Not Another Cog in the Biopolitical Machine: K. Ceres Wright and Afrofuturist Cyberfunk



Not Another Cog in the Biopolitical Machine: K. Ceres Wright and Afrofuturist Cyberfunk

Graham J. Murphy

The cyberpunk movement has a well-documented history [1] that I’ll gloss over as an introduction to this paper. First, although there are plenty of literary precursors to the movement’s emergence in the early-1980s, including (but not limited to) Samuel Delany, Harlan Ellison, J. G. Ballard, John Brunner, James Tiptree, Jr., Joanna Russ, Philip K. Dick, and Thomas Pynchon, cyberpunk’s oft-cited core is the quintet of William Gibson, Bruce Sterling, Rudy Rucker, Lewis Shiner, and John Shirley. Thanks in part to such editors as Ellen Datlow, Gardner Dozois, and Stephen Brown, these newcomers’ writings brought them into one another’s orbit and the impact of their fictional output was quickly irrefutable, particularly after Gibson’s Neuromancer (1984) became the first novel to win the Philip K. Dick Award (1984), Hugo Award (1985), and Nebula Award (1985) for Best Novel. Print-based cyberpunk soon expanded its roster, chiefly thanks to the marketing savviness of Bruce Sterling and his edited collection Mirrorshades: The Cyberpunk Anthology (1986). Meanwhile, cyberpunk’s dominant visual splendor—i.e., the simultaneously sprawling but also vertical cities; the overlay of virtual and ‘real’ worlds; the proliferation of cyborgs, virtual entities, and artificial intelligences; etc. [2]—was codified by a trifecta of Hollywood films: TRON (dir. Steven Lisberger, 1982), Blade Runner (dir. Ridley Scott, 1982), and Videodrome (dir. David Cronenberg, 1983). In his coverage of Blade Runner, Scott Bukatman remarked that “cyberpunk provided the image of the future in the 1980s […] the aesthetic of cyberpunk was almost defined by Blade Runner (58:50), although Scott admits he inherited this aesthetic in part from the visual stylings of French cartoonist Jean “Moebius” Giraud, particularly his illustrations for Dan O’Bannon’s “The Long Tomorrow” published in Métal Hurlant #7 and #8 (1976) before being republished in English in Heavy Metal #4 and #5 (1977). [3] Finally, Brian Ruh writes that “Japanese elements permeate many of this mode’s foundational texts, and Japan continues to produce many important cyberpunk examples that push the ideas and concepts central to this mode, particularly as the synthesis of human and machine so central to cyberpunk’s core becomes more and more a part of our quotidian realities” (401). It is this quotidian reality—i.e., a reality (or realities) that many (including myself) have argued looks increasingly cyberpunk-ish—that fuels not only the ongoing engagement with cyberpunk motifs by successive waves of (literary, cinematic, acoustic, and so forth) artists but the adaptation and evolution of these motifs to suit contemporary conditions. It is within these cyberpunk currents that we can locate sf newcomer K. Ceres Wright.

As per her online bio, Wright “received her master’s degree in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University and her published cyberpunk novel, Cog [2013], was her thesis for the program” (“About”). In addition to Cog, she has written a handful of short stories for various anthologies and she recently founded the Diverse Writers and Artists of Speculative Fiction (DWASF), an educational group appealing to “underrepresented creatives in the genres of science fiction, fantasy, horror, and all of their related subgenres.” She is currently the organization’s president. Finally, as she has remarked to the Midwest Black Speculative Fiction Alliance, cyberpunk has been foundational to her craft: she first encountered Gibson’s Neuromancer in the early 2000s, and Cog was a deliberate attempt to write in a Gibsonian vein, although she is by no means merely copying Gibson’s work, either then or now (“Interview”).

Let me circle back to why I’m focusing on Wright, and it has to do with what Isiah Lavender III has written about Steven Barnes, whose contributions to cyberpunk have “gone largely overlooked, in part because of the mode’s monochromatism” (14). Specifically, writing on Barnes’s Streetlethal (1983), Lavender positions Barnes as “the only Black cyberpunk writer working in the heyday of [cyberpunk’s] first iteration” (14). More to the point, however, Barnes’s work foreshadowed “Afrocyberpunk or cyberfunk, recent divergences made by black writers from cyberpunk’s norms” (Lavender, “Critical” 308). Wright epitomizes these recent divergences in her Afrofuturist cyberpunk, although I’ll come back to that term in a minute. In the meantime, consider her short story “Talismaner” (2021) which is set on the planet Yemaya, named after the Ocean Mother Goddess in Santería, an Afro-Caribbean religion practiced around the world whose roots stretch to the Yoruba religion (Snider). The story follows Tala, who is scrabbling to pull herself and her family out of the slums of Waneta, and in so doing she turns to techno-biological implants so she can become a shamhack, someone who can hack  into the planet’s atmospheric waves and siphon energy, albeit illegally and with inconsistent reliability. After her implants, however, Tala learns she is a Talismaner, a once-in-a-lifetime shamhack who can not only draw forth energy but pull objects through energy conduits and even move people through space. Of course, her abilities draw the attention of the powerful socio-economic elites, and although Tala’s life is threatened, she also portends a brighter future because she can make meaningful change for those disenfranchised by the current socio-economic cleavages that define Yemaya’s social fabric.

Meanwhile, in Wright’s story “Mission: Surreality,” the protagonist is Concordat, an information broker, street hustler, and nascent rebel who lives in the City, a sprawling urban city made of “20 million souls, 1500 different species all crammed together in plascrete and biosteel” (Davis, “Welcome”). Tellingly, every person in the City is implanted with the Tell, a series of subdermal techno-organic implants that allow Cityzens to access a cyberspatial network called the Wave; unfortunately, the Tell also allows Watchers to monitor Cityzens to ensure compliance with the City’s rules. When a Cityzen named Shai Gea learns how to synthesize something called Ooze that will purge all traces of the Tell from a person’s body, Concordat is tasked with brokering the funding that will allow Gea to start mass production and distribution. And, as might be expected, Concordant’s actions in this enterprise bring her to the attention of Watchers that threaten to derail the entire venture.

“Mission: Surreality” was first published in The City: A Cyberfunk Anthology, edited by Milton J. Davis and published in 2015, followed by a soundtrack made available on Spotify in 2019; “Talismaner,” meanwhile, was published in 2021 in Davis’s edited anthology Cyberfunk!. The promotional material for cyberfunk describes it as “a vision of the future with an Afrocentric flavor. It is the Singularity without the Eurocentric foundation. It’s Blade Runner with sunlight, Neuromancer with melanin, cybernetics with rhythm” (Cover). And, if you recall from a few paragraphs ago, Afrocyberpunk or cyberfunk are “recent divergences made by black writers from cyberpunk’s norms” (Lavender, “Critical” 308). In fact, Wright observes that contemporary cyberpunk trends “toward settings in the far future, on distant planets, where the landscape is not quite as bleak, where corporations do not dominate every aspect of life, and where characters have sunny dispositions” (“Cyberpunk”). Although Wright never uses the term cyberfunk in this description, her Afrofuturist cyberpunk is perhaps better described as cyberfunk: a modern articulation of cyberpunk that finds “old beliefs […] juxtaposed against futuristic inventions” (Wright, “Cyberpunk”).

Cyberfunk is a very provocative term because there is a play of contrary dispositions: first, cyber is a reference to the intimate feedback loops involved in information processing, but it also evokes what has been called cyber-capitalism, [4] which “does not signal a utopian postindustrial, post-Fordist world characterized by creativity and global cooperation. Such neoliberal notions […] simply mask the exploitative nature of the labor that underlies cyber-capitalism as with all capitalist formations” (English and Kim 223). Similarly, funk calls to mind the Afrofuturist soundscapes of, among others, Sun Ra, who, as per Ytasha L. Womack, “believed that music and technology could heal and transform the world” (53). At the same time, in the common vernacular, funk is a state of unhappiness, depression, or outright despair. We can therefore see in the term cyberfunk both a cybernetically infused transformative potential organized around a communal identity and a cybernetically infused despair organized arising from the failures of a utopian postindustrial, post-Fordist world. Wright’s cyberfunk expertly navigates this complicated terrain.  

Consider Wright’s short story “Of Sound Mind and Body” (2017). The story follows Dara Martin, a woman who, thanks to an experimental treatment, can transform herself on a cellular level at will, although not without a fair amount of gradually intensifying pain. Dara is an undercover agent with Homeland Intelligence, and in her disguise as Chyou Sòng she has spent the past five months trying to learn what China’s Minister of Commerce Enlai Chin is planning regarding upcoming trade talks, a mission that has had her flirting and now going on a date with Yuan Chin, the Minister’s brother. She also crosses paths with the suspicious Githinji Diallo, and Dara’s research into this character’s personal history is where Wright provides a very brief overview of “Little Africa,” a very real community in the heart of the city of Guangzhou that is heavily populated by African and African-Chinese immigrants and citizens. Relaying her suspicions about Githinji to her handler, deputy station chief Rona Huang, Dara learns Githinji is also an agent, although he has a separate (and secretive) mission: he is an assassin, and after killing the Minister of Commerce following Dara’s successful extraction of trade information, Githinji turns his sights on Dara who, unfortunately, drowns while trying to escape. The story ends with Rona talking to Jim Roberts, Counselor at the US embassy, who is seemingly unaware that Rona had ordered Githinji to kill Dara after the successful completion of her mission. Rona reveals to Jim “there’s a new program the [US] government’s overseeing. Downloadable consciousness. We may be able to transfer her personality and memory to another body and start over.”

These ideas of recordable experiences, transferable consciousness, and/or the swapping of bodies, coupled with the exploitation of labor that underlies cyber-capitalism, are consistent throughout Wright’s cyberfunk. For example, “A Change of Plans” (2020) is set in Addis Ababa, circa 2070, and it follows Dani, a streetwise girl who is living as an information broker to the criminal class, a life very reminiscent of Concordant from “Mission: Surreality.” Dani discovers illicit technological chips are making their way out of Kaliti Prison. Much like the Tell from “Mission: Surreality” that allows Watchers in the City to monitor Cityzens, the chips in “A Change of Plans” not only enable surveillance but also moderate behaviour which, in turn, fuels a black market: “The guards torture the prisoners and record their brain scans throughout. Then they transfer those memories and reactions to a chip and sell them to people who buy kink robots and want an authentic experience.” Unlike Dara’s experience in “Of Sound Mind and Body,” however, Dani can extricate herself from her trouble, all while reconnecting with her estranged mother and carving off a more hopeful future for herself, including joining and contributing to a women’s monastery that gives assistance to a local children’s home.

The idea of exploiting the laboring class and generating profits from society’s dispossessed and/or most vulnerable informs Wright’s debut novel, Cog. Published before the aforementioned short stories, Cog is arguably the cog that turns the gears on these later stories because many of the motifs and conceptual issues in the short fiction are already nascent in this novel. The novel’s chief antagonist (even if his role in the events isn’t revealed until later) is William ‘Wills’ Ryder, the heir apparent to Geren Ryder’s American Hologram corporate empire, at least until the arrival of a previously unknown older brother, Perim Nestor, complicates the family dynamics. One of Wills’s R&D projects is consciousness transference as well as using a downloaded personality to achieve brain wave parity with a subject to effectively control their mind, albeit on a more subconscious level. And, as part of the beta trials, Wills is investigating the development of clone bodies to achieve consciousness transference, though in the meantime, his most viable candidates are medically fragile comatose patients who effectively have no use for their bodies anymore.

Given the brevity of this paper, I can only gesture towards where this nascent article is heading once it turns into a full-fledged piece, and it has to do with the transhuman condition and what Sherryl Vint calls the biopolitics of epivitality. In Biopolitical Futures in Twenty-First Century Speculative Fiction, Vint explains that the biopolitical implications and ramifications of biotechnological advances in the 21st century have created the condition of epivitality; specifically, “neoliberalism and biotechnology demands new ways of thinking about the ongoing reinvention of the idea of life and the living” (2). In other words, biotechnological advances mean that the flow of “capital becomes interested in humans less for their capacity to provide labour-power and more for their capacity as biological entities” (5). For example, consider the end of the story “Of Sound Mind and Body”: Dara Martin, the undercover agent, is dead but her handler, Rona, tells Jim Roberts, the counselor at the US embassy, that the promising new program of consciousness transference will likely allow Homeland Intelligence to effectively resurrect Dara. When Jim asks Rona if resurrection in a new body is what Dara would have wanted, Rona coldly responds: “Doesn’t matter what she wants. She signed a contract. Her body parts are ours.” Dara’s worth according to the age of epivitality is in her role as what Vint calls the immortal vessel, the technological advances organized around “the fetish of preserving and valuing life beyond any limits” that, in turn, is “part of the ongoing reinvention of ‘life itself, enabling a view of living as something that might be engineered, created in the lab” (26). While Dara’s labor is valued while she is alive, her true worth is quite literally in her role as a biological organism. Thus, in this biopolitical age of epivitality, “Of Sound Mind and Body” painfully shows that life is reconfigured “as merely a resource for capital accumulation, as easily liquidated as any other asset” (29); in other words, what is valuable is the human body, not the human body.

Similarly, consider the suffering prisoners in “A Change of Plans” or, for that matter, the comatose patients in Cog who are the vessels for Wills Ryder’s experiments in transferable consciousness. These figures align with what Vint calls the living tool of biopolitics. They throw into sharp relief “the real subsumption of life by capital” by revealing “ways that the gap between organism and thing has decreased, perhaps even collapsed” (47). While Vint turns to the association between robot and slave in science fiction as emblematic of the living tool, the conditions of prisoner and comatose patient aren’t far off the mark: their value is as nothing more than an object or raw material in service to the needs of capital. The prisoners in the story help fuel an illicit sex kink trade for wealthy clients while the comatose patients offer the uber-wealthy the opportunity to live in the form of the transhumanist posthuman. In both cases, the reduction of the human to object-status fuels neoliberal profits and economic exploitation.

In closing, Wright is heavily invested in Afrofuturist practices and politics and her cyberfunk is deeply problematic, at least if we understand problematic as, to quote Carl Freedman, providing “critical traction to a conceptual framework within which further research and analysis can be conducted.” As I’ve gestured in this conference paper that will most certainly require later development, Wright’s cyberfunk engages with a conceptual framework that is our biopolitical age of epivitality, an age fostered out here in our quotidian reality saturated by the techno- and biological transformations we see currently taking place all around us. In focusing on those who are the exploited, the disenfranchised, the medically vulnerable, and so forth, Wright demonstrates in her cyberfunk fiction that in this age of epivitality our worth is increasingly shifting from the labour we exert in service of neoliberalism to the body we sacrifice to the neoliberal machinery. And, in drawing our attention to these fraught conditions, Wright’s cyberfunk stresses the importance of fighting to make sure there is more to living than simply as cogs in the biopolitical machine.



NOTES

[1] See Murphy’s “Cyberpunk and Post-Cyberpunk” for a detailed overview of the movement.

[2] See Schmeink’s “Afterthoughts” for details.

[3] For details about Moebius’s influence upon cyberpunk, see Labarre.

[4] See Tumino for an early exploration of cyber-capitalism.

WORKS CITED

Bukatman, Scott. Blade Runner. 2nd ed., Palgrave Macmillan, 2012.

Cover copy. Cyberfunk!, edited by Milton J. Davis, Kobo ed., Mvmedia, LLC, 2021.

Davis, Milton J. “Welcome to the City.” The City: A Cyberpunk Anthology, edited by Milton J.

Davis, Kobo ed., ‎Mvmedia, LLC, 2015.

English, Daylanne K. and Alvin Kim. “Now We Want Our Funk Cut: Janelle Monáe Neo-Afrofuturism.” American Studies, vol. 52, no. 4, 2013, pp. 217-30.

Freedman, Carl. Critical Theory and Science Fiction. Wesleyan UP, 2000.

Murphy, Graham J. “Cyberpunk and Post-Cyberpunk.” The Cambridge History of Science Fiction, edited by Eric Carl Link and Gerry Canavan, Cambridge, UP, 2019, pp. 519-36.

