalism by resorting to the notion of local market demands versus

the totalizing agency of capitalism (76–77).7 Further, he asks: Are phenomena
such as world music not engaging in
a movement of historical decentering in which the very axis of center
and periphery, together with its economic, political and cultural traffic,
has, as a minimum, begun to be interrogated from elsewhere, from other
places and positions? For is it not possible to glimpse in recent musical
contaminations, hybrid languages and cultural mixtures an opening on to
other worlds, experiences, histories, in which not only does the “Empire
write back to the center,” as Salman Rushdie puts it, but also “sounds
off” against it? […] The master’s language is transformed into creole […]
and all varieties of local cultural refashioning, as it moves to a different
tempo in a “reversal of colonial history.” (84–85)
What is most commendable about Chambers’s analysis is his insistence that

the margin/centre dichotomy be thoroughly dispersed. >From within this
productive confusion, he suggests, may arise two consequences: the exposure
of the state apparatus in all its repressive and ideological operations and a
recognition of the implication of the citizenry in all forms of repression:
Previous margins – ethnic, gendered, sexual – now reappear at the
center. No longer restricted to the category of a “special issue” (e.g. “race
relations”), or “problem” (e.g. “ethnic minorities,” “sexual deviancy”),
such differences become central to our very sense of time, place and
identity. (86)
Despite (or perhaps because of) his utopian futurism, however, there are several
logical problems in Chambers’s argument. First is his inadvertent totalization
of the postcolonial subject. In his single-minded determination to blow up
the centre, the postcolonial construed as the logical agent of sedition is made
to carry the bomb. Less metaphorically, it is Chambers’s assumption that
all migrant subjects inevitably constitute a subculture that is untenable. It is
this unstated assumption that enables him to construct pantheons of black
artists (68–69) and postcolonial discourse theorists (70)8 as being collectively
(even consensually) engaged in the critique of the Occident in a manner that
elides serious differences between these writers and ignores these writers as
occupying (academically and performatively) an internally conflictual space.
As Stuart Hall puts it with reference to black British cinema,
Films are not necessarily good because black people make them. They
are not necessarily “right-on” by virtue of the fact that they deal with the
black experience. Once you enter the politics of the end of the black
152
subject you are plunged headlong into the maelstrom of a continuously

contingent, unguaranteed, political argument and debate: a critical
politics, a politics of criticism. You can no longer conduct black politics
through the strategy of a simple set of reversals, putting in the place
of the bad old essential white subject, the new essentially good black
subject. Now, that formulation may seem to threaten the collapse of an
entire political world. (28)
In other words, Chambers’s vision of resistance does not enter into that phase
of political engagement that Hall rightly has characterized as the shift from
a “relations of representation,” which involves counter-racist narratives and
a struggle over the access to representation, to a “politics of representation,”
which involves theorizing not only the differences of race, ethnicity, and
culture but also the “struggle around positionalities” (28):
There is another position, one which locates itself inside a continuous
struggle and politics around black representation, but which then is able
to open up a continuous critical discourse about themes, about the forms
of representation, the subjects of representations, above all, the regimes
of representation. Once you abandon essential categories, there is no
place to go apart from the politics of criticism and to enter the politics
of criticism in black culture is to grow up, to leave the age of critical
innocence. (30)
Secondly, in his critique of authenticity secured by the argument about tem-

poral non-coevality, Chambers elides Fabian’s recommendation to “create”
coevality for proper communication with a “recognition” of coevality given
the condition of postcolonialism. Thus coevality, or the lack of it, becomes
merely false consciousness; what is important, Chambers seems to suggest,
is that we recognize that we are “really,” that is to say, “authentically,” coeval.
The problem with this logic is twofold. First, the situating of authenticity
as a spatial category, and that of hybridity as a temporal one, effectively
locates authenticity (insofar as space is conceived non-historically) on an-
other temporal register outside the transforming currents of time. Second,
authenticity is somehow made to depend on disjunct temporalities and vice
versa, and thus the absolute pronouncement – one can never go home again.
Thus the postcolonial is not only always-already hybrid, but she is so always
with reference to the West. What Chambers is unable to visualize in his
delineation of postcolonial ontology, which is really an idealization of the
migrant as postcolonial paradigm, are forms of cultural practice – musical
or otherwise – that adapt to and march in step with Western hegemony but
define themselves as “authentic” insofar as they continue to be indifferent to
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the West for purposes of validation, perpetuation, and aesthetic evaluation.

This form of authenticity, however, must be distinguished from Taylor’s more
subjectivist and essentialist notion. In other words, authenticity can be better
understood in performative rather than ontological terms. The vigorous
state of traditional music in the North and South of India is an example
of this form of authenticity, and its practitioners not only presuppose the
possibility of going home but would probably argue (despite their itinerant
lifestyles) that they have never left in the first place.9 In other words, I am
suggesting that Chambers’s implication of authenticity in non-coevality is
a non sequitur and has the curious effect of recasting the erstwhile “dead
native” as hybrid. The overall effect, as I implied earlier, is the construction
of the postcolonial as an authentically dissident or marginal subject. It is in
response to this interpellation that postcolonial studies falls into melancholia
and sometimes political disarray.
While it may appear that Taylor’s liberal multiculturalism and Chambers’s
dissonant politics of “no respect” are aversive, what is interesting in both
their analyses is the way in which the terms “authenticity,” “hierarchy,”
and “margin” carry enormous burdens of significance. Briefly: while for
Taylor (the recognition of) authenticity as “a vital human need” (26) is an
individualist category that directly impinges on one’s self-esteem and sense
of well-being, for Chambers, authenticity is a structural notion, a subject
position – an impossibility in the modern world because it implies hierarchy:
“Subordinate subjects have invariably been ordained to the stereotyped
immobilism of an essential ‘authenticity,’ in which they are expected to play
out roles, designated for them by others […] for ever” (38). Hierarchy, for
Taylor, means non-reciprocal “other dependence” (44–51); for Chambers, it
means temporal non-coevality. For Taylor, hierarchy can be undone with
respect and recognition (temporality and modernity being non-factors in his
analysis); for Chambers, on the other hand, hierarchy can be undone only
through hybridity and confusion of categories. Modernity, as Chambers
construes it, is univocal and imperialist and cannot accommodate authentic
differences.10 Both Taylor and Chambers agree, then, that equality and dif-
ference are contradictory and inevitably based on a notion of sameness. Yet
Taylor is willing to let the contradiction lie, while Chambers wants to create
equality in order that difference becomes a basis for identity rather than
alienation. For Taylor, the margin is “them,” the others who must be dealt
with and managed: “The challenge is to deal with their sense of marginaliza-
tion without compromising our basic political principles” (63). The West, he
implies, is guilty and can redress the problem. For Chambers, the margin is
the site of subversion – it must be made to arrive at the centre and disrupt it.
For both Taylor and Chambers, however, as I mentioned earlier, the margin
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is a source of rejuvenation. A future moment must be posited when it will be

either incorporated or dissolved and hierarchy will be undone.
Gayatri Spivak has addressed most notably the profound contradictions
of this liberal/postmodern demand in her essay “Who Claims Alterity?”
Regarding the position of marginality (construed as a potentially subversive
space) sometimes claimed by but often imposed upon postcolonial subjects,
Spivak writes of this ideological entrapment:
[T]he stories of the postcolonial world are not necessarily the same as
the stories coming from “internal colonization,” the way the metropolitan
countries discriminate against disenfranchised groups in their midst.
The diasporic postcolonial can take advantage (most often unknowingly,
I hasten to add) of the tendency to conflate the two in the metropolis.
Thus this frequently innocent informant, identified and welcomed as the
agent of an alternative history, may indeed be the site of a chiasmus,
the crossing of a double contradiction: the system of production of the
national bourgeoisie at home, and abroad, the tendency to represent
neocolonialism by the semiotic of “internal colonization.” (274–75)
The consequence of this poorly analyzed double contradiction is that by

homogenizing and masking the contingent otherness of postcoloniality into
an undifferentiated margin, the political efficacy of a “postcolonial” critique is
weakened considerably. However, it is actually in its points of differentiation
from such homogenizing notions of the margin, more precisely in its critique
of positive knowledge alluded to earlier, that postcolonial studies faces its
greatest challenges. It is not simply that being marginal is no longer a pos-
sibility, but that some of the ways in which the margin as sign and standard
(as a measure of value and as political cause) get deployed produce some of
the impasses in our field.
We can conceive of margin/marginality in two ways: a) as subject position
– the excluded other that must be coaxed into the centre through incorpora-
tion, inversion, hybridization, revolution; or b) as irreducible other – the
condition for the production of our discourse (and all positive knowledge)
that must be acknowledged as asymmetrical and irrecuperable. The former
speaks the positive discourse of rights; the latter the negative discourse of
limits.11 In The Order of Things, Michel Foucault characterizes the modern
episteme as marked by the emergence of Man in his finite spatiality as the
object of positive knowledge:
At the foundation of all the empirical positivities, and of everything that
can indicate itself as a concrete limitation of man’s existence, we discover
a finitude – which is in a sense the same: it is marked by the spatiality
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of the body, the yawning of desire, and the time of language; and yet
it is radically other: in this sense, the limitation is expressed not as a
determination imposed upon man from outside (because he has a nature
or a history), but as a fundamental finitude which rests on nothing but
its own existence as fact, and opens upon the positivity of all concrete
limitation. (315)
In other words, it is no longer a question of knowing the limits of knowledge,

as with classical philosophy, but of discerning the constitutive negativity, the
otherness, the irrecuperable, the “unthought” that makes positive knowing
possible.12 It is this latter notion of the margin, of course, that has enabled
the most powerful critiques of anthropology, orientalism, and comparative
philology.13 Said’s Orientalism, which was the first significant attempt to
disclose the constitutive function of this margin for Western knowledge,
attests to the fact that such critiques are often implicit in the deconstruction
of the “metaphysics of presence”; more explicitly, they may be channelled
through Foucault’s notions of the limit and of power/knowledge. That so
many analyses of colonialism, following in the wake of Said’s work, have
reiterated the shadow of this margin is the precise bone of contention between
postcolonialists and a so-called orthodox Marxism, represented most vocally
by Aijaz Ahmad, who attacked Said’s Orientalism in his In Theory: Classes,
Nations, Literatures. But let us attend in greater detail, if briefly, to Ahmad’s
problems with a so-called postcolonial discourse.
In his essay “The Politics of Literary Postcoloniality,” Ahmad characterizes
postcolonial literature and cultural criticism as offsprings of a postmodern-
ism that they disseminate zealously (10).14 Ahmad does not explain what he
specifically means by the term postmodernism (other than by positing the
untenable proposition that it is an anti-Marxism), nor does he explain why
the term should be self-evidently disparaging. Rather, he illustrates his thesis
that postcolonialism is the progeny of postmodernism by fastening on short
passages from Gayatri Spivak and Homi Bhabha and then performing close
readings of them after the manner of deconstructive literary critics. While
there is much in Ahmad’s essay that merits close attention, I shall focus on his
interpretation of Spivak and those themes that he designates as characteristic
of postcolonial postmodernity – hybridity and contingency (ambivalence is
mentioned but not analyzed) – to show that despite his call for a return to a
fundamental Marxism, his own critique is caught up in the contradictions
that attend totalizations of any kind, be they Marxist or postcolonialist.
For instance, in his reading of Spivak’s often-quoted passage in which she
asserts that the concept metaphors of “nationhood, constitutionality, citizen-
ship, democracy, socialism” are “effectively reclaimed” in postcoloniality as
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“regulative political concepts” for which “no historically adequate referent may
be advanced from postcolonial space” (”Scattered Speculations” 281), Ahmad
mounts his polemic on what turns out to be a contradictory ground. In his
quotation, he elides the following: Spivak says, “Within the historical frame
of exploration, colonization, and decolonization, what is effectively reclaimed
is a series of regulative political concepts, the supposedly authoritative nar-
rative of whose production was written elsewhere, in the social formations
of Western Europe” (281). By choosing to elide the question of ideological
regulation, which invokes Althusser’s notion of ideology (in general) as having
no history,15 Ahmad can read the phrase “no historically adequate referent”
literally as about “political history” (4). There is socialism and nationalism
in India, he reminds us; we only have to remember the masses who vote for
the communist ticket and the fact that it was the nationalist struggle and
not colonialism that invested India with nationhood. The literalism here is a
consequence of what Ahmad marginalizes: Spivak’s insistence that socialism,
nationalism, etc., insofar as they function as regulative political concepts,
effectively resituate struggle within the frame of imperialism. This is not a
denial of history but a comment on the limits of historiography itself. Yet the
literalism permits Ahmad to read ideological critique here as free-floating
dehistoricizing postmodernism, thus re-enacting, in the name of Marx, what
Spivak problematizes: ideological regulation. Yet Ahmad is not consistently
an orthodox Marxist, for in his consideration that perhaps Spivak is speaking
of these concepts in terms of “the European origin of these words” (5), he
expresses his consternation thus:
Even with regard to concepts, I did not know that mere origins – (“myth
of origins?”) – mattered all that much in postmodern discourse, nor does
it seem appropriate that everything that originates in Europe should be
consigned so unilaterally to the “heritage of imperialism,” unless we
subscribe to an essentialist notion of an undifferentiated Europe where
everything and everyone is imperialist. (5)
Here the problem with Spivak is that she is not being constructionist enough
for Ahmad, and is slipping into a premodern “dangerous” notion of origins and
essences. From what was first a charge of too much postmodernism, Ahmad
now castigates Spivak for not being postmodern enough for his purposes.
Nevertheless, postmodernism continues to function as a peculiar catch-all
phrase of derision for Ahmad, usefully encapsulating poststructuralism,
deconstruction, and, of course, colonial discourses. The most egregious
example of this totalizing impulse is evident in his critique of Bhabha’s
notion of hybridity. What is peculiar in Ahmad’s reading of Bhabha is that
he attributes a “celebratory” tone to the latter, believing that the notion
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“partakes of a carnivalesque collapse and play of identities, and comes under

a great many names” (13). While it may be beside the point to engage in an
argument on the “correct” interpretation of hybridity, which I understand
to mean not an arbitrary mixture of cultures and a surplus of pleasure but
the uncanny and undermining effect produced by the incompatibility of
discourses in unequal power relations,16 it must be acknowledged that the
notion of carnivalesque subversion is more evocative of Bakhtin than of
Bhabha. Ahmad’s real quarrel with Bhabha’s notion of hybridity, however,
is twofold: a) it dispenses with “a sense of place, of belonging, of some stable
commitment to one’s class or gender or nation [which] may be useful for
defining one’s politics”; and b) it is “posited as the negation of the ‘organic
intellectual’ as Gramsci conceived of it” (14). The point about stable identities
is an old one; we have already encountered it in relation to Charles Taylor.
The fact that such stability may not be easily available in this age of total
capitalist penetration and that, in fact, such (commodified) commitment
to “one’s class,” at this historical moment, may produce fascisms of the sort
Ahmad himself laments in India and elsewhere is not considered at all. This
is because Ahmad is not so much interested in the question of the nature or
grounds of political commitment but rather in the deployment of Marx and
Gramsci as prophylactics of postmodernism. Thus Bhabha’s bracketing of the
organic intellectual is again read as travesty rather than on its own terms.
While I do not want to open a discussion of Gramsci’s concepts or Bhabha’s
reading of them at this point, it would be salutary to recall Gramsci’s declared
view of intellectual orthodoxy in his “The Study of Philosophy”:
Who is to fix the “rights of knowledge” and the limits of the pursuit of
knowledge? And can these rights and limits indeed be fixed? It seems
necessary to leave the task of researching after new truths and better,
more coherent, clearer formulations of the truths themselves to the free
initiative of individual specialists, even though they may continually
question the very principles that seem most essential. (Selections 341)
“Organic intellectual” is not a term that transparently signifies social good.

Like everything else, the possibilities of such leadership need to be “elabo-
rated,” in the Gramscian sense of the term, in its contingent and specific
historicity.
This leads us to the next point that Ahmad invokes as characteristic of
postcolonial postmodernity – the theme of contingency as mediated once
again through Bhabha’s quotation of Veena Das (Ahmad, “Politics” 14–15).
For Ahmad, the emphasis on the contingent nature of a given (caste or
class) conflict is an act of de-historicization and political passivity. It is
de-historicizing because it recommends that “when it comes to caste conflicts,
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each historical moment must be treated as sui generis and as carrying within
itself its own explanation […] [and] that the understanding of each conflict
be confined to the characteristics of that conflict. […] What is denied […] is
that caste is a structural and not merely contingent feature in the distribu-
tion of powers and privileges” (15). Furthermore, “when the theorist […]
denies the structural endurance of histories and calls upon us to think only
of the contingent moment[,] we are in effect being called upon to overlook
the position of class and caste privileges from which such theories emanate
and such invocations issue” (15). The consequence of such anti-structuralist
analysis for Ahmad is political passivity:
Such premises preclude […] the very bases of political action. For the idea
of collective human agent (e.g., organised groups of the exploited castes
fighting for their rights against upper-caste privilege) presumes both
what Habermas calls communicative rationality as well as the possibility
of rational action as such; it presumes, in other words, that agencies are
constituted not in flux and displacement but in given historical locations.
(15–16)
There are at least two unexamined contradictions in Ahmad’s argument: a)

the opposition between the historicity of conflict and contingency, and b) the
alliance between a structural reading of history and rational action. Much
of the problem has to do with Ahmad’s untheorized notion of conflict and
its relation to history in the first place. For Bhabha, as I understand him,
the analysis of conflict as contingency is reliant on the notion of conflict as
constitutive of history or historical change rather than on a view of conflict as
a factor in an idealist progression of an objective and real history. In Ernesto
Laclau’s terms, in so far as “identities and their conditions of existence form
an inseparable whole” (21), “the conditions of existence of any objectivity that
might exist must be sought at the level of a factual history” (22). For instance,
to such a question as “Is the English revolution of the seventeenth century
the bourgeois-democratic revolution?” Laclau responds:
The “bourgeois-democratic revolution,” far from being an object to
be identified in different latitudes (France, England, Italy) – an object
that would therefore establish relations of exteriority with its specific
conditions of existence in different contexts – would instead be an object
that is deformed and redefined by each of its contingent contexts. There
would merely be “family resemblances” between the different “bourgeois-
democratic revolutions.” This allows the formulation of questions such as:
how bourgeois was the democratic revolution in the country X?; or rather,
how democratic was the bourgeoisie in context Y? (22)
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Thus, for Laclau, and for “postcolonials” such as Bhabha and Das, the analy-
sis of conflict requires that “the very categories of social analysis […] be
historicized” (Laclau 22) in a movement that “radically contextualizes” rather
than de-historicizes conflict.
Furthermore, Ahmad concludes that radical historicization or contingency,
because it involves no structural understanding of history, is incompatible
with “communicative action” (in Habermas’s sense of the term). In doing
so, he generates a further confusion by collapsing structuralist theories
of history with the more consciousness-based theories of Habermas and
even Lukács. The relationship between Habermas’s notion of communica-
tive action (which is based on Enlightenment notions of progress) and the
more structural notions of history (which one associates with Althusser
and Balibar) does not seem self-evident or in any way a logical connection.
Again, the problem here is Ahmad’s refusal to engage with the fundamental
question of identity as such; thus his analysis falls into a kind of idealism that
Gramsci would characterize as “common sense.” My point is that Ahmad’s
denunciation of postcolonialism as anti-Marxist (due to its association with
postmodernism) seems highly dubious given that Marxism is not some
sort of ready-made grid that can be imposed upon social realities; rather,
Marxism is itself a highly conflictual discourse whose terms and concepts
must be constantly negotiated if they are to be made useful. The fact remains
that issues of ideology, structure, and conflict or historical change, insofar
as they must be negotiated and redefined in their contingency, do radically
call into question our totalization of knowledge. To dismiss such inquiry as
ludic postmodernism because of its compatibility with Derrida’s critiques
of philosophy or with Foucault’s rewriting of historiography seems hasty
at best and authoritarian at worst. The problem with Ahmad’s criticisms of
postcolonial discourse is that he refuses to acknowledge, at the fundamental
level of political orientation (i.e., the investment in class and race politics),
the continuity between his own position and that which he repudiates as the
brood of postmodernism.
But to return to the question of postcolonial studies as marginality studies:
one consequence of deploying an undifferentiated notion of the margin is that
postcolonial studies has been stereotyped as an acceptable form of academic
radicalism.17 This has meant that scholars, once intimately – even emblem-
atically – associated with the postcolonial, resort to distancing themselves
from this “PC” term by denouncing it from within. What it comes down to
is an anxiety over the loss of the margin, which results in the redrawing of
lines and a struggle over the margin itself. As R. Radhakrishnan puts it in
“Postcoloniality and the Boundaries of Identity,”
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the critic intellectual is divorced from the politics of solidarity and

constituency. The critic is forever looking for that radical “elsewhere” that
will validate “perennial readings against the grain,” and the intellectual
is busy planning multiple transgressions to avoid being located
ideologically and/or macropolitically. (761)
The notion of the margin as the site of struggle for the outermost limit, then,
takes on a new meaning as it is fetishized and reified as the “dislocated” and
authoritative critical position, which then reveals the “real” stake in these
battles: the margin as turf.18
My task here is not to ride out in defence of postcolonial studies, even if
such an object existed for the purpose. Rather, what I am interested in are
the consequences that attend the deployment of an undifferentiated notion
of the margin. I suggest that the exploration of postcoloniality from the point
of view of the margin (as the excluded and the limit) can be thought of as
the realm of postcolonial scholarship. While we cannot cease to uncover the
politics of marginalization that provides the impetus to criticism, we also need
to conceive of the “politics of criticism” as elaborated by Stuart Hall as an
ironic project. By this I mean that postcolonialism must rehearse continually
the conditions for the production of its own discourse or be doomed to fall
into a form of anthropology.19 As Barbara Johnson suggests in the context of
deconstructio, “any discourse that is based on the questioning of boundary
lines must never stop questioning its own” (14). If postcolonial studies can be
said to possess any pedagogical efficacy at all, then that energy arises from its
indeterminate location and failure to recoup the margin. The conflationary
(counter) critiques mentioned above, then, cannot be located “outside” of
the field and thereby be made to engender what Said, in his “Intellectuals in
the Post-Colonial World,” terms a “politics of blame.” It is undeniable that
the debates generated by these critiques are not only salient to the project
of postcolonial studies but are themselves indicative of the thankful lack
of triumphalism of the field – or so it seems, as long as they do not divert
discussion from the issues about larger material determinants to a skirmish
over or at the margin. To quote R. Radhakrishnan again,
Postcoloniality at best is a problematic field where heated debates and
contestations are bound to take place for quite a while to come. My
point here is that whoever joins the polemical dialogue should do so
with a critical-sensitive awareness of the legitimacies of several other
perspectives on the issue. In other words, it would be quite futile and
divisive in the long run for any one perspective such as the diasporic, the
indigenous, the orthodox Marxist, etc., to begin with the
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brazen assumption that it alone has the ethico-political right to speak

representatively on behalf of “postcoloniality.” Such an assumption can
only take the form of a pedagogical arrogance that is interested more
in correcting other points of view rather than engaging with them in a
spirit of reciprocity. No one historical angle can have a monopolistic hold
over the possible elaborations of the “post-colony,” especially during
times when master discourses in general, e.g. modernity, nationalism,
international Communism/Marxism, are deservedly in disarray. (762)
Another reason for the lack of triumphalism of postcolonial studies pertains

to its institutional and theoretical amorphousness: it has no theory to speak
of, concerned as it is with micro-cultural and micro-political practices and
issues. Unlike other area studies, postcolonial studies has no identifiable
object: it would be impossible to suggest that it pertains to one or the other
area of the world or that it is confined to a period, genre, or theme; nor can
it name a stable First or Third World subject as its legitimate speaker (as can,
for instance, women’s studies, Afro-American studies, or gay and lesbian
studies). >From this perspective, it may be acceptable to claim that postcolonial
studies is concerned more with the analysis of the lived condition of unequal
power-sharing globally and the self-authorization of cultural, economic, and
militaristic hegemony than with a particular historical phenomenon such as
colonialism, which may be plotted as a stage of capitalist imperialism. It is
interested, above all, in the materialist critique of power and how that power
or ideology seeks to interpellate subjects within a discourse as subordinate
and without agency. In some ways, it is this amorphousness that permits it to
be simultaneously self-critical and oppositional. As well, it is this free-form
aspect of postcolonial studies that makes it the target of both the Right and
the so-called Left. Yet perhaps it is this shapelessness, this refusal to stay still,
to define itself or defend itself, that makes postcolonial studies a particularly
hospitable interstice from which to work out the paradoxes of history (the
temporality of modernity) and colony (imperialism and nationalism).
Notes
1 As R. Radhakrishnan points out, “The important thing to notice here is the overall culturalist
mode of operation: in other words, we are not talking about postcolonial economies, histories,
or politics. The obsessive focus is on postcoloniality as a cultural conjuncture” (751).
2 See Ella Shohat’s essay “Notes on the ‘Post-Colonial’” for an elaboration of this theme.
3 Apter writes: “It seems that the theoretical and political categories of postcolonialism, even
as they burgeon and become increasingly sophisticated, are also becoming more rapidly used
up and, in many instances, altogether bankrupt. Preludes and prefaces that take great pains
162
to situate the writer/viewer in a redemptive practice that is ultimately a reenactment of just

what she or he is trying to avoid (the voyeurism of ‘other-gazing’), all these verbal markers and
narrative devices repeat the colonial gesture of self-authorization” (299).
4 In an essay written in 1991, Vijay Mishra and Bob Hodge argue that Bill Ashcroft, Gareth
Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin’s The Empire Writes Back (1989) was the first attempt to substitute
the erstwhile category of Commonwealth literature with that of postcolonial writing. Although
this book came out eleven years after Said’s Orientalism, which most scholars consider as the
inaugural text of the field, I agree with Hodge and Mishra that for all of its problems, The Empire
Writes Back did perform an important pedagogical function:it put a teachable text on the market
that summarized the limits and possibilities of this new field of inquiry. Hodge and Mishra’s
essay has been reprinted recently in a reader entitled Colonial Discourse and Post-Colonial
Theory, edited by Patrick Williams and Laura Chrisman. This reader reprints the seminal essays
marking the debates and concerns of the field. For other notable anthologies of postcolonial
“theory,” see Adam and H. Tiffin; Slemon and H. Tiffin; Whitlock and H. Tiffin; Ashcroft, Griffiths,
and H. Tiffin (The Post-Colonial Studies Reader); C. Tiffin and Lawson; and White.
5 For a characterization of affirmative action as a recognition of past historical injustice see
Shelby Steele’s problematic but nevertheless important argument in The Content of Our
Character: A New Vision of Race in America (1990), chapter 7.
6 See also S.P. Mohanty’s “Us and Them” and Anthony Appiah’s “The Postcolonial and the
Postmodern.”
7 For an explanation of the “Marxist problematic,” see Harvey, The Condition of Modernity, and
Jameson, Postmodernism or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism.
8 For instance: here, in the crisis of enunciation, we can also recognize a potential convergence of
radical feminist theory – Luce Irigaray, Carla Lonzi, Hélène Cixous, Alice Jardine, Rosi Braidotti,
Jane Flax, Susan Hekman, Judith Butler – with its sustained critique of the presumptions of
occidental discourse: a convergence that is directly inscribed in the work of Gayatri Spivak,
Trinh. T. Minh-ha, bell hooks, Paul Gilroy, and Homi Bhabha, for example, and that is destined
for greater dialogue (70).
9 See James Clifford’s “Travelling Theories” for a discussion of this notion of authenticity.
10 For excellent reconsideration of the monological views of modernity, see Fuchs.
11 I am indebted to Drucilla Cornell’s monumental book The Philosophy of the Limit for an
understanding of this concept as a primarily ethical demarcation. See especially chapter 3.
12 For a neo-Marxist formulation of negativity (as the critique of reason and totalizing politics) as
the foundation of radical politics and history, see Laclau.
13 See Bernal; Clifford and Marcus; and Said, “Representing the Colonized: Anthropology’s
Interlocutors.”
1 4 He writes: “[T]he term ‘postcolonial’ also comes to us as the name of a discourse about the
condition of ‘postcoloniality,’ so that certain kinds of critics are ‘postcolonial’ and others
not. […] Following on which is the attendant assertion that only those critics, who believe not
only that colonialism has more or less ended but who also subscribe to the idea of the end of
Marxism, nationalism, collective historical subjects and revolutionary possibility as such, are
the true postcolonials, while the rest of us, who do not quite accept this apocalyptic anti-
Marxism, are not postcolonial at all […] so that only those intellectuals can be truly postcolonial
who are also postmodern” (10).
15 See the section on ideology in Althusser’s “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses” (159–
61).
16 See Bhabha’s essays “Signs Taken for Wonders” and “Articulating the Archaic” in The Location
of Culture.
17 For an understanding of the concept of stereotyping, see Bhabha, “The Other Question.”
18 It can be argued that the skirmish over the margin is not peculiar to postcolonial studies,
and that feminism, in fact, seems to be at the centre of such battles. The siege of a perceived
orthodox feminism by an ostensibly radical feminist wing is a sign of such battles. However,
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what is distinctive about postcolonial battles over the margin is the way in which the very terms
and field of study are themselves contested, with the metaphor of the subaltern acting as the
category of de-legitimation.
19 For a sweeping though provocative critique of so-called postcolonial cultural studies’ failure to
conceive of colonialism in plural and local terms, see Thomas.
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Laclau, Ernesto. “New Reflections on the Revolution of Our Time.” Trans. Jon Barnes. New
Reflections on the Revolution of Our Time. London: Verso, 1990. 3–85.
Mishra, Vijay, and Bob Hodge. “What is Post(-)Colonialism?” 1991. Williams and Chrisman
276–90.
Mohanty, S.P. “Us and Them: On the Philosophical Bases of Political Criticism.” The Yale
Journal of Criticism 2 (1989): 1–32.
Pratt, Mary Louise. Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. New York: Routledge,
1992.
Radhakrishnan, R. “Postcolonialism and the Boundaries of Identity.” Callaloo 16 (1993): 750–71.
Rouse, Roger. “Thinking through Transnationalism: Notes on the Cultural Politics of Class
Relations in the Contemporary United States.” Public Culture 7 (1995): 353–402.
Said, Edward. “Intellectuals in the Post-Colonial World.” Salmagundi 70–71 (1986): 44–81.
———. Orientalism. New York: Vintage, 1978.
———. “Representing the Colonized: Anthropology’s Interlocutors.” Critical Inquiry 15 (1989):
205–25.
Schor, Naomi. “The Righting of French Studies: Homosociality and the Killing of ‘La pensée
68.’” Profession 92. New York: MLA, 1992. 28–34.
Shohat, Ella. “Notes on the ‘Post-Colonial.’” Social Text 31/32 (1992): 99–113.
Slemon, Stephen, and Helen Tiffin, eds. After Europe: Critical Theory and Postcolonial Writing.
Mundelstrup: Dangaroo, 1989.
———. “Scattered Speculations on the Question of Cultural Studies.” Outside in the Teaching
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———. “‘What Is It For?’ Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak on the Functions of the Postcolonial
Critic.” Interview with Gloria-Jean Masciarotte. Nineteenth-Century Contexts: An
Interdisciplinary Journal 18 (1994): 71–81.
———. “Who Claims Alterity?” Remaking History. Ed. Barbara Kruger and Phil Mariani.
Seattle: Bay Press, 1989. 269–92.
Steele, Shelby. The Content of Our Character: A New Vision of Race in America. New York:
St Martin’s, 1990.
Taylor, Charles. “The Politics of Recognition.” Multiculturalism: Examining the Politics of
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Thomas, Nicholas. Colonialism’s Culture: Anthropology, Travel, Government. New Jersey:
Princeton University Press, 1994.
Tiffin, Chris, and Alan Lawson, eds. De-Scribing Empire: Post-Coloniality and Textuality.
New York: Routledge, 1994.
White, Jonathan, ed. Recasting the World: Writing after Colonialism. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
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Postmodernism. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988. 214–36.
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Keeping History
at Wind River and Acoma
8
mary l awlor
Among the small frame houses and government buildings clustered to-
gether at Fort Washakie, Wyoming, a village of 1,700 people on the Wind
River Indian Reservation, stands a white Victorian structure that houses
the Shoshone Tribal Cultural Center. The building stands out from the
prefabricated homes and corrugated sheds that surround it. More stately
and aged, it seems a misplaced image of domestic elegance whose height and
architecture speak to its importance as a vault of tribal history and a museum
of contemporary culture. Yet there is a certain shabbiness about the house
– the porch sags, the screen door needs replacing – that suggests that the
history and culture preserved there are not, after all, such vital components
of life at Fort Washakie.
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The idea of a “cultural center,” located in a particular place and display-

ing objects to satisfy a spectator’s curiosity, is in most ways antithetical to
traditional Shoshone methods for maintaining history and culture. Oral
narratives, ceremonies, and dances performed those functions in the past,
and they still have that authority in contemporary life. Yet this museum-
archive makes available to non-Indians as well as Indians the elements of
Shoshone culture and history that the tribe itself is willing to contribute to
the multi-textured fabric of “American” public culture. In this sense, the
Cultural Center presents not a gateway nor even a vestibule to the inner
sanctums of a more private and sovereign tradition but a sampler of historical
material that mutually situates Shoshone and Euro-American cultures in the
history of the United States – surely a significant factor in the construction
of Shoshone-American identity in the late twentieth century. In this essay I
want to offer some observations about the ways that materials of displayed
culture and narratives of history offered to the public at Wind River and
at a second Indian community, the Acoma Pueblo in New Mexico, both
assert a place for Native Americans in the larger picture of U.S. cultural
development and, in varying degrees, contest the dominant narratives of
European America.
One of the most extensive collections in the Shoshone Cultural Center’s
archive consists of a series of articles and essays devoted to Sacajawea, the
young Shoshone woman who participated in the Lewis and Clark expedition
from 1805 to 1806.1 Originally from the Lemhi Shoshone group of what is
now southern Idaho, Sacajawea was abducted in her early teens by a group
of Hidatsa hunters and taken to their villages along the northern bend of
the Missouri River. Subsequently, Sacajawea came to be in a liaison with
the French trapper Toussaint Charbonneau, who very likely bought or won
her from the Hidatsa captors.2 During the autumn of 1804, Charbonneau
enlisted with the Lewis and Clark expedition, then quartered near the Mandan
villages just south of Hidatsa country. Sacajawea gave birth to her son with
Charbonneau, Baptiste, the following winter, and in the spring of 1805, when
the expedition set out again for the sources of the Missouri, she and the child
accompanied Charbonneau. Her familiarity with the area of the Missouri
headwaters was useful to the expedition, and her ability to speak Shoshone
was important in negotiations with the people there, whose help was necessary
for the expedition’s successful portage to the Rocky Mountains.
The written materials at the Shoshone centre offer various details of
Sacajawea’s contribution to the expedition, but many of them focus particular
attention on the narrative of her life afterwards. The course of that life is
much debated. One argument has it that she lived for only a few years after
the expedition, died in 1812 at approximately the age of twenty-four, and
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Keeping History at Wind River and Acoma mary l awlor
was buried near Fort Manuel, a short-lived trading post on the border of
North and South Dakota. This account is for the most part subscribed to by
Euro-American historians, whose evidence comes from contemporary diaries
and letters of men who encountered Charbonneau and his wife in St. Louis
and at Fort Manuel in 1811 and 1812.3 The other argument constructs a very
different story of Sacajawea’s life by claiming that she died in 1884 at Wind
River, after having lived there for many years as a highly respected member
of the community and thus as an important figure in local history.
The Shoshone Cultural Center as an institution supports the latter account,
as do most of the Shoshone people living on the reservation today. Several
Euro-American writers whose commentaries make up part of the Cultural
Center’s collections also subscribe to this story, but the 1812 argument is
represented as well in the archival materials. Asked if the argument that
runs contrary to the Center’s own position ever tempted local readers to
think differently on this question, a Shoshone researcher told me that no
one at Fort Washakie was ever bothered by it because they knew Sacajawea
was there, buried outside of their hamlet.
Indeed, a short drive outside of Fort Washakie leads to Sacajawea Cemetery,
in the midst of which stands a large gravestone, marked with the epigraph
“Sacagawea, A Guide With the Lewis and Clark Expedition, Identified By
Reverend J. Roberts Who Officiated at Her Burial.” Those who think Sacajawea
died at Wind River in 1884 believe she is in fact buried here, and they have
named the cemetery after her. Oral histories related by tribal elders in the
early twentieth century to the Euro-American researcher Grace Hebard
serve now as textual evidence for this identification.4
Their story is supported in a statement written in 1935 by John Roberts,
an Episcopal minister at Wind River from 1883 until 1945.5 Roberts explains
that the woman he knew as Sacajawea had through the years related to her
family incidents of her experience with the Lewis and Clark expedition, and
that this information came to him via the Indian agent at the time who had
Sacajawea’s history from her adopted son, Bazil. As the epigraph indicates,
Roberts officiated at her burial in 1884.6
In both of these accounts, Sacajawea is considered a brave, generous, and
intelligent person whose contributions to the expedition were estimable and
whose place in the historical record is highly valued. In this respect, the
Shoshone tribal characterization agrees with that of the Cultural Center
and, indeed, with that of the culture at large. As an actor in the chronicle
of the American nation, Sacajawea has achieved a good deal of popular
recognition in the culture at large; and through her the Shoshone people
have been acknowledged in mainstream history more than they might have
been otherwise. Since her first appearance as a central figure of the Lewis
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and Clark expedition in Eva Emery Dye’s 1902 novel The Conquest, she has
become the subject of much popular fiction, a virtual icon of U.S. romantic
nationalism.
In such a role, Sacajawea might seem to present a figure of ambiguous
cultural value among Indian people, since the expedition spearheaded a
Euro-American settlement history that overtook the space and resources of all
Native American peoples in the trans-Mississippi West. Sacajawea’s sisters in
expeditionary fame, Pocahontas of the Virginia Powhatans, who assisted John
Smith at Jamestown, and the Aztec-born La Malinche, translator and mistress
to Cortés in Mexico, have both acquired complex reputations as sensitive
diplomats and exceptionally canny women who at some level betrayed their
people. Certainly this is more apparent in the case of La Malinche, but the
complications of both women’s roles as negotiators and interpreters between
indigenous leaders and white political-entrepreneurial missions are evident
in the extensive scholarship and popular writing on both.7
No such ambiguity envelops the figure of Sacajawea. It is evident that the
Wind River Shoshone want to claim her as their own. Indeed, the iconic image
of Sacajawea, with wind-blown hair and babe on her back, a “Noble Savage”
pointing the way west, is affirmed not only in white statues and storybooks
but also in the writing of one of the most influential Native American cultural
analysts and poets of the present day.8 Paula Gunn Allen, a radical feminist,
celebrates Sacajawea’s strengths in the following terms:
When Eva Emery Dye discovered Sacagawea and honored her as the
guiding spirit of American womanhood, she may have been wrong in
bare historical fact, but she was quite accurate in terms of deeper truth.
The statues that have been erected depicting Sacagawea as a Matron
in her prime signify an understanding in the American mind, however
unconscious, that the source of just government, of right ordering of
social relationships, the dream of “liberty and justice for all” can be
gained only by following the Indian Matrons’ guidance. (27)
To support her position, Allen then quotes from a 1905 speech by the suf-
fragette Anna Howard Shaw, which begins with the words, “Forerunner of
civilization, great leader of men, patient and motherly woman, we bow our
hearts to do you honor” (27).
Allen’s praise assumes much about Sacajawea’s abilities to make choices
and decisions in her role as Charbonneau’s bought wife and as figurehead of
the Corps of Discovery.9 In The Sacred Hoop, Allen’s zeal to represent Native
American feminine authority as a general, viable phenomenon results in what
appears to be a somewhat wishful interpretation of Sacajawea’s character.
170
All of this suggests that the Wind River reputation, as well as the hagi-
ography of Sacajawea in other quarters, begs some critical inspection. In
that portrait, half of the historical scholarship on the topic of her death is
ignored, and the politics of her co-operation with Lewis and Clark are left
unaddressed. In their representation of Sacajawea, the Cultural Center’s staff
and most of the Shoshone people living at Wind River would seem to subscribe
to the dominant culture’s valuation of her and, in the process, identify the
Shoshone people with those values by according her such a representative
and central position in their own history. Perhaps one of the more patent
notices of this fact is that the grave marker at Wind River dedicated to her
includes, near the bottom and in small print, the notice “Erected by the
Wyoming State Organization of the National Society of the Daughters of
the American Revolution, 1963.”
In certain schools of contemporary postcolonial cultural studies, the posi-
tion on Sacajawea expressed at the Shoshone Cultural Center would likely be
met with some degree of opprobrium, since it indicates assimilation rather
than anything particularly Shoshone. There are other ways of looking at this
picture, however. The first thing to reconsider is the neglect of the evidence
for Sacajawea’s death in 1812. In my own experience of studying the characters
of United States expeditionary narratives, the 1812 date of death has always
seemed the more compelling: passages from journals are cited, with dates,
names (though not Sacajawea’s), and places indicating where Charbonneau
was seen with his “Snake” (an Anglo term for the Shoshone commonly used
in the early nineteenth century) Indian wife, who had participated in the
Lewis and Clark expedition. These journals were kept by travellers whom
contemporary historians can identify by occupation and origin; indeed, their
names ring with familiarity: Brackenridge, Bradbury, Luttig.
But why take this, finally, as the truth rather than the 1884 story? As I
spoke with people at Fort Washakie and reviewed their archival material, I
found myself “coming around,” as it were, to a more agnostic position. Swayed
in part by their obvious desire to claim Sacajawea, by the accounts of the
people who remembered knowing her at Wind River, and by the power of
the Sacajawea Cemetery with its solemn, indeed sacramental, argument for
ownership, I began to feel that my attraction to the 1812 argument had been
based too exclusively on the textual biases of Western historiography. One
thought in particular disrupted the clarity of my earlier position – the fact
that everyone involved in this debate admits to Charbonneau’s having been a
profligate lover, marrying what Harold Howard calls “Indian girls” all over the
Western country until he was an old man (185). Any wives he had before 1811
might have accompanied him from St. Louis to Fort Manuel. The researchers
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at the Shoshone Tribal Cultural Center explain that they are approached
constantly, through the mail and over the phone, by people who claim to be
Charbonneaus and who wonder if their ancestor might have been Sacajawea.
This fact is not necessarily testimony to the multiplicity of Charbonneau’s
amorous connections, but it does point to the difficulty of establishing secure
identities in such a case. Moreover, as Howard has indicated, there is a good
deal of contemporary oral evidence of Sacajawea’s presence in what are now
Wyoming and Montana, in which she is identified in the same terms as
those used to describe her in the journals of Brackenridge, Bradbury, and
Luttig. She is the former wife of a “Frenchman” or of someone whose name
is spelled something like “Charbonneau,” and she once accompanied Lewis
and Clark to the Pacific.
The significance of this debate in a sense calls for reconsideration of the
second objection to the Wind River reputation noted above – namely, the lack
of commentary on the politics of Sacajawea’s co-operation with Lewis and
Clark. We have no evidence to indicate that Sacajawea was in any position
to make choices or decisions in joining the expedition or in determining
any of its activities, other than to advise certain geographical directions. The
problem arises when one considers the fact that the Shoshone people have
embraced her for having had this experience. How else, after all, would she
even be known in the historical record; what, one might ask, is there about
Sacajawea to appreciate besides this role? I think an appropriate response is
simply that she is recognized. Several posters and pamphlets at the Cultural
Center label her “Sacajawea, Recognized Shoshone Woman.” As caretakers of
her legacy, the women who manage the museum and the people represented
by it are directly associated with her. Sacajawea’s recognition is not theirs,
but it is as close as they are likely to come to substantial acknowledgement
within the American public sphere, and that is no small effect of Sacajawea’s
influence. While it is true that the Center indirectly connects its values with
those of the dominant culture’s historiography by affirming Sacajawea’s heroic
status for having assisted Lewis and Clark, the fact that the expedition served
to raise her to national fame seems far more significant at Wind River than
the broader ideas or aims that the expedition was intended to actualize.
Yet another perspective on Sacajawea’s character and destiny in local oral
commentary further attests to the way in which the Wind River community
asserts its possession of her memory, outside of the roles she occupies in the
more hegemonic narrative. As one of the women who work at the Cultural
Center told me, many people at the reservation now feel that Sacajawea should
have left Charbonneau rather than accompany him on the expedition. His
womanizing and ill treatment of his wives seem deplorable by their contem-
porary standards, and the retrospective advice, or admonition, to Sacajawea
172
effectively separates her from him by prescribing her proper action, even if
that action never occurred.
On the other hand, the comment made to me by the woman at the Center
would also seem to imply that Sacajawea’s participation in the expedition
was not a matter of her choice but part of the generally “bad deal” that she
had with Charbonneau. This seems quite plausible. We know, after all, that
much of Sacajawea’s young life was spent in captivity after her childhood,
during which she had apparently been promised by her father to another
man. Taken together with the fact that she was probably bought or won by
Charbonneau, this information can lead one to construct an image of her
that is not so much that of a strong-willed and determined individual as
that of a woman whose own desires are quite unreadable, since her actions
are so evidently determined by the series of men we know were in her life,
including Lewis and Clark.
The expedition was designed and controlled at a distance by the “Great
Father” in Washington, as Lewis and Clark referred to President Thomas
Jefferson in their pre-composed orations about the new nation and the
Indians’ part in it, which they periodically delivered along their way. The
bad deal they offered, which the Indians could not refuse, is writ small in
the deal offered to Sacajawea herself and to her descendants who must rely
on her for any recognition within the larger culture. In her capacity as guide
and interpreter, Sacajawea acts and speaks for the interests of Lewis, Clark,
Jefferson, and the mix of European Enlightenment and Romantic national
ideas for which they stood. As we know her from the expedition texts, she
never speaks for herself.
By claiming Sacajawea as one of their ancestors and at the same time
imagining her separated from the man who connected her with the activities
through which her recognition and, very likely, their knowledge of her comes,
the people at Wind River mark their own minor recognition in the narrative
of U.S. history while also posing a counter-voice to that history. The critique is
aimed at the set of patriarchal relations that kept Sacajawea in a compromised
situation, and an indirect connection exists between that patriarchal structure
and the national project to which she and Charbonneau contributed. The
irony, of course, is that if Sacajawea had cut her connection to Charbonneau,
she presumably would never have participated in the expedition and thus
would never have been an instrument of mainstream history.
However, in the account of Sacajawea’s longer life, ending in 1884, she
does in fact leave Charbonneau several years after the expedition when he
has taken yet another, younger wife, whom he demonstratively favours to
the disadvantage of the increasingly mistreated Sacajawea. From this point
on, she figures as a much more self-directed character. Taking her daughter
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and adopted son with her, she travels to Montana and lives with a group of
Comanche, marrying a man named Jerk Meat, who is kind and generous to
her. Sometime after his death, she joins the Fremont expedition of 1843 for
a short time and finally settles during her last years at Wind River.10
This account thus constructs Sacajawea as one who is in a position to
make some choices and who, in doing so, parts from the man who once
treated her badly and determined the course of her life. Accordingly, within
this narrative the Fremont expedition is simply a temporary vehicle for
passage to Wind River rather than another opportunity for contributing to
U.S. official exploration of the West. By the time she arrives at Wind River,
the historical character shaped in this narrative is appropriately renamed
Wadze-Wipe, “Lost Woman.” Disconnected from any sort of tribal or marital
relations, she is on her own, a figure of feminine independence who still does
not speak and thus still is not known, but who opts for life with her people,
finally, rather than for association with the white culture of whose history
she is now a part.
In this position, Sacajawea’s character as expedition participant, and the
potential charge of collaboration that it bears, is revised, as she is written out
of the earlier histories and resituated with the Indians. In subscribing to this
narrative of Sacajawea’s life, the Shoshone people at Wind River claim her
participation in that project as well as her distance from it. To understand
her in this way is to accord her neither the role of grand matriarch of Native
American female strength nor that of heroine of U.S. colonialism but rather to
portray her as one who turned away from white history in a complex refusal
of recognition by the mainstream audience. In doing so, Sacajawea enacts for
the Indian audience a version of what William Bevis refers to as “homing in”
in much contemporary Native American literature – that is, returning to a
locus of Native American community and identity after a time of wandering
without cultural structure, precisely as a lost woman.11 The exclusivity of
Shoshone culture is maintained in this narrative, even as it constitutes part
of the history that belongs generally to “American” public culture.
2
The museum and information centre at Acoma Pueblo, like the Shoshone
Tribal Cultural Center at Fort Washakie, has a special place in relation to the
village in which it is located and whose culture it offers to public view. Unlike
the Shoshone Center’s idiosyncratic appearance, however, the adobe Acoma
museum looks like most buildings in the area. This fact, however, cannot be
read as an indication of harmonious blending with the local culture, for the
structure sits alone below the imposing mesa of Sky City, where visitors are
permitted only in the company of Native guides.
174
Like other museums, that of Acoma has the effect of reducing the complexi-
ties and incompleteness of history and culture to a decontextualized, exoticized
collection for tourists’ consumption. Artifacts of Acoma history and culture,
particularly pottery, are on display; the cases are filled with pieces dating
back as far as the tenth century, many of which are placed beside recently
made clay pots that resemble them precisely in shape and design. This display
of continued competence in the ancient craft certifies the traditionalism of
present-day potters; it also defines these works as copies and as products
of an effort to duplicate earlier technologies and aesthetics as if no time or
sensibility interceded between then and now. Other display cases offer the
paraphernalia of nineteenth-century battles – bows and arrows, guns, war
bonnets, U.S. Army uniforms, and charts, maps, texts that trace the course of
Acoma’s history with the Europeans since the seventeenth century. Just like
any display case in any museum around the world, these offer the objects as
synecdoches of the history of which they are parts. The Shoshone museum
does the same, and one cannot help but notice how little the reduction does
for the representation of cultural integrity. Rather, these institutions seem
at first glance to cater to the curiosity and interests of visitors.
Yet in Acoma, unlike Wind River, the home of the objects in the museum
and the subject of its history, Acoma itself, is visible from the doorway, ap-
proachable via a short, winding drive up the steep mesa wall. After registering
and paying an admission fee to visit Sky City, tourists are shuttled in small
buses to the venerable Pueblo. Once atop the mesa, a guide leads each group
through a range of narrow streets and narrates Acoma’s history. Pottery
is for sale from vendors who appear as if on cue, and visitors are notified
in advance of the two-minute time limit allowed for making purchases at
any particular stand along the route. Picture-taking is permitted with the
purchase of a ticket at the information centre, but the church interior and
graveyard cannot be photographed, and permission must be requested from
Acoma’s residents before anyone can take their portraits.
When our bus arrived at the Pueblo, a young man in dark glasses rose
and introduced himself as our guide. After restating the rules, he led us off
the bus into a small square, where he began narrating Acoma’s history from
the thirteenth-century settlement to the present. At one time inhabited by
more than one thousand people, the Pueblo now has about thirty year-round
occupants who take up some thirteen of the approximately four hundred
houses; the rest are used only in summer and during holidays. These popula-
tion figures seemed to imply at the outset of the tour that life in Acoma is
simultaneously an actual and a performed phenomenon, for much is made of
the fact that it is the oldest continuously occupied village in the continental
United States. With only thirty people to sustain this identity year-round,
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several of whom are involved in the tourist trade, Acoma may be construed
as a kind of quaint memorial to its former living self. A woman in our group
asked the guide if he lived there. No, he said; like most of his generation,
he had chosen to live where schools and jobs were within easier reach. By
his account, most Acoma people live within the region and return to the
mesa often, even if they cannot call themselves residents. During our visit,
approximately twenty-five or thirty people turned out to sell goods, and a
few others emerged here and there, going about their business without refer-
ring to us. Aside from these, we saw only other tourists, who, like mirrors
of ourselves, would appear now and then in groups at the end of a street or
across a plaza.
Thus the Pueblo appeared remarkably empty. It seemed to exist, by and
large, as a perfect but modest display: like the contemporary imitations of
ancient pottery, present-day life in Acoma seems committed to the forms and
styles of an uncontaminated, classical past. Isolated and remote, the Pueblo
indeed looks disconnected from the culture and history that surround it and
have framed it as a reservation.
Indeed, the framing of Acoma as a perfect remnant is so intense that it
seems to work against authenticity and the preservation of “real” culture. The
museum displays and the controls over tourists at the Pueblo contribute to a
sense that this is all a sort of para- or pseudo-experience. Yet there are clearly
other dimensions to this story, too, and what appears at first to be a conces-
sion to tourism that sustains the status-quo perception of Native American
culture as exotic and intellectually collectible is only the beginning. The tone
of imitation and display in the tour soon starts rebounding onto the tourist,
for as much as it makes Acoma look like a fossil trying to perform the part
of a living community, the tour continually calls attention to itself as a tour
and thus positions the visitor as a self-conscious stranger whose presence in
the village is in some sense already scripted. Our comments and questions
echoed off the close walls as if they had been asked many times before; the
confined spaces through which we walked seemed themselves to prescribe
body movement and posture. With no other sounds or activities in which
to contextualize our own, we seemed the only players on an otherwise quiet
and empty stage. We had paid to look at the Pueblo itself and were given an
opportunity to see ourselves in Acoma as part of the bargain.
The invitation to view the village as an object of the spectator’s inter-
est was patently and visibly limited. The narrow channels of the tourist’s
Acoma, sealed off from the domestic interiors of sparsely occupied homes;
the few residents, whose exchanges with the visitors have only to do with
selling goods; and the rules of the game, which control the visitor’s visual
experience as well as her movements – all of these conditions of the tour
176
work to wall off the unvisited quarters of the Pueblo. Its unseen residents,
engaged in whatever banal or dramatic activities, are free from the curious
eye of the stranger. Beyond the walls, daily life went on among however few
people actually live there, and whatever their regard for the visitors, it was
not for us to see.
Our guide’s narrative worked in concert and counterpoint with this
chiselled experience. His distantly ironic tone and the memorized sound
of his material kept the fact of our being “on tour” continuously in focus.
He did not dwell at length on the horrors of Spanish occupation or the
manipulations of the Anglo-American government. Rather, his basic rhe-
torical method was to string together different kinds of information – for
example, the measurements of a wall, followed by a particular practice of
contemporary life, then an anecdote of local folklore – and, in conclusion,
to narrate one of the many horrors committed by the Spaniards at Acoma
during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Finally, without a pause or
change in pitch, he would ask in an uninviting and monotone voice, “Are
there any questions?”
His discourse, however, did have the potent effect of bringing his listeners
into the history he narrated by making their (our) European predecessors as
much a part of the story as his own. Perhaps more than the particular data,
however, the tone of irony in his oration had this strangely effective way of
implicating the listeners’ culture in the account of his own. On the surface,
this strategy would seem to have had no effect on the majority of tourists
in our group. Some of them seemed uninterested in questions of history
or culture and chose to ask instead about the physical construction of the
village. A gregarious older man, rotund and flushed from the walk and the
heat, was particularly curious about the composition of the adobe, and his
probings led to questions by others on the same topic, as well as to the matter
of the shift in building trends from adobe to brick. Similar discussion arose
concerning pottery: when did people begin using ceramic instead of simple
clay, and what were the differences in firing? A khaki-clad, tense-looking
young man with the demeanour of an anxious graduate student asked a
few tentatively formulated questions about the density of walls, strength of
beams, and so on. Others, like this fellow’s female companion, covered in
white cotton and veiled in gauze, never touched or questioned anything.
The guide was probably accustomed to this range of interest, for he seemed
to have ready at hand all sorts of information about heights, depths, and
lengths of nearly every structure we encountered. Such dialogues recurred
several times during our visit, particularly after the guide had been describing
some of the atrocities committed by the Spaniards. His phrase, “Are there
any questions?,” which typically followed these descriptions, often had the
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odd effect of eliciting queries about building materials. Its way of deflecting
attention to the simple materiality of Acoma’s construction left the unad-
dressed questions of history dangling in hollow air.
Dialogues of this sort tended to focus on spatial measurements and the
construction of boundaries, the sort of data regularly offered at such tour-
ist sites. Yet, whether or not our guide was merely anticipating the typical
interests of tourists when he responded to these questions as thoroughly
as he did, it was impossible to resist thinking that there was something al-
legorically appropriate in the discourse about the composition of walls and
ceilings. These are data that appeal strongly to rationalist imaginations and
can give one the sense of possessing real knowledge about space and objects
in a strange location. Boundaries are also very important in most Native
American societies, where spiritual as well as geographical and political limits
are crucial to the articulation of community and identity. Rather than elicit
transgressive desire, as boundaries commonly do in Euro-American culture,
however, they are respected and preserved as the marks that indicate home.
All the talk about walls and what material is used to construct them seemed
to me like a walking trope for the barriers existing between our guide and
his culture, on the one hand, and, on the other, the traditions of the Anglo
tourists, which include the desire to know about the Indians and Acoma.
To my mind, the guide’s presentation seemed rich enough to satisfy familiar
touristic desires at the same time that it could be said to position the tourist
as one who is also returning to Acoma, to a scene preserved from history
where the determinations of European culture in the lives of indigenous
people are massively evident. His genre permitted him to lecture very subtly
to his audience and to present for its consumption the details of a limited
number of horrors in a history that belongs to them as much as it does to the
Indians. The stories of Spaniards enslaving Indians and throwing reluctant
or recalcitrant workers over the mesa’s rim, of beatings, mutilations, and
forced conversions, made the tourist recognize the European past in the
conditions and situations that the guide narrated concerning the history of
his own people.
Looked at in this way rather than as an inauthentic reproduction of Na-
tive American life, the tourist’s Acoma would seem to be the product of a
concerted and well-organized effort on the part of the people who claim the
Pueblo as their home to preserve a traditional lifestyle from the curiosity of
strangers. Rather than speculate on the traditional content of what we do
not see, however, it seems more plausible to consider what we do see and
what we are not told unless we ask. The relation of self-representation for the
tourist trade to actual tradition is difficult to trace because it is a continuously
renegotiated part of that tradition.12 A few more details of our conversations
178
with the guide may serve to indicate how the issue of traditionalism was
evinced by this particular tour through Acoma.
My companion asked the guide at one point how extensively traditional
religious practices were followed in present-day Acoma. He replied that
they are still followed by many, but added that this does not mean people
have relinquished Catholicism. Neither does it suggest some sort of hybrid
faith. Given the intensity of their ancestors’ sacrifices in the long and bloody
process of the establishment of the Spaniards’ religion, he remarked, the
contemporaries of Acoma feel that if they do not maintain their Catholicism,
the ancestors will have suffered and died in vain. Yet the two sets of religious
practices are kept largely separate. Only on two occasions during the year
are they joined: on September 2, the feast day of St. Stephen, patron saint of
the Pueblo, and for four days during the Christmas season. The guide was
very clear on this point, as if he wanted particularly to disabuse people of the
notion that Native American Catholicism, like the Native American Church,
always mixes indigenous with Christian forms.13 Yet he gave little information
about Native religion, other than to explain what the kiva was and to point
out a few other places in the village where festival events take place. His
narrative included more information on the history of Christianity in the
pueblo. Again, in this sense the tour and accompanying narrative concentrated
attention on the European presence in Acoma’s history and kept the data of
the guide’s own culture and ritualistic traditions to a minimum.
The two centres of religious practice at Acoma, the church and the kiva,
seem to illustrate this point in their very different architectural forms. The
disparity suggests the respectively announced and unannounced relations to
spirituality that they represent. Between them, one sees a contrast something
like that between the Vietnam and Lincoln Memorials in Washington, D.C.14
These secular temples, located in close range of each other, differ markedly in
their conceptualizations of the histories they recall. The Lincoln Memorial,
projecting the transcendent authority of U.S. democracy in the figure of
the hallowed president, rises nearly thirty meters above the park in which it
is located, visible from kilometers away, while the Vietnam Wall is almost
hidden, designed to work with the landscape to evoke a different but equally
“deep” range of emotions. St. Stephen’s at Acoma, like many European
Catholic churches, rises well above the heights of all other structures in the
village, and its two bell towers reach upward for another 2.5 meters or so.
The crosses planted above them fade at a distance, but there is no mistaking
the Christian design of the highly visible building itself. The victory of the
mission over indigenous secular as well as spiritual powers is advertised across
the land. The kiva, on the other hand, sits in a row of houses made from the
same adobe stucco and brick, largely unnoticeable from the outside. Beyond
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our guide’s identification of it, there was no evidence that this particular
structure was other than one of the houses. We were not taken inside and
we were told only a few details about how one enters the kiva, how long one
stays, who goes in and who does not.
I will not attempt to analyze the differences in conceptualization and
practice of spirituality that the church and kiva suggest, since they have
been addressed extensively by scholars of comparative religion. It is worth
remarking, however, that the contrasting notions of power implied by the
two buildings seem to have had curious effects upon the guide’s own sense
of religious identity. Whatever powerful spiritualities are sponsored by the
kiva, they do not fuel evangelical practices nor demand overt expressions
of belief from those who are not already inclined. The Church, on the other
hand, has been notorious for these things, and its political power through
history has left its mark on contemporary life. The kiva’s silent reverence for
the spiritualities it hosts and the lack of attention it calls to itself seemed to
be respected in our guide’s spare references to the religion practiced there
and in his insistence on its discreteness from Catholicism. Yet it was not
at all clear that he was especially devoted to Native religion or that he was
purposely preserving from public knowledge its values and practices. My
companion, whose own religious imagination is rather eclectic, asked the
guide where he stood on these matters. He replied that he was “sort of stuck
in between” things, but offered nothing more to explain what this meant. He
admitted with great candour that he did not know the old stories very well,
since they had been passed along to him, as he claimed they often are, by
grandparents who had not really listened very carefully. Nor does he speak
Keresan, the language of Acoma Pueblo.
In this peculiar position of representing the village to outsiders while
remaining something of an outsider to its traditions himself, our guide
resembled other famous go-betweens, Sacajawea among them, whose lives
are situated in at least two cultures but who are “proper” to neither of them.
Yet in most ways, it seems that he was quite representative in precisely this
in-between status. His comment about the stories being passed down incor-
rectly implied a dilution of older forms and practices generally, in an era in
which for several generations indigenous customs have been in competition
with those of Europe and the United States and in which the inheritance of
culture has become a somewhat kaleidoscopic process, with once-opposing
terms shuffled into different and still-changing relations.
On such an eroded and heterogeneous cultural terrain, differing religious
forms may be compartmentalized clearly, but the standards for determining
what gets considered imported and what has the status of Native are not always
easy to predict. My friend asked if “the Protestants,” meaning evangelicals,
180
had become much of a presence in the Pueblo. The guide answered that
“some people are jumping the fence. You can see the missions along route
40.” Route 40, formerly route 66, is the major interstate highway between
Gallup and Tucumcari, but at points it digresses into a desolate-looking road
that might be described as a belt of former strip culture. Abandoned gas
stations, bars, and restaurants from the 1950s and 1960s languish along its
length; the ghost cabins of defunct motels line up in shabby disrepair. Here
and there a Baptist, Seventh-Day Adventist, or Mormon mission punctuate
the desolation.
The fence-jumping phenomenon that, according to our guide, repre-
sents only about ten percent of the population, occurs off the mesa, in an
environment whose aesthetic appeal is probably evident only to students of
American landscape history. Protestantism is not gaining much of a foothold
in Acoma itself, which accordingly represents it as a marginal movement.
Catholicism, by contrast, stands on this side of the fence; indeed, our guide’s
explanation that the people of Acoma would not give up their Catholicism
because their ancestors had sacrificed and suffered so much for it affirms
what might be called the “negative inclusion” that the Church enjoys within
the Pueblo culture. In this sense, compared to Protestantism, the Catholic
Church acquires a virtually indigenous status, a “rootedness” that persists
even if practiced in complete separation from Native religion. If our guide’s
condition of being “stuck in-between” is a matter of moving back and forth
between two compartmentalized religious bases of cultural identity, then
he is not culturally mixed but doubled.
Such a characterization and the complex dynamics that produce it speak
to the difficult subject (in every sense) of postcolonial identity. Nonetheless, I
will risk saying that this model of cultural doubling seems like something of
an ideal, and that the maintenance of subjectivity that it presupposes is more
schematic and linear than one would think possible. If, on the other hand,
the guide’s condition is a matter of really, literally, being “stuck in-between,”
such that he inhabits neither a Native nor a European cultural imaginary but
some as yet unarticulated zone that runs parallel to both, then a whole range
of questions arises about what constitutes the “traditional,” “indigenous,”
and “Native.” Whether tradition is something experienced as such in certain
practices or recognized intellectually, as it were, from an abstracted point
of view becomes a significant issue, since it bears heavily, although not
exclusively, on the question of who determines what tradition is.
These are not new questions but in the context of late twentieth-century
American cultural formations, they have to address as well the puzzling area
of Native-hosted tourism and Indian self-representation in the market of
public culture. In the wake of the Columbian quincentenary and the many
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revisionary critical interpretations of conquest history sponsored by that