Labarre, Nicolas. “Moebius [Jean Giraud].” Fifty Key Figures in Cyberpunk Culture, edited by Anna McFarlane, Graham J. Murphy, and Lars Schmeink, Routledge, 2022, pp. 118-22.

Lavender III, Isiah. “Critical Race Theory.” The Routledge Companion to Cyberpunk Culture, edited by Anna McFarlane, Graham J. Murphy, and Lars Schmeink, Routledge, 2020, pp. 308-16.

—. “Steven Barnes.” Fifty Key Figures in Cyberpunk Culture, edited by Anna McFarlane, Graham J. Murphy, and Lars Schmeink, Routledge, 2022, pp. 14-18.

Ruh, Brian. “Japan as Cyberpunk Exoticism.” The Routledge Companion to Cyberpunk Culture, edited by Anna McFarlane, Graham J. Murphy, and Lars Schmeink, Routledge, 2020, pp. 401-07.

Schmeink, Lars. “Afterthoughts: Cyberpunk’s Engagements in Countervisuality.” Cyberpunk and Visual Culture, edited by Graham J. Murphy and Lars Schmeink, Routledge, 2018, pp. 276-87.

Snider, Amber C. “The History of Yemaya, Santeria’s Queenly Ocean Goddess Mermaid.” Teen Vogue, 8 July 2019, https://www.teenvogue.com/story/the-history-of-yemaya-goddess-mermaid.

Tumino, Stephen. Cultural Theory After the Contemporary. Palgrave Macmillan, 2011.

Vint, Sherryl. Biopolitical Futures in Twenty-First-Century Speculative Fiction. Cambridge UP, 2021.

Womack, Ytasha L. Afrofuturism: The World of Black Sci-Fi and Fantasy Culture. Lawrence Hill, 2013.

Wright, K. Ceres. “About.” K. Ceres Wright Blog, http://kceres.net/about/. Accessed 23 June 2023.

—. “A Change of Plans.” Chosen Realities, no. 1, Summer 2020, Kindle ed., Diverse Writers and Authors of Speculative Fiction.

—. Cog. Dog Star, 2013.

—. “Cyberpunk Remastered: Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Postmodernism.” Many Genres, One Craft: Lessons in Writing Popular Fiction, edited by Michael A. Arnzen and Heidi Ruby Miller, Kindle ed., Headline, 2012.

—. Interview by Midwest Black Speculative Fiction Alliance. 19 Dec. 2017, https://midwestbsfa.wordpress.com/2017/12/19/interview-with-k-ceres-wright-this-months-blackscifibookclub-author/. Accessed 23 June 2023. 

—. “Mission: Surreality.” The City: A Cyberpunk Anthology, edited by Milton J. Davis, Kobo ed., ‎ Mvmedia, LLC, 2015.

—. “Of Sound Mind and Body.” Sycorax’s Daughters, edited by Kinitra Brooks and Linda D. Addison, Kobo ed., Cedar Grove, 2017.

—. “Talismaner.” Cyberfunk!, edited by Milton J. Davis, Kobo ed., Mvmedia, LLC, 2021.

Graham J. Murphy is a Professor with the School of English and Liberal Studies at Seneca Polytechnic (Toronto). His publications include co-editing Fifty Key Figures in Cyberpunk Culture (2022), The Routledge Companion to Cyberpunk Culture (2020), Cyberpunk and Visual Culture (2018), and Beyond Cyberpunk: New Critical Perspectives (2010), as well as authoring such recent book chapters as “Feminist-Queer Cyberpunk: Hacking Cyberpunk’s Hetero-Masculinism” for The Routledge Companion to Gender and Science Fiction (2023) and “Cyberpunk and Post-Cyberpunk” for The Cambridge History of Science Fiction (2019). While he is working on a variety of ongoing projects, his most imminent release is the book chapter “Indigenous Young Adult Dystopias” for the forthcoming The Routledge Handbook of CoFuturisms.


The Alchemy of History: Balancing Alteration and Retention in A Master of Djinn



The Alchemy of History: Balancing Alteration and Retention in A Master of Djinn

Paul Williams

It will surprise no one when I say that fantasy fiction—indeed, all fiction—is fundamentally, to some degree, a reflection of our primary reality. As Tolkien notes, if a fairy story is not actually about people, it is “as a rule not very interesting. […] for if elves are true, and really exist independently of our tales about them, then this also is certainly true: elves are not primarily concerned with us, nor we with them” (“On Fairy-Stories” 113). No matter how foreign the storyworld may feel, it is made up of references to our own: Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea series is shot through with a cosmology pulled from Taoism and populated with people as familiar as ourselves; epic fantasies by Brandon Sanderson are rife with bits of various cultures scrambled together to generate in-world identities. Alternate history fictions operate differently because they openly proclaim their referential time and space. They retain a recognizable historicity while simultaneously upending that history. I will use P. Djèlí Clark’s 2021 Nebula Award-winning novel, A Master of Djinn, to examine the rhetorical work found when an alternate history fantasy balances elements of retention and alteration to generate a storyworld that is both recognizable history and fantastical otherworld.

First, though, to clarify the issue of genre. When written as science fiction, alternate history normally presents a thought-experiment concerned with questions of causation: add Divergence A to Historical Moment B and generate Alternate Reality C. In this type of story, historical moments are the materials that an author adjusts and shuffles around to achieve an end, with an emphasis on plausibility. But when the divergence is fantastical and not debatable, we must turn away from causation and focus more on how the world and the historical record are altered and how they remain the same. After all, there is only so much insight into causation we might glean from a world wherein the Nazis won thanks to an alliance with Cthulhu. But we can track how certain historical markers, such as the Nazis themselves, remain in a non-historical world and are recontextualized in a space where historical icons transform into powerful narrative symbols. In this way, alternate history fantasies do not ask us to seriously think about how to plausibly change history, but rather to meditate upon how we imagine impossible changes might comment upon the historical record.

A Master of Djinn is set in 1912 in a version of Cairo that, forty years earlier, was flooded by magic and magical creatures: djinn appeared in Egypt; goblins in Germany; we might presume that the fae now inhabit Ireland, and Baba Yaga is likely traipsing about Russia. Armed with supernatural powers and wondrous machines built by the djinn, Egypt preempts British colonization (which would have begun in 1882) and becomes a world power, with Cairo now a rival to London and Paris as major global metropolises (2). There is a doubling effect here. As readers we feel historically situated thanks to surface details that signal the early twentieth century (unprecedented urban sprawl and industrialization); greater international interconnectedness; jazz music; a proliferation of technology throughout society; there’s even talk about European powers on the brink of war. However, the historical record is upset by the presence of magic and djinn, a government agency that specializes in supernatural matters, airships, and, of course, Egypt’s position in global politics.

The decision to use the strategies of fantasy rather than science fiction here speaks to one of fantasy’s virtues, namely the ability to make the impossible cogently believable. Or, as Tolkien puts it, “Fairy-stories were plainly not primarily concerned with possibility, but with desirability” (“On Fairy-Stories” 134). It is difficult to imagine a rational version of the nineteenth century, with the imperial rat-race driven by industrialization and facilitated by new technologies, in which Britain did not colonize Egypt. To overturn colonialism, and specifically by the colonized, requires the irrationality of fantasy. The Maxim gun gave Western powers the ability to so thoroughly overwhelm the peoples of Africa and elsewhere that magic is the only means available to flip the script. Clark hijacks an era that Eric Hobsbawm calls the “Age of Empire,” referring to the decades leading up to World War I. This era was marked by a rapid spread of Western powers across the globe in a mad dash to control the resources necessary for rapid industrialization. Clark subverts this, first by empowering nations that have been subjugated in our timeline to overturn colonization on their own terms, and second, by changing the parameters of industrialization, with djinn who can produce magical machines. Yet these intrusions are a complication, not necessarily a solution to the problems of history. The intervention has enabled colonized nations to throw off their oppressors, but the human tendencies that underpin imperialism remain and must still be confronted.

The tension between recorded and counterfactual history means the narrative structure of an alternate history is intrusion fantasy, since something supernatural has inserted itself into a recognizable world. According to Farah Mendlesohn, the intrusion fantasy resolves by either repelling or integrating the foreign element (115). While some alternate histories do end by restoring the original course of events, the majority of alternate histories negotiate and integrate to produce a fully counterfactual world. In Clark’s Dead Djinn Universe, the alternate history is already the new normal for the characters. The heroine, Agent Fatma of the Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments, and Supernatural Entities, reflects how she “was born into the world al-Jahiz left behind: a world transformed by magic and the supernatural” (“A Dead Djinn in Cairo”). The intrusion means that we can both recognize the historical storyworld for what it is while also recognizing its ability to signify its differentness. We dwell upon how Fatma’s world improves upon our own, with women enabled to work in professions such as magical law enforcement, more national autonomy, and so forth. And yet, this world means more to us because it is directly referencing a recognizable past.

History itself becomes a major source of myth for alternate history fantasies. From postmodern historiography we recognize that history cannot be truly apprehended and we only know it through texts (Hutcheon 16). However, much of history becomes mythic in our cultural consciousness as we rehash stories in an effort to explain how we have arrived at our current moment, and certain events loom so enormously in our collective imagination, similar to how Rome and Camelot are often used to signify a Golden Age, historical evidence notwithstanding. In Stories About Stories, Brian Attebery argues that fantasy finds its roots in mythology, reimagining and updating myths to speak to our sensibilities and our cultural moment. Alternate history fantasies signify the recognizable past while introducing any number of mystical novum. In so doing, the altered past can embody and explore the story we have told about it, questioning the permanence of that story and introducing useful complications. This carries us beyond questions of causation and dwells upon the matter of history as a story, something we can interrogate.

The doubling of canonical and counterfactual history is an essential ingredient to alternate history. The storyworld must achieve “a ‘Goldilocks’ zone” between the historical and the counterfactual, according to Catherine Gallagher, which “is neither too close nor too far for comparison” (73). Within this zone, historical actors (whether human characters or larger, metonymic entities) are always charged with a doubled meaning; the reader must track when history maintains itself and when it deviates, and the resulting dialogue carries the rhetorical meaning of the utterance. The author must decide what to retain and what to alter. Some of these choices naturally follow as consequences of the text’s ontological divergence, and others perform the wish fulfillment described by Tolkien. Reorganizing early twentieth-century geopolitics directly stems from imbuing Egypt with supernatural powers; filling Cairo’s airspace with steampunk airships is a fun affectation that directly reflects Clark’s own preferences.

Important to an alternate history is the way the text engages with the historical process, by which I mean how the text represents historical developments. The intrusive element might cause significant changes in the course pursued by time’s arrow, but historical events have a degree of momentum. However, that momentum is still subject to a slightly different course and impact. Rather than simply wipe away the intervening events, alternate histories hypothesize how certain changes to the timeline could conceivably play out, retaining events that get reimagined in the new timeline. The result is that the zone of historical narrative is opened up to a complex game of reversals and distortions. In A Master of Djinn,we read that, thanks to magic and technology granted by the djinn, the Egyptians routed the British at Tell El Kebir in 1882. In our history, this was a decisive moment when the British broke Egyptian resistance to colonial rule, but in the Dead Djinn Universe, it signifies the beginning of postcolonialism as Egypt begins to reclaim itself. Similarly, the Battle of Adwa in 1896 did result in a European defeat in our history, but that same Ethiopian victory is recontextualized as a part of a larger anti-colonial campaign rather than an anomaly. Both events serve the rhetorical work of reclaiming African independence and reshaping the historical world.

Alternate histories must perform a delicate balancing act. Ahistorical interventions typically signify a utopian impulse, stemming from a desire for justice to be applied to history’s wrongs. However, alternate histories cannot automatically fix human history: in adjusting one system, the rest will reorganize. The novel must account for the consistencies and foibles of human behavior. Moreover, historical processes must be allowed to work out in a believable manner. It would be too easy to say that by breaking colonialism in the nineteenth century, Clark has created a world with a trajectory toward world peace. However, not only would this not make for a particularly interesting novel, it would also not be very convincing to anyone familiar with history. To suggest that resolving one systemic problem can fix humanity is naive, and alternate histories are a sociologically-focused genre, attempting to understand human behavior when operating outside of the set narrative of recorded history. Or, as Gallagher puts it, writers of alternate history:

prefer agents with consciousness, subjectivity, and some ability to make decisions and take unpredictable actions. Whether they are individuals, political parties, corporations, cities, governments, races, armies, or nations, they have their “own” ambitions and emotions, strengths and weaknesses, cultural constraints and opportunities; most importantly for alternate-history writers, they have good and bad luck, and they can foresee multiple future options. (145)

This is the work of literary psychological realism. The characters are shaken out of a preexisting narrative (recorded history) and must act in a new context. But they carry with them their old qualities. While alternate history can upset the context of systems that resulted in past oppressions, humanity still needs to work through its foibles, its prejudices, its yearnings to dominate and control. In Clark’s novel, when it is revealed that Abigail Wellington is the mastermind behind her father’s murder, we learn that she wants to wrench history back to its old trajectory. She plans to subjugate the djinn and use them to reassert British dominance over the globe. In other words, Abigail seeks to fend off the intrusion because it serves her well, while integration may pose the best opportunity to improve our world for everyone. She signifies reactionary attitudes that bristle at history’s tendency to change, as signified when, with MAGA-like enthusiasm, she declares she “will make Britannia rule again” (331). Because she signifies so much of what is troubling in our own time, we are most relieved to see Abigail’s plans defeated, even if as a character she devolves into a Saturday-morning cartoon. She signifies that, while we can imagine a change of circumstances in history to redress historical injustices, we cannot resolve these problems with mere wishing.

Even as Clark shatters colonialism and complicates the complex web of narrative nodes from our historical record, there looms over the novel a shadow of another significant historical myth: World War I. For all the disruption Clark introduces into the storyworld, the threat of global conflict is noted at the novel’s opening, when Lord Wellington argues that his secret society should spearhead efforts to defuse war. Those anxieties carry over to the end: after the spectacle-laden, city-leveling climactic battle against the Nine Ifrit Lords, Kaiser Wilhelm II jovially remarks to other European leaders that “If we ever do have a war, I only hope it is as glorious” (A Master of Djinn 371). The fact that such a war remains feasible within the Dead Djinn Universe is telling of a few things. It affirms that World War I resulted from such a complex series of causes that it would be difficult to prevent, at least through the intrusive means Clark employs. This is similar to 2012’s Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows, when Moriarty muses that “You see, hidden within the unconscious is an insatiable desire for conflict. So you’re not fighting me so much as you are the human condition. […] War, on an industrial scale, is inevitable. They’ll do it themselves, within a few years. All I have to do is wait.” And with the potential for such an international war, we must wonder how it would play out in a world with the magic of djinn and goblins contributing.

This question of magic contributing to an alternate World War I indicates a potential failing of the human societies within the Dead Djinn Universe, namely a lack of receptivity to broader metaphysical principles and an ethics of magic. This goes beyond the idea that “With great power comes great responsibility” of Spider-Man lore. In the Earthsea books, Ged learns that magic alters the Equilibrium of the world, and only by cautious expressions of power have wizards kept themselves from breaking the planet and cosmos. In Clark’s novel, because magic is still new to a world that carries with it the social complexities of our own history, these lessons have not fully integrated into society.

Too often, history is a comforting story-space, since it already happened and we have pulled through. The causation debates of science fiction tend to ask questions about how history could be changed, whether for good or bad, in an effort to inspire political action. Fantasy, however, questions the stories we tell ourselves about the past, how it happened, and what are essential events of that past. Fantasy provides a meditative space to explore what has gone before, to question how we understand it, and to rethink the past in the context of our own present.



WORKS CITED

Attebery, Brian. Stories About Stories: Fantasy and the Remaking of Myth. Oxford UP, 2014.

Clark, P. Djèlí. “A Dead Djinn in Cairo.” Ebook, Tor Books, 2016.

—. A Master of Djinn. Tordotcom, 2021.

Gallagher, Catherine. Telling It Like It Wasn’t: The Counterfactual Imagination in History and Fiction. U of Chicago P, 2018.

Hobsbawm, Eric. The Age of Empire. Vintage, 1987.