anniversary, respect for Nativeness in the United States is probably higher
than it has ever been, even as the status-quo response to Indians retains the
familiar tones of exoticization, “Noble Savagism,” and race prejudice. For
Native Americans, and for non-Natives who seek to learn from them about
systems and ideas that the West badly needs to inculcate, the returning or
“homing in,” in William Bevis’s terms, to indigenous community and identity
is no direct route, as most people who are interested know by now.
It is easier these days to speak of reconstruction and reinvention than
of return. Accordingly, much attention has been devoted to the notion of
hybridization among indigenous peoples of the Western hemisphere, as if
this were in some way a desirable and particularly rich way of being. Yet for
our tour guide at Acoma, I would venture to say hybridization was at best a
source of wry, ironic humour, at worst a source of confusion and alienation.
He works, like many people in this country today, in a service industry,
but in addition to entertaining and educating, his service is to challenge
the status-quo knowledge of the typical tourist. The familiar southwestern
vacation experience of visiting an Indian reservation is framed by thick
walls of resistance. The much-discussed brick and adobe walls of the houses
perform this role literally by limiting visitors’ access to the “inner life” of
Acoma. Rhetorically, the guide did the same with his narrative skills and
with his authentic lack of knowledge.
3
Sacajawea’s historical afterlife is as vexed in some ways as her life itself: it
is another story of captivity, servitude, and partial escape. The mainstream
record eventually positions her as a quintessential element of U.S. national
culture, while alternative accounts work to distance her from that position
and to recuperate her for Native American representation. Her recognition
among Indian as well as Euro-American audiences results from her place
as a Native American woman participating in the expedition. Thus the op-
positional value she acquires in Native America exists within the fabric of
contemporary U.S. public culture generally. Yet the story of her long life among
the Comanche and Shoshone gives us a solitary Sacajawea who guides no
one but wanders somewhat haphazardly in the direction of Wind River. The
Shoshone here are not quite her own people, and the place is not her home, any
more than the expedition was something in which she chose to participate.
Rather than returning to her country of origin and to her aboriginal self,
she becomes Lost Woman, a somewhat worldly veteran of losses, gains, and
strange experiences in a frontier of many cultures. Similarly, the possession
182
of Sacajawea at present-day Wind River does not foster a classic Shoshone

identity but instead affirms the interconnection of the tribe’s history with
that of the United States. The recognition that identification with Sacajawea
allows is simultaneously oppositional to and embedded in the terms of the
larger public culture.
The tour leader I encountered at Acoma revised the relationship between
Native guide and European travellers evident in older expedition narratives
so that the Native, rather than showing the Europeans something they do
not really know, offers them some of their own history. His mild manners
and Elvis Presley haircut, his dress and dark glasses are familiar details of
a particular kind of “cool” persona that one sees almost anywhere in the
United States these days. Characteristically “American,” our guide conducted
a tour through Acoma that implicitly critiqued the roles of the visitors as
unimplicated strangers. Some of the tourists were more interested in the
history of adobe walls than in the history of the European presence, and
for all I know they had their reasons. My companion and I went with the
expectation of learning about the old culture, but our guide and the women
who run the Shoshone Cultural Center demonstrated in very interesting
ways that Native Americans have found their own way of teaching history
at Wind River and Acoma.
Michel de Certeau, who studied extensively the history and politics of
indigenous and European relations in the Western hemisphere, wrote in
The Practice of Everyday Life that
the ambiguity that subverted from within the Spanish colonizers’
“success” in imposing their own culture on the indigenous Indians is
well known. Submissive, and even consenting to their subjection, the
Indians nevertheless often made of the rituals, representations, and laws
imposed on them something quite different from what their conquerors
had in mind; they subverted them not by rejecting or altering them, but by
using them with respect to ends and references foreign to the system they
had no choice but to accept. They were other within the very colonization
that outwardly assimilated them; their use of the dominant social order
deflected its power, which they lacked the means to challenge; they
escaped it without leaving it. The strength of their difference lay in
procedures of “consumption.” (xiii)
Our Acoma tour guide affirms de Certeau’s account, while updating it in

somewhat different terms, for in his representation, rather than glossing their
own cultural practices with those of the dominant culture, the Indians of
contemporary Acoma, like those of Wind River, have appropriated familiar
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methods of mainstream tourism and historiography, and in the process offer

Euro-Americans information about their own culture and history. In this
sense, the Indians have “consumed” some of the narrative mechanisms of
late twentieth-century U.S. culture and have, in de Certeau’s terms, made for
themselves a place as “other within the very colonization that outwardly as-
similated them.” Thus, it seems, they have “escaped it without leaving it.”
Notes
1 Several different spellings of her name are used, even among contemporary writers.
“Sacajawea” generally is considered the Shoshone spelling and translates as “Boat Launcher.”
“Bird Woman” is the equivalent of the Hidatsa “Sacagawea.” “Sakakawea” is a variant spelling
of the Hidatsa name and is common in North Dakota, particularly in the area of the Mandan,
Hidatsa, and Arikara Reservation at Fort Berthold. Lewis and Clark multiply these spellings many
times over, each of them using at least five or six variations of the name in their journal entries.
2 Harold P. Howard writes in his book Sacagawea that at this point in her life, she “was now one
of Charbonneau’s chattels” (17). Howard’s account of this exchange is that Charbonneau “had
probably acquired her in a gambling game or by barter” (17). Howard’s is considered by several
contemporary academic historians to be one of the more respected narratives of Sacajawea’s
life and role in the Lewis and Clark expedition. While his book presents the evidence for both
sides of the debate described below concerning the date of Sacajawea’s death, he subscribes to
the conclusion of most Euro-American historians – namely, that she died in 1812, shortly after
the expedition ended.
3 See Ronda; Lewis and Clark, History; Wissler; Larson: Schroer; and Howard (191).
4 Hebard’s Sacagawea: Guide of the Lewis and Clark Expedition, published in 1932, was to a great
extent based on interviews with Shoshone people living at Wind River who told Hebard that
they had known Sacagawea, also known by them as Porivo and Wadze-wipe, or Lost Woman,
during her later years. Hebard’s argument has not been given much credit by other historians,
who claim that she ignored the evidence of contemporary witnesses Henry Brackenridge, John
Luttig, and John Bradbury that Sacagawea died much earlier. Hebard has also been criticized
for wrongly assuming that Sacagawea was mistaken for one of Charbonneau’s other wives
by Brackenridge, Bradbury, and Luttig. See Howard, 157–58. For a summary of Hebard’s oral
sources, see Howard, 178–84.
5 1945 is the date given for Roberts’s death, which occurred while he was still working at Wind
River, in Wind River: The People and Place, published by the North American Indian Heritage
Center. Howard writes in his Sacajawea that Roberts remained at the reservation for forty-nine
years after his arrival in 1883, which would mean that his time there concluded in 1934 rather
than 1945. No sources for these dates are given in either text.
6 Roberts narrates his experience in “The Death of Sacajawea.” An enlarged print of his article is
on display at the Shoshone Tribal Cultural Center.
7 On La Malinche’s reputation, see, for example, Todorov; and Paz. Discussions of Pocahontas’s
reputation appear, for instance, in Dearborn and in Sundquist.
8 Since 1904, six statues have been erected to Sacajawea in different parts of the United States. In
addition, four mountain peaks, two lakes, a state park, a spring, at least five historical markers,
an airplane, and a Girl Scout camp have been named after her. She also has been the subject
of three musical compositions, several paintings, a museum, the design of a silver service, and
much other memorabilia. All of these memorials have been sponsored or produced by European-
Americans. For a list, see Howard, Appendix A.
184
9 Concerning Sacajawea’s place in the expedition, William Clark wrote in his journal for the
expedition that “her presence reconsiles [sic] all the Indians as to our friendly intensions [sic],
a woman with a party of men is a token of piece [sic]” (quoted in Moulton 2: 266). Later, as they
entered the Columbia River, Clark noted that “the Umatilla people apparently were pacified at
the sight of Sacajawea: as soon as they saw the Squar wife of the interperters [sic] they pointed
to her and informed [the others who had not seen her]. [T]hey imediately [sic] all came out
and appeared to assume new life, this sight of This Indian woman, wife to one of our interprs.
confirmed those people of our friendly intentions, as no woman ever accompanies a war party of
Indians in this quarter” (qtd. in Lewis and Clark, Journals 5: 306).
10 See Hebard; Cody; Eastman; and Howard 175–82.
11 See Bevis.
12 In 1979 when Peter Matthiessen tried to visit Acoma, it was still not open to tourism, and, with
his Mohawk travelling companion Craig Carpenter, he was effectively shunned from the mesa.
They were pleased with this experience, and in spite of the denied access, Matthiessen did
gather a very distinct impression of the Pueblo and its peoples’ attitudes toward strangers. In
Indian Country, he recorded this peculiar tourist experience in the following way:
Although it could trade on what must be the most striking location of all the
pueblo villages of the Southwest, Acoma has so far resisted the temptation of both
electricity and running water, and its people are silent and reserved. Resistance to
the intrusion of our truck was so manifest in the dead silence of the stone dwellings
in the rock that we turned around and left immediately, on a shared impulse, feeling
exhilarated rather than rejected, as if we had glimpsed a rare vanishing creature
without scaring it away. (301)
13 The Native American Church developed early in the twentieth century and combines elements
of Sun dance religion, peyotism, and Christianity. It is still practiced by many peoples at the
present time, but legal issues concerning preservation of and access to sacred places as well as
the consumption of peyote have in many instances complicated the performance of rituals. See
Deloria; Slotkin; and Aberle.
1 4 The contrasts between these monuments have been analyzed, for example, by Sturken.
Works Cited
Aberle, David F. The Peyote Religion among the Navaho. Chicago: Aldine, 1966.
Allen, Paula. The Sacred Hoop: Recovering the Feminine in American Indian Traditions. Boston:
Beacon Press, 1986.
Bevis, William. “Homing In.” Recovering the Word: Essays on Native American Literature. Ed.
Arnold Krupat and Brian Swann. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987. 580–620.
Cody, Mae. “Sacajawea.” Wyoming Sacajawea Collection. Shoshone Tribal Cultural Center, Fort
Washaki, Wyoming.
Dearborn, Mary. Pocahontas’s Daughters: Gender and Ethnicity in American Culture. New York:
Oxford University Press, 1986.
de Certeau, Michel. The Practice of Everyday Life. Trans. Steven Randall. Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1984.
Deloria, Vine, Jr. “Trouble in High Places.” The State of Native America. Ed. M. Annette Jaimes.
Boston: South End Press, 1992. 267–290.
Eastman, Charles. Original Letters, 1925. Hebard Collection. University of Wyoming Library.
Emery Dye, Eva. The Conquest: The True Story of Lewis and Clark. Chicago: A.C. McClurg, 1902.
Hebard, Grace Raymon. Sacagawea: Guide of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. 1932. Los Angeles:
Arthur Clark, 1957.
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Howard, Harold P. Sacagawea. Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1971.

Larson, T. A. “Where is Sacajawea Buried?” Unpublished essay. Wyoming Sacajawea Collection.
Shoshone Tribal Cutural Center, Fort Washaki, Wyoming.
Lewis, Meriwether, and William Clark. History of the Expeditions under the Command of Lewis
and Clark. Ed. Elliott Coues. 4 vols. New York: Harper Bros., 1893. New York: Dover, 1965.
3 vols.
———. The Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. Ed. Gary E. Moulton. 8 vols. Lincoln:
University of Nebraska Press, 1983–1987.
Matthiessen, Peter. Indian Country. New York: Penguin, 1984.
Paz, Octavio. The Labyrinth of Solitude. New York: Grove Weidenfeld, 1985.
Roberts, John. “The Death of Sacawajea.” Indians at Work: A News Sheet for Indians and the
Indian Service. Washington, DC: Bureau of Indian Affairs, 2.16. 1 April 1935.
Ronda, James P. Lewis and Clark among the Indians. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press,
1984.
Schroer, Blanche. “Sacajawea: The Legend and the Truth.” In Wyoming (Winter 1978): 20–28;
37–43.
Slotkin, James S. The Peyote Religion. Glencoe, IL: Free Press, 1956.
Sturken, Marita. “The Wall, the Screen, and the Image: The Vietnam Veterans Memorial.”
Journal of American Culture 13 (1990): 37–40.
Sundquist, Asebrit. Pocahontas & Co.: The Fictional American Indian Woman in the Nineteenth
Century. Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities Press, 1987.
Todorov, Tzvetan. The Conquest of America. 1982. Trans. Richard Howard. New York: Harper
and Row, 1987.
Wind River: The People and Place. St. Stephens, WY: North American Indian Heritage Center,
1989.
Wissler, Clark. Indians of the United States. Garden City, NY: Anchor Books, 1966.
186
9
Modernity’s First Born:
Latin America and
Postcolonial Transformation
bill ashcrof t
There is considerable resistance to the idea of Latin American postcoloniality.

How and on what basis can we establish links between Latin America and
other colonized regions? Can a word such as colonialism really refer to the
historical experience of Latin America? We are told that Latin America is
different, and particularly that the features of its colonization from 1492 are
different from British imperialism from 1757. They occurred, says Santiago
Colas, “at different historical moments, the colonizers belonged to different
nations and to different classes within those nations, and the nations in turn
occupied different international positions. Moreover, the ‘distant territories’
were geographically distinct, the ‘implantations’ were accomplished through
different financial and technical means, and the inhabitants had developed
distinct social and cultural habits” (383). To this I would add the radically
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different institutional location of literary study in English and Spanish

cultures (see Baldick; Viswanathan).
So Latin America is under threat from a new colonizing movement called
“colonial and postcolonial discourse,” yet another subjection, it would seem,
to foreign formations and epistemologies from the English-speaking centres
of global power. I want to suggest, however, that an obsessive fear of the word
postcolonial is misplaced. There may be good reason for fearing the hegemonic
effects of new global discourses, but if we forget for a minute that the term
appears to be one more in a long line of “posts” and attempt to understand
the significance of colonization and its postcolonial engagements, we may
discover that Latin America gave ample evidence of its postcoloniality long
before the emergence of “colonial and postcolonial discourse” from the
metropolitan academy.
The problem with the debate on postcolonialism in Latin America is
that it has been skewed from the beginning by a rather eccentric view of
postcolonialism, largely resting on the assumption of its emergence from
poststructuralism, which has led to an understandable resistance to its neo-
hegemonic discursive character. A debate in the Latin American Research
Review in 1993 illustrates both how a limited definition of postcolonial theory
has been readily accepted and how questions about its validity have arisen.
The use of the phrase “colonial and postcolonial discourse” itself indicates the
extent to which the historical event of colonialism, its discursive machinery,
and postcolonial engagements with it have been blurred.
The “field” or “movement,” it is assumed, emerged in the 1980s from
a dissatisfaction with previous approaches to colonial analysis. Patricia
Seed’s Latin American Research Review article in 1991, which stimulated
this debate, sees postcolonial discourse as synonymous with the colonial
discourse theory initiated by Edward Said’s Orientalism. In addition, she
claims that the interest in the textual and discursive aspects of colonialism
is a direct inheritance of poststructuralism. But not only should Said’s own
work be distinguished from poststructuralism (see Said, World; Ashcroft,
“Conversation”); this privileging of colonial discourse theory developed
in Orientalism misrepresents the very complex emergence of postcolonial
studies over several decades. Postcolonial analysis, even in its most overtly
theoretical form, has been a function of the activity of writers and critics
since the nineteenth century, burgeoning in the work of Frantz Fanon and
other intellectuals writing in the wake of independence.
Hernán Vidal’s stubbornly ethnocentric contention that the prolifera-
tion of literary criticism in Latin America “saw the importation of North
American New Criticism, Russian Formalism, German Phenomenology and
French Structuralism” (115) demonstrates very clearly the perceived threat to
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Modernity’s First Born bill ashcrof t
Latin American intellectual integrity posed by outside critical movements.

Such a fear appears, itself, to emerge from a tendency to homogenize the
complex range of social experiences co-existing on the continent. Outlining
two strands of literary criticism, which he calls “technocratic criticism” and
“culturally oriented criticism” (116), Vidal sees the emergence of “colonial
and postcolonial discourse” as the creation of a category of research that
attempts to endow these two approaches “with a degree of affinity that they
have not previously had” (116).
However, this can be understood in another way. The employment of
“technocratic” criticism is a clear example of the tendency of colonized
peoples to appropriate the formations, discourses, and theoretical strate-
gies of a dominant discourse in making their voice heard. Such a process
of appropriation has a long history in Latin American cultural production.
Contemporary postcolonial criticism is not a product of the eighties, the
decade in which it began to become more fully described, but a consequence
of many decades of postcolonial writing in the former British and French
colonies resulting in an uneasy and sometimes fractious alliance among such
fields as Commonwealth literary studies, Black studies, and the emergent
colonial discourse theory.
If we take the position that rather than a product of the experience of
colonized peoples in the French- and English-speaking world, postcolonialism
is the discourse of the colonized, that it does not mean “after colonialism”
since it is colonialism’s interlocutor and antagonist from the moment of
colonization, then “postcolonial discourse” can be seen to emerge from
the creative and theoretical production of colonized societies themselves.
This averts the problems raised by the movement toward a new critical
orthodoxy resulting from the expropriation of the field by contemporary
centres of academic power. If, rather than a new hegemonic field, we see the
postcolonial as a way of talking about the political and discursive strategies
of colonized societies, then we may more carefully view the various forms
of anti-systemic operations within the global world system.
Postcolonialism is generated by a simple realization: that the effect of the
colonizing process over individuals, over culture and society throughout
Europe’s domain was vast and produced consequences as complex as they are
profound. Not all postcolonial discourse is anti-colonial, nor can it ever, in
any of its various forms, dispense with that comparatively simple moment of
history that began to churn its social consequences around the world. These
consequences have long been the subject of attention by Latin American
historians and critics. Walter Mignolo, ostensibly rejecting postcolonialism,
cites the postcolonial critique of Edmundo O’Gorman in The Invention of
America, which demonstrated that “language is not the neutral tool of an
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honest desire to tell the truth […] but an instrumental tool for constructing
history and inventing realities” (122). Similarly Mignolo cites Angel Rama’s
La ciudad letrada, which offers a theory about the control, domination,
and power of alphabetic writing (122): “O’Gorman and Rama exemplify the
perspective of social scientists and humanists located in and speaking from
the Third World. They are in some sense contemporary examples of the
‘intellectual other’” (123). Mignolo’s complaint is that O’Gorman did first what
Said and Todorov did two decades later. O’Gorman and Rama were already,
several decades ago, critiquing a key feature of colonial discourse: the power
of language to construct and dominate the world of the colonized.
Mignolo is correct in suggesting that postcolonialism is not a child of
poststructuralism conceived in the metropolitan academy for the benefit
of an annoyingly ungrateful postcolonial world. It is born in the struggle
of colonized intellectuals to appropriate the discursive tools of imperial
discourse and to interpolate their own realities and cultural activities into
the global arena. The examples of O’Gorman and Rama could be multiplied
many times over. Postcolonial discourse is significant because it reveals the
extent to which the historical condition of colonization has led to a certain
political, intellectual, and creative dynamic in the postcolonial societies
with which it engages.
So, we see that objections to postcolonial analysis have been based on a
limited and academically defensive view of the discourse and that postcolo-
nial analyses have been a feature of Latin American intellectual life at least
since the fifties. But there remains a strong belief in the essential difference
of Latin American postcoloniality even in those who favour its approach.
Santiago Colas has adapted the theory of ideology developed by Slovenian
theorist Slavoj Žižek to define the ideology of Latin American postcolonial
culture (“Creole”). But how identifying, how distinct is this ideology? Is the
difference of Latin America more a function of desire than reality?
Although Žižek’s notion of ideology is not as different from Althusser’s
as he would like to believe, the explanation of the function of ideology as
“not to offer us a point of escape from our reality but to offer us the social
reality itself as an escape from some traumatic real kernel” (Colas, “Creole”
384) does provide a useful entry to Latin American postcolonial culture. This
functions, according to Colas, “as an ideology that converts the persistence of
colonial relations and its effects […] into the precondition for the articulation
of a nonmetropolitan identity. The culture then represses this conversion,
leaving that identity seemingly self-constituted and self-sufficient – in a
word, independent” (384). According to Colas the production of ideology
in Latin America is driven by “the unconscious desire for the persistence
of colonial relations in terms both of dependence on the former colonial
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or imperial power and of social inequality within the new nation” (385). In

effect, Colas has provided a theory of ideology that is not limited to Latin
America as he claims, but in fact astutely assesses the complex structure of
colonial relations in all settler colonies. If we see that the postcolonial begins
from the moment of colonization, then we understand that “the unconscious
desire for the persistence of colonial relations” and the conscious desire for
separation and independence are two positions which can exist side by side
in any colonized space, but in the settler colony may so overlap that they can
become subject positions adopted by the same subject. Perhaps inadvertently,
Colas has demonstrated one way in which the inclusion of Latin America can
begin to transform the field of postcolonial studies. The complexity of Latin
American postcolonial society, far from lending itself to the concept of some
Latin American essence, provides the ground for an increasingly sophisticated
understanding of postcolonial relations throughout the world.
Latin America, Colonialism, and Modernity