Hutcheon, Linda. A Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory, Fiction. Routledge, 1988.

Le Guin, Ursula K. A Wizard of Earthsea. Parnassus Press, 1968.

Mendlesohn, Farah. Rhetorics of Fantasy. Wesleyan UP, 2008.

Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows. Directed by Guy Ritchie, Warner Brothers Pictures, 2011.

Spider-Man. Directed by Sam Raimi, Sony Pictures, 2002.

Tolkien, J. R. R. “On Fairy-Stories.” From The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays, edited by Christopher Tolkien, HarperCollins, 2006, pp. 109-161.

Paul Williams received his M.A. in English from Idaho State University in 2018. He is now pursuing his Ph.D. at ISU, writing his dissertation on alternate histories and fantasy fiction. He served as Editorial Assistant for the Journal of the Fantastic in the Arts from 2018-2020.


Brazilian Afrofuturism, Heuristic Function, and the Mass Cultural Genre System



Brazilian Afrofuturism, Heuristic Function, and the Mass Cultural Genre System

Patrick Brock

Some people ask why Afrofuturism is so big in Brazil, but a better inquiry would peer into what made the country so receptive to this peculiar intersection of science fictionality and social movement. Perhaps it’s because Afrofuturism, while being big enough to become its own genre, can operate within but also well beyond such boundaries as genres and borders. Isiah Lavender III calls it “a narrative practice that enables users to communicate the interconnection between science, technology, and race across centuries, continents, and cultures” (Lavender III 2). Either way, as we cast our two cents into this discussion by the very act of naming it out, Brazilian Afrofuturism continues generating a treasure trove of cultural objects and political-aesthetic ecologies that hint of a deeper history.

This essay [1] engages the movement’s emergence in the country through its precursors and contributing factors, including the multigenerational efforts of cultures of resistance and affirmative action policies. We will discuss the strategies at play in Afrofuturist practices and why they feed on the mass cultural genre system’s own affordances. The intersection of affordances and activism exercises what we call the heuristic function of science fiction (SF) by making it a potentially generative site of problem-solving and innovation.

Competing Myth-Makings

The myth of racial democracy was used by the Brazilian state to discourage any problematization of racism and to foster conformity. There’s even a “Monument to the three races” in Goiás’ state capital, Goiânia, representing the myth put to use for the purposes of nation building. A more faithful portrait is the 1895 painting A Redenção de Cam [The Redemption of Cam] by Modesto Brocos, [2] where three generations strive toward the goal of whitening the nation-state: the Black grandmother, the lighter-skinned daughter, and the even lighter-skinned grandchild. The myth encouraged national unity even as government policy fostered the immigration of Europeans and today, despite some recent advances, TV programming remains dominated by white actors. In Mozambique [3] in early 2015, for instance, a local subsidiary of a Brazilian media group broadcast the country’s racially skewed soap operas interspersed by ads that reflected the overwhelmingly Black ethnicity of the country, showing how racism can be exported as supposedly harmless entertainment.

The Redemption of Cam, Modesto Brocos, 1895. Museu Brasileiro de Belas Artes, Rio de Janeiro.

But in the Brazilian Afrofuturist case, what was also being imported was the activist stance that produced the Civil Rights movement in the USA, thanks to intercultural dialogue between activists and academics in both countries. The movement also expanded to Brazil in the last decade thanks to affirmative action policies that increased university enrollment of Black students (Vieira and Arends-Kuenning), broadening the potential audience for SF works, as well as declines in the marginal cost of communication and computing, all of which made it easier to organize, debate issues, and disseminate. The mainstreaming of Afrofuturism played an important role: several activists say the release of the movie Black Panther (2018) was an inspirational turning point. Also, much activism went into getting affirmative action laws passed in Congress, priming an entire generation to call out social hypocrisies but also understand there can be a different relationship with technology and knowledge.

Afrofuturism today is clearly helping improve the self-esteem of Black Brazilians through the instrumentalization of temporal and utopian thinking at the service of decolonial goals (Brock 2023) that encourage resistance and survival. On the 8th and 9th of April, 2021, as the death toll from the Covid-19 pandemic approached 4,000 a day in Brazil, cultural association Ilê Aiyê (which, since 1974, has been empowering Black culture in the street carnival of Salvador, the Brazilian city at the heart of African culture in the country), held an Afrofuturist online event with experts and scholars focused on how to use this powerful, global cultural movement, as well as the musical heritage of Afro-Brazilians, to build a better future for their community. [4] Local activists are also using this same toolkit of creativity and optimism to foster technological inclusion, socially sensitive entrepreneurship, and self-education, holding annual events including a large edition [5] on November 18-19, 2022.

Afrofuturism prospered in Brazil because it found an already vigorous and decades-long base of activism through art and education that was in strong dialogue with American social movements and academia. The most prominent of these foundational activists was Abdias do Nascimento (1914-2011), a writer, poet, and legislator who started contesting Brazil’s myth of a racial democracy as early as the 1940s. Abdias fought back by focusing on writing and staging plays, as well as educating the members of his movement, called quilombismo after the communities of escaped slaves. After Brazil’s return to democracy, Abdias was elected for Congress and helped push for affirmative action laws. Two of his paintings [6] insert Afro-Brazilian religious icons into both the Brazilian and US flags, anticipating the later techniques of Afrofuturism, of appropriating the tropes, techniques, and imaginaries of SF to challenge Eurocentric representations. The paintings were made while Abdias was exiled by the Brazilian dictatorship, working as visiting professor in several American universities and engaged with the Pan-African movement. By juxtaposing Afro-Brazilian religious icons—the bow of Oxóssi, the deity of hunting and nature, and the axe of Xangô, the deity of fire and justice—with two tools of nationalist imaginaries, Abdias reverse engineers them to show his awareness of the power of these tools and his preoccupation with upholding a place for Black Brazilians in them. Today the Brazilian Afrofuturist offshoot has a host of writers, composers, theorists and filmmakers laying deep roots unparalleled by any other country in Latin America: a group of Central Americans and Caribbeans have gone with Prietopunk (Medina) to describe their efforts and complain about excessive Americanization in Afrofuturism, perhaps due to having suffered even more acutely from American interventionism while lacking the same dialogue.

Okê Oxóssi (1970), Museu de Arte de São Paulo.
Xangô sobre (1970), Acervo Ipeafro, Rio de Janeiro.

Inspired by the Black Speculative Arts Movement (BSAM) in the USA, Zaika dos Santos and her collaborators have formed a Brazilian chapter with over 150 members all over the country, grouped under such themes as visual arts, literature, music, research, technology, and fashion (Moniz). The collective promotes meetings, courses, livestreams, workshops, and other activities. In 2022, as a part of Carnegie Hall’s Afrofuturist Festival, BSAM Brasil released nearly eight hours of presentations by its members, [7] offering a good measure of the movement’s popularity in the country.

The eminently musical side of Afrofuturism would also have to find its expression in the strongly musical culture of Brazil. In the later stages of her career, samba star Elza Soares (1930-2022) connected to the movement by working with young composers and creators to give the classics of Brazil’s musical genre an Afrofuturist reading, like Juízo Final [Final Judgement] by Nelson Cavaquinho. [8] Nelson was part of an earlier generation of popular composers of sambas from humble origins and this song, released at the height of the repressive Brazilian military dictatorship in 1973, speaks of hope and justice defeating evil. With a video clip inspired by technoculture but which argues for the same integration between nature and humankind backed by other works of Brazilian Afrofuturism and SF, Elza repurposes the powerful idea of Nelson as the threat of repressive authoritarianism again starts looming large over Brazil (Pearson).

This essay offers only a glimpse at the hundreds of Afrofuturist books published in Brazil since the 1970s. An earlier example is A Mulher de Aleduma [The Woman of Aleduma, 1985] by Aline França, which explores the interplanetary creation myth of the residents of an isolated island in a developing country. The descendants of the alien race are disturbed by the appearance of a “big-town” man who embodies the predatory nature of colonialism and white modernity, with his plans to build a resort and factory on the island. He later rapes and impregnates the novel’s female protagonist. The collapse of telepathic connection to their home planet further plagues the community, which will have to regenerate and resist following a long period of blissful isolation. The most popular author of the new generation is Alê Santos, whose work is being turned into a movie and game. Meanwhile, Sandra Menezes, with her Céu entre Mundos [The Sky Between Worlds, 2021], which depicts a Black civilization starting over in a new planet, was a finalist for Brazil’s most prestigious literary award, the Jabuti.

Also of note are the three novels so far of Fabio Kabral’s Ketu Três universe, all of them fast-paced and emotionally dense narratives dealing with trauma and reconnecting with ancestors and ancestral knowledge, while serving up a fair share of intrigue. Kabral de-centers knowledge by emphasizing African culture. His worldbuilding depicts a technology that does not stand in opposition to nature but complements and respects it; where science and magic aren’t mutually exclusive but coeval; and the fluidity of gender identities is normalized. At one point he decided to break [9] with the Afrofuturist label, revealing a keen awareness of the downside of such collective boundaries on creative expression. He then turned to the creation of a new conceptual genre called macumbapunk [10]—macumba is the informal name of the Afro-Brazilian religion in Brazil—combining fantasy, SF, and African cultural elements. This process of genre genesis (Brock 2022) is part of the political ecology of boundary negotiations involved in the creation of collective meaning within the mass-cultural genre.

Lu Ain-Zaila, an educator from the Baixada Fluminense suburb of Rio de Janeiro, is another important writer of the movement. She works on using Afrofuturism as an educational tool and illustrates and self-publishes her books on platform sites like Amazon, but also through small publishers like São Paulo-based Kitembo Edições Literárias do Futuro, Magh, and Monomito Editorial. As with Abdias, her ideas indicate a preoccupation with nation-building and centering Afro-Brazilians and their culture in the process. Her duology Brasil 2408 – (In) Verdades and (R) Evolução (2016 and 2017), uses a multifaceted patchwork of imaginary news reports, didactic materials from the future, first-person points of view, SF, political thriller, and police procedural to propose social technologies aimed at dealing with the destruction caused by a climate catastrophe in the 23rd century, constituting a vibrant example of an organically creative mind exploring the narrative possibilities of the movement. Like Kabral, she too has ventured into genre genesis territory by calling her work “cyberfunk.”

The short film Abian (2021, 32’), produced and released in Salvador by a younger generation of creators, showcases the increasingly sophisticated artistry of Brazilian Afrofuturism. Created by Mayara Ferrão, Diego Alcantara, and Filipe Mimoso with 360-degree video technology, [11] it works almost like an art installation, combining well produced imagery, special effects, and monologue into a bildungsroman of one apprentice of Candomblé. It opens with an astronaut flowing through space after being ejected from a brilliant portal that closes after him, deploying major signposts of SF’s phenomenological wonder, while the competing videos within the screen create a sense of dislocation but also of multiplicity of viewpoints.

Abian (2021). YouTube screenshot.

Three other Afrofuturist films from the last decade, meanwhile, propose collective action and real-world mobilization in order to counter authoritarianism, alongside community solidarity to oppose oppression. First, there’s Branco sai, Preto fica ([White out, Black in] 1h33’, 2014), which has charmed global audiences with its remarkable fusion of reality, fiction, and community action. During local meetings to discuss cinema, culture, and local problems, residents of the impoverished Federal District village of Ceilândia decided to portray a real-life police massacre in the late 1980s. Using two survivors and blending their testimony with a science-fictional narrative about a future Brazil sending a time travelling agent to investigate the massacre, Adirley and the community employed the Afrofuturist kit of genre infrastructure, speculation, and temporality to expose Brasília’s failed utopia (Beal 113). Negrum3 ([Blackn3ss], 22’, 2018), directed by Diego Paulino and produced by Victor Casé, takes a somewhat similar approach with a short documentary about the lives of queer and trans Afro-Brazilians in the megalopolis of São Paulo. It focuses on their traumas but also their strategies of survival and shows a clear inspiration from the Afrofuturism of Sun Ra (1914-1993), closing with a detailed scene where a trans performer descends from a stylized flying saucer.

Also of note is Medida Provisória ([Executive Order], 1h43’, 2021), directed by Lázaro Ramos based on the acclaimed play Namíbia Não [Not Namíbia] by Aldri Anunciação, himself the son of a well-respected Black union leader and politician in Bahia. It imagines a dystopian present where a far-right government offers to send Afro-Brazilians back to Africa as reparation for racism. Later, officials begin deporting holdovers. The plot’s dystopian turn resembles the recent wave of far-right politics taking over Brazil following a decade of progressive governments, with hate speech echoed by conservative media and a powerful but amorphous mass of influencers. The hopes of the resistance are a series of “afrobunkers” where people seek refuge to reorganize and resist. Following a run in the international festival circuit during 2021, the film finally was released in Brazil in 2022 to good reviews and large audiences.

Breaking Boundaries

We imagine things to both materialize them and maintain their materiality. But imagination also has its “tenses,” as famously defined by Raymond Williams in the essay Utopia and Science Fiction (1978). Works like Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Dispossessed are “open utopias” insofar as they are imperfect but still offer pathways where temporalities become denser and more fluid, teaching a form of problem solving that can reopen possibilities. Williams sought to explain this combination of hope and determination as akin to an impulse “which now warily, self-questioningly, and setting its own limits, renews itself” (Milner 95). SF can fulfill this heuristic function through the imagination of innovation and alterity, by working in the liminal space between the mass-cultural market and community practices, supported by three socially generative elements of SF as part of the mass-cultural genre system:

Temporality—SF often deals with the density of time, either by depicting far-off or near futures, time travel, uchronias (alternative presents) or multiple, interlaced temporalities. If we agree that temporality is a contested space, “something that always eludes complete co-optation by capital, something on a different categorical or ontological level leading to multiple fractures and sites of resistance” (Burges and Elias 12), it can be a fertile ground to challenge narratives that uphold a linear trajectory of time, or which seek to erase the wrongs of the past. Afrofuturists, for instance, struggle so that the past may seep into the present and the future, giving time a stickiness that demands more complex understandings; time itself is a common language whose synchronization carries mobilization potential.

Speculation—Speculation is a mental state (Kind) that serves here as a generous umbrella term for the intersection of SF’s affective investment in technoscientific and temporal thinking. Psychologists consider speculative thinking a way to reflect about what could happen and make decisions based on a series of mental processes and calculations informed by our knowledge (Glăveanu 87, 94-95). We see it is one of the central affordances of the mass-cultural genre, mediating our entanglement with technology, science, and the world’s knowledge hierarchies and their scientific paradigms, highly complex technical systems, and often competing cosmologies. Speculation is both about filling in the spaces of our socially cognitive processes (future imaginaries, for instance), but also a contemporary mode of operating in markets and governments attempting to predict and direct the future.

Genre infrastructure— John Rieder proposed in 2017 that SF is a mass cultural genre supported by boundary objects, a concept he borrowed from science and technology studies to explain the dynamics of negotiated meaning at play. Boundary work in SF communities has similarities to how science and technology are negotiated and accepted through sociotechnical imaginaries, which are collective ways of thinking. These boundary objects are “plastic enough to adapt to local needs and constraints of the several parties employing them, yet robust enough to maintain a common identity across sites” (Star 1999, 2010). This also describes the pliable yet solid character of SF and how it provides shared spaces of contestation and collective engagement. Maintaining and cultivating these shared spaces often is up to a care economy of community work. People embedded in these knowledge systems intervene in them according to their political aims, becoming part of the “genre infrastructure” that creates emergent spaces for an organizational ecology operating with a distributed leadership model, as has been proposed recently as a tool and paradigm for progressive activists (Routledge 2017, Nunes 2021). This concept expands the paratextual focus (Määttä 115) to how community members consciously leave what Star called “trace records” of their interventions into how the genre is constructed.

By toying with how we imagine such elements as temporalities, technology, and alterity using elements from a globally recognized genre, Afrofuturists seek agency over the representation of the future and its construction. The way cognition (Hutchins) and particularly art (Gell 220-237) are socially distributed allows Afrofuturism to operate as a political-aesthetic subjectivity intervening not only in the technoculture of SF but the West’s failure to conceive of different futures. These efforts gradually grow in popularity until they have effects on the real world, we argue. Indeed, enough people have become mobilized by these subjectivities in Brazil to form communities merging the widely disseminated visual and narrative repertoires of SF with the social and political networks honed by their activist predecessors. Imagination, optimism, creativity, contestation, and curiosity are the watchwords of these socially conscious creators hacking the machinery of the genre to enact change in the present and lay the groundwork for opening up the future.


NOTES

[1] This result is part of a project that has received funding from the European Research Council (ERC) under the European Union’s Horizon 2020 research and innovation programme (grant agreement No. 852190, CoFutures).

[2] https://enciclopedia.itaucultural.org.br/obra3281/a-redencao-de-cam

[3] https://memoria.ebc.com.br/agenciabrasil/noticia/2012-04-17/novelas-brasileiras-passam-imagem-de-pais-branco-critica-escritora-mocambicana

[4] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qjdy0jtDoDY&ab_channel=Il%C3%AAAiy%C3%AA

[5] https://afrofuturismo.com.br/

[6] Okê Oxóssi (1970, acrylic on canvas, 92 × 61 cm): https://masp.org.br/index.php/acervo/obra/oke-oxossi
Xangô sobre (1970, acrylic on canvas, 91 × 61 cm):https://masp.org.br/livros/abdias-nascimento-um-artista-panamefricano-a-panamefrican-artist-capa-shango-takes-over-241

[7] https://www.youtube.com/@bsambrasil6716/streams

[8] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VBU5MYaDKjo&ab_channel=ElzaSoares

[9] https://twitter.com/Ka_Bral/status/1376174021788729354?s=20

[10] Kabral, Fabio. 2020. https://fabiokabral.wordpress.com/2020/06/16/macumbapunkuma-nova-proposta-de-ficcao-especulativa/ Accessed on 06 May 2023.

[11] https://youtu.be/0SH_TTcfzmM


WORKS CITED

Ain-Zaila, Lu. (In)Verdades: Ela Está Predestinada a Mudar Tudo. Duologia Brasil 2408, vol. 1. Kindle edition, 2016.

—. (R)Evolução: Eu e a Verdade Somos o Ponto Final. Duologia Brasil 2408, vol. 2. Kindle edition, 2017.

—. “Ficção Científica no Brasil: Um Caso de Estudo do Projeto de Nação.” Fantástika 451, vol. 1, 2018, pp. 55–61.

Beal, Sophia. “Ceilândia’s Art in Adirley Queirós’s Branco sai, preto fica.” The Art of Brasília. Palgrave Macmillan, 2020. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-37137-1_5

Brock, Patrick. “Brazilian Afrofuturism as a social technology.” The Routledge Handbook of CoFuturisms. Edited by Taryne Jade Taylor, Isiah Lavender III, Grace L. Dillon, and Bodhisattva Chattopadhyay. Routledge, 2023.

—-. “Futurism and Genre Genesis in Brazilian Science Fiction.” Zanzalá – Revista Brasileira de Estudos sobre Gêneros Cinematográficos e Audiovisuais, vol. 8, no. 1, 2021, pp. 8-18. https://periodicos.ufjf.br/index.php/zanzala/article/view/36736

Burges, Joel and Amy Elias (eds.). Time: A Vocabulary of the Present. NYU Press, 2016.

França, Aline. A Mulher de Aleduma. Ianamá, 1985.

Gell, Alfred. Art and Agency, an Anthropological Theory. Oxford University Press, 1998.

Glăveanu, V.P. “Perspectival Collective Futures: Creativity and Imagination in Society.” Imagining Collective Futures: Perspectives from Social, Cultural and Political Psychology. Edited by Constance de Saint-Laurent, Sandra Obradović, and Kevin R. Carriere. Palgrave Macmillan, 2018. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76051-3_5

Hutchins, Edwin. Cognition in the Wild. The MIT Press, 1996.

Kabral, Fabio. O bloqueiro bruxo das redes sobrenaturais. Malê, 2021.

—. A cientista guerreira do facão furioso. Malê, 2019.

—. O Caçador Cibernético da Rua 13. Malê, 2017.

Kind, Amy. “Imagination.” Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Taylor and Francis, 2017. doi:10.4324/9780415249126-V017-2

Lavender III, Isiah. Afrofuturism Rising: The Literary Prehistory of a Movement. Ohio State Press, 2019.

Medina, Hernández Aníbal. Prietopunk: Antología de Afrofuturismo Caribeño. Aníbal Hernández Medina, 2022.

Menezes, Sandra. O Céu entre Mundos. Malê, 2021.

Milner, Andrew (ed). Tenses of Imagination: Raymond Williams on Science Fiction, Utopia and Dystopia. Peter Lang UK, 2011. https://doi.org/10.3726/978-3-0353-0015-4

Moniz, Mariana. “Afrossurrealismo e Afrofuturismo: a representação artística de uma sociedade inclusiva.” Gerador. 3 March 2023. https://gerador.eu/afrossurrealismo-e-afrofuturismo-a-representacao-artistica-de-uma-sociedade-inclusiva-2/

Nunes, Rodrigo. Neither Vertical nor Horizontal: A Theory of Political Organization. Verso. 2021.

Pearson, Samantha. “Bolsonaro Takes Aim at Brazil’s History.” The Wall Street Journal, 12.04.2019. Accessed on May 6, 2021. https://www.wsj.com/articles/bolsonaro-takes-aim-atbrazils-history-11555080030

Rieder, John. Science Fiction and the Mass Cultural Genre System. Wesleyan University Press, 2017.

Routledge, Paul. Space Invaders: Radical Geographies of Protest. Pluto Press, 2017.

Star, Susan Leigh. “The Ethnography of Infrastructure.” American Behavioral Scientist, vol. 43, no. 3, 1999, pp. 377-391. https://doi.org/10.1177/00027649921955326

—. “This Is Not a Boundary Object: Reflections on the Origin of a Concept.” Science, Technology, & Human Values, vol. 35, no. 5, 2010, pp. 601–17.

Vieira, Renato Schwambach and Arends-Kuenning, Mary. “Affirmative action in Brazilian universities: Effects on the enrolment of targeted groups.” Economics of Education Review, vol. 73, 2019.

Weber, Bruce. “Abdias do Nascimento, Rights Voice, Dies at 97”. The New York Times. 31.05.2011. Accessed on May 6, 2021. https://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/31/world/americas/31nascimento.html

Patrick Brock is a doctoral research fellow with the CoFutures project at the University of Oslo and studies Latin American SF and futurism. Patrick holds a B.A. in Journalism from the Federal University of Bahia and an M.A. in English literature from CUNY. His research has been published by Routledge and Zanzalá—Revista Brasileira de Estudos sobre Gêneros Cinematográficos e Audiovisuais, and is forthcoming from the University Press of Florida.


Discard as Extractive Zone in Chen Qiufan’s Waste Tide



Discard as Extractive Zone in Chen Qiufan’s Waste Tide

Paromita Patranobish

A draft version of this article was presented at the LSFRC conference on SF + Extraction in October 2022. Warm thanks to the panelists and participants, especially Dr. Lyu Guangzhou for their insightful comments and questions. This article has also benefited from the Bucknell Humanities Centre’s Summer Institute workshops held in June 2022. Warm thanks to fellow participants at the Institute, especially Dr. Sarah Gorman and Dr. Rebecca Gordon for their helpful comments on my ongoing work on waste in postcolonial speculative fiction.

In her book Pollution Is Colonialism (2020), Max Liboiron argues for a revised genealogy of environmental toxicity through an emphasis on its connection with colonial history. Departing from critical readings of environmental pollution that locate it within an unspecified and generalized configuration of the Anthropocene, Liboiron identifies in waste a patently postcolonial dynamic, highlighting the ways in which colonization functions through the appropriation of land for settlement, resource mobilization, or outsourcing of unwanted and superfluous matter and populations in order to enforce normative social spaces and their strictly regulated borders. The calibrated logistics that control the large-scale outsourcing of industrial discard–as well as consumer waste to third-world countries and indigenous reserves under the guise of remediation, recycling and management–is, as Liboiron demonstrates, an articulation of contemporary iterations of Western imperial domination and control. Waste and its associated networks of cross-border disposal, landfilling, and overseas recycling legislate global infrastructures within which racially, semantically, and materially marked bodies flourish or perish. Kathryn Yusoff (2018), similarly elaborates on the connections between territorial epistemes and colonial ideologies, showing how colonial geology (be it as the disciplinary production of knowledge about planetary strata or practices of mining, fracking, and archaeological excavations), share a common metaphysical framework. This framework is based on the characterization of land as passive, inert, and brute matter and the extension of these attributes to the body of the colonized other whose labor, as a purely nonhuman resource, can be freely appropriated because it is deemed devoid of human moral and ethical qualifications. Liboiron and Yusoff both point to the dynamic interrelation between ecocidal toxicity, extractive institutions and practices, and the production of certain kinds of resource bodies, both human and nonhuman, as nodes on a matrix of exploitation and control. As Zygmunt Bauman (2004) has persuasively demonstrated, a liquid paradigm of disposability emerges in contemporary neoliberal times as a common threshold for both designating and disenfranchising certain populations, particularly in the Global South, with regard to access to basic infrastructural, medical, and legal facilities, and of relegating them thusly to a (dehumanized) state of discard. In Bauman’s analysis, this deprivation of the conditions that ensure normative personhood doesn’t just accrue as an abstract ideological decision about who or what qualifies for the position of a life worth saving or sustaining. Rather, it is capitalism’s specific petropolitical imaginary and its attendant mechanism of the combustion and metabolization of matter by turning it into potential sites of extraction and biochemical transformation into fuel– including and preeminently into labor-as-fuel– that leads to conditions of deterioration and the expendability of bodies both human and nonhuman.

Thus, if waste and its associated technologies of disposal, management, and remediation serve as mechanisms of extractive capitalist assertion, is it also possible to conceptualize geographies of waste as enabling forms of situated knowledge and sustaining provisional place-based idioms of subjectivity, community, and coexistence that defy available disciplinary and epistemic framings? How might the epistemic and semantic resources of speculative imaginaries, particularly those emerging out of non-Western/indigenous/Global South cultural landscapes that absorb the bulk of capitalism’s toxicities, offer new spatial and ontological articulations? Ones that don’t posit waste as what needs to be put away or fed into cycles of profit and use, but rather reconfigure waste as generative of ecologies of precarity and precarious dwelling, fostering ethical challenges to the anthropogenic megalith of the autonomous, individual subject? If pollution, habitat loss, and ecological devastation are the primary modalities through which extraction’s territorial ramifications materialize at a planetary and species-wide level, how might local responses and vernacular resistances deploy these extraction and extinction zones in creative, even subversive ways? Myra J. Hird (2021) calls such methods micro-ontologies of matter and meaning: viruses, symbionts, bacteria, algae, and plankton—can we think of them as forms of relational survival in entropic environments, providing alternative expressions of life as vibrational intensities and Spinozist affective valences? In a lecture on the subject of science fiction and waste, Chen describes the catalyst for Waste Tide as a deeply personal and disturbing experience of visiting the e-waste recycling district of China’s Guangdong province. He offers a blueprint for the novel in a recollection of this experience:

There, I noticed that everything is chaotic and disorganised, and the waste disposal workers are unprotected and directly exposed to this polluted environment. They try to find recyclable metal components containing a certain amount of rare earth among the discarded cables or electronic parts. Such business has caused serious damage to the local environment of Guiyu. Soil, water and even the air are all contaminated and eroded by the electronic wastes, not to mention the impact on unprotected workers, who are the most direct victims of environmental pollution. (2021)

Based on the nightmarish reality of Guiyu, Chen’s fictionalization is informed by a need to adhere to and anchor literary narrative in the contingency and proximity of specific, mappable, analytically and affectively approachable socioeconomic contexts of precarity, violence, and exploitation. Such a narrative also destabilizes established liberal humanist frameworks for addressing the contentious questions of agency, personhood, rights, and belonging that are at the core of such precarious formations and that involve multiple entangled actants, sites, and histories. Only by securing this discomfiting proximity between the narrative affordances of fabulation and the gritty reality of contemporary neoliberal sacrifice zones and their necropolitics of toxicity, can we conceptualize new decentralized, multiscalar counterhegemonic modes of apprehending and narrativizing social realities. This particular mode of engaging science fiction as critique is what Chen calls “science fiction realism” (2021).

Extraction in conjunction with and as performed by discard is present in multiple iterations in Chen Qiufan’s speculative dystopia, Waste Tide (2013, English translation, 2019). These comprise the destruction of habitats, ecosystems, and species through pollution, illegal dumping, and the contamination of native lands by imported industrial waste; coerced proximity to and symbolic interchangeability with lethally toxic discarded matter enforced upon laboring bodies; exploitation of vulnerable bodies and species for hazardous scientific experimentation; neoliberal algorithmic nexuses of data mining, surveillance, and neural, affective, and perceptual manipulation/control of technophilic subjects and societies; overexposure of precarious populations to regimes of digital and chemical addictions; and transhumanist cultures of prosthetic enhancement manufactured and marketed by corporate conglomerates. In the text, military-industrial waste is both key to decoding the complex cartography of globalized neoliberal apparatuses of ownership, profit, and control, and an underlying conceptual and material link connecting the multiple nodes of mobility, dispersal, access, and transformation that constitute deregulated, free-market economics.

Waste in the novel has a bifurcated structure, existing, on one hand, as the massive amounts of often unmonitored and illegally transported electronic discard exported out of affluent Western nations and dumped into poverty stricken areas that house recycling centers; and as the contamination of and irreversible damage to bodies, lands, and local flora and fauna by the seepage of toxic substances: heavy metals, plastic, and chemicals generated during processes of disassembly. The “waste people,” (lajiren, literally “garbage people”) the novel’s migrant workers who inhabit these necropolitical discardscapes, living and working under abject conditions, become synecdochic bearers of ecological exploitation and dispossession, their contaminated bodies mirrored in various mutant nonhuman and cyborg forms of life from rapidly breeding jellyfish and deformed radioactive marine life to Pavlovian remote controlled chipped dogs that respond to wireless signals.

In the stratified and divided world of Silicon Isle, the working class is not only equated with waste, their bodies seen as sites of disgust and ghettoized into unsanitary slums; these bodies also simultaneously become sites of alien and abject embodiment. As Lyu Gungzhao has demonstrated with reference to the novel’s exposition of the plight of migrant communities under contemporary capitalist regimes:

The “environmental concerns” that Chen Qiufan spoke of cannot be detached from the general context where a “waste space” is constructed for economic purposes, a place in which numerous precarious jobs are created, mainly for migrant workers without appropriate occupational training and protection. They are the victims not only of environmental crises and pollution but also of their jobs, their dislocation, and the capitalist system, which combine to bring forward all the problems—of which “environmental concerns” is just one of many. (311-12)

These strange corporealities often involve, as we see early in the novel, the mass of discarded prosthetics, augmented body parts, faux sexual organs, and virtual reality devices that the recyclers have to decompose in order to extract precious rare earth metals used in batteries and circuits. Whether it is the dislocated hand of an industrial robot that clamps onto and crushes a young worker, the infected helmet that–when compounded with the protagonist’s toxic neurochemistry–creates a posthuman, postdigital viral consciousness, or an abandoned robot that is animated by synaptic command and human reflexes, Waste Tide traces the trajectory of consumerist pleasure and fantasies of biological transcendence and incessant technologically mediated enhancement of human life in the Capitalocene as an extractive process: an extension of what Jason Moore identifies as capitalism’s pyromaniac drive to subject everything in its path, including planetary matter itself, to metabolic combustion in order to generate usable energy for interminable growth. The figure of prosthetic implants demonstrates how the extractive logic distills and disperses itself inwards from the plantation’s territorial demarcation of valuable and appropriable resource-catering to industrial modernity’s scheme of national progress, to the neoliberal production of neural subjects whose bodies, pleasures, habits, and interiorities become sites for the extraction and mobilization of consumer capitalist knowledge, modification, and control. The prosthetic waste that travels to sweatshops of disassembly where it instrumentalizes an extractive regime based on the exploitation of debt-laden, economically unstable resource and labor-rich lands of the Global South for the steady maintenance and development of the consumer capitalist military industrial complex, is thus already embedded in a larger extractive topography that Martin Arboleda (2020) calls a “planetary mine,” a transnational infrastructure that not only commoditizes as resource, lands, labor, ecologies, and geological strata, but also mines cognitive, epistemic, affective and perceptual fields on both ends of the circular economy.