The most energetic debate on the subject of Latin America and postcolo-
nialism concerns the character and antiquity of the historical condition of
colonization. This is where the inclusion of Latin America not only widens
the scope of postcolonial theory but demonstrates how deeply colonial
discourse is rooted in global culture. I consider this issue in response to a
complaint made by Santiago Colas about The Empire Writes Back, which
suggests that a discussion of the literatures of former British colonies may
be “of interest and relevance” to the literatures of former Spanish colonies.
Colas rightly points out that the developments in former Spanish colonies
may be “of interest and relevance” to the study of English postcolonial culture
and indeed, as he says, “may fundamentally change understandings of that
culture” (“Creole” 383). Indeed, Latin America fundamentally changes our
view of the postcolonial. The antiquity and character of its colonization,
the longstanding reality of its hybridized cultures, the “continental” sense
of difference that stems from a shared colonial language, the intermittent
emergence of contestatory movements in cultural production – all radically
widen the scope of postcolonial theory.
Jorge Klor de Alva asserts in “Colonialism and Postcolonialism as (Latin)
American Mirages” that “the very notions of colonialism and imperialism
came from the modern experiences of non-Hispanic colonial powers and
only subsequently and improperly were imposed on the Spanish American
experience from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries” (5). But what is
an “improper” use? Does the cultural provenance of theory invalidate such
categories as epistemological tools? Indeed, is there any system of analysis
that does not have a valid retrospective function? I would go further than this
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and say that such retrospective analysis has deeply transformed discussion
of the British Empire as well. After all, imperialism is a very recent concept,
formulated in the 1880s scramble for Africa and consolidated in the late
nineteenth-century expatriation of British capital. But there is no good
reason why we cannot use the term to retrospectively describe five centuries
of European expansion.
Indeed the colonization of Latin America obliges us to address the ques-
tion of postcolonialism at its roots, at the very emergence of modernity.
Nineteenth- and twentieth-century British imperialism demonstrates the
centrifugal movement by which the precepts of European modernity and
the assumptions of the Enlightenment have been distributed hegemonically
throughout the world. By including Latin America, as Peter Hulme advocates,
we find that imperial expansion is more than the dispersal of European cultural
values and assumptions into a Eurocentrically mapped world; it reveals itself
as the enabling condition of that very process by which a modern Europe is
conceived. Europe’s world empire is modernity!
Latin America then, the “first-born child” of modernity, is simultaneously
“worlded” by Europe, as Spivak puts it, and relegated to the periphery of
that world. Spivak uses this term to describe the way in which the colonized
space is brought into the “world” – that is, made to exist as part of a world
essentially constructed by Eurocentrism:
If […] we concentrated on documenting and theorizing the itinerary of
the consolidation of Europe as sovereign subject, indeed sovereign and
subject, then we would produce an alternative historical narrative of the
“worlding” of what is today called “the Third World.” (128)
However, the process of European expansion, which began in its modern form
with the invasion of America, was an enabling condition of the “worlding” of
Europe itself. Imperial expansion, the engine of modernity, gave European
societies a sense of their distinction from the traditional premodern societ-
ies they invaded, a difference that was taken to be superiority, a status that
propelled the continuing discourse of empire itself. The transcultural realities
of postcolonial experience are present from this moment as the embedding of
global difference begins the process by which the colonized world becomes
a crucial factor in the imagining of Europe.
Modernity, which usually refers to those modes of social organization that
emerged in Europe from about the sixteenth century, broadly represented
by the discovery of the “New World,” the Renaissance and the Reformation,
does not actually emerge as a concept until the eighteenth century. The inva-
sion of Latin America began a process that, two centuries later, had come to
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constitute, as Habermas says, “the epochal threshold between modern times

and the middle ages” (Philosophical Discourse 5). Clearly, this is quite a different
concept of modernity from the one Colas has asserted “is consolidated and
reaches its highest expression in the 1960’s” (Postmodernity 24). The threshold
of “The Modern World” is the confluence of the three great world systems
– imperialism, capitalism, and the Enlightenment. Modernity is fundamentally
about conquest, “the imperial regulation of land, the discipline of the soul,
and the creation of truth” (Turner 4), a discourse that enabled the large-scale
regulation of human identity within both Europe and its colonies.
Thus the emergence of modernity is coterminous with the emergence of
Eurocentrism and the European dominance of the world effected through
imperial expansion. Europe constructed itself as “modern” and constructed
the non-European as “traditional,” “static,” “prehistorical.” History itself
became the tool by which these societies were denied any internal dynamic
of capacity for development. Latin America, the first-born child of modernity,
remained relegated to the status, if not the fact, of the premodern because
this continent represents the first instance of the “worlding” of modern
Europe. It was in the relationship with Latin America that the energetic
Manichaean rhetoric of European cultural expansion was first conceived,
from Montaignes’s essay “On Cannibals” to Shakespeare’s The Tempest to
Darwin’s debasement of the Tierra del Fuegans in The Voyage of the Beagle.
This binarism remains firmly in place today in various guises, most notably
as the distinction between the “international” and the “parochial.”
The imperial origins of modernity give us a different perspective on the
contemporary eagerness to define Latin American cultural productions as
postmodern. Rather than the period of the disappearance of imperialism, the
“postmodern” remains the site of its ultimate diffusion into global systems of
economy and culture. There are several ways of conceiving postmodernity. We
can see it as superseding modernity, in which case it appears to give credence
to history, the discourse it claims to have overcome. We can see it as a cultural
phenomenon focussed in postmodernism, the “aesthetic reflection on the
nature of modernity” (Giddens 45). Or we can see it as modernity’s discovery
of the provisionality and circularity of its basic premise, the “providential”
power of reason. This discovery can be exemplified in Nietzsche’s realization
that the Enlightenment replaced divine providence with the equally tran-
scendental providence of reason (Habermas, Philosophical Discourse). Divine
will was replaced by human autonomy, but it was a socially and culturally
situated autonomy. In effect, providence was replaced by the temporally and
spatially empty dominance of the European Subject. The “providential” rise
of reason coincided with the rise of European dominance over the rest of
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the world and subject-centred reason the philosophical centre of European

dominance through the Enlightenment.
The postmodern hinges, then, on the provisionality at the centre of moder-
nity. According to this view, postmodernity is coterminous with modernity
and represents a radical phase of its development. But in the same way
postcolonialism is coterminous with colonization, and the dynamic of its
disruptive engagement is firmly situated in modernity. The postcolonial begins
from the moment of colonization, but it is from that moment a recognition
of, and a contestation of, the hegemonic and regulatory dominance of the
“truth” of modern Europe.
My contention is that postcolonialism and postmodernism are both
discursive elaborations of postmodernity, which is itself not the overcoming
of modernity, but modernity coming to understand its own contradictions
and uncertainties. They are, however, two very different ways in which
modernity comes to understand itself. Postcolonial theory reveals the socially
transformative dimension of postmodernity, which actually becomes occluded
by aesthetic postmodernism. This is because postcolonialism, with its locally
situated meanings, refills a time and space that are “emptied” by modernity
and constructs a discourse of the real that is based on the material effects
of colonial dominance.
Indeed, we can only understand modernity, and hence postmodernity and
globalism, if we understand the trajectory of imperial expansion. Anthony
Giddens, in talking about modernity and globalism, provides a classic example
of the blind spot that occurs when we fail to take imperialism into account.
Asking if modernity is a Western project, he replies that in terms of the two
great modern systems, the nation-state and capitalism, the answer must be
yes. But, he asks, is modernity peculiarly Western in terms of its global-
izing tendencies? “No,” he says. “It cannot be, since we are speaking here of
emergent forms of world interdependence and planetary consciousness” (175).
So, by this account, globalism is an emergent process that just happens to
come from everywhere! But clearly there would be no global modernity
without the history of European expansion. The transcultural complexity of
globalism certainly depends upon the transformations enacted by local uses
and appropriations in various regions, but these do not take place outside a
dialectical process of enculturation and contestation set up by the colonizing
process. It is precisely the continuing reality of the imperial dynamic that a
postcolonial reading exposes. For Latin America the hegemonic spread of
global economy and culture is a significant threat to its modes of cultural
location. But just as significantly, globalism can be seen as a direct legacy of
the process of Eurocentrism begun several centuries ago.
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We can view globalization as either the dynamic operation of nation

states or the operation of a single world system. Clearly, while nations are
still the principal actors within the global political order, corporations are
recognized as the dominant agents in the world economy. The question
remains, what is the function of the local in this structure? A testimonio such
as Let Me Speak! by Domatila Barrios de Chungara provides a rich site for a
postcolonial analysis because it demonstrates the way in which individual
lives are affected by a global system of capital initiated as the economy of
the empire of modernity. This novel is amenable to Marxist and Feminist
readings, but an understanding of the colonial roots of the system that now
appears worldwide helps to explain the racially based cycle of oppression
and poverty that presents itself as the Bolivian economy. Common opinion
is, she says, that
“Bolivia is immensely rich, but its inhabitants are just beggars.” And
that’s the truth because Bolivia is dominated by the multinational
corporations that control my country’s economy. (20)
Barrios de Chungara’s complaint is familiar, but she is the victim of a system

begun four centuries ago. Immanuel Wallerstein’s world systems theory
compellingly asserts that the capitalist system has been the world economic
system since the sixteenth century and that one cannot talk about economies
in terms of the nation state, nor of “society” in the abstract, nor of “stages”
of development, because each society is affected by, indeed, is a part of,
the capitalist world economy (Wallerstein, Modern World System 391). The
proposition of one world capitalist system in operation since the sixteenth
century radically affects how we view not only world economics but also
national politics, class, ethnicity, and international relations in general.
The theory has no place for local transformations or political change, but
it is a useful critique of the historicist idea of a nation’s economic growth,
particularly in its approach to the economies of Latin America.
One traditional Marxist view of economic development sees all economies
as passing through a series of stages, so it would see these economies as
existing at a pre-bourgeoisie, pre-industrialized stage of development. But
world systems theory holds that these economies are already a part of the
capitalist world system; they are not an earlier stage of a transition to indus-
trialization but are undeveloped because they are “peripheral, raw-material
producing” areas, on the margins of, and exploited by, the industrialized
world. So economies such as Bolivia’s are undeveloped not because they are
at any early stage of industrialization but because they are marginalized by
the world system. Similarly, we can say that Latin America is not at a stage of
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development that has left the need for postcolonial analysis behind, but that
its cultural productions are a lingering consequence of its imperial history;
it still lies at the edges of the world system.
The imperialism of the capitalist system maintains its energy through
the same kinds of rhetoric of exclusion that drives the imperial project. The
miners, the peasants, all those struggling against capitalist exploitation are
invariably Indians. The Bolivian situation is a classic example of the centripetal
and global system of capital that continues to marginalize and exploit those
on the periphery. But Let Me Speak! reveals the limitations of Wallerstein’s
theory. The lives of individuals, and particularly their taking control of the
discursive tools of the dominant powers, can effect a transformation in the
local effects of the world system and ultimately in the world system itself.
Capitalism is a radical example of the globalizing impetus in modernity
– what happens in a local neighbourhood is likely to be influenced by factors
operating at an indefinite distance away. But equally, the local community
can take hold of the global influence and transform it to local uses.
Strategies of Transformation in Latin American Cultures

The key dynamic of postcolonial discourse, one that affects the survival of local
communities within global culture, is that of transformation. In particular
the historical experience of colonization has resulted in the mechanics of
a transformative appropriation of modernity by colonized societies. Such
transformation is transcultural – that is, not only are local events affected by
the operation of global factors, such as world money and commodity markets,
but the global economy of representation is affected itself also by processes
of local transformation. Furthermore, this dialectic does not generally occur
at the level of the nation-state, an entity that is itself firmly incorporated in
global systems of power.
There are many strategies of transformation in Latin America cultures.
These strategies come under the rubric of a process I call interpolation
(Ashcroft, “Interpolation”), in which the colonized culture interpolates the
dominant discourse in order to transform it in ways that release the repre-
sentation of local realities. The appropriation of language, the utilization of
discursive systems of representation such as literature or history, the entering
and taking over of systems such as economics or politics are all examples of
the colonized culture taking the dominant forms and making them “bear
the burden” of a different experience, as Chinua Achebe says of the English
language. Postcolonial strategies focus on the political and historical reality of
colonialism and are directed at transforming its discourses and institutions.
Individual modes of resistance and transformation may have particular
local exigencies, such as the oppression of Bolivian miners. But there is an
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epistemological substrate to the discursive dominance of colonialism that

affects all colonized societies within the world system.
To represent modernity as a major revolution in the social life of European,
and hence, world society at a particular time in history, a view that only came
about in the Enlightenment, is to employ the historical consciousness that
is a characteristic of modernity itself. Modernity may be better represented
by those discontinuities that signify the most radical divisions between the
modern and the premodern and that had the profoundest effect on “premod-
ern” societies – namely, the separation of time and space, the loosening of
social relations from the prominence of locality, and the “reflexive ordering
and re-ordering of those social relations in terms of continual inputs of
knowledge” (Giddens 17). Postcolonial transformation, which is directed at
the engagement with and reorientation of colonizing discourses, is at base
an engagement with the deepest reorientations of modernity, whether the
colonized societies are premodern or not. It is not only “traditional” societies
that employ these strategies; rather it is modernity that has constructed them
as sites of contention within the postcolonial world.
The sites of postcolonial engagement that appear the most contentious are
those that stem from the most radical shift in modern consciousness, the shift
in the consciousness of time, because this reorientation generated the most
disorienting features of colonial regulatory power. These were the emptying
of time and space by separating them from location and the “disembedding”
of social relations from locality, which resulted in the “lifting out of social
relations from local contexts of interaction and their restructuring across
indefinite spans of time and space” (Giddens 21). Indeed, the global change
in the concept of a world itself is related in some way to this revolution in
modern thought. The most profound disruption, therefore, of premodern
social life was not the military destruction wreaked by colonial invasion,
nor the importation of disease, nor the imposition of colonial language,
nor the depredations of colonial administrations, for all their devastating
effects … but the invention of the mechanical clock.
This one invention and the associated Gregorian calendar metonymize
the universal power of European expansion, the hegemony of the capitalist
world system, and the most powerful and regulatory discourses of imperial-
ism. The dislocating power of colonial language; the mapping of the world;
the naming and regulation of distant lands; the emptying of space and the
suppression of place; the surveillance of the colonized; the discourse of his-
tory; systematic education; the erection of imperialism’s entire spatial and
temporal binarism with its invention of race, of cannibalism and primitivism,
and its distinction between the spirituality and transcendence of Europe
and the materiality and primitivism of the periphery – all these represent
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modes of imperial control that in turn generate strategies of resistance and

transformation in Latin American cultural production.
Three sites of cultural change – language, place, and history – situate
perhaps the most profoundly complex interchanges of cultural formation
and transformation. In many respects the key to these strategies lies in the
use of language. A persistent argument of ethnocentric resistance is that
to speak in the colonizer’s language is to remain colonized. But an equally
persistent argument of postcolonial writers is that the language may be ap-
propriated for the writer’s own purposes, its rhythms and syntax changed
to correspond to a local idiom. This is the position taken by Angel Rama in
Transculturacion narrativa en America Latin. In this book he adapts Cuban
anthropologist Fernando Ortiz’s conceptualization of local Latin American
culture as a “transculturation” or neoculturacion of metropolitan models to
the task of generalizing the literary phenomenon of neoregionalism, repre-
sented by authors such as Rulfo, Arguedes, Guimaraes Rosa, and Marquez.
Neoculturacion is a more global term for the operation of the postcolonial
strategies of appropriation and interpolation. This happens at various levels
and in virtually every form of cultural discourse, particularly literature, but
nowhere more powerfully than in the medium of testimonio.
Testimonio
Latin America is not only the beginning of modern Europe’s self representa-
tion but also the site of the most powerful postcolonial textual production
of modern times: a testimonio is a novel or novella-length narrative told in
the first person by a narrator who is also the actual protagonist or witness
of the events she or he recounts. Associated almost exclusively with Latin
America, testimonio offers an unparalleled example of interpolation: the
insertion of an oppressed postcolonial reality into the master discourses of
literature and history. It does this by coming into being at the margins of
both, entering a “zone of indeterminacy” from which genraic expectations
are disrupted. The writings of indigenous subjects of settled colonies provide
the greatest range of autobiographical and testimonio-like texts. But in no
place outside Latin America has the form achieved the kind of genraic focus,
readership, consistency of subject matter, and rich development as it has in
this region since 1970.
The political urgency, the determination of the narrator to speak for the
community, to adopt a subject position that conflates the personal and the
political in what may be dangerous – even genocidal – conditions makes the
form recognizable across various ethnic, national, and political boundaries
within the region. A testimonio such as I, Rigoberta Menchú is an example
of a genre at the margins of literature, occupying a zone of indeterminacy
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between speaking and writing, between literature and history, between

autobiography and communal record, between the personal and the political
statement, which makes it a fascinating confrontation with modernity.
The most striking strategy in testimonio is the construction of a collective
subject position that more than anything else sets it apart from other similar
narrative forms. As Menchú says,
My name is Rigoberta Menchú. I am twenty three years old. This is my
testimony. I didn’t learn it from a book and I didn’t learn it alone. […] My
story is the story of all poor Guatemalans. My personal experience is the
reality of a whole people. (1)
Testimonio affirms a self-identity that is inseparable from the collective op-

pressed group or class. This disturbs one of the most treasured Enlightenment
assumptions, that of individuality, an assumption enshrined in the related
but very different genre of autobiography. Rather than accept modes of
representation as transparent, testimonio is the strategic attempt to control
representation. This indeed lies at the core of the whole interpolating process.
The form is not so much the representation of an absolute truth, as formal
history might claim to be, but the urgent representation of the experience
of a reality that is contesting at various points the modes of representation
of the discourse it is interpolating.
The scandal of testimonio for contemporary theory, and perhaps for post-
modernity itself, is its shameless construction of presence. What is at stake,
however, is the particular nature of the “reality effect” of the testimonio. The
most important feature of the form is that it produces, if not the real, then
certainly a sensation of experiencing the real. As Jara points out, testimonio is “a
trace of the real, of that history which, as such, is inexpressible” (Beverley 22).
In this sense it circumvents the temporal strictures of the historical in favour
of a culturally located time and space that occupies the indeterminate zone
of colonizing genres. It fills time and space that are emptied by mechanical
time, and fills them in a process that uses the tools of the colonizer.
Like many postcolonial texts, testimonio implies a challenge to the privi-
leging of literacy and literature over orality. More important, it represents
the entry into literature of those persons who would normally be excluded.
But this interpolation produces a form of transitional literature that disrupts
the authority of writing. As we have seen, the representation of orality in
testimonio is an important feature of its location of a communal subject,
one that exists outside formal legitimation or authority. Of course, orality
is not by any means synonymous with postcoloniality, but it does focus the
kinds of discursive engagements that characterize the power struggle in all
colonized societies; the engagement is not equal and not always successful
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for the colonized, but it does reveal the extraordinary capacity of indigenous
and indigenized forms to appropriate and reform the powerful discursive
practices of the colonizer.
One of the most prominent features of the interpolating power of subaltern
discourse is its capacity, and indeed its willingness, to appropriate all kinds
of dominant discursive practices. In testimonio we find examples of an
extremely wide range of appropriations: language, genre, social discourse
such as religion and politics, and political organization and strategy by which
the local communities have developed an effective resistance to government
tyranny.
But such appropriations did not come without considerable personal and
cultural struggle. The Quiché Indians of the altiplano appear obsessed with
their cultural purity. Refusing to eat ladino food, to wear Western clothes,
to send their children to school, or to learn Spanish, they regard everything
white as both symbolically and literally contaminating. This is not an unfa-
miliar response to colonial oppression. Yet this very exclusivism has had the
direct effect of making the various Indian peoples of Guatemala – isolated
culturally from each other, speaking different languages and thus unable to
form indigenous alliances – vulnerable to almost any devious, oppressive,
or criminal act of official power to remove their land.
Menchú tells how she learned Spanish precisely for this reason. While
the forms of oppression were physical and brutal demonstrations of power,
the mode of resistance was discursive. Not only the Spanish language but
also models of resistance from the Bible were woven into the fabric of their
resistance. Rigoberta Menchú’s testimonio is therefore metonymic of the
whole process of appropriation by which the Quiché Indians managed to
resist oppression, indeed managed to avoid extermination. This required
some profound cultural compromises:
The community decided no one must discover our secrets now. […] We
prepared our signals […] which were to be the everyday things we use,
all natural things. I remember that we performed a ceremony before
beginning our self-defense measures […] where we asked the lord of the
natural world, our one God, to help us and give us permission to use his
creations of nature to defend ourselves with. (125)
We broke with many of our cultural procedures by doing this but we
knew it was the way to save ourselves. (128)
We needed to be on the constant lookout for new techniques. (130)
These accommodations with necessity are urgent and practical examples of

the general strategy of postcolonial material and discursive appropriations.
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The conqueror’s culture is used specifically to protect the people from the
conqueror. Similar issues arise in the production of the testimonial text itself
in which the interlocutor might be accused of manipulating or exploiting
the material the informant provides to suit her own cosmopolitan political,
intellectual, and aesthetic predilections (Beverley 20). But this overlooks the
power of the interpolation of the story of the Guatemalan Indians to reach
an influential international audience.
Clearly one of the central themes of testimonial literature is the viola-
tion of human rights of members of the community by agents of the state.
If established literature can be seen as a “cultural form” complicit in this
domination, a form of epistemic violence that either implicitly or explicitly
sustains these material brutalities, then their appropriation by oppressed
peoples seems problematic. But postcolonial analysis has shown the extent
to which the appropriation of dominant discursive forms throughout the
world has been effective in the counter-discursive project of postcolonial
societies. Testimonial literature, by interpolating itself at the juncture of
literature and history, puts into question both the standard forms and the
very ideas of literature and of history
Colonialism and History

If historicism is the naturalization of empty time, then these texts denaturalize
time by inscribing the practices of denaturalization that are constantly present
in communal life. Menchú shows how the Quiché ceremonies conflate history
in such a way that the Spanish invasion is made to seem an aspect of present
experience. All the ceremonies are conducted in terms of an explicit binarism
that contrasts a putatively unchanging tradition with the contamination of
the white man. It is not unlikely that this motif in the ceremonies is a rather
contemporary one, developed for purposes of resistance, but it has an extremely
important ideological effect upon the daily lives of the Indians.
Historicism fixes the indigenous subject at a static moment in the past, a
prehistory located under the sign of the primitive, of a primal innocence or
barbarity. This is the static historical moment from which history, the record
of civilization, begins. In response to this, the Quiché Indians continually
reinscribe the arrival of the white man in their rituals and ceremonies, thus
exposing the originary colonial moment as a prominent feature of the present.
Time is dismantled so that the location of the indigenous subject by history
in a fixed time of primitive innocence is disrupted. By showing the distant
historical event of invasion as an aspect of the present of Indian conscious-
ness, the time of the colonized Indian is constituted as the present time, and
thus a time amenable to change and alteration in a political sense, while
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also being the time of a changeless tradition. The fascinating aspect of this
disruption of time is that the present oppressors are not “white” in the sense
of being Spanish, but are mestizos produced by centuries of intermarriage.
By continually reinscribing the colonizing event as a permanent feature of
the continuing present, the “history” of Latin American independence and
hybridization has, according to many Latin American critics, made the region
inaccessible to postcolonial theory and is itself disrupted and denaturalized
by at least one colonized group.
However, the tactic is problematic because on the one hand it perpetu-
ates the myth of an unchanging Quiché ethnicity and culture, a myth that
is contested at every level of contemporary Quiché life, and on the other it
binaristically reinstates the predominance of the colonizing power of the
“white man.” The preservation of cultural purity is also undermined by
the way it puts the people at the mercy of the government. Not only are the
Indian groups at the mercy of the dominant landowning class because they
cannot speak Spanish, but they cannot communicate with one another and
thus organize a united front. Such an organized resistance can only come
about once the relevant aspects of the dominant culture are appropriated.
The most extreme and horrific struggle represented in the book is the
struggle of the gaze of history described by Menchú in a scene in which the
army gathers the villagers from miles around to watch the torture, degrada-
tion, and burning alive of their relatives and friends. Nothing could more
powerfully demonstrate the way in which colonial power inscribes itself on
the bodies of its subjects. The torture and disfigurement seems more than a
brutal inflicting of pain; its depravity rests on an organizing principle – that
of the “ordered” power of the state (the body politic) against which the bodies
of its subjects are rendered subhuman.
Yet the most profoundly brutal aspect of this act is its excessive and violent
attempt to control the gaze of the community. The act of forcing the people to
watch this appalling spectacle is to interpellate them as the objects of genocidal
authority, as powerless voyeurs of their own abjection. Apart from its obvious
function of terrorizing the people, it operates discursively as a metonymy of
the historical gaze – they are forced to watch their own violation. The gaze
in which they are interpellated is the gaze of history. It is this terrorism of
the gaze that Menchú’s interpolation into history is specifically designed to
reverse. By revealing the appalling horror of these actions in this book, by
constructing an audience of Spanish and hence English speakers, she ap-
propriates the power of the historical gaze and turns the gaze of the reader
and hence of history onto these criminals. By this means of interpolation,
the gaze of history itself is reversed.
204
Conclusion
The testimonio of indigenous groups is a relatively uncontentious subject for
a postcolonial analysis. But I want to suggest that the real relevance of such
analysis to Latin America emerges in that engagement with modern time
consciousness and its effects, which occurs in a great range of social groups
– mestizo or ladino, urban or peasant, bourgeois or working class. One example
is Juan Rulfo, who is a much more contentious case for a postcolonial analysis.
A canonical figure, he is legendary in Latin American literary studies, a
formative figure whose brief career is credited with penetrating “by sheer
force of poiesis into the epical and even mythical unconscious of peasant
Mexico” (Larsen 51). Rulfo is often credited with modernist innovation, his
Pedro Paramo “a bold excursion into modern techniques of writing” (Burning
Plain ix). But his postcoloniality becomes apparent through the medium
of Angel Rama’s use of the concept of transculturation. Reading Rulfo’s
use of language in Pedro Paramo and The Burning Plain, Rama shows how
language becomes the site of a conflict between the colonizing modernity
of the language and the inflection of a localized place:
The author has become reintegrated with the linguistic community and
speaks from within it, with unimpeded use of its idiomatic resources. […]
Here we have the phenomenon of “neoculturation,” to use Ortiz’s term.
If the principles of textual unification and the construction of a literary
language of exclusively aesthetic invention can be seen as corresponding
to the rationalizing spirit of modernity, by compensation the linguistic
perspective that takes up this principle restores a regional world view and
prolongs its validity in a form yet richer and more interiorized than before.
It thus expands the original world view in a way that is better adapted,
authentic, artistically solvent, and, in fact, modernized – but without
destruction of identity. (Larsen 56–57)
The perception of Rulfo’s “reintegration with the linguistic community,”

speaking “from within it,” is a metaphoric and essentialist description of
language that would be better expressed metonymically. Rulfo does not so
much speak from within local idioms as metonymically signify the local in
his language variation. The fact that Rulfo’s language does not actually cor-
respond to the speech patterns and narrative forms of Jaliscan countryfolk
(54) is immaterial to the metonymic operation of the language variation, which
inscribes not authentic identity but metonymic difference. Rama’s analysis
is nevertheless very much in the nature of a postcolonial reading because
the use of language by a Spanish speaker is seen to be adaptable to modes of
reinscription of the local, creating a metonymic gap in which the difference
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of the local can be imagined (see Ashcroft, “Constitutive Graphonomy” and