In the novel, waste, more specifically electronic and biotechnological waste, is both a constellated figure that serves as an instrument of neoliberal geopolitics, as well as a site for new multispecies encounters and entanglements that destabilize ontological boundaries between human/animal, organic/inorganic, and flesh/machine. Further, the novel examines waste as an example of heterogeneous and hybrid formations that, through recurrent disruptive assaults on hegemonic attempts to construct stable borders and sanitized homogeneous interiors, resist being eliminated or forgotten. Waste Tide’s setting is Silicon Isle, an ironically named fictional prototype of South China’s Guiyu region in Guangdong Province, the world’s largest e-waste disposal and recycling center. Here, waste isn’t a mere marginal phenomenon occupying designated out-of-sight spaces of containment; rather, waste constitutes the very material and (as the text demonstrates) corporeal and neural infrastructures within which lives, forms of livability, and livelihoods are determined. Likewise, the toxic colonization of waste is not limited to geography alone, but extends to the bodily and psychic scapes of the inhabitants of Silicon Isle, derogatorily called waste people. As Chen Kaizong, one of the novel’s central characters, poignantly describes, the bodies of the waste workers acquire a porous interchangeability with pollution. At a corporeal level, this exchange literalizes the very erosion of their identities as qualified humans that the biopolitics of extractive capitalism seeks to accomplish as a justification of the appropriation of their dehumanized labor as a source of abstract, nonhuman energy:

He saw the pallid, sickly complexions of the young women and their rough, spotted hands, the result of corrosive, harsh chemicals…. He thought of Mimi; thought of her guileless smile, and underneath, the particles of heavy metal stuck to the walls of her blood vessels; thought of her deformed olfactory cells and damaged immune system. She was like a self-regulating, maintenance-free machine, and like the other hundreds of millions in the high-quality labor force of this land, she would work day after day tirelessly until her death. (124)

In A Billion Black Anthropocenes, Kathryn Yusoff observes that the conversion of labor into a resource under colonialism’s extractive logic is preceded by a metaphysical extraction of the qualities associated with human personhood, thus reducing the colonial subject to a form of pure raw material equatable with mineral ores and plantation produce, and thus legitimately exposable to the same kinds of violence and metabolization. This logic is extended in Chen’s text to the workings of toxicity on bodies exposed to injury and harm. The metaphysical extraction of personhood is accompanied in Silicon Isle’s contested terrain by a permeation, and in the apotheosis of novel’s dystopian telos, transplantation of human anatomy by waste matter to create new posthuman corporeal assemblages. The posthuman in this instance, however, is not a transcendent or idealized paradigm informed by fantasies of anthropocentric perfectibility. Rather, the posthuman abject produced by waste’s contagious vectors of becoming is an open-ended ontology harboring unpredictable boundary crossings and reactions between disparate species, materialities, and technologies. If proximity to lethal waste constitutes a capitalist strategy of depersonalization, the extractive implications of this process become generative, the text shows, of diminished or minor scales of existence beneath the threshold of the anthropocentric subject.

We see this process embodied in two of the novel’s ephebic subjects: the waste girl Mimi and the son of the leader of one the three dynastic clans who share ownership of Silicon Isle. While toying with a strange prosthetic contraption, Mimi is infected with a virus that tampers with her cognitive and sensory capacities. This virus, as we are later informed, is a zoonotic organism originating in the cranial matter of a brutally dismembered primate who is part of a laboratory experiment for inventing life-augmenting neural implants for humans. The same helmet infects and renders comatose the youngest member of the Luo clan. While the boy’s uncontaminated body reacts to the virus by shutting down, in Mimi’s case, the presence of metal particles in her blood accumulated through the manual handling and inhalation of synthetic substances produces a form of neurological hyperactivity, leading to the production of a secondary and autonomic techno-virological consciousness. The key to Mimi’s brain is a fictional Cold War military technology based on remote chemical warfare, the eponymous Project Waste Tide that uses a hallucinogenic drug to immobilize the enemy by producing delusions and psychological terrors. We learn that Project Waste Tide’s postwar toxic terrorism mutates into a commercial enterprise that uses the same military formula to create new kinds of neurological capacities in mammalian brains. Thus, within the novel’s speculative imaginary faux organs, are sites of complex ontological enmeshment between human corporeality: body fluids and secretions,  skin, tissue, and hair residue, and nonhuman forms of proliferation–virological and other microorganic life that develop and travel through such discard. As carriers of fleshly remnants and facilitators of new kinds of relational accommodations between inorganic and organic forms, discarded prostheses become commentators on the necropolitical regime of neoliberal capitalism where bodies, body parts, identities, digital data, algorithmic code, viral forms, and inorganic matter are mobilized as interchangeable units in a common transnational flow of information and profit. The zoonotic virus that originates in the brain of a lab animal used for a grizzly experiment remains inactive in Mimi’s brain until her torture with a VR device stimulates it and renders her into a cyborg capable of projecting her consciousness to external nonhuman bodies.

Waste Tide takes the biopolitical interchangeability between persons and discards through which capitalist societies organize the allocation of resource and power and explores the implications of this interpenetration for a radical reconceptualization of personal autonomy and bounded individuality. The infected brain emerges as a posthuman assemblage of human, animal, viral, and technical agencies whereby the crisis of the normative person becomes a site of ecological and social justice. The discard in this scenario is a specific kind of object indexing economic systems of exploitation and profit but also acting like an object bearing its own chemical, physical, structural, and aesthetic intensities. Waste’s tangled materiality, or what Josh Lepawsky has eloquently described as its archipelagic structure: “These discardscapes are a kind of archipelago—patchy, uneven, and not necessarily coherent” (15), also making it generative of specific articulations of subjectivity. Within waste’s material economy and spatial arrangements exist new fragmented processual and unstable norms for the configuration of new idioms of subjecthood that are not constructed along linear, unified models of development and heredity but are premised instead on processes of dismantling, incoherent connections and asymmetrical relations between disparate components–immanent assemblages that are engendered by discard’s “thing-power,” “the curious ability of inanimate things to animate, to act, to produce effects dramatic and subtle” (Bennett 6).

In Waste Tide, discard offers a semantic and epistemic paradigm for the subject which, unmoored from metaphysical claims to transcendence and humanist anthropocentric pretensions to god-like omniscience and rationalist mastery, is reconfigured in low, abject, minor, and diminutive registers of being and action. In the face of the minoritarian and relational ontology of trash that harbors both the exhaustion and entropy of depleted totalities, the humanist subject is reduced and rendered down as a remnant of Anthropocene fossil capitalism’s pyromania, becoming (in response to the planetary scale of its destruction) an exercise in diminishment. This paradoxical reconfiguration of the historical subject under the cognitively disorienting challenges of the post-Holocene era is termed by Morton and Boyer (2021) a “hyposubject,” a conceptual innovation that both destabilizes the universalist assumptions undergirding the (white, male, protestant, heterosexual) subject as the prototype of anthropos, while also establishing a paradigm of diminished subjectivity as an ethically open and epistemologically receptive formation that can, in turn, offer what Joanna Zylinska (2020) calls minimal ethics as a form of attunement, care, interdependence, and exchange with environments under peril, ruination, and duress.


NOTES

[1] From the transcript of Chen’s public lecture organized by the London Chinese Science Fiction Group on 12th August 2019, and accessed at https://vector-bsfa.com/2021/03/10/chen-qiufan-why-did-i-write-a-science-fiction-novel-about-e-waste/ (date of last access: 14.01.23) See also Vector 293: Chinese Science Fiction, Spring 2021


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Chunks, or a Tin-Opener’s View of Late Capitalism



Chunks, or a Tin-Opener’s View of Late Capitalism

Graham Head

The title of this essay is intended not only to reference the sweet, canned pineapple that I use to string my argument together, and which is one partial focus of the paper, but also reflects that the argument itself comes in, well, chunks.

When, early in Robert Heinlein’s 1958 juvenile novel, Have Spacesuit Will Travel, the protagonist, Clifford, or Kip, tells his father that he is set on going to the moon, the latter answers ‘fine’—but the method is up to Kip. He cites a novel he is reading in which the protagonists try several routes to open a tin can of pineapples:

…when he told me I could go to the Moon, but the means were up to me, he meant just that. I could go tomorrow—provided I could wangle a billet in a space ship.

But he added meditatively, ‘There must be a number of ways to get to the moon, son. Better check ’em all. Reminds me of this passage I’m reading. They’re trying to open a tin of pineapple, and Harris has left the can opener back in London. They try several ways.’ He started to read aloud and I sneaked out – I had heard that passage five hundred times… (Heinlein, Spacesuit, 6)

This was the last of Heinlein’s juveniles published by Scribner’s. In these books, as Farah Mendlesohn argues, he attempts to guide and instruct his audience, assumed to comprise mostly of boys in their early teens, as well as to entertain. For Mendlesohn, this is perhaps his most ‘quintessential’ juvenile, in addition to being a political novel (Mendlesohn, 48, 90-91). It was written after a period when he’d been working on what eventually became the 1961 novel Stranger in a Strange Land, and a year before Starship Troopers would be released. Kip’s dad is one of Heinlein’s all-knowing omnicompetent father-figures, so, again, we might well expect the book to contain some messages.

The book Kip’s dad is reading is Jerome K. Jerome’s 1889 comic novel, Three Men in a Boat. As he mobilises Jerome’s description of his three characters’ desire for a tin of sweet-fleshed pineapples, he apparently deploys it as a basic narrative of desire motivating entrepreneurial action. Invention, innovation, and adaptation to circumstances are key, and it’s true that these are themes in Heinlein’s novel. In the next chapter, in fact, Heinlein describes how Kip tries to win a trip to the moon by entering a competition to write an advertising slogan for ‘Skyways Soap,’ depicting in loving detail how he mass-produces his competition entries.  It seems the conquest of space—or a trip to the moon, at least—is supported by active entrepreneurship and improvisation.

However, looked at another way, this passage from Jerome is a rather strange choice:

We are very fond of pine-apple, all three of us. We looked at the picture on the tin; we thought of the juice. We smiled at one another, and Harris got a spoon ready.

… There was no tin-opener to be found.

Then Harris tried to open the tin with a pocket-knife, and broke the knife and cut himself badly; and George tried a pair of scissors, and the scissors flew up, and nearly put his eye out. While they were dressing their wounds, I tried to make a hole in the thing with the spiky end of the hitcher, and the hitcher slipped and jerked me out between the boat and the bank into two feet of muddy water, and the tin rolled over, uninjured, and broke a teacup.

… Harris rushed at the thing, and caught it up, and flung it far into the middle of the river, and as it sank we hurled our curses at it… (Jerome 116-117)

The desire for pineapple is certainly a parallel to Kip’s wish for the Moon, but Jerome’s protagonists completely fail to open the tin, despite their many attempts. They don’t achieve their aim. They are wounded in the process, and they are clearly figures of fun, not entrepreneurial exemplars. They give up. It is possible that Kip’s father is just tone deaf to what he is saying, but it is perhaps worth looking further. Has he simply offered a rather unhelpful parallel, or is Heinlein hinting at something more?

Jerome’s novel was hugely popular when it was published, a best-seller that seemed to tap into the spirit of the times. His characters and the events he describes touched a chord; they were of the moment. And canned pineapples were a relatively new innovation. They had only just become widespread in Britain, and available to nearly all classes of society, in the previous decade. Perhaps, then, it is worth looking at the means of production of those tins of pineapples.

The first pineapple in Europe was brought over from the Americas by Columbus. For many years afterwards, because of the difficulties of cultivation in a European climate and the fact that the fruit would often rot during long voyages, it was the preserve of the elite classes. Large hothouses were built in the estates of the landed gentry, and it became a symbol of wealth and elite privilege, as well as an object of epicurean—and occasionally sinfully erotic—desire. Early in the nineteenth century, faster and more reliable transport from the Americas made a trade in pineapples to Europe practical. At the same time, more people built hothouses, to grow the fruit in all weathers. Pineapples slowly stopped being the preserve of the very rich and became accessible to the middle classes. Dickens’ titular David Copperfield sees piles of the fruit for sale in London (Dickens, 215), although they remain, for many, an inaccessible object of desire.

By 1850, 200,000 pineapples were being unloaded on the London docks every year. The main source of imported pineapples in this period was the Bahamas, where, by the end of the 18th century, pineapple cultivation had supplanted the pre-eminence of cotton. Following the abolition of slavery in 1834, many ex-slaves were essentially forced to become share croppers, leasing the land for pineapples from a landlord and surrendering up to half of their profits to them in return. It was a pretty miserable existence. They also had to deal with those who marketed and transported the fruit, who would rarely give them a fair price. With the increasingly successful trade with Britain, tens of thousands of acres on the islands of New Providence and Eleuthera were given over solely to the production of pineapples. But development was still paternalistically organised by the ruling British state. Finally, in 1876, a method was devised for canning pineapples. This eased the difficulties of transport and made the fruit available to the masses all year round. A further massive expansion in production and trade occurred as a result. By 1885, over a million pineapples were exported annually, and it was the main crop of the colony. The cultivation of the fruit continued to grow, extending significantly beyond the West Indies to the Azores and North Africa, as well as to Hawaii. There is, of course, no mention of this industrialisation of extraction and production in Jerome’s novel. Ten years later, however, in Wells’ 1897 novel The War of the Worlds, there is a suggestion that this relationship is understood.

… I will not tell the needless trouble I had breaking into that house… nor how I ransacked every room for food, until just on the verge of despair, in what seemed to me to be a servant’s bedroom, I found a rat-gnawed crust and two tins of pineapple. The place had been already searched and emptied. In the bar I afterwards found some biscuits and sandwiches that had been overlooked. The latter I could not eat, they were too rotten, but the former not only stayed my hunger, but filled my pockets. (Wells 142)

Wells’ unnamed narrator, tired, hungry, and in hiding from the Martian invaders, chances upon two tins of pineapples in a ruined Surrey house. In mordant opposition to Jerome’s use of the same food a few years earlier, these tins have already been ignored by previous scavengers and hold no interest for the hungry refugee. Situated as they are in an ironic narrative that casts the white, moneyed English as the invaded and brutalised people, this is a telling intervention. Wells’ narrator encounters an industrialised foodstuff that symbolises civilisation, technological advancement, and national power, but also colonialism and exploitation. At the very least, alongside his destruction of the home counties, Wells intends to signal the demise of the comfortable lives of Jerome’s protagonists. There will be no more pleasure-seeking on the Thames. This is a novel that takes colonialism as a key subject, making it hard to believe that Wells didn’t also intend the tin of pineapples as a handy signal of the end of the European hegemony. That said, not every SF use of the tinned fruit is an indicator of colonialism. For example, in George R Stewart’s 1949 novel, Earth Abides, the survivors of a worldwide apocalypse value the tins primarily because they keep their contents safe from predating rats. The tins are valued because they securely preserve their contents. (Stewart 114).

That said, not every SF use of the tinned fruit is an indicator of colonialism. For example, in George R Stewart’s 1949 novel, Earth Abides, the survivors of a worldwide apocalypse value the tins primarily because they keep their contents safe from predating rats. The tins are valued because they securely preserve their contents. (Stewart 114).

Robert and Virginia Heinlein visited a large-scale pineapple cannery in Hawaii as part of their 1953 world tour, and thus had a sense of the scale of cultivation. Many indigenous plants and animals had been swept aside in the mass planting of the fruit, but in writing about this visit, Heinlein professed only a profound pleasure in the development of the island and supported the industrialisation of production (Heinlein, Tramp, 333-334). So is it really reasonable to think that the darker side of pineapple cultivation was also in his mind, when he wrote the novel?