“Is That the Congo?”).
Transculturation in Rama’s formulation represents the appropriation of
the dominant language for the purpose of reinscribing place, which Rama
refers to as the “regional world view.” The primacy of place in premodern
settings has been largely destroyed by the separation of time and space and
the “disembedding” of social groups from the significance of locality. The
process of “re-embedding” is very clear in Native American testimonio.
But place remains as a significant site of contention in modern colonial
cultures as well. Rulfo’s writing demonstrates how a settler culture invents a
language that reinvents place. An “appropriation” of language such as Rulfo’s
metonymically links the language to place in a way that reinvents it in the
process of reinscribing it. The separation of time and space that is central to
modernity is redressed metonymically by the use of language in this way,
which reinscribes the concept of local difference. Crucially, this is not a feature
of a clash between a premodern culture and a modern discourse. Colonialism
embeds the cultural anxiety attending its emptying out of local space and
this becomes a site of contention in a range of colonized societies.
The consideration of Rulfo and Menchú brings together two very different
writers, periods, sub-cultures, and classes in Latin American literary history.
Yet they reveal to us that the operation of the transformative strategies of
postcolonial discourse, strategies that engage the deepest disruptions of
modernity, are not limited to the recently colonized, nor to the premodern
societies who are still the most marginalized victims of modernization.
Postcolonial strategies are those set in motion by the huge effects, both
material and discursive, of colonization, no matter how distant the event.
This is because colonialism is the militant material working of European
modernity, the repercussions and contradictions of which are still in evidence
in the global structure of neo-colonial domination.
206
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Kunapipi 11.1 (1989): 58–73.
———. “Is That the Congo? Language as Metonymy in the Postcolonial Text.” World Literatures
Written in English 29.2 (1989): 3–10.
———. “Interpolation and Postcolonial Agency.” Factions and Frictions. Special Issue New
Literatures Review. Ed. Paul Sharrad, et al. 28/29 (1995): 176–89.
———. “A Conversation with Edward Said.” New Literatures Review 32 (1997): 3–22.
Baldick, Chris. The Social Mission of English Criticism 1848–1932. Oxford: Clarendon, 1987.
Barrios de Chungara, Domatila. Let Me Speak! Trans. Victoria Ortiz. Mexico City: Siglo 21,
1978.
Beverley, John. “The Margin at the Center: On Testimonio (Testimonial Narrative).” Modern
Fiction Studies 35.1 (1989): 11–27.
Colas, Santiago. “Of Creole Symptoms, Cuban Fantasies, and Other Latin American
Postcolonial Ideologies.” PMLA 110.3 (1995): 382–96.
———. Postmodernity in Latin America: The Argentine Paradigm. Durham: Duke, 1994.
Giddens, Anthony. The Consequences of Modernity. Cambridge: Polity, 1990.
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———. The Philosophical Discourse of Modernity. Trans. Frederick Lawrence. Cambridge: Polity,
1987.
Klor de Alva, Jorge. “Colonialism and Postcolonialism as (Latin) American Mirages.” Colonial
Latin American Review 1.1–2 (1992): 3–23.
Larsen, Neil. Modernism and Hegemony: A Materialist Critique of Aesthetic Agencies.
Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1990.
Menchú, Rigoberta. I, Rigoberta Menchú: An Indian Woman in Guatemala. Ed. Elisabeth
Burgos Debray. Trans. Ann Wright. London: Verso, 1983.
Mignolo, Walter. “Colonial and Postcolonial Discourse: Cultural Critique or Academic
Colonialism?” Latin American Research Review 28.3 (1993): 120–34.
O’Gorman, Edmundo. The Invention of America: An Inquiry into the Nature of the New World
and the Meaning of Its History. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1961.
Rama, Angel. La ciudad letrada. Hanover, NH: del Norte, 1982.
———. Transculturacion narrativa en America Latin. Mexico City: Siglo 21. 1982.
Rulfo, Juan. Pedro Paramo. 1955. Trans. Margaret Sayers Peden. New York: Grove, 1994.
———. The Burning Plain. Trans. George D. Schade. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1967.
Said, Edward. Orientalism. London: Routledge, 1978.
———. The World, the Text, and the Critic. London: Vintage, 1984.
Seed, Patricia. “Colonial and Postcolonial Discourse.” Latin American Research Review 26.3
(1991): 181–200.
Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. “The Rani of Simur.” Europe and Its Others: Proceedings of
the Essex Conference on the Sociology of Literature, July 1984. Ed. Francis Barker, et al.
Colchester: University of Essex Press, 1985.
Turner, Bryan S. Theories of Modernity and Postmodernity. Cambridge: Polity, 1990.
Vidal, Hernán Vidal, “The Concept of Colonial and Postcolonial Discourse: A Perspective from
Literary Criticism.” Latin American Research Review 28.3 (1993): 112–19.
Viswanathan, Gauri. “The Beginnings of English Literary Study in British India.” Oxford
Literary Review 9.1–2 (1987): 2–25.
Wallerstein, Immanuel. The Modern World System: Capitalist Agriculture and the Origin of the
European World-Economy in the Sixteenth Century. New York: Academic, 1974.
207
10
Toward Articulation:
Postcolonial Theory
and Demotic Resistance
victor li
In an important article criticizing postcolonial theory’s hegemonic ambition

to represent or speak for the dominated and the oppressed, Simon During
writes:
[I]t is important not to forget that the postcolonial paradigm appeals
largely to whites and diasporic Indian intellectuals working in the West.
It does not appeal to those closest to the continuing struggle against
white domination – to Koori activists in Australia or the South African
PAC, say; to offer another instance, I do not think there is a Maori word for
“postcolonialism.” (348)
I will return to During’s remark later in this essay, but, for the moment, I
want to note that his statement – “I do not think there is a Maori word for
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‘postcolonialism’” – not only assumes lexical incommensurability but also

forwards the argument that a concept or term such as postcolonialism is
utterly foreign and irrelevant to the Maoris in their struggle for autonomy
and self-determination. The Maoris, During implies, do not have a word
for “postcolonialism” because they have no need for it. To defend the Maori
struggle for autonomy from the totalizing tendencies of metropolitan theory,
During utilizes a strategy of cultural separatism. Thus, on one side we are
presented with Maori culture with its specific, local concerns, and on the
other we have the academic culture of postcolonial studies, with its own
separate and distinct agenda.
One can understand why During would want to oppose cultural separat-
ism to the perceived threat of cultural assimilation and domination. Like
many contemporary critics, During is suspicious of any discourse that seeks
to explain or represent anything other than itself; thus, resisting what he
suspects to be a universalizing tendency in metropolitan postcolonial theory,
he invokes local cultural particularities. Like most cultural relativists, During
also fears that powerful metropolitan cultures will swallow up peripheral ones,
thereby destroying their distinctive, resistant cultural identity. Prompted by
such fears, well-meaning anthropologists, museum curators, and supporters
of indigenous struggles seek to protect a threatened culture by invoking,
sometimes to the point of reifying, the culture’s “authentic” identity.
However, such forms of cultural protectionism ignore two dangers: the
danger that cultural separation may turn into the oppressive rigidity of apart-
heid and the danger of identifying cultural authenticity with an ahistorical
and exotic cultural essentialism. The first danger is succinctly described by
the French anthropologist Jean-Loup Amselle:
Given all the philosophies of history and other sagas of human progress,
American culturalist anthropologists along with Lévi-Strauss were right
to stress the particularist nature and the relative character of the values
promoted by different societies. But the flip side of this generous attitude
is the erection of impermeable cultural barriers that imprison each group
in its own singularity. […] Far from being an instrument of tolerance
toward, and liberation of, minorities as its proponents like to claim […]
[the notion of separate, distinct cultures] reveals instead all the wrongs
of ethnological reason, and that is why it has been claimed by the “new
right” in France. To isolate a community by defining a set of characteristic
“differences” can lead to the possibility of its territorial confinement.
[…] Ethnic labeling, and the assignment of differences, are self-fulfilling
prophecies. (qtd. in Lionnet 107)
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Toward Articulation vic tor li
On the second danger, that of regarding cultural authenticity as unchanging

essence, the American anthropologist James Clifford has this to say:
I am especially sceptical of an almost automatic reflex […] to relegate
exotic peoples and objects to the collective past. […] Exotic traditions
appear [to the modern West] as archaic, purer (and more rare) than the
diluted inventions of a syncretic present. In this temporal setup a great
many twentieth-century creations can only appear as imitations of more
“developed” models. […] Many traditions, languages, cosmologies, and
values are lost, some literally murdered; but much has simultaneously
been invented and revived in complex, oppositional contexts. If the
victims of progress and empire are weak, they are seldom passive. It used
to be assumed, for example, that conversion to Christianity in Africa,
Melanesia, Latin America […] would lead to the extinction of indigenous
cultures rather than to their transformations. Something more ambiguous
and historically complex has occurred, requiring that we perceive both
the end of certain orders of diversity and the creation or translation of
others. […] [We must begin to survey] hybrid and subversive forms of
cultural representation, forms that prefigure an inventive future. (16–17)
The relegation of cultural authenticity to the past in effect freezes or halts

the process of historical and cultural change and denies that a culture may
be open to new ideas and new ways of doing things or that it may develop
and grow through intercultural addition, adoption, or even appropriation.
The attempt to salvage cultural authenticity can turn into the censorship
of cultural innovation, as the following example demonstrates. After the
Second World War, with the help of the Canadian government, Inuit craft-
producing co-operatives were set up and directed to produce carvings that
would be recognizably “traditional.” A non-Inuit arts-and-crafts specialist
was hired to screen out carvings deemed unsuitable. Among those deemed
unsuitable was a soapstone sculpture of Elvis Presley, which escaped the
sledge-hammer only because of the intervention of a perceptive official “who
felt the piece reflected the reality of the Sugluk settlement with which he was
familiar” (Brett 122). What this example shows is that “cultural correctness”
does not appreciate cultural “border-crossings” or cultural hybridization.
To the arts-and-crafts specialist, Elvis belonged firmly to the white world
of the south, and the Inuit should only carve seals, bears, hunters, and the
like. It probably did not occur to him that Elvis, heard through the radio or
glimpsed through magazines and newspapers, may have been as much a part
of Inuit everyday life as seals and bears. Moreover, he probably would have
been surprised to learn that Elvis was himself a cultural hybrid, a Southern
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white boy whose rock-and-roll style was derived from Black American music,
itself a hybrid of African and European musical idioms.
This phenomenon of cultural intermixing and exchange has been termed
“transculturation” by Latin American critics and writers and has been taken
up by literary theorists such as Mary Louise Pratt and Françoise Lionnet. In
her study of travel writing and colonial encounters, Pratt argues that adopting
a transcultural approach allows for a contact perspective that foregrounds
“the interactive, improvisational dimensions of colonial encounters so easily
ignored or suppressed by diffusionist accounts of conquest and domina-
tion” (7). A contact perspective, Pratt continues, “treats the relations among
colonizers and colonized […] not in terms of separateness or apartheid, but in
terms of co-presence, interaction, interlocking understandings and practices,
often within radically asymmetrical relations of power” (7). Of course, we
should never lose sight of asymmetrical relations of power in any encounter
between cultures, but a transcultural approach enables us to acknowledge as
well that the subaltern culture is neither passive nor lacking in the power to
resist, influence, or even redirect and shape the dominant culture.
To Françoise Lionnet, the concept of transculturation provides us with “a
new vocabulary for describing patterns of influence that are never unidirec-
tional” (103). She defines transculturation as “a process of cultural intercourse
and exchange, a circulation of practices that creates a constant interweaving
of symbolic forms and empirical activities among the different cultures that
interact with one another” (103–04). The transcultural approach as described by
Pratt and Lionnet allows us, for example, not only to accept the conventional
view that African slaves were assimilated to “white” American culture but
also to comprehend the truth of Kwame Anthony Appiah’s claim that “there
is […] no American culture without African roots” (qtd. in Lionnet 102).
Language provides us with the best example of transculturation at work.
As the transculturalist par excellence, Mikhail Bakhtin, puts it: “The word in
language is half someone else’s” (293). Even a quick examination of the English
language bears out Bakhtin’s point, revealing the extent of the language’s
transculturation. Words that we use in everyday life, such as shampoo,
pajamas, and ketchup, or an important newsworthy word such as tariff, turn
out to be transculturated words, words that have travelled from elsewhere
and metamorphosed into English.1
The point I wish to make, for the moment somewhat elliptically, is this:
adopting the stance of cultural relativism or separatism leads to a prob-
lematic politics of identity, while choosing a transcultural approach leads
to an empowering politics of articulation (a concept that will be explained
in more detail later in this essay). The debates that currently swirl around
212
postcolonial theory, in my view, are debates over which approach to adopt

or emphasize. It is to one of these debates that I now turn.
2
A central characteristic of postcolonial theory is its exertion of a certain
historical vigilance, a wariness of all monocultural discourses and their
colonizing imperative. Postcolonial theory’s suspicion of Western narratives
of enlightenment and progress is matched equally by its resolve to not be
taken in by imagined or invented national allegories of native authenticity.
Postcolonial theory’s critical vigilance, moreover, is directed against itself,
such that its institutional and geopolitical locations, locutions, and interests
are all brought into question.
One of the questions postcolonial theory addresses to itself is that of its
relation to its constituency, a question that quickly turns into the accusation
that theory alienates itself from the very constituency on whose behalf it
intervenes. In a somewhat simplified and schematic manner, the problem
can be described as the perceived gulf between a highly literate metropolitan
theory, with its institutionally privileged enunciative positions and modalities,
and the generally disadvantaged demotic speech of marginalized populations.
Thus critics such as Benita Parry, Timothy Brennan, and Simon During
have all questioned theory in the name of what can be called “demotic
resistance.” Parry, for example, has accused postcolonial theorists such as
Homi Bhabha and Gayatri Spivak of “an exorbitation of discourse” that is
deaf to the “alternative text” of the native subaltern (43). In a similar vein,
Brennan comments on theory’s self-imposed distance from popular national
resistance: “the increasing obtuseness, increasingly mandarin quality of
metropolitan theory was an indirect way of dealing with the threatening
engagements of the decolonized intellectuals’ quest for recognition” (103).
The most damaging accusation, however, comes from During, whose critical
remarks on the irrelevance of postcolonial theory to indigenous struggles
have already been cited here.
It can be argued, however, against Parry, Brennan, and During that their
critical vigilance is in fact part of the problem they have defined so usefully.
Their suspicion of postcolonial theory and their call for demotic resistance,
after all, are couched in the same theoretical idiom and delivered from the
same privileged locations as those of the postcolonial theorists they critique.
There is, it seems to me, no way of avoiding such a performative contradiction
as long as postcolonial theorists and their critics remain locked within the
theoretical languages and institutional structures against which their vigilance
is trained but from which their critical authority, their certification to speak,
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is nonetheless derived. As Vivek Dhareshwar points out, “Even a discourse

that claims to deconstruct the West’s constructions of the Other has to still
circulate in the discursive space of the West; it remains positioned in that
discursive space and its problematics get defined by the structure of address
available in that space” (150). Similarly, Gayatri Spivak admits to the aporia
of her own critical position, of having to say “‘no’ to a structure, which one
critiques, yet inhabits intimately” (225).
I wish to argue that both postcolonial theory and its critiques land them-
selves in such a predicament because they reproduce in their arguments a stub-
bornly persistent binary opposition between the theoretical and the demotic,
between theory’s suspicion of the simplifications of collective identity and
action and popular demotic resistance to the institutional and interpretative
privileges accorded to theory. An opposition of this kind locks theory and
theory’s critiques into an unproductive cycle of vigilance, counter-vigilance,
renewed vigilance, and so on.
Postcolonial theory and its demotic critiques are compelled to adopt a
strategy of vigilance because of a tendency, often overlooked, in both camps
to privilege a politics based on the concept of negative freedom. Negative
freedom, a classic liberal ideal, can be defined as the belief in absolute self-
determination free from all external constraints, interferences, or influences.2
In demanding absolute autonomy, negative freedom activates a hermeneutics
of suspicion that rigorously tracks down and uncovers any form of external
influence or pressure that may compromise the autonomy of an individual
or group. Such a hermeneutics of suspicion finds common cause with a
politics in which identity remains autonomous and authentic by affirming
its difference from others and by vigilantly guarding against external deter-
minants. In relying heavily on a notion of autonomy founded on difference,
postcolonial theorists and their demotic opponents find themselves adopting
a discourse in which identity is based on separation, demarcation, exclusion,
and non-contamination, a discourse of autonomy in which the other is not
yet a “possible basis for agreement” (Glissant 97). Thus, in questioning the
political and institutional motives of metropolitan postcolonial theory,
critics such as Parry, Brennan, and During clearly seek to maintain, through
the practice of separatist vigilance, what they regard as the autonomy and
integrity of demotic resistance. From the other side, the insistence on the
authenticity of the resistant demotic or native voice appears curiously like
an indulgence in what Henry Louis Gates Jr. has called “the sentimental
romance of alterity” (466). Yet even as postcolonial theorists accuse their
demotic detractors of advocating the pure and autonomous identity of the
other, their own accusation must assume a certain enunciative autonomy,
an identity, however minimal, distancing it from the native or demotic scene
214
it questions. Thus, for instance, even as Edward Said criticizes “nativism”

for seeking an illusory autonomy and priority of identity, the cosmopolitan
and ironic view that enables his critique appears to insist on a detached and
somewhat superior perspective far above the embattled and strident fray of
competing standpoints (see Said 275–76). In other words, Said’s champion-
ing of cultural heteronomy and hybridity requires him, paradoxically, to
maintain the autonomy and purity of a freelance, exilic consciousness. As
Said has remarked in an interview, “[E]ven in the case of the Palestinian
movement itself I’ve made it a point never to accept an official role of any
sort; I’ve always retained my independence” (qtd. in McGowan 175). It ap-
pears that for Said the preservation of otherness in the same, of difference
in identity, requires that the otherness or difference of the critic be kept
free and separate in itself. But as John McGowan points out in his critique
of Said’s valorization of oppositional otherness, “[T]o imagine the other as
distant and separate is profoundly undialectical […] [since it] rests on an
assumption of self-sufficiency, of an identity forged in the absence of social
ties” (175). Thus, taking an ironic turn, Said’s suspicion of purist identity
politics depends on his acceptance of the pure and autonomous oppositional
identity of the critic.
What should be clear, then, is that certain tendencies in both postcolonial
theory and demotic critiques of postcolonial theory readily assume a concept
of negative freedom, of autonomy from all external influences and relations,
and thus lock themselves into rigid oppositions that exercise vigilance against
external threats to that autonomy. It may be more productive in the long run
to relax the opposition and shift the emphasis from the defensive autonomy
of negative freedom (freedom from) to a more open, more relational and
positive version of freedom (freedom to), a freedom enabled rather than
constrained by social relationships. To go beyond the ultimately paralyzing
mode of theoretical self-vigilance will require the thought of relationality or
transculturation and the practice of articulation, the productive though always
provisional and uncertain colligation of different elements. Stuart Hall, who
has done much to promote the theory of articulation, defines it thus:
In England, [articulation] has a nice double meaning because “articulate”
means to utter, to speak forth, to be articulate. […] But we also speak of
an “articulated” lorry: a lorry where the front and back can, but need not
necessarily, be connected to one another. The two parts are connected
to each other, but through a specific linkage that can be broken. An
articulation is thus the form of the connection that can make a unity of
two different elements, under certain conditions. It is a linkage which is
not necessary, determined, absolute and essential for all time. You have
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to ask, under what circumstance can a connection be forged or made? So

the so-called “unity” of a discourse is really the articulation of different,
distinct elements which can be rearticulated in different ways because
they have no necessary “belongingness.” (53)
Hall’s description of articulation allows us to rethink and reinvent the

possibility of linkage where opposition and difference may seem only too
firmly entrenched. Rather than falling into the frozen certainties of political
identities or the stalemated opposition of different ideologies, the practice of
articulation reopens the dimension of agency, change, risk, and uncertainty.
In short, it enables us to make our own history even under conditions not
of our choosing. Thus, instead of privileging theory at the expense of the
demotic or vice versa, or defending the purity of demotic resistance against
the cosmopolitanism of theory or vice versa, or allowing the perceived
antagonism between theory and the demotic to settle into an unavoidable
aporia, we should attempt to grasp them relationally, placing and articulat-
ing them in the same space of struggle, judgement, and enunciation. Homi
Bhabha argues that such an emphasis on the activity of articulation produces
a shift from “the negative dialectics of the ‘symptomatic reading’ [or what I
have called theoretical self-vigilance], to an attention to the place and time
of the enunciative agency” (“Postcolonial Authority” 57). The emphasis on
agency and articulation allows us to go beyond vigilance and the guilt and
suspicion that generate vigilance, and to redirect our energies instead to the
more difficult and uncertain task of cultural creation and collective social
action.
This is why I think social activists and politically engaged writers have
been ahead of academics in their awareness of the need to question the strict
separations necessary to the desire for absolute cultural or critical autonomy
and to engage instead in the political activity of articulation. I will thus turn
to the work of Rigoberta Menchú, Edouard Glissant, and Chinua Achebe and
briefly sketch how I think they can help us end the rift between institutionally
privileged discourses and the claims of the demotic.
3
The Nobel Peace Prize winner of 1992, the Guatemalan Indian activist
Rigoberta Menchú, ends her testimonio with these words:
[M]y commitment to our struggle knows no boundaries nor limits. This is
why I’ve travelled to many places where I’ve had the opportunity to talk
about my people. Of course, I’d need a lot of time to tell you all about my
people, because it’s not easy to understand just like that. And I think I’ve
216
given some idea of that in my account. Nevertheless, I’m still keeping

my Indian identity a secret. I’m still keeping secret what I think no-one
should know. Not even anthropologists or intellectuals, no matter how
many books they have, can find out all our secrets. (247)
Though Menchú’s insistence on safeguarding the autonomy and inviolability

of her Indian identity comes through very clearly, it is important to note as
well that she recognizes the need to publicize her people’s plight and to gain
the solidarity of others. Though rooted in a constituency, she also realizes
that a wider audience is needed in the struggle waged for the survival of her
people. Moreover, as George Yúdice has pointed out, Menchú’s affirmation
of her Indian identity leads neither to essentialism nor to a “romanticized
ancestral reconciliation” because it is part of a “cultural and political practice
necessary for survival” (226). This cultural and political practice requires
Menchú to engage simultaneously in the defence of autonomous identity and
the search for new articulations, for new forms of political struggle. We see
this when Menchú, in order to preserve her Indian identity and the ways of her
ancestors, decides to join a national peasant organization, thereby embracing,
as she puts it, “other things, other ways” (149). Menchú’s double strategy of
defending autonomy through the practice of social or political articulation
is also evident in her attitude to education in general and the learning of
Spanish in particular. Thus Menchú agrees with her father’s warning – “My
children, don’t aspire to go to school, because schools take our customs away
from us” (169) – and adds, “[E]ven though a person may learn to read and
write, he should not accept the false education they give our people. Our
people must not think as the authorities think. They must not let others
think for them” (170). Yet Menchú’s resistance to education is a resistance
to the hegemonic educational system imposed by the non-Indian central
government in Guatemala. She does not abandon the idea of learning; nor
does she deny the importance of learning Spanish. On the contrary, Menchú
says that although her life has taught her many things, “human beings are
also made to learn many more” (162). Further, with a pragmatism born out of
political activism, she adds: “Since Spanish was a language which united us
[that is, the different Indian groups] why learn all the twenty-two languages
in Guatemala? It wasn’t possible, and anyway this wasn’t the moment to do
it. […] I learned Spanish out of necessity” (162).
Menchú’s participation in a national peasant movement also taught her
to see beyond cultural and ethnic oppositions, which, as often as not, are
created by a shared history of political and material oppression. Thus, though
Menchú proudly proclaims her native identity, she is not a naïve nativist,
for she also understands that her own identity includes different elements,
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different sub-constituencies, if you will, and that she has to participate

fully in the struggle as “an Indian first, and then as a woman, a peasant, a
Christian” (120). She also realizes that as a Guatemalan Indian she must try
to articulate her struggle to that of the Spanish-speaking ladinos. Thus, in a
moment of self-reflection and self-critique, she remarks:
As I was saying, I’m an Indianist, not just an Indian. I’m an Indianist to my
fingertips and I defend everything to do with my ancestors. But I didn’t
understand this in the proper way, because we can only understand when
we start talking to each other. And this is the only way we can correct
our ideas. Little by little, I discovered many ways in which we had to be
understanding towards our ladino friends and in which they had to show
us understanding too. Because I also knew compañeros ladinos with
whom we shared the worst conditions, but who still felt ladino, and as
ladinos they didn’t see that our poverty united us. But little by little, both
they and I began discussing many very important things and saw that the
root of our problems lay in the ownership of the land. All our country’s
riches are in the hands of the few. (166)
The most important lesson we can learn from Menchú’s testimony is that
the struggle to preserve the autonomy of cultural identity may require a
further thinking beyond autonomy toward social and political articulation;
or as Menchú puts it, “[W]e have to erase the barriers which exist between
ethnic groups, between Indians and ladinos, between men and women,
between intellectuals and non-intellectuals, and between all the linguistic
areas” (233).
4
Like Menchú, the Martinican writer and critic Edouard Glissant advocates
resistance to the “all-encompassing world of cultural sameness, effectively
imposed by the West.” He too asserts the importance of preserving the
identity of one’s culture from that “universal humanism that incorporates all
(national) peculiarities” (97). Thus, like Menchú, Glissant initially calls for a
protective vigilance, for “[a]n identity on its guard, in which the relationship
with the Other shapes the self without fixing it under an oppressive force.
That is what we see everywhere in the world: each people wants to declare
its own identity” (169). Again, however, like Menchú, Glissant affirms the
autonomy of cultural identity precisely in order to open it out to a world
of cultural diversity and cultural interchange, to what Glissant terms the
recognition of “la Relation” (xii). Thus, even as Glissant asserts the need for
“an awareness of our place in the world,” he also adds that we must reflect “on
the necessary and disalienated relationship with the Other” (169). Autonomy
218
once attained, in Glissant’s view, should not lead to isolation or separation

but to a poetics of productive relationships and creative articulations. As he
puts it, “To declare one’s identity is to write the world into existence” (169).
Glissant’s views on creolization are instructive in this regard. Glissant
approaches Martinican Creole without any romantic illusions about its status
as both a language of resistance and a language of powerlessness. Creole as a
language of resistance is also Creole as powerless language. What does Glis-
sant mean by this? First of all, Creole, in its present form in Martinique, is
an anti- or counter-language. It is a language that produces through “fits and
starts […] an attempt to deny the Other’s total and corrosive hold” (159). The
Other, of course, is the colonizer’s language, French. Like his fellow country-
man, Frantz Fanon, Glissant is aware that France’s granting of citizenship,
of departement status, to Martinique is a concession and an imposition that
has trapped Martinicans in greater dependency and that the only response
to such a “benevolent” imposition is to resist it. As Glissant puts it,
The only source of light ultimately was that of the transcendental
presence of the Other, of his Visibility – colonizer or administrator – of
his transparency fatally proposed as a model, because of which we have
acquired a taste for obscurity, and for me the need to seek out obscurity,
that which is not obvious, to assert for each community the right to a
shared obscurity. (161)
As an obscurity directed at the dominant Other, Creole is a language of

resistance. As Glissant goes on to argue, however, to base the identity of
Creole solely on resistance, on a form of negative freedom, is to declare in a
sense its powerlessness; it is to base identity on reaction to the Other rather
than action for oneself. Thus Creole as linguistic or poetic resistance “will be
insignificant unless it is an integral part of a resolute collective act – a political
act” (163). That resolute collective act implies not only Martinique’s political
self-determination but also Martinique’s cultural emancipation from France.
Such a cultural liberation would require, as a first step, the transformation
of Creole from an anti- or counter-language based on resistance to French
to a Creole that can affirm and celebrate its own identity without having to
defer to, and thus without having to resist, the authority of French. In other
words, Glissant wants to replace the negative reactional freedom, on which
Creole’s present linguistic identity is based, with a more positive concept of
freedom that affirms Creole’s identity as diversity and not as a language that
has failed to attain purity. As Glissant explains,
The idea of creolization demonstrates that henceforth it is no longer valid
to glorify “unique” origins that the race safeguards and prolongs.
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[…] To assert peoples are creolized, that creolization has value, is to

deconstruct in this way the category of “creolized” that is considered as
halfway between two “pure” extremes. […] Creolization as an idea means
the negation of creolization as a category [that is, the category of Creole
as impure French, a category imposed by the French and tacitly accepted
by Martinicans in their use of it to resist official French], by giving priority
to the notion of natural creolization, which the human imagination has
always wished to deny or disguise (in Western tradition). (140–41)
Glissant’s rethinking of creolization allows him, therefore, to see cultural or

linguistic identity as multiply determined, as always-already transculturated.
One’s cultural or linguistic autonomy is thus, for Glissant, never fixed and
isolated but always an ongoing articulation of differences. One of these dif-
ferences that has been articulated in Creole, not as an instance of a pure or
superior identity but as merely another equal element in a new collectively
formed language, is French. In Glissant’s words: “If, therefore, when we deal
with our own history, we adopt (we Caribbean people) the various European
languages and adapt them, no one will teach us how to do this. We will
perhaps be the ones to teach others a new poetic and, leaving behind the
poetics of not-knowing [or the counter-poetics of a counter-language], will
initiate others into a new chapter in the history of mankind” (169).
Following Glissant’s lead, a younger generation of writers, Jean Bernabé,
Patrick Chamoiseau, and Raphael Confiant, in their manifesto “In Praise
of Creoleness,” argue that Creoleness is always-already transcultural or
translingual:
Creoleness is not monolingual. Nor is its multilingualism divided
into isolated compartments. Its field is language. Its appetite: all the
languages of the world. The interaction of many languages (the points
where they meet and relate) is a polysonic vertigo. […] Living at once the
poetics of all languages is not just enriching each of them, but also, and
above all, breaking the customary order of these languages, reversing
their established meanings. (901)
Glissant and Bernabé, Chamoiseau, and Confiant, therefore, repudiate the

binary opposition that would put Creole in its demotic place and install
French on the plane of high culture; they argue instead for a Creole that
articulates linguistic relationships in all kinds of unsuspected ways, as Glissant
explains:
It is the unknown area of these relationships that weaves, while
dismantling the conception of the standard language, the “natural
220
texture” of our new baroque, our own. Liberation will emerge from this
cultural composite. The “function” of Creole languages, which must resist
the temptation of exclusivity, manifests itself in this process, far removed
from the […] fire of the melting-pot. (250)
5
Glissant’s meditations on the diversity that constitutes cultural, national, or
linguistic identity are very similar to Chinua Achebe’s concerns in his novel
Anthills of the Savannah. Glissant’s remark – “Diversity needs the presence
of peoples, no longer as objects to be swallowed up, but with the intention of
creating a new relationship” (98) – could well sum up Achebe’s rethinking of
postcolonial national identity in his novel. Anthills of the Savannah describes
the dissolution of an authoritarian nationalist discourse no longer in touch
with the realities of the common people and shows how that dissolution leads
to the political awakening of the novel’s three main characters – Chris Oriko,
Ikem Osodi, and Beatrice Nwanyibuife – who begin to unlearn their own
isolated elitist premises and privileges. All three characters, highly placed in
the social hierarchy, undergo a transformation as they shed their “been-to”
stance of superiority as graduates of London University. All three become
“wide-eyed newcomer[s]” (201) to the ways of their own country, a fictional
West African state named Kangan. Far from being the administrators and
intellectuals who have the knowledge to guide their society, they learn, to
their surprise and humility, that they are alienated from their own people and
that they have to be taught the demotic wisdom they have so long ignored.
Thus Chris, for example, in his flight from the country’s dictator (his former
classmate, Sam) has to be instructed in the art of street survival by the taxi
driver, Braimoh. Recognizing the value of the instruction he has received,
Chris says humbly to Braimoh: “Thank you […] I must remember that […]
[t]o succeed as small man no be small thing” (194).
The novel argues that for too long the dominant nationalist discourse of
Kangan has centred around an elite male clique that has claimed to represent
the nation; but as Beatrice angrily reminds Chris: “Well, you fellows all three
of you [Chris, Ikem, and the dictator, Sam], are incredibly conceited. The
story of this country, as far as you are concerned, is the story of the three of
you” (66). In turn, Beatrice learns that the national discourse should include
not only educated women like her but also the likes of Ikem’s half-literate
mistress, Elewa, and Beatrice’s own Christian maid, Agatha (184–85). The
failure of Kangan nationalist discourse is therefore the failure of its exclu-
sions, the failure, as Ikem observes, “of our rulers to re-establish vital inner
links with the poor and dispossessed of this country” (141). We must note,
however, that the novel’s increasing inclusion of the voices of the poor and
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dispossessed and of the pidgin they use does not lead to a rejection of the
intellectual’s role in society. The intellectual, to be sure, is no longer the
centre of authority. Yet, at the same time, the intellectual becomes part of a
new articulation of national identity and authority. I want to look at two set
pieces in the novel in which this new articulation takes place.
The first is Ikem Osodi’s lecture to a university audience in which he re-
counts the Abazon Elder’s fable “The Tortoise and the Leopard” as an example
of political struggle. Though Ikem’s use of the Elder’s fable reveals his respect
for the traditional lore of his people, his respect does not condemn the fable
to a quaint folklorish status; there is no ideology of salvage, no attempt at
preserving the exotic elements of the tale in Ikem’s retelling. The traditional
tale is adapted by Ikem for a modern university audience and in the process
an articulation is achieved linking the Abazonian struggle to the problems
besetting Kangan society as a whole. Moreover, the work of articulation is
not solely that of the intellectual. The Abazonian Elder, in telling Ikem the
story in the first place, shows his awareness that the tale would travel well
and that, through Ikem, he can link his Abazonian constituency to a more
diverse Kangan audience. The Elder’s understanding that Abazonian identity
depends on articulation rather than separation or isolation from the rest of
Kangan is expressed clearly when he rebukes one of his fellow Abazonians
for criticizing Ikem’s absence from Abazonian social ceremonies:
Go on with your meetings and marriages and naming ceremonies because
it is good to do so. But leave this young man alone to do what he is
doing for Abazon and for the whole of Kangan; the cock that crows in the
morning belongs to one household but his voice is the property of the
neighbourhood. You should be proud that this bright cockerel that wakes
the whole village comes from your compound. (122)
Ikem’s lecture at the university thus provides an example of a successful

articulation of the traditional and the modern, the regional and the national,
the demotic and the academic. It is possible, Achebe appears to be saying, for
the intellectual to remain an intellectual and yet learn from the people and
be of service to the people. The intellectual is most herself or himself when
she or he becomes a model of social articulation; as Ikem Osodi puts it,
There seems no way I can become like the poor except by faking. What
I know, I know for good or ill. So for good or ill I shall remain myself, but
with this deliberate readiness now to help and be helped. Like those
complex, multivalent atoms in Biochemistry books, I have arms that
reach out in all directions – a helping hand, a hand signalling for help.
(142)
222
The other example of social articulation occurs at the end of the novel, in
which Beatrice holds a naming ceremony for the baby daughter of Elewa and
the murdered Ikem. The gathering can be read as Achebe’s reimagining of
the Nigerian nation, a reimagining in which differences are included and
articulated in new and creative ways and not simply elided as they would
have been in an elitist, masculinist nationalism. The gathering illustrates
Glissant’s statement that “the nation is not based on exclusion; it is a form
of disalienated relationship with the other, who in this way becomes our
fellow man” (250). At the naming ceremony we find different ethnic groups,
Muslim and Christian, men and women, old and young. Moreover, the
gathering, which is described as an “ecumenical fraternization” (224), though
traditional in its observation of ritual, is also innovative in that Beatrice gives
the baby girl a boy’s name: Amaechina, “May-the-path-never-close” (222).
The name is conferred at a traditional ceremony; but, in turn, through
Beatrice’s uncoupling of name and gender, tradition is transformed, given
new life and reoriented toward the future – “May-the-path-never-close.” This
simultaneous observation and transformation of tradition is what Elewa’s
roguish old uncle admires when he says,
Do you know why I am laughing like this? I am laughing because in you
young people our world has met its match. Yes! You have put the world
where it should sit […]. My wife here was breaking her head looking for
kolanuts, for alligator pepper, for honey and for bitter leaf. […] And while
she is cracking her head you people gather in this whiteman house and
give the girl a boy’s name. […] That is how to handle this world. (227)
Again, what we have in the uncle’s guarded approval of Beatrice’s action is

a recognition of the need for articulation between the generations, between
the genders, between the past and the present, between the old medicine-
man uncle and Beatrice, the London University graduate with a “walloping
honours degree in English” (62). In a recent interview, Achebe describes his
own practice of articulation in the following way: “We do have several tradi-
tions. We have the indigenous tradition, the oral tradition, the vernaculars,
the ancient tradition of literature before, but we also have today. You can’t
disappear back into the past, so we need to create a synthesis of these two.
That is the issue” (“Interview” 79–80).
6
With the examples of Menchú, Glissant, and Achebe in mind, in conclusion
I would like to return to Simon During’s remark that postcolonial theory
“does not appeal to those closest to the continuing struggle against white
domination” (348) and that there is no word in Maori for “postcolonialism.”
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During’s remark is useful in cautioning us against postcolonial theory’s

ambition to be the avant-garde of political struggle. But from the point of
view that I have adopted in this essay, During’s comment is problematic not
only because it assumes, rather patronizingly, to know the real interests of
the Maoris but, more importantly, because it forecloses the possibility of
articulating local Maori struggles to a wider national or transnational arena
of struggle, thereby disallowing the possibility of forging larger solidarities,
stronger political blocs. It seems to me that if postcolonial theory should
learn, as During rightly suggests, to curb its ambition and recognize that
the discursive ambiguities and complexities it so elegantly formulates must
be tempered by the cruder and harsher but no less ambiguous and complex
demands of local political struggles, then it is equally the case that local
political activists may find the arguments and strategies of postcolonial
theorists to be of some use in their struggle. Thus, contra During, it can
be argued that although “postcolonialism” may not exist in the lexicon of
Koori and Maori activists, its addition may be welcomed by those activists
if only because it widens the scope of their struggle and adds to their arsenal
of strategies.
Why, then, does During insist on keeping metropolitan postcolonial
theory separate from Maori political activism? It is, I suspect, partly because
he fears that any contact between the two will result in an unequal exchange
leading to the co-optation of the latter by the former. Arif Dirlik expresses a
similar concern in his critique of postcolonial theory when he argues that the
postcolonial valorization of hybridity conceals an asymmetry of power rela-
tions that favours metropolitan-based postcolonial intellectuals. Yet although
Dirlik is right in insisting that “not all positions are equal in power” (343),
both he and During underestimate the ability of the “weaker” party to
confront, appropriate, change, and adapt the dominant discourse to suit its
own needs. Thus, while Dirlik and During can only observe the silencing
of the subaltern demotic voice by metropolitan theory, the assimilation of
the other into the same, a more sensitive analysis can detect subtle ways in
which the subaltern other can take up the dominant discourse and, through
a process of critical mimicry, work its changes on that discourse. As Homi
Bhabha points out, when a statement from one institution is transcribed in
the discourse of another, a process of destabilization and innovation occurs,
since “any change in the statement’s conditions of use and reinvestment, any
alteration in its field of experience or verification, or indeed any difference
in the problems to be solved, can lead to the emergence of a new statement:
the difference of the same” (Location of Culture 22). According to Bhabha’s
analysis, concern over the metropolitan co-optation and assimilation of
the subaltern is challenged by the subaltern’s subversive mimicry – fear
224
over the making same of the different mocked by the making different of
the same. In his study of how the Kwaios of the Solomon Islands resisted
British colonialism, Roger Keesing usefully reminds us that “[e]ven when
they appear to be appropriating the structures and categories and logics of
colonial discourse, subaltern peoples progressively but ultimately radically
transform them, in the very process of transgression and in their deployment
in a counter hegemonic political struggle” (238).3
However politically well-intentioned, the desire to protect the subaltern
demotic voice from metropolitan theory, ironically, can end up preventing
the establishment of coevalness between the two. In seeking to defend the
subaltern Other’s autonomy, metropolitan critics like During find themselves
implicated in the very situation of dominance they wish to dismantle. By their
logic, the subaltern’s autonomy is predicated on the subaltern’s unchanging
structural position as the Other of the West. However, this “othering,” which
ensures the subaltern’s autonomy, also betrays the vulnerability of subaltern
identity, its problematic unchanging role as reactive opposition to active
Western domination, for, as Bhabha has warned, “the site of cultural difference
can become the mere phantom of a dire disciplinary struggle in which it has
no space or power […] [and in which] the Other text is forever the exegeti-
cal horizon of difference, never the active agent of articulation” (Location
of Culture 31). Asked to function as the deconstructive limit of Western
knowledge, the subaltern Other, more often than not, is constructed into
being by dissenting factions of the West. As such, the Other is frozen in an
antithetical, adversarial role, its identity forever dependent on its difference
from the West. Essentialized and preserved in theoretical aspic, the Other is
made to function as the conscience of the West, turned into an allochronic
entity whose history is controlled by the deconstructive needs of the Western
academy rather than its own. Coeval historical agency, innovation, and
change are denied to the Other in order that it can remain forever as the
limit-text of the West. Thus, whenever a non-Western subaltern Other is told
not to take up Western knowledges or discourses because to do so would
be to betray his or her indigenous culture, what some anthropologists have
called “the salvage paradigm” is activated and the model indigenous culture
is denied historical agency in order that it can be salvaged and displayed in
all its purity and autonomy by and for the West.
Is there a Maori word for “postcolonialism”? The answer, I hope it is
clear, should not be “no and there is no need for such a word,” but “not yet.”
Depending on Maori needs, postcolonialism may well become a loanword
inserted into the Maori lexicon, a metropolitan word that will become locally
inflected, ceding its identity as it becomes articulated to Maori exigencies.
A continent away from the Maori struggle, the Mayan peasants of Chiapas
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launched their rebellion on the same New Year’s Day that the North American
Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) took effect. NAFTA entered the lexicon of the
Zapatista rebels because they understood that the struggle for their indigenous
rights and for their very livelihood had to be engaged not only on their own
local ground but also on a nation-wide and transnational basis. Shedding the
image of what Alcida Ramos has called “the hyperreal Indian,” the Indian
created in the image of predominantly white-staffed indigenist movements
– the Indian who is “dependent, suffering, a victim of the system, innocent
of bourgeois evils, honourable in his actions and intentions, and preferably
exotic” (163) – the Mayan rebels of Chiapas launched what Roger Burbach
has called a “postmodern rebellion” (113). They skilfully utilized the media
for their own ends, and Burbach reports that when he visited the region with
an international delegation in March, 1994, a few months after the uprising,
he was struck by the sophisticated nature of their demands:
In a meeting with many of the community members, it was striking that
the women’s organization took the lead in discussing the community’s
needs and plans as well as the obstacles it faced. They wanted decent
schools, medical services, assistance so they could attend nearby
technical colleges, and the right to elect their own representatives at the
municipal and state level. They also wanted lands from the nearby cattle
estate to augment production […] but were fully cognizant of the fact that
these lands could only be farmed with appropriate technologies to avoid
impoverishing the delicate soil of the region. (123–24)
The Chiapas uprising proves that in order for subaltern or dominated peoples
to be other than objects of study or recipients of action by well-meaning post-
colonial theorists, rock stars, or metropolitan political activists, they must be
seen as they see themselves – not as isolated, vulnerable peoples (though they
can be that too) whose authentic way of life needs to be protected, preserved,
or salvaged by external powers but as theoretical and cultural coevals and
co-actors who are interested in metropolitan knowledges, techniques, and
goods and who can freely articulate these with their own local, historical
needs and practices. As Rigoberta Menchú puts it, arguing for resistance as
articulated action rather than piecemeal reaction: “We need to be on the
constant lookout for new techniques. […] [E]verything must have a reason
or we might do things we want to, but without knowing why we’re doing
them” (130).
226
Notes
1 “Shampoo” comes from the Hindi verb champna (“to press”) and its familiar imperative,
champo. “Pajamas” is derived from the Hindi word for a type of loose trousers, pajama, itself
borrowed from the Persian compound word made up of pai (“foot”) and jamah (“garment
clothing”). “Ketchup” travelled into English from a Chinese regional dialect term for shellfish
sauce – Käe (“shellfish” or “seafood”) and tsiap (“brine” or “sauce”). Finally, “tariff” comes
from a Turkish variant of the Arabic word tarif (“notification, explanation”). For extended
discussions of the etymology of these and other transculturated words in English, see Louis G.
Heller, Alexander Humez, and Malcah Dror, The Private Lives of English Words.
2 For an excellent critique of the uses of negative freedom in postmodern and postcolonial
criticism, see John McGowan’s Postmodernism and Its Critics, especially chapter 3.
3 In a similar vein, Anuradha Dingwaney Needham has argued that C.L.R. James critically
appropriated the colonial sport of cricket and turned it into a symbol of West Indian self-
determination: by seizing upon a symbol of English (i.e., the colonizer’s) national character
– cricket – to represent West Indian (i.e., the colonized’s) self-definition, James, in effect,
abducts “Englishness” (as defined by cricket) and makes it not the exclusive property of the
colonizers but rather the means by which the colonized peoples of the Caribbean set themselves
free (288).
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Menchú, Rigoberta. I, Rigoberta Menchú, An Indian Woman in Guatemala. Ed. Elisabeth
Burgos-Debray. Trans. Ann Wright. London: Verso, 1984.
Needham, Anuradha Dingwaney. “Inhabiting the Metropole: C.L.R. James and the Postcolonial
Intellectual of the African Diaspora.” Diaspora 2.3 (1993): 281–303.
Parry, Benita. “Problems in Current Theories of Colonial Discourse.” Oxford Literary Review 9
(1987): 27–58.
Pratt, Mary Louise. Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. New York: Routledge,
1992.
Ramos, Alcida Rita. “The Hyperreal Indian.” Critique of Anthropology 14.2 (1994): 153–71.
Said, Edward. Culture and Imperialism. New York: Knopf, 1993.
Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. “Poststructuralism, Marginality, Postcoloniality and Value.”
Literary Theory Today. Ed. Peter Collier and Helga Geyer-Ryan. Ithaca: Cornell University
Press, 1990. 219–44.
Yúdice, George. “Marginality and the Ethics of Survival.” Universal Abandon? The Politics
of Postmodernism. Ed. Andrew Ross. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988.
214–36.
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11
Postcolonial Theory
and the “Decolonization”
of Chinese Culture
wang ning
In current Chinese critical and academic circles, “postist” (hou zhuyi) issues

such as postmodernism, post-Confucianism, post-Intellectualism, post-
Chinese studies, post-Enlightenment, and postcolonialism are much discussed
and debated among scholars, literary critics, and other intellectuals of the
humanities and social sciences.1 These terms frequently appear in various
academic journals or literary magazines, puzzling ordinary readers as well as
some old-fashioned intellectuals of humanistic tendencies. Strangely enough,
scholars very often discuss these terms without quoting or referring to the
original works. In the case of postcolonialism, for instance, they ignore the
primary texts of such eminent theorists of postcolonialism in the West as
Edward Said, Gayatri Spivak, and Homi Bhabha, let alone analyze them in
a critical and profound way in order to carry on a theoretical dialogue with
international scholarship in the field of postcolonial studies.2 Of course, the
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misuse of theoretical terminology is largely attacked by both domestic critics

and overseas scholars, even though it has helped to produce new mean-
ings, distinct from those in the West.3 This is particularly true of the terms
postmodernism and postcolonialism. To my understanding, postmodernism
and postcolonialism are two distinct – albeit overlapping – discourses that
share the common theoretical ground of poststructuralism and the common
Western cultural context. So we should first of all make a careful study of these
concepts and phenomena before applying them to current Chinese cultural
and literary studies. This essay starts with a redescription of postcolonial
theory from the perspective of an Oriental or Chinese scholar before dealing
with the issue of the “decolonization” of Chinese culture.
Postcolonial Theory Reconsidered

Postcolonialism has prevailed even during the high tide of international
postmodernism, particularly in regard to issues concerning Third World
culture or Third World criticism. I would like first to outline briefly my ap-
proach as a Chinese scholar to the various postcolonial theories constructed
by such Western scholars of Oriental background as Edward Said, Gayatri
Spivak, and Homi Bhabha before questioning such problematic constructions
as those of Orientalism and Third World criticism from my own perspective.
Obviously, postcolonial theory is taken almost exclusively from English
criticism and is “changing so rapidly and involves so many positions that it
can only be spoken about in the singular as a collective noun” (Hart 71). It is
certainly controversial in meaning as well as uncertain in connotation. As a
theoretical or critical term, its meaning is undoubtedly indeterminate and
thereby rouses frequent attacks from mainstream Western critical circles
as well as from critics of Oriental or Third World countries. It is actually,
according to some Western scholars, “a collection of theoretical and critical
strategies with which to look at the culture, literature, politics, and history
of the former colonies of the European empires and their relation to Europe
and the rest of the world” (Hart 71). In this way, to scholars of Oriental or
Third World countries, postcolonial theory is a “highly complex study of the
cultural, political, and historical differences among the European imperial
powers and from their former colonies” (71–72). It is obviously a long-standing
process of deterritorialization of the Western empire from within as well as
from without. As Deleuze and Guattari put it in describing the anti-Oedipus
(decentralizing) process,
[T]he process of deterritorialization here goes from the center to the
periphery, that is, from the developed countries to the underdeveloped
countries, which do not constitute a separate world, but rather an
232
Postcolonial Theory and the “Decolonization” of Chinese Culture wang ning
essential component of the world-wide capitalist machine. It must be

added, however, that the center itself has its organized enclaves of
underdevelopment, its reservations and its ghettos as interior periphery.
(231)
So those advocating postcolonial strategies in the West are actually trying to

undermine the power from within the hegemonic empire. In so doing, they
have touched upon the issues of the Third World’s anti-colonialist struggle;
however, they are not very concerned with this struggle. Admittedly, post-
colonial theory is a product of Western critical discourse; thus, it is by no
means appropriate to be used in the Chinese cultural context. At the same
time, many Chinese scholars are worried about the “colonizing” of Chinese
culture and literature since the May Fourth period (1919), which actually
marked the beginning of new Chinese culture and literature and the break
from tradition.
Postcolonialism is in effect a metamorphosed version of postmodernism
in relation to the anti-colonialist and decolonizing practice in Oriental
and Third World countries. During the heyday of postmodernism, post-
colonialism was almost overlooked or even deliberately marginalized by
mainstream Western critical circles. The theorists in postcolonial studies
are mostly scholars who have an Oriental or Third World background or
have relationships with people from Oriental or Third World countries who
have prestigious teaching positions in Western universities. These theorists’
Western and non-Western national and cultural identities undoubtedly
account for their mobile positions in the theoretical debates. They cannot
but confront such an insurmountable dilemma: since they live in the West,
they have to write of their own experiences either directly or indirectly in
the English language, and they achieve success by first of all identifying
themselves as Westerners; but they have to speak up on behalf of the Orient
or the Third World in a particular way in a multicultural society so as to
work in their own as well as their countrypeople’s interest. Consequently,
their political tendency is often complicated and even uncertain, and their
criticism of the cultural hegemony of the First World often cannot fairly
represent the interest of Oriental and Third World intellectuals because of
their insufficient knowledge and understanding of the practical situations in
these countries and because of the problematic ideologies in their research.
Thus their construction of the Orient and the Third World is usually based
on incomplete understanding, or even misreading, rather than on first-hand
personal experiences in an Oriental or Third World country.
However, in spite of all these shortcomings, postcolonial theory is still a
forceful cultural strategy and a challenging theoretical discourse opposed
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to mainstream Western culture and critical discourse, helping to correct

Western people’s long-standing prejudice against the Orient, to popularize
Oriental studies in the West, and to promote academic dialogue between
the East and West. Postcolonialism, if applied in an appropriate manner,
could also be adopted by Third World intellectuals in their decentralization
of the “totalitarian” ideology and academic discourse. Therefore, we have to
observe this complex phenomenon in a dialectical way and deal with different
postcolonial theorists in different ways.
Edward Said, the postcolonial theorist best known for his description and
construction of the so-called Orient and Orientalism, is quoted and discussed
frequently in Chinese cultural contexts. He has pointed out correctly that
the Orient in the eye of Western people actually has nothing to do with
the “geographical Orient” or Oriental people themselves. For quite a few
Western scholars, “[t]he Orient was almost a European invention, and had
been since antiquity a place of romance, exotic beings, haunting memories
and landscapes, remarkable experiences. Now it was disappearing; in a sense
it had happened, its time was over” (Orientalism 1). So it is a “constructed”
Orient rather than the “real” or geographical one – obviously a Western
means of representation. Since the Orient constructed in Western discourse
has nothing to do with the geographical East, there have appeared a number
of versions of Orientalism, including a Freudian one, a Spenglerian one, and
a Darwinian one (22), but none constructed from the perspective of any
Oriental culture. Thus Orientalism exists only in Western discourse, and this
makes it problematic and uncertain (Wang, “Orientalism” 905–10). It is also
true that Said has criticized severely the unequal relationship between the
Orient and the Occident and the falsehood of Oriental studies in the West:
“[T]hat Orientalism makes sense at all depends more on the West than on the
Orient, and this sense is directly indebted to various Western techniques of
representation that make the Orient visible, clear, ‘there’ in discourse about
it” (Orientalism 21–22). Obviously Said’s severe critique has warned us that
the so-called Orient or Orientalism exists only in the eyes of Western people
or in the means of representation in Western culture. So in my view it is of
vital significance for us to observe Orientalism as an ideology as well as a
discipline in the Western context.
Gayatri Spivak, another influential representative of postcolonial theory
in the West, is known in China primarily for her translation of Jacques
Derrida’s book Of Grammatology. She actually plays a double role in Ameri-
can academic circles and in her own native country. Her challenge against
and criticism of mainstream Western culture is still within the framework
of Western culture itself although she sometimes refers to the practical
condition in her native country, India, and tries to speak for Third World
234
intellectuals. But as she herself puts it in describing her “mobile” stand, “I

am not interested in defending the postcolonial intellectual’s dependence on
Western modes: my work lies in making clear my disciplinary predicament.
My position is generally a reactive one. I am viewed by the Marxists as too
codic, by feminists as too male-identified, by indigenous theorists as too
committed to Western theory” (Postcolonial Critic 69–70). Furthermore,
from her haughty attitude toward Third World scholars both from India as
well as from other countries, we can hardly recognize her cultural identity
as a Third World critic or intellectual. It would appear that she simply wants
to attract the attention of the mainstream Western scholarship so as to fulfill
her “anti-Oedipus” enterprise to move from periphery to centre and attempt
to deconstruct the sense of centre. If ever she completes this task, she (or
someone else) will no doubt manifest herself (or himself) as a cultural elitist
of more or less Third World background. Perhaps herein is the unique value
and significance of these postcolonial theorists represented by Spivak: they
have some Oriental roots but have received more education in the Occident.
Since they have received education in the West, they usually have a solid
foundation of Western culture rather than their own culture. But, ironically,
they appear in the West always as “others” (from the Third World) due to
their Oriental national identity. When they come to the East, they also cannot
deny the strong impact of Western culture in which they are deeply rooted,
and so they are then viewed as “others” in the East. This is a predicament
that many of these hybrid Western–non-Western postcolonial critics cannot
help but be confronted with.
Bhabha is different from Said and Spivak. Younger than his two colleagues,
his attitude appears to be more flexible. He tries to playfully undermine the
hegemony and authority of Western discourse by parodying the Western way
of thinking and writing. On the one hand, he does express his sympathy
toward the anti-colonialist struggle waged by Third World people:
The struggle against colonial oppression changes not only the direction
of Western history, but challenges its historicist “idea” of time as a
progressive, ordered whole. The analysis of colonial depersonalization
alienates not only the Enlightenment idea of “Man” but challenges the
transparency of social reality, as a pre-given image of human knowledge.
(“Remembering Fanon” 114)
On the other hand, however, unlike Said or Spivak, he always looks upon
postcolonial discourse as polemic rather than antagonistic and as a meta-
discourse through which the hegemony of Western discourse is undermined
or deconstructed. Since the Third World discourse is an “other” to the imperial
discourse, it exists only in relation to the latter, without which this “other” is
235
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obviously meaningless. Hence his attitude on many occasions is more playful

than serious, and his works are always written in an ambiguous way, open to
different interpretations.4 So understandably, because of his playful, ironic
attitude toward Western cultural hegemony, he can hardly make people
believe the real intention of his deconstructive effort. In contemporary
China, Bhabha’s critical practice has been more and more attractive, not just
to postcolonial scholars but to some young critics and writers of postmodern
and poststructural persuasion as well.5
Since postcolonial theorists have such complicated political and cultural
backgrounds, they cannot avoid confronting an inherent dilemma: on the one
hand, they always promote their academic research by constantly criticizing
Western culture and theory from their unique (Oriental or Third World)
perspectives; on the other hand, they cannot escape the shadow of Western
discourse and influence now that they live in the West and use exclusively
Western languages – or more specifically, the English language – which is
different from the indigenous “English” used by the “real” Oriental and Third
World intellectuals. Nor can they have equal dialogue with non-Western
academics. So to Third World people, they are actually playing a double role: as
critics of colonialism in the West and as advocates (and examples) of a sort of
neo-colonialism in the East. Their criticism of Western culture is nothing but
a strategy of deconstruction in the course of which a neo-colonial discourse
is gradually constructed in a unique way. Their decolonizing practice “occurs
on the periphery, but it occurs at the center and at the core as well” (Deleuze
and Guattari 237) – or more specifically, in the First World rather than in the
Third World. Notwithstanding this ambivalence, postcolonialism has come
onto the scene of Chinese culture and literary criticism and has had a certain
influence on our cultural strategy and writing discourse. Thus, in talking
about postcolonialism in Third World countries such as China, one must
associate it with the practical situation of the native countries; otherwise, it
could only produce something “other” to the Western audience.
Decolonizing Chinese Culture?