Well, just possibly, because Spacesuit, like The War of the Worlds, is amongst many other things a novel about colonisation and colonialism. Kip, wearing the spacesuit he won in the soap slogan competition and which he has carefully refurbished, is kidnapped by alien—the evil ‘Wormfaces.’ A hostile, spacefaring race, they are scouting the Earth with the intent of invasion and taking it over. They are colonisers. And,  to continue our discussion of food, they eat humans. It is impossible for Kip, or the other humans around him, to face up to these creatures; if they give an instruction, there is no possibility of rebellion; it must be obeyed. The Wormface aliens have technology well beyond that of humans, enabling travel to Pluto in only five days. Resistance is only possible with the support of another alien, the Mother Thing, who turns out to be a kind of interstellar policeman.

This places Kip and Peewee, the preadolescent girl who is his fellow-prisoner, in the role of the colonised and the oppressed. And if there is a clear parallel in the book to the failed attempts of Jerome’s boating holidaymakers to open a tin of pineapples, it may lie in Kip’s repeated failed attempts to escape his captivity. He tries several different avenues, including a march across the lunar surface, improvising with their shrinking oxygen supplies, as well as various attempts to escape his cell on Pluto. Innovation and improvisation are shown to be the province of the prisoner, not just the entrepreneur. At one point, in fact, as Kip is fed from tin cans, he manufactures one into a crude knife, hammering it flat with a second can, creating a weapon of resistance from Wells’ symbol of colonisation.

Eventually, Kip and Peewee are rescued by Mother Thing’s colleagues and taken to the star system of Vega to recover. The Mother Thing’s race is far more advanced than that of the Wormfaces; they are members of an enormous civilisation that covers three galaxies (our own and the Magellanic Clouds). They have intergalactic travel and some form of time travel. Once healed, the children are taken to a court in one of the Magellanic Clouds for judgement of both humanity and the Wormface aliens—and if anything, questions of colonisation and exploitation become more insistent. This court judges whole races. Those who are deemed a threat to the great multigalactic civilisation are sentenced to ‘rotation’ into another space without their sun: an act of summary racial genocide. The Wormfaces are found guilty, and despite their aggressive defiance and hatred, are sentenced to death in this way. Part of their defence reveals their contempt for the indigenous humans:

The Wormfaces had been operating in their own part of space engaged in occupying a useful but empty planet, Earth. No possible crime would lie in colonizing a world inhabited merely by animals. (Heinlein, Spacesuit, 150)

Then it is time for the humans to be judged. Kip has already, in all innocence, given the Vegans something of a potted history of human civilisation, as he understands it—a rather warts and all account. The Court also has the power to reach back in time and pluck other examples of the human race out of the past: a Roman soldier (Iunio), who is a legionnaire from the garrison at Eboracum (York), and a Neanderthal from prehistory. The latter is timorous, and is eventually recognised as not of the same species as the humans, so is sent back. Iunio, however, part of the Roman force colonising England, sees everyone else, including the children, as barbarians, uncivilised, and beneath him. He offers to buy Peewee as a slave. He has been guarding the building of a wall in the North, where the weather is awful:

The climate there was terrible, and the natives were bloodthirsty beasts who… didn’t appreciate civilisation—you’d think the eagles [i.e., the Romans] were trying to steal their dinky island… (Heinlein, Spacesuit, 146)

Iunio’s views closely parallel those expressed by the Wormfaces. Both see the indigenous inhabitants they are supplanting as less than human, as bestial. Humans may in fact be no better than the Wormfaces.

This very act of extracting people from the past may suggest a reification of John Rieder’s notion, when discussing The War of the Worlds, that the confrontation of humans and Martians is a kind of anachronism, an incongruous co-habitation of the same moment by people and artifacts from different times. He cites George Stocking’s 1987 Victorian Anthropology:

Victorian anthropologists, while expressing shock at the devastating effects of European contact on the Tasmanians, were able to adopt an apologetic tone about it because they understood the Tasmanians as ‘living representatives of the early Stone age,’ and thus their ‘extinction was simply a matter of… placing the Tasmanians back into the dead prehistoric world where they belonged’. (Rieder, 5, ellipses in original)

To the Wormfaces, the humans are animals, invisible. To the Three Galaxies they are children. They are infantilised—as indicated, overtly, by the very name of the Mother Thing who befriends the hero. In each case they occupy the position of indigenous peoples in the face of invaders.

Both the Wormfaces and Iunio end with a defiant, threatening, and self-centred outburst at the galactic court. It is something of a shock to the reader, that when Kip is called to give evidence, he ends in the same fashion. Condemned out of his own mouth, this suggests he is little different from the colonisers. Despite that, the humans are reprieved. In a sense, their infantilisation saves them, as it is hinted in the court that they are a young race that might be trained to know better. The paternalistic galactic empire is judging the human race, rather as the British—at the time the novel was written—were judging their colonies. “It’s the same all over Africa… Africa is growing up… And in all the countries which have been under British control they are being given their independence as soon as they are able to manage their own affairs. (Daniell and Matthew 48)” However, Heinlein also likens the three galaxies to Hawaii in their isolation (Heinlein, Spacesuit, 141). So it may be that, as their decisions are based more on security than justice, he is suggesting they have something of the America of the 1950s about them. Not claiming to be colonisers themselves, but still perhaps setting themselves up to police the whole world.”

It is now, finally, possible to understand Heinlein’s choice of passage from Three Men In a Boat. The frustration of Jerome’s boaters is reflected in Kip’s frustrations with his captivity, but more widely, humankind appears to be curtailed in its desire to drive into space; the novel challenges the notion that humans can expand without check. It takes on one of the pervading monomyths of the genre, and it refutes the notion that humankind will forge into space and build a galactic civilisation there. There are people living there already, and they are dangerous. And humankind has no solution for that.

We can’t have the pineapples.

Admittedly, little of this concern with the colonising urge comes through Kip’s narrative voice, which remains that of a can-do American chap who has just finished high school. He’s bright and brave, he knows engineering and science, and has enough Latin to speak with an ancient Roman. The novel remains, at heart, a juvenile story of derring-do. He defeats the evil aliens, travels to other galaxies, and saves the human race from extinction. The entrepreneurialism noted at the start remains throughout. So I’m not arguing that the main thrust of the novel comprises a paean against colonialism; rather, that this remains as a troubling undercurrent running alongside the main narrative. And, I suggest, a helpful symbol of that parallel current is that pesky tin of pineapples.


NOTES

[1] The material in this section is drawn from Beauman, ch. 9-10 and O’Connor, ch.3.


WORKS CITED

Beauman, Fran. The Pineapple: King of Fruits. Vintage, 2005.

Daniell, David Scott and Jack Matthew. Flight Five Africa: A Ladybird Book of Travel Adventure. Loughborough, Wills and Hepworth, 1961.

Dickens, Charles. The Personal History of David Copperfield. Penguin, 1966.

Heinlein, Robert A. Have Spacesuit – Will Travel. New English Library, 1975.

—. Tramp Royale. Ace, 1992.

Jerome, Jerome K. Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog). Penguin, 1957.

Mendlesohn, Farah. The Pleasant Profession of Robert A. Heinlein. Unbound, 2019.

O’Connor, Kaori. Pineapple: A Global History. Reaktion, 2013.

Rieder, John. Colonialism and the Emergence of Science Fiction. Wesleyan University Press, 2008.

Stewart, George R. Earth Abides. Gollancz, 1950.

Wells, H.G. The War of the Worlds. Everyman, 1993.

Graham Head is an independent researcher living in London. 


Violating the Ecotopian Promise: Reading Colonial Extraction in Amitav Ghosh’s The Living Mountain



Violating the Ecotopian Promise: Reading Colonial Extraction in Amitav Ghosh’s The Living Mountain

Jasmine Sharma

Speculative fiction offers a critical insight into our present reality through alternative forms of representation. It incorporates exquisite facets of science, fabulation, fantasy, and magical realism to transform familiar reality in order that we think upon it afresh, as outsiders. Today, the post-pandemic market is flooded with voluminous works of speculative fiction, which invite readers and critics alike to posit culturally urgent contemporary questions pertaining to the future of humanity. The text I analyze here includes dynamic bio-wars and biopiracy, ecological crisis amid rising capitalism, and aquatic and alpine pollution due to malfunctioning industrial setups. This eventually leads to contagious viral exposure, environmental contamination, and the extensive migration of indigenous populations.

Amitav Ghosh’s The Living Mountain: A Fable for our Times (2022) is a work of ecotopian speculative fiction that our century direly needs. Traversing his earlier fiction and non-fiction works such as The Hungry Tide (2004), The Great Derangement: Climate Change and the Unthinkable (2016), The Gun Island (2019), and The Nutmeg’s Curse: Parables for a Planet in Crisis (2021), the author writes an interesting dream tale to chart the history of the human-environment relationship. Delineating the disastrous impacts of ecological imperialism and colonial extraction, the book attempts to capture the unanticipated stimulation of an ecocide amid the growing avidity of the masses. By the end of the tale, Ghosh presents a sharp critique of anthropocentric voracity at the cost of environmental degradation as well as the dire need for humans to reconnect with nature and its bounty.

The link between humans and the environment dates back thousands of centuries. Literary studies intensify this link with impeccable plots, fascinating narratives, and struggling characters postulating explorative ideas to spread educative awareness. This interdisciplinary bent towards environmental and ecological themes in literature has, over the years, led to the establishment of the ecocritical school of thought. However, its premises for theorizing and interpreting are not limited to reading the romantic and deep, ecological ideas of the sublime and the wilderness, but also extends to the issue of environmental struggles against the more dominant paradigms of development, science, technology, displacement of indigenous populations, and colonization. In The Ecocritical Reader, Cherly Glotfelty foresees “Ecocriticism becoming a multi-ethnic movement with stronger connections made between the environment and the issues of social justice and when a diversity of voices are encouraged to contribute to the discussion” (xxv). Further, in his 1999 essay, “The Ecocritical Insurgency,” Lawrence Buell reflects on the unleashed potential of ecocritical studies, noting: “The untapped opportunities (of postcolonial ecocriticism) are still much greater than the achievements thus far. For example, India offers distinguished traditions of environmental historiography, ecological science, and environmentalist thought as well as a rich literary archive that engages environmental issues; but ecocriticism has not, so far, tapped very deeply into it” (710). Ghosh’s later writings, including the one under present study, epitomize the ecosophical spirit that Buell discusses around two decades back. It encompasses an urgent call for the preservation of natural ecosystems while censuring the misuse of environmental resources.

“Ecological imperialism” refers to the “violent appropriation of indigenous land to the ill-considered introduction of non-domestic livestock and European agricultural activities” (Huggan and Tiffan 3). However, Ghosh’s fable features much more than the use of non-domestic livestock and agricultural farming. It depicts a categorically determined and gory plunder of the living mountain, enough to invite the reverence of nature. This macabre pillage consequently leads to the physical, psychological and, at the end, epistemological conditioning of colonized communities leading to their consequent downfall.

Extractive colonialism, or “colonial extraction,” characterizes the diplomatic mediation between the colonizers (the Anthropoi) and the colonized (the Varvaroi, or the indigenous communities) with the purpose of slashing out the latter from their natural habitat and, instead, extracting raw materials, natural history specimens, and ethnographic artefacts from the newly colonized reserve. In the essay, “Decolonizing Conservation Policy: How Colonial Land and Conservation Ideologies Persist and Perpetuate Indigenous Injustices at the Expense of the Environment,” Liara Dominguez and Colin Luoma argue that the “separation of indigenous people from their natural environment was a crucial component of colonization” (1). In fact, “the widespread plunder of natural resources was a hallmark of colonization. Nature was something that was to be commodified in order to enrich the colonial power. In turn, indigenous were treated as business enterprises, with seemingly unlimited resources to exploit” (5).

Ghosh’s shortest book ever, this slender volume of 35 pages has much to unravel about the zeal to conquer nature and its subsequent aftermath. Unlike his previous works, which present a historical account of real-life ecological communities, The Living Mountain holds a speculative mirror to the harsh reality of the present and advances a caveat against this hegemonizing cycle. Critiquing anthropological capitalism, the narrative is a commentary on the growing megalomania that, if not interrupted, may lead to an ecological crash.

Crafted as a fable that employs literary metaphors of the aesthetic and the sublime, this enthralling masterpiece engenders strong emotions of awe and wonder in its readers. The presentation of its fascinating content in prosaic stanzas further adds a creative dimension to the overall reading experience. Devangana Das’s emblematizing illustrations supplement the narrative, making it vitally comprehensive to its textual audience. In fact, each illustration could be read in parallel to the semantic idea introduced henceforth. The fable begins with the voice of an unnamed narrator introducing her book club buddy, Maansi. Both of them share a common interest in engaging in thought-provoking discussions through regular reading exercises. Each New Year, they choose a subject and commit themselves to reading and discussing it in the next twelve months. The narrative gains momentum as soon as Maansi introduces the term, ‘Anthropocene,’ for the upcoming year. ‘Anthropocene’ is a grippling term that they cannot even pronounce correctly at first, but look forward to researching and laying hold of a suitable reading list. In the meantime, the narrator waits for Maansi’s response until, one fine day, her message pops up on the screen. This message invites the readers to get ready for a captivating tale of the living mountain, the breathing Mahaparbat that protects its dedicated population from natural disasters and enemy attacks.

From here on, the fable unfolds as a dream that Maansi visualizes after digging into the term, ‘Anthropocene.’ In the dream lies the crux of the fable that the author beautifully delineates:

In my dream I was a young girl growing up in the valley that was home to a cluster of warring villages high in the Himalaya. Overlooking our Valley was an immense, snowy mountain, whose peak was almost always wreathed in clouds. The mountain was called Mahaparbat, Great Mountain, and despite our differences all of us who lived in the Valley revered the mountain: our ancestors had told us that of all the world’s mountains ours was the most alive; that it would protect us and look after us- but only on condition that we told stories about it, and sang about it, and danced for it- but always from a distance (7).

This ‘distance’ indicates a plea for cordial interactions between nature and humans. It admonishes the people of the valley (or any foreign settlers) against exploiting its scenic beauty and ecological abundance. In fact, nobody is allowed to set foot on its holy slopes, as then the mountain wouldn’t protect its people, but may instead punish them in unimaginable and horrendous ways. At the same time, the Mahaparbat is the home of exotic herbs and minerals, adding to its divine charm that the inhabitants aim to maintain at all cost. However, things undergo a drastic change when colonizers get to know about the magical resources of the mountain and attempt to plunder its heavenly abode.

On the surface, Ghosh’s fable appears as a speculative tale of colonization. With no specifically named characters (except Maansi, who recalls her dream), the narrative presents counteractive ideologies. On one side stands ‘Anthropoi’ (a term Ghosh uses for the colonizers who desire to exert anthropocentric control over the mountain), and the other side is occupied by ‘Varvaroi’ (the original inhabitants of the valley) who have faith in the power of the mountain and desire to preserve its deific status. The ideological clash between the two forms the central argument of the narrative. At first, both groups struggle to maintain the interest of their respective community. The Anthropoi dominate the Varvaroi and, despite all warnings, set foot on the living mountain to ransack its bounteous resources. The Varvaroi, on the other hand, try their level best to believe in the folklore of their sanctified ‘Mahaparbat,’ but the day isn’t far off when they, too, become victim to Anthropoi greed. And finally, the moment arrives when both join hands and target the living mountain to fulfil their avaricious intentions. The author describes this change of attitude as:

Our eyes were drawn inexorably to the Anthropoi as they ascended Mahaparbat’s mysterious, glistening snows. We watched spellbound as they pulled themselves with their ropes and tackle…The lives of the Anthropoi seemed infinitely more exciting than our own wretched existence down in the Valley…As time went by, our attitude towards the Mountain began to change- our reverence slowly shifted away from the Mountain and attached itself instead to the spectacle of the climb. Gradually as the spectacle took the place that the Mountain occupied in our hearts, we burned with the desire to ascend those slopes ourselves (19).

This shift in perspective signifies the impending anthropocentric doom that the Anthropoi and Varvaroi fail to realize. None of them actually care about the Great Mountain. What matters is who climbs higher and conquers its precipitous slopes. This eventually leads to a fanatical and competitive urge to defeat their opponent without considering the robustness of the Living Mountain. In fact, climbing high intoxicates each of the climbers and makes them desperate to reach its topmost point. In reciprocation, what untwines is the scathing wrath of the ‘Mahaparbat,’ the epitome of sentient nature itself, in the form of devastating avalanches and landslides that sweep away a vast number of valley inhabitants.

However, deep down, ‘The Living Mountain’ is a learning lesson that resonates with human actions. It bears testimony to the insatiable greed of humans, which can lead to cataclysmic consequences. This makes Ghosh’s fable a touchstone of contemporary concern, requiring uncompromising attention and a diligent acumen to be able to dissolve the disastrous hegemony of man over nature. In fact, the tale is much more than a post-pandemic cautionary speculation on the affront to truth that we chose to peripheralize or, more precisely, ignore. In fact, it calls for a persistent understanding of the ecological misconduct that we have unconsciously added to our everyday activities. Thus, The Living Mountain manifests as an extant truth that we are born with and continue to reap its harvest. It reiterates itself in each one of us through Maansi’s dream, which we still fail to think upon.

Still, we cannot miss the author’s ustopia as we read the final sentences of the fable: “How are you? she cried. How dare you speak of the Mountain as though you were its masters, and it were your plaything, your child? Have you understood nothing of what it has been trying to teach you? Nothing at all?”. These sentences add a two-fold perspective to the fable: first, they highlight the harsh repercussions that anthropocentric greed meets in the face of an environmental catastrophe and, second, they anticipate a promising transformation of human ideology through eco-friendly actions. In short, the fable provides a remarkable opportunity to the readers to reprimand ecological mismanagement and encourage the sustainable use of environmental resources.

Macroscopically, Ghosh’s fable encapsulates the epistemological essence of sustainable development. It creatively directs its audience to explore the United Nations’ agenda of Sustainable Development Goals 2030, thus making it equally interesting for development policy critics. In particular, it focuses on Goal 15 of the charter, which promises to “protect, restore and promote sustainable use of terrestrial ecosystems, sustainably manage forests, combat desertification and halt the reverse land degradation and halt diversity loss” (“Sustainable Development Goals 2030”). This acts in conjunction with the Indian Biodiversity Act (2002), which “provides for conservation of biological diversity, sustainable use of its components and fair and equitable sharing of all benefits out of the use of biological resources, knowledge and for matters connected therewith or incident thereto” (“Indian Biodiversity Act”), the Rights of Nature, which is “grounded in the recognition that humankind and Nature share a fundamental non-anthropocentric relationship” (“Rights of Nature”), and other similar manifestos implemented by global governments. Each of these memorandums reaffirm our ‘Mother Earth’ and its ecosystems as a common expression that we equally share and which, therefore, must be treated with respect by all.

A lucid expression of Ghosh’s perspectival agency, The Living Mountain creatively acknowledges the interrelation between humans and ecology. It re-establishes our neglected connection with Mother Earth and calls for the revitalization of the ecosystem. The author, through a circular and fantastical narrative, laments the poignant deterioration of the planet. Through this engaging fable, Ghosh records a contemporary global scenario of environmental adversity that caters to the massive outreach necessary for the optimal protection of our ecosphere. The Living Mountain is a remarkable read for those interested in speculative fiction and ecotopian narratives. It motivates its audience to adopt eco-friendly practices of preservation and sustenance. Entangling the past, present, and future into a well-knit web, this fable sets the groundwork for a sustainable human-nature interaction today, tomorrow, and henceforth.


WORKS CITED

Buell, Lawrence. “The Ecocritical Insurgency.” The John Hopkins University Press, vol. 30, no. 3, 1999, 699-712.

Dominque, Lara and Colin Luoma. “Decolonizing Conservation Policy: How Colonial Land and Conservation Ideologies Persist and Perpetuate Indigenous Injustices at the Expense of the Environment.” Land, vol. 9, no. 65, 2020, 1-22.

Ghosh, Amitav. The Living Mountain. HarperCollins Publishers, 2022.

Glotfelty, Cherly and Harold Fromm. The Ecocritical Reader: Landmarks in Literary Ecology. The University of Georgia Press, 1996.

Huggan, Graham and Helen Tiffin. “Green Postcolonialism.” Interventions, vol. 9, no.1, 2009, 1-11.

“Indian Biodiversity Act.” The Biological Diversity Act, 2002- India Code. https://www.indiacode.nic.in/bitstream/123456789/2046/1/200318.pdf. Accessed 28 August 2022.     

 “Rights of Nature.” Rights of Nature Law and Policy. http://www.harmonywithnatureun.org/rightsOfNature/#:~:text=Rights%20of%20Nature%20is%20grounded,actions%20that%20respect%20this%20relationship. Accessed 19 August 2022.  

“Sustainable Development Goals 2030.” Sustainable Development- The United Nations. https://sdgs.un.org/2030agenda. Accessed 25 August 2022.


New Materialist Considerations about The Man from Mars by Stanislaw Lem



New Materialist Considerations about The Man from Mars by Stanislaw Lem

Malgorzata Kowalcze

Although Stanislaw Lem’s works comprise a variety of genres (Lethem), it is his abundant contribution to the genre of science fiction that he is arguably most recognized and appreciated for. This paper discusses the writer’s very first SF endeavour, the novel The Man from Mars, which was forgotten for half a century after it had been first published in 1946 in the magazine Nowy Świat Przygód ( “The New World of Adventures”), and has not been translated into English in extenso to date. Lem’s juvenilia is a ‘first contact’ story (Lethem) which raises the question of the inmost desires of two species of intelligent beings, namely, humans and Martians, in which multidimensional extraction plays a major role. Importantly, the book touches upon issues which are central for new materialist research, such as blurring the borders between human and non-human, inherent vitality of matter and agency of objects, to name but a few; and therefore selected concepts of the new materialist theories shall constitute the main framework of my considerations.

The novel is written in a rather light tone, as if the author was playing with words and ideas, not quite aware of the grim and complex undertones lurking in the ostensibly simple story. It reveals the author’s disbelief in the possibility of humans effectively communicating with aliens, which is a repeated theme of Lem’s narratives. “Mutual hostility between humans and Martians appears to be inevitable and forejudged” one critic observes, adding that the novel is actually not about an attempt at communication, but about a fight with aliens, a sort of a trial humanity and its values are subjected to (Jarzebski 478). That makes the Polish writer’s narratives similar to H. G. Wells’s stories which often revolve around the motif of a confrontation between two dissimilar civilisations and therefore it is not without reason that critics point to Wells’s War of the Worlds as the source of Lem’s inspiration for the book.

In the novel, a spaceship from Mars with peculiar substances and species, but most importantly, with a strange machine on board is found. The machine, which is in the shape of a metal cone with several coiled tubes attached to it, turns out to be intelligent and endowed with not only agency, which according to Katherine Hayles is the condition of subjectivity (Hayles 22), but personality as well. A group of scientists carry out a number of experiments, dissecting it and attempting to communicate with it, with the purpose of extracting from it whatever information can possibly be obtained:

So that’s the way it is: that guest from Mars can bring humanity many benefits . . . and even more misfortunes. So a few people gathered and contributed the necessary money, resources and knowledge with the following purpose: to get to know the essence of this stranger . . . messenger from another planet, communicate with him, find out if he knows a lot about us, what technical or mental superiorities he has over us, to use them for the benefit of the public, or, if necessary, to destroy him. (Lem 70)

The Martian is referred to interchangeably as ‘machine,’ ‘creature,’ ‘man,’ or ‘Areanthrop,’ which testifies to the scientists’ original ambiguity regarding its ontological status. There are numerous material, structural, and cognitive dissimilarities between the alien and humans, and yet those differences do not prevent them from recognizing certain qualities that both species share and are intimately and inalienably connected with. First of them is the disposition of perceiving the other as a resource, rather than as their equal and a potential partner of a fair exchange. At the heart of both species’ attitude towards their surroundings appears to be the propensity to extract whatever might be of value and whatever increases their power or influence. The actual purpose for obtaining power over the other species remains unspecified in the novel, but Lem’s narrative suggests that it would serve further extraction rather than creating a mutually beneficial relationship.

Martian and Earthmen’s affinity is also established by their organisms’ originating from the same substance. Despite their physical differences, both species are the forms of life generated by ‘plasma,’ which developed differently on the two planets:

…organized plasma on Mars went a different way than the one on Earth: here by means of evolution it had to develop for itself the locomotor system, the digestive system, the system to interact with the environment, that is, the sensory organs and the nervous system, and on Mars it was different, much simpler. A thinking, but rather infirm, plasma was formed that accelerated evolution by making for itself a machine to move, see, hear, and to protect itself from destruction. (Lem 58)

Karen Barad’s coinage ‘intra-action’ (Barad 248) aptly conveys the nature of that ontological connection, as it emphasizes its inalienability and the reality of both entities’ participating in the same material substratum: “The neologism ‘intraaction’ signifies the mutual constitution of entangled agencies. That is, in contrast to the usual ‘interaction,’ which assumes that there are separate individual agencies that precede their interaction, the notion of intra-action recognizes that distinct agencies do not precede, but rather emerge through, their intra-action” (Barad 2007, 33). Not only are entities intimately unified by the fabric of their material existence, but their very existence is actively formed by intraactions with other entities and their meaning emerges from the intraactive ‘mattering’ of matter: “The world is intraactivity in its differential mattering” (Barad, 2003, 817). At the beginning of the novel the scientists perceive humans as fundamentally different from the stranger and argue against using comparisons and attempting to “humanize this creature too much” (Lem 27); they are willing to understand the creature in its specificity, independently from the human context. As the plot develops, however, their initial attitude changes dramatically and they seem appalled by the fact that the behaviour of Areanthrop resembles human behaviour in many ways.

The two species are intraconnected with each other not only ontologically, but also epistemologically and ethically. Although the human language is unintelligible for the machine, it is revealed that the cognitive processes taking place in their brains are comparable, and the scientists manage to work their brain currents on the Areanthrop’s brain directly, without the intermediate ways (Lem 70). As they become subject to the same procedure by the alien, they too are made privy to the creature’s mind, his memories of Mars included.  Interestingly, what each of the humans can see in the machine’s mind is different – some images are more disturbing than others, as if tailor made for each individual on account of their knowledge, experience and intelligence. One of them, the professor can see beautiful creatures living on Mars who flee in terror the moment “the Lord of Mars, the Areanthrop appears” (93). Then another scientist asks: “So they too…? . . . They too have taken over the surface of the planet and are exterminating other animals?” (93). Apparently, Martians are as unable to see intra-material connections between themselves and other species as humans are and display drives which are similarly destructive to their own planet and its inhabitants. The actions of Martians the professor observes in his vision are ‘unintelligible’ to him and ‘without purpose’ (94), but when he describes them, they strike one as being strangely analogous to human actions – taking over the planet and destroying those elements of the natural environment which come in the way. Nature is disturbingly absent from the plot, which takes place essentially on the premises of a laboratory, and peculiarly present at the same time, manifesting itself in the very corporeality of the protagonists as well as in the figments of their imagination. The most disturbing of the professor’s visions involves some unfathomable barbarity which fills him with terror an which “demolished his understanding of everything” (96). When inquired by others about the nature of the atrocities he witnessed, whether, perhaps, Martians “drink blood, maybe slaughter or eat one another? (…) we know that from the earthly relationships and what else can possibly appall us?” (96), the professor does not get to reply. The reader is left to their own ideas of what these terrifying images might have been.

Notably, the novel was written during or right after the World War II and remnants of the horror of war—fear of unexpected threat that may come any moment or of a destructive weapon of unknown origin that one cannot protect oneself from – can be vividly sensed in it. It is somewhat surprising, therefore, that in The Man from Mars Lem presents humanity favourably, as if in an attempt to confront the trauma and disillusionment with the human ‘nature’ that the war produced. He depicts ethical issues the scientists take into consideration while conducting their experiments, the care they have for one another, as well as for the Areanthrop, whereas the alien comes across as callous, cunning and determined to obtain his evil goals. In the face of the creature’s malice and serious threat it poses to the Earth the scientists are left with no choice but to destroy it together with the whole laboratory.  Such a ‘black and white’ ethical assessment of differences gave way to a much more nuanced and ambiguous depiction of inter-species relationships in Lem’s later works, in which: “Lem goes to great lengths to avoid the facile extremes of describing Contact as a meeting of antagonists bent on pillaging of each other’s troves of scientific secrets . . . or, conversely, a handshake across space between cosmic comrades who inhabit different but amicably disposed utopias” (Swirski, 170). Nevertheless, like in his later works, in The Man from Mars Lem’s approach to the subject and his tone is far from moralizing (Glinter), as the author’s perception of relationships between humans and aliens are complex and his message ambiguous.

One of the central themes of the novel is subversion of the dualism animate vs. inanimate in the way it presents selected material objects. The alien as such, although a machine is treated as an animate creature due to its sentience and intelligence. But there are also other objects which occupy a sort of liminal space between the animate and the inanimate, e.g.:

It was something hard and cold, but it twitched at once, began to squirm in my hands, and became warm, so that I let go of it involuntarily. It fell on the table and froze in its old form. – A seemingly metallic substance endowed with excitableness – the doctor declaimed with half-closed eyes – It destroys all our notions of living matter and the difference between the animate and the inanimate… (Lem 31)

In such a depiction of material objects resonates new materialist perception of them which focuses on matter’s inherent agency. Jane Bennett’s vital materialism highlights this particularly aptly: “By ’vitality’ I mean the capacity of things—edibles, commodities, storms, metals—not only to impede or block the will and designs of humans but also to act as quasi agents or forces with trajectories, propensities, or tendencies of their own” (Bennett viii). Other concepts regarding the animate vs. inanimate relationships that the novel anticipates are the ones of Donna Haraway, Karen Barad or Timothy Morton; Lem’s work also vaticinates the approach of object-oriented ontology as well as that of cyberpunk fiction (Lethem). Undermining of the human vs. non-human dualism and that subversion includes two processes: humanizing of an object and objectification of a human being. The first one is exemplified by the Areanthrop itself—it is the product of plasma, which becomes capable of using a mechanical ‘body’ to exhibit behaviour so similar to the one of a human being that ultimately is treated as such by other characters. The second process is illustrated by the character of one of the scientists, Mr Fink, who is transmuted by the alien into an involuntary ‘machine’, a zombie of sorts, acting mechanically and following instructions given to him by the Areanthrop. The latter motif alludes to the trauma of treating the human body as a resource that characterises war, and the World War II in particular: soldiers’ bodies serving as a weapon, human body parts (hair, skin) extracted in Nazi concentration camps, where brutal experiments on humans were carried out. But what resonates in the novel as well is the lack of human exceptionality, Lem appears to be suggesting that the human body is just one of many forms matter (or in this case, plasma) takes, and there is nothing inherently unique about it. The human body can be manipulated with and extracted just like other bodies on the planet Earth. One’s intelligence does not make them special either, since it is not limited to our planet only; the Areanthrop is an intelligent life form as well, and much more advanced technologically to that. What is more, the author’s perception of intelligence strikes the reader as being far from entirely favourable, as it is intelligence which enables one to come up with most refined methods of subjugation, as Swirski insightfully observes: “Most likely a civilisation sophisticated enough to develop means of interstellar communication will also have developed other technologies, including military” (170).

We are unable to effectively communicate with aliens or to really understand the intricacies of their motives, just as the scientists can understand the technology the Areanthrop uses to some extent only. It goes without saying, however, that we are intimately intraconnected with them by means of participating in the same material substratum—matter—which is multidimensional, agentive, creative and in a way uncanny as well. Human and non-human creatures from other planets can differ biologically, culturally, historically and technologically, which might make it impossible for them to feel connected, and yet the way in which they behave, certain tendencies and propensities which appear to sort of spring from the very ‘structure’ of their constitution reveal their existential likeness. Oddly, and sadly, the propensity to extract and utilize whatever can possibly be reached is presented as a cross-species quality, a survival strategy which needs to be limited, otherwise it turns destructive to the object of extraction and, paradoxically, to the subject of extraction as well. Although seemingly uncomplicated and naïve, The Man from Mars proves to be touchingly insightful about the intricacies of human cognitive processes and impulses, of one’s intuition as well as of their rational thinking, creating a surprisingly holistic picture of a human being, and making the Areanthrop, the alien, look not as alien, as one would assume.