The phrase “Third World culture” is often discussed in China largely because
of Fredric Jameson’s influence (and his reading of the Third World text as a
national allegory) and because of the ongoing debates on postcolonialism in
academic circles. Economically speaking, China is still a developing country
belonging to the Third World although its economy has been advancing beyond
expectation in recent years. So it is not surprising that Chinese scholars and
critics usually identify their culture as that of the Third World. But with regard
to the so-called Third World culture discussed in the Western context, the
term, like that of the Orient, or Orientalism, usually refers to the colonized
236
culture of Third World countries. It is also an invented phenomenon as an

“other” to the West. Unlike the phenomenon of the Orient or Orientalism,
it is created both by Westerners and Third World people themselves. In
this respect, Chinese culture and literary discourse are said to have been
colonized since the beginning of this century, or more specifically the May
Fourth period, when various Western cultural trends and academic thoughts
flooded into China, exerting strong influence on modern Chinese culture
and literature (Wang, “Confronting” 905). Almost all the major writers
and literary scholars at the time were more or less involved in the Chinese
modernist literary movement or cultural modernity. As a result, comparat-
ists usually research the literature of this period by adopting the method of
influence-reception study rather than parallel study, as they do in observing
classical Chinese literature, which is almost independent of any Western
influence. If we recognize the May Fourth period as the first colonization
of Chinese culture and literature, then the practice in the 1980s should be
regarded as the second colonization, which occurred after a long period of
Soviet doctrinal domination of Chinese culture and literature. For since then,
Western cultural trends and literary thoughts have not only entered China
but also permeated almost every aspect of Chinese people’s lives, including
consumer culture, mass media, and advertising enterprises.
A particularly significant change occurred in the Chinese literary language,
which used to be characterized as classically elegant and fluently concise, full
of allusions and images and rhythms; since the first and second colonizations,
this literary language has been hybridized and even “Europeanized” (ouhua).
Scholars, writers, and literary critics cannot avoid using the “borrowed”
language and theoretical terms in the Chinese context, largely because of the
easy accessibility of translations of Western works. Translated literature is
more popular than created literature to many young people. A present-day
avant-garde novelist puts it frankly: “When writers like our generation began to
write, we were most indebted to translated novels rather than classical Chinese
literature, let alone modern Chinese literature. I have always been thinking
that the contributions made to the construction and development of a new
Chinese language should be first of all attributed to those translators, who
have found an intermediary way of expression between the Chinese language
and foreign languages.” 6 This “intermediary way” between the “pure” Chinese
language and the totally (translated) “foreign” languages is surprisingly not
regarded as a sort of colonized cultural phenomenon. The same is true of
the critical discourse used by some young avant-garde or scholarly critics
in their writing. Thus, the Chinese language is hybridized – even colonized,
confronted as it is with Western influence – while translated literature is the
direct consequence of Western cultural colonialism. To such writers as the
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novelist quoted above, the colonization of the Chinese literary language is

in effect an innovation of the literary discourse that will help contemporary
Chinese literature approach the main trend of world literature. Therefore, it
is an absolutely necessary step in the process of China’s modernization. To
those adhering to traditional Chinese literary doctrines, however, it is noth-
ing but a phenomenon of cultural colonization, which can be traced back to
the radical innovation of the May Fourth new cultural movement in which
traditional Chinese culture and its sage, Confucius, were severely criticized.
And this brings us to the following questions: Is it true that Chinese culture
is a colonized one? Is it necessary to wage a struggle to decolonize our culture
and literary discourse? This has become a stimulating topic, heatedly debated
among the current Chinese culture and literary circles.7
History advances despite the resistance of individuals, and this is true
of the evolution of language. China should, according to most Chinese
intellectuals as well as ordinary people, catch up with and even surpass
the advanced Western countries, economically and scientifically as well as
culturally. The same is true of the Chinese language, which certainly should
be modernized in order to facilitate communication with the international
community – particularly in this age of cyberspace. In the contemporary era,
no society, no culture, be it Oriental or Occidental, can avoid the influence
of, or even colonization by, other societies or cultures; interpenetration and
mutual influence among different cultures have become inevitable trends.
The fact that hundreds of Chinese scholars have teaching positions in North
American universities in the fields of comparative literature or East Asian
studies has undoubtedly changed the traditional essence of Orientalism or
Oriental studies in the West, inserting into it some fresh methodologies and
ideas. (Could we regard such a phenomenon as a kind of colonization of
North American culture?) In the process of international communication,
any culture will undoubtedly lose something, which is absolutely necessary in
order to influence others and renew itself. Whether our language and literary
discourse have become colonized or modernized is a question for further
study. But we should distinguish between colonization and modernization:
the former is passive, meaning that we could not but receive the (Western)
influence, thus making our language Westernized (colonized); but the latter
is active, which indicates that the Chinese language should also be popular-
ized and simplified along with China’s modernization in order for us to
communicate more easily with the international community. The state of the
art of contemporary Chinese culture and literary language obviously belongs
to the latter case. So we should observe such a phenomenon in a dialectical
way: on the one hand, such a colonization, if it continues to exist, will help
promote the revolution and modernization of Chinese culture and language
238
so as to allow Chinese literature to gradually be accepted in the canon of

world literature. On the other hand, the national character of Chinese culture
and language cannot help but be obscured or even more-or-less lost. In this
respect, the postcolonial strategy of opposition to mainstream Western
culture is identical with the Chinese attempt to struggle against the imperial
hegemony of the West, politically, economically, and culturally.
In contemporary China, along with brief references to Western postcolo-
nialism, different manifestations of postcoloniality in cultural and literary
circles have appeared: first, postmodern studies, which aims to prove that
postmodernity is not an exclusively Western product, for it can produce
metamorphosed versions in some Oriental or Third World countries where
the general condition is modern or even premodern;8 second, post-Chinese
studies (hou guoxue), which is viewed as a strategy to decolonize Chinese
culture and literary discourse (but the approach that these scholars adopt is
still a colonized one, for they borrow Western ways of thinking to reinterpret
Chinese culture, thus producing something “other” to the West); and third,
Third World criticism, which attempts to help demarginalize Chinese literature
and criticism so that it can enter the mainstream of world literature, or have
dialogues with international critical circles, on an equal footing. Although
these positions are angled differently, as are approaches within postcolonial
studies, they are summarized misleadingly by certain overseas Chinese
scholars as the joint attempts of Chinese cultural conservatives.9 Of course,
these apparent attempts have raised the controversial question of whether
Chinese culture should be decolonized, and if the answer is “yes,” how this
is to be achieved.
Such manifestations of cultural conservatism are apparently different,
though more or less oriented toward decolonization/deterritorialization.
The first practice aims at carrying on an equal dialogue on the same plane
of postmodern studies with international scholarship; the second attempt
is made to carry on dialogues with overseas Sinological studies, making
traditional Chinese culture known to the world; and the last is aimed at
distinguishing indigenous Chinese critical discourse from that of the West.
The ultimate goal is still aimed at opening up more space for scholars and
intellectuals to activize their academic dialogues with international scholar-
ship rather than isolate themselves again. Nevertheless, to criticize all three
phenomena without careful distinction and profound analysis is to be blind
to the complexities of cross-cultural communication. Careless and superficial
criticism will only harm communication on an international scale. Ours is
an age of information as well as cultural globalization, and the global village
is by no means a myth. There is no such thing as the colonization of Chinese
culture and literary discourse, for China has never been a colonial country;
239
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moreover, Chinese culture has been deeply rooted in the soil of the Chinese
nation, so it is unnecessary to wage any struggle against such a coloniza-
tion. The misleading attempt to decolonize Chinese culture can only harm
international academic dialogue and cross-cultural communication.
Toward an Age of Dialogue

What will characterize the new century? Will it be like the situation described
by Samuel Huntington in his controversial essay “The Clash of Civilizations”?
Or will the contrary situation arise, as described by some Chinese scholars
who envisage the new century as belonging to the Orient or, more specifi-
cally, to China?10 My answer is neither, for since the end of the Cold War,
the world has entered a so-called post-Cold War period in which the main
trend is characterized by different forces co-existing, complementing each
other, and being in dialogue rather than maintaining opposition. This is
probably one of the reasons why the long-ignored idea of cultural relativ-
ism has again attracted scholars’ attention and has become a hot topic for
comparatists to deal with. In Western society, especially in North America,
which is characterized by multiculturalism, postcolonialism functions as one
of the different voices, a contrapuntal one, which always remains within the
limited sphere of academic studies and does not influence government policy,
whereas in China scholars discuss how postcolonialism will lead China to a
new isolated state from the outside world and to a new opposition between
the East and the West. Since Chinese people have suffered a great deal from
the state of isolation, we need more understanding from and communication
with the outside world, including the West. Thus, it is definitely not the time
to decolonize our culture, for Chinese cultural identity will receive increas-
ing recognition from people of other countries even though that identity is
often misunderstood by Westerners. According to the new significance of
cultural relativism, all cultures exist in relation to other cultures. No culture
will forever dominate the world. In the past, Oriental culture was marginal-
ized and appeared mysterious to the West, but it nevertheless survived the
period of Eurocentrism and has begun to flourish again in the past decade.
If Western culture has failed to overcome Oriental culture, then neither has
the latter dominated the former. Any attempt to reunify world culture with
any kind of Oriental culture or ideology is bound to fail; so, what we need
most at the moment is dialogue rather than opposition. My essay therefore
intends to show that it is unnecessary to wage a struggle to decolonize Chinese
culture and literary discourse. However, postcolonialism can still be viewed
as a field of academic study in which we discuss significant theoretical issues
and, in doing so, link ourselves to international scholarship.
240
Notes
1 One can read essays in such journals published in China’s mainland and Hong Kong as Dushu
[Reading], Dongfang [The Orient], and Ershiyi shiji [Twenty-First Century], which show the hot
debate carried on by domestic and overseas Chinese scholars concerning the relationship
between postcolonial theory and Chinese culture and literature.
2 Apart from the essays published in Chinese, I should mention the two conferences at which
dialogues between the East and West were carried on concerning the issue of postcolonialism:
The International Conference on Cultural Studies: China and the West (August 1995, Dalian),
at which such scholars as Terry Eagleton, Ralph Cohen, and Jonathan Arac addressed topics
relevant to postcolonial theory; and The International Conference on Cultural Dialogue and
Cultural Misreading (October 1995, Beijing), at which such scholars as Douwe Fokkema, Mario
Valdds, and Gerald Gillespie touched upon this topic. On these two occasions, Chinese scholars
were able to discuss some academic issues directly in English with their Western colleagues.
3 To most Western scholars, postcolonialism is viewed as rather radical, while in China it is
regarded (especially by Zhao Yiheng and Xu Ben) as conservative, having something in common
with government policy.
4 Along with the debate and discussion about the issue of postcolonialism in the Chinese context,
we find that Bhabha has exerted more and more influence on some young avant-garde Chinese
critics, especially Zhang Yiwu and Chen Xiaoming, who are regarded as two of the major
postmodern critics in current China and whose ways of writing are more closely related to that of
Bhabha than that of Said or Spivak.
5 In this aspect, cf. particularly Zhang Yiwu’s publications in the Hong Kong journal Ershiyi shiji,
published between 1994 and 1996. Unfortunately, he is often misunderstood by overseas
Chinese scholars as a spokesman of official Chinese discourse.
6 See Yu Hua’s conversation with Pan Kaixiong on the first day of the new year, in Zuojia [Writers]
Number 3, 1996. I do not doubt that many other young writers share his opinion.
7 One can read articles dealing with or criticizing postcolonialism and the colonization of Chinese
culture in such leading Chinese newspapers as Guangming ribao [Guangming Daily], run by the
government, and in such authoritative academic journals as Beijing daxue xuebao [Journal of
Peking University].
8 Along with the deepening of the debate on postmodernism in the Third World, particularly
in China, more and more Western scholars have realized that postmodernity is not a typical
Western model. It could generate some different versions in some underdeveloped Oriental
or Third World countries – for instance, in China. One example is the special issue on
postmodernity and China co-edited by Arif Dirlik and Zhang Xudong for the journal boundary 2
24.3 (fall 1997).
9 See especially Zhao Yiheng’s challenging article “Post-Isms and Chinese New Conservatism”
[‘houxue’ yu Zhongguo xin baoshouzhuyi]; the Chinese version appeared in Ershiyi shiji 2(1995):
4–17.
10 In this respect the most influential idea is put forward by Ji Xianlin, an eminent Oriental scholar
and comparatist, who predicts that the twenty-first century will be that of the Orient and that
Oriental culture will dominate world culture.
Works Cited
Bhabha, Homi. “Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse.” October 28
(Spring 1984): 125-133.
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———. “Remembering Fanon: Self, Psyche and the Colonial Condition.” Colonial Discourse
and Postcolonial Theory: A Reader. Ed. Patrick Williams and Lauren Chrisman. New York:
Columbia University Press, 1994.
Barker, Francis, et al., eds. Literature, Politics, Theory: Papers from the Essex Conference 1976–84.
London: Routledge, 1987.
Deleuze, Gilles, and Félix Guattari. Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Trans. Robert
Hurley, et al. New York: Viking, 1977.
Hart, Jonathan. “Traces, Resistances, and Contradictions: Canadian and International
Perspectives on Postcolonial Theories.” Arachne 1.1 (1994): 69–85.
Huntington, Samuel. “The Clash of Civilizations?” Foreign Affairs Reader 72.3 (1993): 22–49.
Knight, Dianna. “Barthes and Orientalism.” New Literary History 24.3 (1993): 617–33.
Said., Edward. Orientalism. New York: Vintage, 1979.
———. Culture and Imperialism. London: Vintage, 1993.
Spivak, Gayatri C. In Other Worlds: Essays in Cultural Politics. New York: Routledge, 1988.
———. The Post-Colonial Critic: Interviews, Strategies, Dialogues. Ed. Sarah Harasym. New
York: Routledge, 1990.
Wang, Ning. “Confronting Western Influence: Rethinking Chinese Literature of the New
Period.” New Literary History 24.4 (1993): 905–26.
———. “Dongfangzhuyi, houzhiminzhuyi he wenhuabaqaunzhuyi pipan: aidehua saiyide de
houzhirninzhuyi lilun pouxi [Orientalism, Postcolonialism and the Critique of Cultural
hegemonies: A Theoretic Anatomy of Edward Said’s Postcolonial Theory].” Beijing daxue
xuebao [Journal of Peking University] 2 (1995): 54–62.
———. “Orientalism versus Occidentalism?” New Literary History 28.1 (1997): 57–67.
Zhao, Henry. “‘Houxue’ yu Zhongguo xin baoshouzhuyi [Post-isms and Chinese New
Conservatism].” Ershiyi shiji [Twenty-first Century] 2 (1995): 4–17.
———. “Post-isms and Chinese New Conservatism.” New Literary History 28.1 (1997): 31–44.
242
notes on contributors
Bill Ashcrof t is the Head of the School of English at the University of New
South Wales in Sydney, Australia. His book The Empire Writes Back, co-au-
thored with Gareth Griffiths and Helen Tiffin, was one of the first to examine
a field that is now recognized as postcolonial studies. Other research interests
include Australian literature, Australian cultural studies, critical theory and
postcolonial theories, African literature, and Indian literature.
Re y Chow is the Andrew Mellon Professor of Humanities in the Department

of Modern Culture and Media at Brown University. She is the author of many
works, including Women and Chinese Modernity (Minnesota, 1991), Writing
Diaspora (Indiana, 1993), Primitive Passions (Columbia, 1995), and Ethics
After Idealism (Indiana University Press, 1995).
Rob Cover is a lecturer in the School of English, Film, Theater and Media
Studies at Victoria University of Wellington in New Zealand. His research
interests currently focus on media theory, reception, and performative identity,
as well as queer theory, media theory, sexuality, and youth suicide.
Wendy Faith teaches for Luther College and the Department of English,
University of Regina. Her interests include theories of metaphor, contemporary
rhetorical analysis, and strategies of social empowerment. She recently pub-
lished a feminist cognitive-linguistic response to poststructuralist language
philosophy. At present, she is researching the casualization of university
teaching and lobbying to improve the working conditions of sessionals.
Monik a Fludernik is a Professor of English at the University of Freiburg.

She is the author of The Fictions of Language and the Languages of Fiction
(Routledge, 1993), Towards a ‘Natura’ Narratology (Routledge, 1996), which
won the 1996 George and Barbara Perkins Prize, and Echoes and Mirrorings:
Gabriel Josipovici’s Creative Oeuvre (Lang, 2000). Her text Narrative Structure,
1250-1750: A Genre-by-Genre Analysis is forthcoming.
Re vathi Krishnaswamy is an Assistant Professor in the Department of

English at San Jose State University in California. Her research and teaching
interests include nineteenth- and twentieth-century British fiction, colonial
and postcolonial literatures and critical theory.
245
Linked Histories
M ary L awlor is an Associate Professor of English and the Director of

American Studies at the Muhlenberg College. She is the author of Recalling
the Wild: Naturalism and the Closing of the American West (Rutgers University
Press, 2000). Her text Public Native America: Tribal Representations in
Museums, Powwows and Casinos is forthcoming and will also be published
by Rutgers.
Victor Li is an Associate Professor in the Department of English at the University

of Toronto. His teaching and research interests include contemporary theory
and criticism, postcolonial theory and literature, Modern British literature, and
globalization and culture. Li’s current research is focused on neo-primitivism
in contemporary critical thought.
Pamela McCallum is a Professor in the Department of English at the University

of Calgary. She is the author of Literature and Method, and her research
interests include literary theory and narrative, the representation of history,
and twentieth-century British literature. Her annotated edition of Raymond
Williams’s Modern Tragedy is forthcoming from Broadview Press. She is
currently editor of ARIEL.
Vijay Mishra is a Professor of English and Comparative Literatures at Murdoch

University in Australia. Among his publications are Dark Side of the Dream:
Australian Literature and the Post-Colonial Mind with Bob Hodges (Allen
& Unwin Pty. Limited, 1992), The Gothic Sublime, Devotional Poetics and
the Indian Sublime (SUNY, 1998), and Bollywood Cinema: Temples of Desire
(Routledge). He has recently completed a book-length study of the literature
of the Indian Diaspora.
Kalpana Sheshadri-Crooks is an Associate Professor of English at Boston

College, as well as Director of the Women’s Studies Program. She special-
izes in postcolonial theories, Anglophone literatures, and critical theory
with an emphasis on Marxism and psychoanalysis. Presently she is working
on a book on the concept of the “other” which will be entitled “The Other
Difference.”
Wang Ning is a Professor in the Department of Foreign Languages at Tsinghua

University. His major areas of research are concerned with modern and
postmodern Western critical theories, Anglo-American literature, com-
parative literature and cultural studies, translation and media studies, and
sinological studies.
246
inde x
a
Aboriginal peoples. See indigenous people; Altman, Dennis
Native Americans Homosexual Oppression and Liberation,
academy, 34, 92, 216 52
academic discourse, 6 Homosexualization, 51
academic freedom, 93 “On Global Queering,” 53
academic politics, 5, 7 American multiculturalism, 10
canon of the West, 36 postcolonialism and, 147
Chinese critical academic circles, 231 Americanization of the homosexual, 53
indiscriminate valorization of persons of “Americanness” as global style, 14
colour, 7, 35–36 Amin, Samir, 3, 146
metropolitan academic institutions, Amselle, Jean-Loup, 210
93–94, 96, 190, 192 Anand, Mulk Raj, Untouchables, 65, 68
Achebe, Chinua, 15, 198, 216, 223 Anderson, Benedict, Imagined Communities,
Anthills of the Savannah, 221 114
Acoma Pueblo (museum), 11, 168, 174–76, Anthills of the Savannah (Achebe), 221
178, 182 Anti-Oedipus (Deleuze and Guattari), 24–25
teaching history at, 183 anti-Oedipus (periphery to centre), 232, 235
Adam, Ian, and Helen Tiffin, Past the Last Appadurai, Arjun
Post, 18 “diasporas of hope, diasporas of terror,
aesthetic/sacred opposition, 130, 137 and diasporas of despair,” 17
aesthetics Appiah, Kwame Anthony, 92, 106, 212
commodity, 49 appropriation, 199–200
diasporic, 129, 131, 137 of language, 206
postmodern, 12 “technocratic criticism,” 191
aesthetics of monstrosity, 22–24, 32, 39. in testimonio, 202
See also fascism Apter, Emily, 146
affirmative action, 9, 150 ARIEL (A Review of International English
AIDS. See HIV/AIDS Literature), 18
Aijaz Ahmad, 101, 134, 157, 159 Armstrong, Nancy, 37–38
“Politics of Literary Postcoloniality, The,” articulation, 222–23
156 theory of, 215–16
In Theory, 156 Ashcroft, Bill, 4, 11–13, 103, 245
Akhtar, Shabbir, 136 Australia, 51, 56
Al-e A’hmad, Jalal, 127, 133 authenticity, 10–11, 147–48, 214
Plagued by the West, 131–32 cultural protectionism, 210–13
Allen, Paula Gunn, Sacred Hoop, The, 170 fascist potential, 151
Althusser, Louis, 22 in performative terms, 154
“interpellation,” 26–27 as a spatial category, 153
249
Linked Histories
authoritarianism, 24 British imperialism, 11, 194

authors Britishness, 122–24, 126, 151
author-as-genius, 9 Brixton Stories (Bandele), 18
exiled writers, 8, 93 Brooks, Peter, 149
immigrant postcolonial writers, 93, 106–7 Brydon, Diana, 18
politically engaged writers, 216 Buell, Frederick, 4
autostereotypes, 63–64, 67 Burbach, Roger, 226
Ayodhya Affair, 133–34 Burning Plain, The (Rulfo), 205
Butler, Judith
b Gender Trouble, 46
Bakhtin, Mikhail, 136, 158, 212 Bodies That Matter, 46
banci kathoey, 53 Bye-Bye Blackbird (Desai), 64, 75, 84
Bandele, Biyi, Brixton Stories, 18
Barrios de Chungara, Domatila c
Let me Speak!, 197–98 Campaign, 56
Barthes, Roland, 22 capitalism, 3, 49–50, 152, 195–96, 198
Bass, Lee, 149 anti-capitalist movement, 2
Basu, Shrabani, 132 exploitation of labour, 6
Baumgartner’s Bombay (Desai), 84 global structures of, 4
Bazin, André, “Stalin Myth in Soviet hegemony of, 199
Cinema, The,” 31–32 laissez-faire, 51
Beckford, William, Vathek, 75 neo-colonial global capitalism, 97
belonging everywhere by belonging sweatshops, 49–50, 54–56
nowhere, 101 Western bourgeois lesbian/gay
Bernabé, Jean, 220 communities and, 54
Bersani, Leo, 47 “Capitalism and Gay Identity” (D’Emilio),
Bevis, William, 174, 182 49
Bhabha, Homi, 8, 66–67, 70, 84, 130, 213, 216, Cardinal-Schubert, Joanne, “Kitchen Works:
231–32 sstorsiinao’si” (art installation), 17
Ahmad on, 156–60 Catholicism, 179–81
“Difference,” 66, 73 centre and periphery, 149–50, 152, 198–99,
gender blindness, 74 235–36. See also margins
Hardt and Negri on, 15 anti-Oedipus, 232, 235
hybrid Western-non-Western critic, 14 Chambers on, 152
hybridity, 68 Cernetig, Miro, 1
Location of Culture, The, 64, 224–25 Chambers, Iain, 123–24, 147, 153–54
metaphor of the “trans-”, 129 Border Dialogues, 125
on working class, 65 on margin/centre dichotomy, 152
Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), 133 Migrancy, Culture, Identity, 113, 151
Bhattacharya, Rimli, 127 Chamoiseau, Patrick, 220
binarism (in postcolonialism), 13 Charbonneau, Toussaint, 168–69, 171–73
Black Atlantic, The (Gilroy), 117 Chaudhuri, Nirad, 75
Black Skin, White Masks (Fanon), 64, 69 Chiapas uprising, 225
black women. See persons of colour; women as postmodern rebellion, 226
blaming the victim, 65, 67 child labour, 54
Bolivia, 197–98 China, 14–15, 236
Bombay film, 119 Japanese aggression, 22
Border Dialogues (Chambers), 125 modernization, 14, 238
Brennan, Timothy, 104, 213–14 new century, 240
Britain, 113 postmodern studies, 239
post-diaspora, 124 Chinese critical academic circles, 231
British Empire, 194 Chinese cultural identity, 240
250
inde x
Chinese culture and literature “Creole” (Žižek), 192–93

colonization, 14–15, 233, 237–38 creolization, 219–20
decolonizing, 232, 236–40 cross-cultural communicaton, 15, 239–40
Third World criticism, 232, 239 “Crusoe” (Rushdie), 115
Chinese intellectuals, 14, 238 cultural alienation, 8
Chinese literary language, 238 cultural authenticity. See authenticity
hybridized and “Europeanized” (ouhua), cultural conservatism, 239
237 cultural doubling, 181
Chinese/Western transculturation, 15 cultural hybridity. See hybridity
Chow, Rey, 5, 7, 245 cultural identity. See identity
cinema. See film cultural integration, 17
La ciudad letrada (Rama), 192 cultural materialism, 18
“Clash of Civilizations, The” (Huntington), cultural pluralism, 35–36.
240 See also multiculturalism
class, 17, 49, 77, 95, 97 cultural relativism or separatism, 13, 210,
and transnational corporatism, 55 212, 240
West/Third World differences, 50 cultural rootlessness, 81
class awareness, 52–53 cultural studies
class conflict, 158 postcolonial, 151, 171
“Class Politics” (Morton), 46 “culturally oriented criticism,” 191
class theory, 47 Czechoslovakia, 105–6
Clifford, James, 93, 211
Clive, Robert, 11 d
Colas, Santiago, 189, 192–93, 195 “Dangerous Art Form” (Rushdie), 95, 100
colonial discourse theory, 190–91, 193 Darwin, Charles, Voyage of the Beagle, 195
colonialism, 24, 37, 64, 66–68, 91, 189 De Alva, Jorge Klor
(black) women, 72–73 “Colonialism and Postcolonialism as
colonial inferiority complex, 77 (Latin) American Mirages,” 193
internalized, 66 De Certeau, Michel, 184
Third World anti-colonialist struggle, 233, Practice of Everday Life, The, 183
235 de-historicizing, 158, 160
white supremacy, 65 decolonization, 96, 107, 148, 238–39
women, 69–70, 72–74 Third World, 148, 192
“Colonialism and Postcolonialism as (Latin) decolonized intellectuals, 213
American Mirages” (De Alva), 193 deconstructio, 161
colonization, 192, 196 Delany, Samuel R., Motion of Light in Water,
of Chinese language and literature, 14–15, The, 34
233, 237–38 Deleuze, Gilles, 26, 232
Latin America, 193–94 Anti-Oedipus, 24–25
Third World, 53 D’Emilio, John, 50
communications technology, 3, 53, 117 “Capitalism and Gay Identity,” 49
communist art, 29, 31 class awareness, 53
Communist Manifesto (Marx), 16 demotic resistance, 13, 213–16, 223
comprador intelligentsia, 92 demotic voice, 225
Confiant, Raphael, 220 demotic wisdom, 221
Conquest, The (Dye), 170 deregulation, 2
constructionist trends (of queer theory), 46 Derrida, Jacques, 46
contingency, 156, 158–60 Of Grammatology, 234
cosmopolitan celebrities, 93, 106. Desai, Anita
See also writers Baumgartner’s Bombay, 84
cosmopolitanism, 216 Bye-Bye Blackbird, 64, 75, 84
Cover, Rob, 6, 245 desire theory, 46, 49–50, 52, 58
251
Linked Histories
deterritorialization, 2, 232, 239 European modernity, 194

Dhareshwar, Vivek, 214 “Evidence of Experience, The” (Scott), 33
diaspora, 8–9, 94–95, 99, 106, 113, 122 exhibitionism, 27
of colour, 112 exile, 63, 76–81, 93–94, 99, 111
“diasporas of hope, diasporas of terror, and artistic consciousness, 101
and diasporas of despair,” 17 exiled writer, 8
diasporic aesthetic, 131, 137 fatwa, 9, 115, 118, 127, 130, 136
diasporic archive, 115 Rushdie’s interpretation of, 102
diasporic avant-garde, 118–21 Said on, 215
diasporic consciousness, 93 working class, 7
diasporic ideology, 136 exoticism, 68–69, 75–76, 176, 182
diasporic imaginary, 138–39 experience
dual narrative of, 127 in deconstructing universalist claims, 34,
gender relations, 120–21 37
Hinduism in, 127
and the idea of the sacred, 126–27, 129 f
Indian-Pakistani, 114–15, 124 Faith, Wendy, 245
justice for, 139 Faiyazuddin Ahmad, 135
millenarianism, 125–26 Fanon, Frantz, 64–66, 70, 72, 84, 190
and the nation state, 130, 137 Black Skin, White Masks, 64, 69
postcolonial, 93 Faruqi, M. H., 135
Salman Rushdie’s writing, 115–18, 126–29 “Fascinating Fascism” (Sontag), 29
Spivak and, 155 fascism, 5, 34, 37, 123, 133, 151
Diaspora (journal), 114 aesthetics of monstrosity, 22–24, 32, 39
“Difference” (Bhabba), 66 association with film, 26–28, 31, 33
differend, 8, 114–15, 130–33, 137–38, 140 Foucault on, 21, 24
India, 134 as Freudian projection, 24–26, 28, 30
Differend, The (Lyotard), 137 Hitler and Mussolini, 24–25, 33
Dirlik, Arif, 3–4, 95, 146, 224 idealizing tendencies, 22–23, 29–31, 33, 36
Disney, 2, 55 “in us all,” 24
During, Simon, 2, 13, 209–10, 213–14, 223–24 internalized violence, 25–26, 29
Dye, Eva Emery, Conquest, The, 170 Japanese, 22–23
Nazis, 23–25, 33
e new liberal fascism, 5, 37–39
economic refugees, 7 technology and, 22–23, 27, 33
education, 199, 217 visual associations, 22
Elsaesser, Thomas, 27, 36 fascist aesthetics.
“to be is to be perceived,” 28 See aesthetics of monstrosity
Emperor’s new clothes, 34–36 fascist art, 29–30
Empire (Hardt), 15–16 Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, 27–28, 36
Empire Writes Back, The (Ashcroft et al.), 4, fatwa, 9, 115, 118, 127, 130, 136
103, 193 Faurisson, Robert, 137
Englishness. See Britishness Fear of a Queer Planet (Warner), 46
Enlightenment, 133, 135–36, 194–96, 199 female body
essentialism, 13, 54 about desiring, 57
ethnic identities, 124, 127. See also race cheap labour, 97
exclusion in lesbian/gay media, 57 for reproduction, 57
ethnic/minority studies, 9 West versus non-West, 57
Euro-American publishers and readers, 92 film, 26–28, 33, 39
Eurocentrism, 4, 98, 194–95 black British cinema, 152
European avant-garde, 118 Bombay film, 119
European cities, 113. See also metropolitan idealizing power of, 31
252
inde x
Fludernik, Monika, 6–7, 245 Guardian, The, 136

Foot, Michael, 136 Guatemala, 217–18
forge, 17–18 Guattari, Félix, 24–26, 232
Foucault, Michel, 21, 24, 46, 66, 156 Guess clothing, 55
Order of Things, The, 155 Guide, The (Narayan), 68
Power/Knowledge, 54 Gupta, Sunetra
Fourth World narratives, 11 Glassblower’s Breath, The, 82–84
France, 113 Memories of Rain, 65
free-labour system of the West, 49–50, 52
freedom of expression, 9 h
Freud, Sigmund, 27 Habermas, Jürgen, 160
Freudian projection, 24–26, 28, 30 Philosophical Discourse, 195
Freudian psychoanalysis, 71–72 Hall, Stuart, 152, 161, 215–16
Fuentes, Carlos, “Words Apart,” 136 Hardt, Michael, Empire, 15–16
Harvey, David, 3
g Hebard, Grace, 169
G8, 2 Heidegger, Martin, 33
Gandhi, Rajiv, 135 Hennessy, Rosemary, 49, 57
Gap clothing, 2, 55 Materialist Feminism, 50
Gates, Henry Louis, Jr., 214 “Queer Visibility,” 52, 55
gay/lesbian. See lesbian/gay hetero-normativity, 46
Gay Liberation Front, 53 heterogeneity, 124, 138, 180.
gaze of history, 204 See also hybridity
gender, 73–74. See also women Kantian sublime as, 139
in colonial scenario, 64, 69–70, 72–74 heterosexuality, 46
in diaspora, 120–21 heterostereotypes, 64, 67
immigration and, 95, 97 Hinduism in the diaspora, 127
Gender Trouble, Bodies That Matter (Butler), Hirohito, Emperor, 32
46 Hiroshima, 32
Giddens, Anthony, 196 historical gaze, 204
Gilroy, Paul, Black Atlantic, The, 117 historicism, 203
Glassblower’s Breath, The (Gupta), 82–84 historicization, 160
Glissant, Edouard, 216, 218, 221, 223 historiography, 184
views on creolization, 219–20 history, 159, 167–68, 175–76, 178, 199–201, 203
global capitalism de-historicizing, 158, 160
recirculation of old colonial categories, 7 gaze of, 204
global migration. See migrancy; migration Native American, 11, 167–83
global professional elite, 81–82 postcolonial theory, 192–93
global queer identity, 55 Hitler, Adolf, 24–26, 33
globalism, 196 HIV/AIDS, 47–48, 53, 55
globalization, 15, 18, 197 Holland, 113
cultural, 239 Holocaust, 137
euphemism for imperialism, 3 “home,” 112
implications for postcolonial studies, 2 homelessness, 151
linguistic and discursive, 14 “homing in,” 174, 182
new economics of, 2 Homosexual Oppression and Liberation
Godwin, William, Political Justice, 129 (Altman), 52
Goteburg, 2 homosexualism. See also lesbian/gay
Gramsci, Antonio Americanization, 53
“Study of Philosophy, The,” 158 Homosexualization (Altman), 51
“Great East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere,” 24 Howard, Harold, 171
Griffiths, Gareth, 4 Hulme, Peter, 194
253
Linked Histories
human rights, 54, 203 exoticist discourse, 75

Huntington, Samuel, “Clash of Civilizations, orientalist stereotyping, 75
The,” 240 India Today, 132
hybrid Western-non-Western postcolonial Indian-Pakistani diaspora in Britain, 114–15
critics, 235 Indian Penal Code, 126, 134
hybridity, 7, 11, 63, 67–69, 81, 115, 117–18, 130, Indian secular law, 135
151, 153–54, 156–58, 211, 215, 237. indigenous people, 17, 182, 213.
See also creolization; heterogeneity See also Native Americans
among indigenous people, 182 culture, 2, 67
Hyundai, 55 displacement within settler societies, 16
hybridity, 182
i kiva, 179–80
I, Rigoberta Menchú, 200 Maoris, 210, 223–25
idealism, 22–23, 29–32 Quiché Indians, 202
in film, 33 information revolution, 3
identity, 34, 46, 147, 158, 160, 192, 218 ‘intellectual other,’ 192
based on difference, 214–15 intellectuals, 222, 224, 231. See also academy
Britishness, 122–24, 126, 151 Chinese, 14, 238
cultural doubling, 181 comprador intelligentsia, 92
cultural linguistic, 220–21 contemporary white liberal, 38
ethnic, 57, 124, 127 decolonized, 213
indigenous, 182 diasporic Indian intellectuals, 209
lesbian/gay, 54–55 embattled figures of exile, 101
Native, 10–11, 215 global professional elite, 81–82
postcolonial, 181 immigrant, 92, 96, 99
social identities, 27, 130 intinerant postcolonial intellectual, 92
“Identity, Authority and Freedom” (Said), 93 metropolitan postcolonial intellectuals, 224
identity politics, 12, 112, 212, 215 migrant postcolonial intellectuals, 98–99
Imaginary Homelands (Rushdie), 124, 137 Third World intellectuals, 36–37, 91,
“the imaginary puritan,” 37 94–95, 233–36
Imagined Communities (Anderson), 114 “Intellectuals in the Post-Colonial World”
imagological analysis, 63–84 (Said), 161
immigrant writers, 106 intercultural homelessness, 64
uncritical privileging of, 107 internalized colonialism, 66
immigrants. See also migrancy internalized violence. See under fascism
class/gender differentiated histories, 95, International Monetary Fund, 2
97 interpellation, 26–27, 33, 154
economic refugees, 7 interpolation, 198, 200–204
intellectuals, 96, 99 Inuit craft-producing co-operatives, 211
New Commonwealth, 130 Invention of America, The (O’Gorman), 191
postcolonial immigrant intellectual, 92, Iran, 132
98–99 Irving, David, 137
Third World, 93 Islam, 120, 136
working class, 97 Islamic fundamentalists/Western literati
imperialism, 3–4, 122, 124, 194–96, 198 divide, 8
contemporary Empire, 15
cultural, 106 j
Spanish, 11 Jain, Madhu, 132
“In Praise of Creoleness” (Bernabé), 220 Jameson, Fredric, 3, 38, 94, 236
In Theory (Ahmad), 156 Japanese, 22, 26
India, 234 Jefferson, Thomas, 173
differend, 134 Johnson, Barbara, 161
254
inde x
k Latin American intellectual integrity, 191

Kant, Immanuel, 133, 139 Latin American Research Review, 190
Kaplan, Alice Yaeger, 31 Lawlor, Mary, 10–11, 246
Reproductions of Banality, 26 lesbian/gay, 51. See also queer theory
Keats, John, 139 cash and, 52
Keesing, Roger, 225 exclusion of women, 52, 57
Khomeini, Ruhollah, 99, 115, 118, 130, 135 global queer identity, 55
“Kitchen Works: sstorsiinao’si” identity, 54–55
(art installation), 17 marketing, 6, 55
kiva, 179–80 middle class, 51, 53
Krishnaswamy, Revathi, 7–8, 245 “powergays,” 52
Kundera, Milan, 105 survival outside the family, 49–51
sweatshop labour and, 45, 53–54
l Third World gay/lesbians, 53
labour, 6, 113. See also working-class white middle-class male dominance, 52,
child, 54 58
female body as cheap labour, 97 lesbian/gay discourse, 56.
free-labour system of the West, 49–50, 52, See also queer theory
58 lack of class analysis, 50, 52
global division of, 3 “Queer” in, 46
global trade in, 7 lesbian/gay media, 6, 46, 51–52, 56, 58
sweatshop labour, 45, 49–50, 54–56 exclusion of non-white ethnicities, 57
Third World, 12, 50 exclusion of women, 52, 57
Laclau, Ernesto, 26, 159–60 lesbian/gay studies, 48
Politics and Ideology in Marxist Theory, 25 Let me Speak! (Barrios de Chungara), 197–98
Lady Chatterley’s Lover, 131 Levi Strauss (corporation), 55–56
laissez-faire capitalism, 51 Lewis and Clark expedition, 168–69, 171–73
language, 15, 191, 200, 205–6 Li, Victor, 13–14, 18, 246
appropriation of, 198 liberal democratic societies, 53
Chinese literary, 237–38 liberal humanism, 9
creolization, 219–20 liberal politics, 51
cultural linguistic identity, 220–21 linguistic and discursive globalization, 14
English, 14 Lionnet, Françoise, 212
linguistic and discursive globalization, 14 Location of Culture, The (Bhabha), 64,
metropolitan vernacular, 151 224–25
power to construct and dominate, 192 Lolita, 131
transculturation, 212, 220 “Lost Woman.” See Sacajawea
transparency of, 12 Lyotard, Jean-François, 8, 115, 130–31, 138–40
late capitalism, 152 Differend, The, 137
Latin America
Chiapas uprising, 225–26 m
colonization, 12, 193–94 Magee, John, 22
economies, 197 Magee’s Testament (video), 22–23
globalism, 196 magic realism, 13, 18
ideology, 192 Mahabharata, 119
literary criticism, 190 mainstream Western culture, 234
modernity, 194–95 La Malinche, 170
postcolonialism, 189–90, 192–93 Mao Zedong, 33
Spanish imperialism, 11 Maoris, 210, 223–25
testimonio, 12–13, 200–203, 206, 216, 218 Marcusean class/psychoanalytic theory, 53
transculturation, 198, 200 marginality, 5, 9, 96, 155, 160
Latin American historians and critics, 191 marginalized (divergent group), 16
255
Linked Histories
margins, 100, 114–16, 150–51, 154, 156, 161, modernist literary movements, 237
200. See also centre and periphery modernity, 12, 154, 194–99, 237
Martinique, 219 European, 194
Marx, Karl, 18, 157 monocentrism, 4
Communist Manifesto, 16 monstrous aesthetics. See aesthetics of
Marxism, 156, 160 monstrosity
mass demonstrations, 2 Montaigne, Michel de, “On Cannibals,” 195
Mass Psychology of Fascism, The (Reich), 25 Morton, Donald, 47–50
Materialist Feminism (Hennessy), 50 “Class Politics,” 46
materialist queer theory, 48–50, 56–57 Motion of Light in Water, The (Delany), 34
materialist theory, 6 Mowitt, John, 15
McCallum, Pamela, 246 Moyer, Carrie, 51
McDonalds, 55 Mukherjee, Bharati, 98, 102
McGowan, John, 215 Middleman and Other Stories, 93
media, 37 Mukherjee, Meenakshi, 103
international media market, 92 Mulruan/Nash (advertising co.), 51
lesbian/gay media, 6, 46, 51–52, 56–58 multiculturalism, 34, 122, 130, 146, 150, 240
Memmi, Albert, 64 American, 10, 147
Memories of Rain (Gupta), 65 idealizing tendencies of, 22
Menchú, Rigoberta, 202–4, 206, 217, 223, 226 Taylor’s notion of, 148–49
testimonio, 216, 218 multitude, 16
mestizos, 204 museum-archive, 168, 175
metaphor, 99, 113, 127, 205 museum curators, 210. See also native-
of nationhood, 156 hosted museums
of the “trans-”, 129 music, 78, 117, 119, 152, 154, 212
of visibility, 34 Muslim Sharia laws, 135
metonymy, 204 Mussolini, Benito, 24, 33
metropolitan academic institutions, 93–94, mysticism, 24
96, 190, 192
metropolitan postcolonial intellectuals, 224 n
metropolitan postcolonial theory, 210, 224 Nagasaki, 32
metropolitan theory, 213 Naipaul, V. S., 102–3, 115, 126
metropolitan vernacular, 151 Nair, Rukmini, 127
Middleman and Other Stories (Mukherjee), Nandy, Ashis, 127
93 Nanjing Massacre, 22
Midnight’s Children (Rushdie), 104–5 Narayan, R. K., Guide, The, 68
Mignolo, Walter, 191–92 nation-states, 3–4, 130, 196–97
migrancy, 7–8, 16, 91–106, 115. crisis of, 149
See also immigrants subjection to world capital, 14
class and gender, 95, 97 transnational nature of, 114
global politics of, 127 nation theory, 47
postcolonial work on, 81 national subsistence, 3
Migrancy, Culture, Identity (Chambers), nationalism, 67, 91, 148
113, 151 Native Americans, 168.
migration, 10, 16, 63, 112–13, 119 See also indigenous people
millenarian narratives, 117, 120, 141n6 feminine authority, 170
millenarianism, 125–26 history and identity, 10–11, 215
mimicry, 15, 68, 102, 113, 224 maintaining history and culture, 168, 183
Mishra, Vijay, 8–9, 246 self-representation in public culture
misogyny, 71–72 (See Native-hosted museums)
mobility, 127 Shoshone people, 168–69, 171
modernism, 101–2 native authenticity, 213
256
inde x
Native-hosted museums, 10–11 p

Acoma Pueblo, 11, 168, 174–76, 178, 182–83 Parry, Benita, 213–14
tourism, 10, 176–77, 181 Past the Last Post (Adam), 18
Wind River, 11, 167–68, 171–74, 183 patriarchy, 6, 49, 173
nativism, 13, 95, 151, 215 Pedro Paramo (Rulfo), 205
Nazis, 23–24, 26. See also fascism periphery, 198–99, 235–36
needs theory, 46–50 persons of colour, 37
negative freedom, 214–15, 219 black women, 72
Negri, Antonio, 15–16 indiscriminate embrace of, 39
Negritude, 151 as self-evidently correct, 35
neo-colonial global capitalism, 97 white liberal enthusiasm for, 36
neo-colonialism, 3, 97, 106, 236 Philosophical Discourse (Habermas), 195
New Commonwealth immigrants, 130 Plagued by the West (Ahmad), 131–32
new liberal facism, 5, 37–39 Pocahontas, 170
New York Times, 149 political correctness, 36–37
Ngugi wa Thiong’o Political Justice (Godwin), 129
Ngaahika Ndeenda (I Will Marry When I politically engaged writers, 216
Want), 65 Politics and Ideology in Marxist Theory
Nietzsche, Friedrich, 195 (Laclau), 25
ressentiment, 25 “politics of criticism,” 161
Nike running shoes, 2, 55 “Politics of Literary Postcoloniality, The”
Ning, Wang, 246 (Ahmad), 156
Nobel Peace Prize, 216 “Politics of Recognition, The” (Taylor), 147
noble savage, 11, 170, 182 “politics of representation,” 153
North American academy. See academy politics of resistance, 18
North American Free Trade Agreement populism, 24
(NAFTA), 226 post-Chinese studies (hou guoxue), 239
postcolonial analysis, 205
o postcolonial differend, 114, 130, 137
Oedipus, 25 postcolonial literature, 92, 94, 104
Of Grammatology (Derrida), 234 postcolonial politics, 94–95, 107
O’Gorman, Edmundo, 192 postcolonial studies, 66, 146, 149, 161–62
Invention of America, The, 191 as academic radicalism, 160
“On Cannibals” (Montaigne), 195 Oriental or Third World scholars, 233–34
“On Global Queering” (Altman), 53 status as disciplinary field, 18
oral narratives, 15, 168, 201 postcolonial theory, 115, 213, 233–36
Order of Things, The (Foucault), 155 demotic resistance, 213–16, 223
Oriental and Third World intellectuals, 233, as hegemonic, 13
236 metropolitan, 210, 224
Oriental archives in the West, 133 relevance to indigenous struggles, 213
Orientalism or Oriental studies, 95, 232, 234, speaking for the oppressed, 209
236, 238 postcolonialism, 12, 91, 103, 112, 151, 154, 196,
Orientalism (Said), 156, 190, 234 201, 232, 240
orientalist stereotyping, 75 association with postmodernism, 96, 158,
exoticist/orientalist scenario, 68–69 160
Ortega y Gasset, José, 24 China, 231–36
Ortiz, Fernando, 200 connection with multiculturalism,
Other, 7, 37–38, 130, 192, 219, 225 146–47, 149–50
OutRage, 56 Latin American, 192–93
“powergays,” 52 Marxist criticism, 150, 156
and poststructuralism, 190, 232
257
Linked Histories
“Postcoloniality and the Boundaries of Rama, Angel

Identity” (Radhakrishnan), 160 La ciudad letrada, 192
postmodern and postcolonial “celebrities,” 8 Transculturacion narrativa en America
postmodernism, 91, 94, 96, 101–2, 104, 150, Latin, 200
156–57, 160 transculturation, 205
postmodern aestheticism, 12 Rama, myth of, 125
postmodernity, 195–96 recognition, 147
poststructuralist philosophy (Queer theory Reich, Wilhelm, 26
and), 46 Mass Psychology of Fascism, The, 25
poststructuralism, 74, 190, 192, 232 representation, 201
poststructuralism/postmodernism, 96, 101 Reproductions of Banality (Kaplan), 26
Poulantzas, Nicos, 26 residential schools, 17
Powell, Enoch, 122, 124 resistance in a globalized world, 16
Power and the Glory, The, 131 ressentiment, 25, 27
Power/Knowledge (Foucault), 54 Riefenstahl, Leni, 29, 39
“powergays,” 52 Roberts, John, 169
Practice of Everday Life, The (De Certeau), Rouse, Roger, 149
183 Rulfo, Juan, 206
Prague, 2 Burning Plain, The, 205
Pratt, Mary Louise, 212 Pedro Paramo, 205
Presley, Elvis, 211 Rushdie, Salman, 7, 93, 96–97, 113–14, 131
progress, 54, 213 anti-racist rhetoric, 125
bourgeois myth of, 12 appropriation into British citizenry, 125
Protestantism, 181 classist and sexist biases, 104
“Crusoe,” 115
q “Dangerous Art Form,” 95, 100
Quayson, Ato, 15 fatwa, 9, 99, 127, 130
Quebec City, 2 formulation of migrancy, 98–103
“Queer” in lesbian/gay discourse, 46 Imaginary Homelands, 124, 137
queer middle-class people. See lesbian/gay Iranian furore against, 120
queer theory, 46 Midnight’s Children, 104–5
absence of “class,” 45–46 politico-aesthetics, 99
desire-based, 50 postcolonial immigrant intellectual, 92
lack of race in, 47 Satanic Verses, The, 8–9, 102, 104, 115–19,
materialist queer theory, 48–50, 56–57 121, 124–32, 134–35
as over universalizing, 47 Shame, 104–5
Third World and, 45 Rushdie Affair, 126, 130–38, 140
“Queer Visibility” (Hennessy), 55
“Queer with Class” (Cover), 6 s
Quiché Indians, 202 Sacajawea, 180, 182–83
cultural value among Indian people, 170
r as figure of feminine independence, 174
race, 16. See also ethnic identities “homing in,” 174
Britishness, 122, 124, 126, 151 icon of U.S. romantic nationalism, 170
linguistic difference, 122 later life, 174, 182
racialized politics, 127 Lewis and Clark expedition, 168–69,
racism, 69–70, 98, 182 171–73
Euro-American, 7 in mainstream history, 169
new racism in Britain, 122 sacred, the, 126–27
Radhakrishnan, R., 161 Sacred Hoop, The (Allen), 170
“Postcoloniality and the Boundaries of Said, Edward, 13–14, 37, 146, 215, 231–32
Identity,” 160 “Identity, Authority and Freedom,” 93
258
inde x
“Intellectuals in the Post-Colonial World,” Stalinist trials

161 retroaction, 31–32
Orientalism, 156, 190, 234 “Stonewall69,” 53
“Third World Intellectuals and subalternity, 5, 7
Metropolitan Culture,” 93, 95 surveillance (and political correctness),
Satanic Verses, The (Rushdie), 8–9, 102, 104, 36–37
115–18, 121, 124, 127–31, 134–35 suttee, 69, 75
migration in, 119 sweatshop labour, 49–50, 54–58
responses to, 132 corporal punishment, 54–55
and the sacred, 126 human rights, 54
scholastic postcolonialism, 6 in lesbian/gay discourse, 45
Schor, Naomi, 146
Scott, Joan, “Evidence of Experience, The,” t
33–34 Taylor, Charles, 148–49, 154, 158
Seattle, 2 “Politics of Recognition, The,” 147
Seed, Patricia, 190 “technocratic criticism,” 191
segregation, 13 technologies of cultural transmission, 3,
Seshadri-Crooks, Kalpana, 9–10, 13, 246 53, 117
settler societies, 10, 12, 16–17 technology, 22–23, 27, 33
sexuality, 37. See also lesbian/gay Tempest, The (Shakespeare), 195
Euro-American discourse on, 53 Tennenhouse, Leonard, 37–38
heterosexuality, 46 testimonio, 12–13, 18, 200–203, 205–6
homosexualism, 53 appropriations, 202
sexualization of women (commodity “zone of indeterminacy,” 200
aesthetics), 49 Thatcher, Margaret, 124
Shah Bano case, 135 “Third World culture,” 236
Shahabuddin, Syed, 132–35 Third World intellectuals, 36, 91, 94–95,
Shakespeare, William, Tempest, The, 195 234–35. See also persons of colour
Shame (Rushdie), 104–5 as other, 37
shared histories (or linked histories), 17 postcolonialism, 234
Shaw, Anna Howard, 170 “Third World Intellectuals and Metropolitan
Shoshone people, 168–69, 171 Culture” (Said), 93
Shoshone Tribal Cultural Center, 167, 169, “Third World Intellectuals” (Said), 95
172 Third World literature
Shree (film), 116, 119 as “national allegory,” 38
Slemon, Stephen, 13 Third World sweatshop. See sweatshop
Smith, Anna Marie, 122 labour
social activists, 216 Tiffin, Helen, 4, 18
social identities, 27, 130 Tölölyan, Khachig, 114
socialism, 24 tourism, 176–77
Solomon Islands, 225 traditionalism, 179
Sontag, Susan, 30–31 “traffic in female flesh,” 7
“Fascinating Fascism,” 29 Transculturacion narrativa en America Latin
Spanish imperialism (Latin America), 11 (Rama), 200
Spivak, Gayatri, 96, 118, 155–57, 194, 213–14, transculturation, 7, 15, 198, 200, 205–6, 212, 220
231–32 Chinese/Western, 15
“anti-Oedipus” (periphery to centre), 235 language, 212, 220
as “hybrid Western-non-Western” critic, transnational corporations
14 lesbian and gay marketing, 55
reputation in China, 234 marketing strategies, 49
“Stalin Myth in Soviet Cinema, The” (Bazin), pro-lesbian/gay strategies, 47
31–32 sweatshop labour, 50
259
transnationalism, 149 sexualization, 49
transparency, 33 victim and monster stereotypes, 69
transparency of language, 12 “Words Apart” (Fuentes), 136
truthfulness of the text, 12 working-class, 52, 65. See also labour
working-class exiles, 7
u working-class immigrants, 97
Untouchables (Anand), 65, 68 World Bank, 2
U.S., 149, 173 world music, 152
presidential campaigns, 33 World Trade Organization, 2
“worlding” of modern Europe, 194–95
v writers
Vathek (Beckford), 74 author-as-genius, 9
Vidal, Hernán, 190–91 exiled writer as a “champion of the
Vietnam War, 2 oppressed,” 8
violence, 29 immigrant postcolonial writers, 106–7
repressive violence (of Western society), 25 politically engaged, 107
against women in Third World, 49
Virilio, Paul, War and Cinema, 33 y
visual technology, 28. See also film Yudice, George, 150, 217
Voyage of the Beagle (Darwin), 195
z
w Žižek, Slavoj, “Creole,” 192
Wadze-Wipe. See Sacajawea
Wallerstein, Immanuel, 197–98
Wang, Fengzhen, 14
Wang, Ning, 14–15
War and Cinema (Virilio), 33
Warner, Michael, 47
Fear of a Queer Planet, 46
Western cultural hegemony, 50, 149, 234, 236
Western forms of knowledge
dominance of, 15
Western hegemony, 153
“Western imperialism,” 36
Western liberalism, 9, 133, 149
multiculturalism in, 147
Western universities. See academy
Westernization, 131–32.
See also Americanization
Wilton, Tasmin, 48
Wind River Indian Reservation, 11, 167–68,
171–74, 183
women, 49, 55, 121. See also gender;
lesbian/gay
black, 72
female body, 7, 57, 97
migrancy, 97
misogyny, 71–72
position as immigrants, 97
poverty of non-heterosexual women, 52
in Salman Rushdie’s writing, 104
sexuality, 71

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postcolonial studies in a gobalized world

Edited by Pamela McCallum & Wendy Faith

No part of this publication may be Library and ArcHIVes of Canada

We acknowledge the financial 1 Postcolonialism.

Cover design, Mieka West.

This book is printed on 60 lb.

Many colleagues have assisted us in preparing this book. We are grateful to

pamel a mccallum & wendy faith

of the British presence in East Asia. Peasant farmers braving unexploded

will postcolonial contests for self-representation and equality be diminished

be particularly vigilant against the comforting illusion that postcolonial

colonialism,” avoids the contaminating touch of the impure, vilified other;

in the circulation of long-standing colonial clichés. Within Western cosmo-

on the personal and psychological trials of migrancy. Moreover, as a means

fatwa against Rushdie originated in the diaspora – in Bradford – and not in

inclusion of the Latin American paradigm. Although he concedes that the

colonial paradigm and its testimonio allows Ashcroft to redefine postcolonial

the awareness that it is “unnecessary” – indeed, futile – to use it to combat

very conditions of possibility” (150). If the historical divisions of colonizer

gender, or geographical location. One strategy might be to develop Arjun

material conditions at work in the making of the contemporary world. Such

In Brydon’s formulations, the “post” in postcolonial does not signal a move-

Fascism is not the prohibition of saying

The Fascist Longings

also the major conceptual paths through which denunciation is produced.

rending wounds, amputations, disabilities, and deaths. I was struck most of

Projection I: The Violence “In Us All”

not-A” (qtd. in Laclau 81–82). The extreme logical conclusion to this is that

Nicos Poulantzas’s well-known study of fascism is precisely that Poulantzas

What is internalized in the age of film is the very projectional mechanism

standing there, observed by “the eye of the world.” The massive

In Elsaesser’s phrase “to be is to be perceived,” we see that projection, instead

Projection II: Angels of Light

of that imaginary and metaphoric change between external and internal

Insofar as she identifies the positive messages of fascism as an inalienable

positivistic-and-self-evident. The beautiful images are not images that hide

According to the Soviet “Stalinist” communist perspective, no one can

By inserting this discussion of the logic of totalitarian interrogation in an

To paraphrase Virilio, we might add that fascism is an engraving with light

The Story of O, or, the New Fascism

flagrantly irresponsible environment of “cultural pluralism” that nurtures

amount to how not to “go native.” 22 As Armstrong and Tennenhouse argue,

Queer Theory and Class/Race

social responsibilities in places as diversely located as Bosnia, Somalia, and

Materialist Queer Theory

Gay/Lesbian Capitalist World and the Global Diaspora

security (11–12). Further, the possibility of establishing a community and

working-class people are not in a position to be members of a supposedly

a Marcusean class/psychoanalytic theory and made strong suggestions that

This global essentialist lesbian/gay identity, which is so strongly posited in

sweatshop labour conditions – Guess clothing, Gap clothing, Levi Strauss

Materialist Queer Theory and Absence (political economy)

order to maintain finances for ongoing publication. While it might seem an

Materialist Queer Theory and Absence (the competing spectacle)

Although postcolonial issues and terminology form the frame of my analysis,

the discipline of imagology.4 It is no coincidence that poststructuralist ap-

The Colonial Scenario

of the colonial scenario as the sweeper Bakha’s adoration of things British

It is therefore quite intriguing to trace the interpenetration of economic