WORKS CITED

Barad, Karen. Meeting the Universe Halfway. Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning. Duke University Press, 2007.

—. “Posthumanist Performativity: Toward an Understanding of How Matter Comes to Matter”. Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society, vol. 28, no. 3, 2003, pp. 801-831.

—. “Quantum Entanglements and Hauntological Relations of Inheritance. Dis/continuities, Spacetime Enfoldings, and Justice-to-come.” Derrida Today 3, no. 2, 2010, pp. 240-268.

Bennett, Jane. Vibrant Matter. A Political Ecology of Things. Duke University Press, 2010.

Glinter, Ezra. “The World According to Stanislaw Lem.” Los Angeles Review of Books, December 2016, https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/world-according-stanislaw-lem/

Hayles, Katherine. “(Un)masking the Agent: Stanislaw Lem’s ‘The Mask’”. The Art and Science of Stanislaw Lem, ed. Peter Swirski. McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2006, pp. 22-46.

Jarzębski, Jerzy. ”Lata czterdzieste”. Stanislaw Lem Dzieła, Tom XX, Biblioteka Gazety Wyborczej, 2009.

Lem, Stanisław. Człowiek z Marsa. Stanislaw Lem Dzieła, Tom XX. Biblioteka Gazety Wyborczej, 2009, pp. 477-484.

Lethem, Jonathan. “My Year of Reading Lemmishly.” London Review of Books, vol. 44, no. 3 February 2022, https://www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v44/n03/jonathan-lethem/my-year-of-reading-lemmishly.

Swirski, Peter. Stanislaw Lem. Philosopher of the Future. Liverpool University Press, 2015.


Exploring Dalit-Futurism in Caste-Flavored Techno-Scientific Worlds



Exploring Dalit-Futurism in Caste-Flavored Techno-Scientific Worlds

Priteegandha Naik

This paper introduces Dalit futurism as a methodological framework to analyze the concept of caste in English-language Indian science fiction. I use the novel Chosen Spirits (2020) by Samit Basu to demonstrate its potential to speculate about different avatars of caste against a technoscientific culture. In the Indian subcontinent, the dominant groups tend to imply that caste is an “ancient” category which does not have any contemporary relevance. However, caste continues to determine different aspects of life for all individuals, depending upon one’s caste location (high or low). Dalit futurism provides a vocabulary to engage this ancient phenomenon with modern, exaggerated versions of reality, and explore this interaction to uncover various nodes of intersection. Taking the international audience into consideration, I think it is important to explain the significance of the caste system, a discriminatory system, on which Dalit futurism is premised and the resistance mounted by the anti-caste movement. In this paper, I begin by briefly explaining the characteristics, history, and contemporary effects of the caste system and the anti-caste movement. I then discuss the concept of Dalit futurism and its foundation in order to demonstrate its potential to analyze the novel.   

The Caste System and Modes of Resistance 

The caste system is a centuries-old system of stratification, mandated by Hindu religious scriptures, that dominates the Indian subcontinent. It divides the population into four varnas. [1] The first three groups are referred to as Savarnas or the upper castes: the Brahmins, associated with learning and other intellectual activities; the Kshatriyas, the warrior caste, and the Vaishyas, the merchant caste. On the other hand, the Shudras and Avarnas (referred to as Dalits and Tribals, are outside the caste social order), are associated with manual labor; they are considered to be the lowest in the hierarchy and have to face Untouchability. [2] B. R. Ambedkar, one of the most formidable critics of the caste system, has insightfully stated that it does not just divide labor but also divides laborers as it associates each occupation with a pure or impure status (Ambedkar 14). This status is ascribed at birth and cannot be changed. The caste system has created an unequal society that privileges and discriminates individuals on the basis of their caste membership. Thus, unlike economic classes which allow mobility, caste is a rigid system that has created historical advantages for the Savarnas and historical disadvantages for the Dalits who have difficulty accessing education, employment, and several other aspects of social and cultural life because of their status as “Untouchables.” In addition, it prescribes endogamy and hereditary occupation, thereby impeding social interaction, exchange of ideas and opinions, and social networks. 

However, this system has been actively resisted by several anti-caste visionaries who have fashioned alternate modes of thought at different points of time. For instance, Gail Omvedt pitches the thoughts and ideas of anti-caste intellectuals during the Bhakti movement, especially Ravidas, a Shudra saint, as one of the earliest articulations of utopia in the Indian subcontinent (18). Ravidas’s utopia opposed caste divisions and advocated for an equal and casteless society, built on “companionship” and free movement (107). [3] Omvedt contends that these visions of an ideal tomorrow were in stark opposition to the dystopian visions embodied in Kaliyuga, [4] espoused by Hindu Brahmin saints and scriptures. Since then, activists like Jyotiba Phule, Savitribai Phule, Periyar, Ambedkar, and several others have tried to steadily establish a foundation for the growth of an anti-caste movement that challenges the dominance and supremacy of caste ideologies. Their ideology resists caste discrimination by uncovering how caste disadvantages Dalits, Adivasis, and all other marginalized sections and posits an alternate system that privileges equality and social justice.

Over time, the anti-caste movement was promulgated by writers, activists, and scholars through literature, poetry, art, music, theater, and the online avenues to highlight their perspectives and culture, thereby privileging an alternate mode of imagining their community. For instance, in literature, writers and activists used the autobiographical mode to discuss the impact of life not just on themselves but also on their community. Autobiographies like The Outcaste by Sharankumar Limbale, The Kaleidoscope of my Life by Shantabai Kamble, When I Hid my Caste by Baburao Bagul, connect their plight with the societal treatment of their community. In recent times, authors like Suraj Yengde and Yashica Dutt have used the mode to discuss the contemporary avatars of caste through their books Caste Matters and Coming Out as a Dalit respectively. Artists like Arivu, Mahi Ghane, and Sumit Samos are using hip-hop to resist caste structures. The digital medium has also added another dimension to the Dalit movement by making protest sites virtual. 

Dalit Futurism

Dalit futurism is a contemporary of these efforts. I conceptualize it as a contemporary of other Indigenous Futurisms, such as Chicano futurism, Adivasi Futurism, Subaltern Futurisms, etc. It is an analytical framework that explores the representation of caste and gender in Indian science fiction in English. It is an interdisciplinary project that draws from Dalit studies, science fiction studies, and science and technology studies. I argue that the government’s belief in technology as the solution for all issues fails to consider the inherent inequalities associated with their adoption. Thus, my project builds on extant scholarship that highlights how engineers, developers, and multi-national corporations embed their biases and prejudices in the design, development, and deployment of technology (Boeri 113; Toyama). This is visible in Indian matrimonial apps and websites, the lack of effective engineering solutions to eradicate manual scavenging, e-governance services for identity cards that do not account for landless and paperless Dalit communities, and online regulations that do not recognize caste-based hate speech (De’ 46; Pradhan and Mittal 275). As the twenty-first century rides on the back of new and emerging technologies, I suggest that it is important to understand and explore how caste interacts with technology and the emerging technoscientific culture.

I propose this investigation through Indian science fiction on caste. I theorize Dalit futurism as a methodological tool that enables the exploration of caste futures in alternate technoscientific worlds. It upholds Ambedkarism, [7] which resists caste discrimination by uncovering how caste influences different aspects of social, cultural, and political reality. It recognizes the potential in SF to defamiliarize the familiar and thereby provide freedom to its writers to explore different features of caste. As a result, it can disrupt, question, and challenge various notions about the caste system. Moreover, this defamiliarizing technique enables the genre to link past, present, and future on a single platform illustrating the contemporary avatars of caste. It uses the concepts of cognitive estrangement, the novum, and the mega-text to analyze how caste mutates in these science-fictional worlds and how our science-fictional and cultural vocabulary helps readers to comprehend the defamiliarized fictional environment (Naik 18). Dalit futurism destabilizes the boundaries between science fiction and Dalit studies to create an interdisciplinary space. It allows a simultaneous movement between the fictional and the real world. The fictional engagement with caste-flavored technologies encourages us to think about our reality. 

Dalit Futurism as a Methodological Tool

To illustrate this phenomenon, I analyze Chosen Spirits (2020) by Samit Basu, a dark, dystopian novel set in 2050s India. Basu extrapolates and exaggerates the events that led up to the Citizenship Amendment Act, 2019 [6]—both the protest and the government crackdown. The fictional world is replete with imaginary technologies that are embedded with caste biases and attitudes. These function as novums that are introduced into the market by Savarna businessmen who wish to maintain their status quo. 

Here, Dalit futurism enables me to analyze how caste is deployed in two major ways: firstly, by the amplification of the neoliberal economy that effectively sheaths caste ideologies; secondly, how this facade is maintained through the media discourse and challenged by the marginalized through the same platform. This hegemony is ensured by controlling the public discourse through the FlowVerse, a 24/7 live platform that is the major source of news and entertainment and can be compared to an amalgamation of social media platforms like Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube. 

Basu parodies the caste-corporate entities by exaggerating the social capital and networks cultivated by the Savarnas, i.e., Banias by creating the fictional “access-caste Brahmin,” a group that has been able to convert their social capital and networks to cultivate “one-degree relationships with real power” (Basu 68). This element signals the Brahmin-Bania nexus, first explained by Ambedkar, as a symbiotic relationship between the educated Madras Brahmins who were reporters and journalists, and the Banias, who provided financial support to the newspaper organizations. By pointing out the importance of historical advantages accrued by Brahmins, Ambedkar illustrates how the community has been able to re-adapt and re-fashion itself into advantageous positions, even as it acted internally, in isolation. Fuller and Narsimha’s study on Tamil Brahmins interprets this general prosperity as an art of power cultivated through accumulated social and cultural capital, which allowed them to adapt their professions and perceive upcoming opportunities while withdrawing from extremely competitive ones (27). In the novel, the success of Chopra as an access-caste Brahmin makes caste visible in political and economic governance. His investment in the development of an app to sell the lower castes, immigrants, and climate-change refugees; the antagonist Rohit’s belief in the contemporary manifestation of caste-ascribed occupations, and the hindered access to the market experienced by Dalit-run businesses all explain how caste blocks Dalit entry. 

These social inequalities are orchestrated and maintained through media organizations that operate on the FlowVerse. The FlowVerse hosts multiple FlowStars simultaneously and engineers multiple realities, a hyperbolized version of our contemporary reality wherein AI algorithms on social media craft an exclusive “feed” that is in tune with an individual’s tastes, preferences, and attitudes. Initially, the FlowVerse was being used by the marginalized to highlight their opinions, but over time was seized by caste-corporate entities. This is analogous to the Indian social reality which was reflected in the abysmal coverage of COVID-19, incidents of caste atrocities, and lopsided coverage that ignored Dalit issues or misrepresented them—indicating how news reportage has been compromised due to the nexus (Abhishek; Menon). The near-complete blackout of Dalit issues reflects the caste-prone mindset of the mainstream media, also a result of lack of effective representation as regular studies have revealed the lack of Dalits, Bahujan, and Adivasis in newsrooms (Who Tells Our Stories 1, 6). This state of affairs helps to contextualize Ambedkar’s warning about the Brahmin-Bania nexus in news organizations as the latter would be swayed by profit, not well-being. 

However, there is a secret underground movement brought together by Dalit artists and other marginalized folks that challenges the establishment. The most prominent activists in this fictional world are E-Klav and Desibryde, multi-media artists who subvert and challenge dominant narratives through Ambedkar’s ideas. E- Klav and Desibryde reject the holiness and reverence accorded to Hindu gods and goddesses and instead privilege the ideals espoused in the Indian constitution. E-Klav and Desibryde’s protests are a reflection of the Ambedkarite ideology, which promotes modern, secular attitudes.

I suggest that the performances enacted by these activists must not be considered solitary activities but efforts to build a counter-culture that foregrounds Ambedkar thought: “Educate. Agitate. Organize.” By visibly inserting Ambedkarite ideology in their protest, E-Klav and Desibryde locate oppression in caste-flavored neoliberalism. Thus, E-Klav and Desibryde’s protests are reminiscent of the multi-modal strategies utilized by Dalit activists like Thenmozhi Soundarajan, Anurag Minus Verma, Meena Kandasamy, @anti-casteCat, and others, who use an eclectic array of styles to present the Dalit perspective and challenge the neglect accorded by the mainstream media, by asserting their presence. These artists intervene in the perception of a single reality and highlight how caste privilege creates a reality that erases the struggles of the marginalized from their “feed.” This assertion amidst their mainstream negation is a powerful manner of resistance. 

NOTES

[1] Varnas is a Sanskrit word that refers to social groups.

[2] Untouchability was a ritual practice prescribed by the caste system wherein the touch of the Shudras and Avarnas was considered to be “polluting.” Thus, these social groups were excluded from public spaces and institutions.

[3] This is in stark contrast to the restrictions imposed on the Shudras and Avarnas that prevented them from accessing public spaces (roads, markets, etc).

[4] Hinduism believes in four yugas, i.e., different periods of time. The world began with the age of Gods and has slowly deteriorated to Kaliyuga, the contemporary period which is ruled by greed, sins, and vices. Brahmanical saints envisioned Kaliyuga as dystopic precisely because of the breakdown of the caste system and the admixture of different castes. This “deterioration” of the social order is considered to be apocalyptic enough to lead to the end of the world.

[5] Ambedkarism is an anti-caste philosophy that is largely attributed to the ideas and thoughts of Dr. B. R. Ambedkar, but like all movements has grown and expanded in scope and reach.

[6] The Citizenship Amendment Act, 2019, is an Indian law that enables persecuted religious minorities like the Sikhs, Hindus, Christians, Parsis, Buddhists, and Jains from Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Bangladesh to gain Indian Citizenship. The Act led to widespread protests across the country and was heavily criticized for using religion as an eligibility criterion. The brutal government crackdown on these protests drew global attention. See “The Citizenship Amendment Act was the straw that broke the camel’s back” by Guarav Lele on the news portal, Newslaundry.


WORKS CITED

Abhishek, Aman. “How the Modi Government Manufactured Public Opinion during the Migrant Crisis.” The Wire, 25 June 2020, https://thewire.in/media/covid-19-migrant-crisis-public-opinion-modi.

Ambedkar, B. R. Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar: Writings and Speeches. Dr. Ambedkar Foundation, 2014.

Basu, Samit. Chosen Spirits. Simon & Schuster India, 2020.

Boeri, Natascia. “Technology and society as embedded: an alternative framework for information and communication technology and development.” Media, Culture & Society, vol. 38, no. 1, 2016, pp. 107–118.

De’, Rahul. “Caste Structures and E-Governance in a Developing Country.” Lecture Notes in Computer Science (Including Subseries Lecture Notes in Artificial Intelligence and Lecture Notes in Bioinformatics). 5693 LNCS. 2009, pp. 40–53.

Fuller, Christopher John, and Haripriya Narasimhan. Tamil Brahmans: The Making of a Middle-Class-Caste. U of Chicago P, 2021.

Lele, Gaurav. “The Citizenship Amendment Act Was the Straw That Broke the Camel’s Back.” Newslaundry, 22 Aug. 2020, https://www.newslaundry.com/2020/08/22/the-citizenship-amendment-act-was-the-straw-that-broke-the-camels-back, Accessed 14 Jan. 2023. 

Menon, Shivani. “Hathras: The Curious Case of Media Spectacle and Mockery of Gbv  Journalism.” Feminism In India, 2 Nov. 2020,  https://feminisminindia.com/2020/11/03/hathras-the-curious-case-of-media-spectacle-and-mockery-of-gbv-journalism/.

Naik, Priteegandha. “The Science-Fictionalisation of Globalisation and Image Advertising in Harvest by Manjula Padmanabhan,” Fafnir – Nordic Journal of Science Fiction and  Fantasy Research, Volume vol. 7, no. 1, 2020, pp.14–26.

Omvedt, Gail. Seeking Begumpura: The Social Visions of Anticaste Intellectuals. Navayana, 2008. 

Oxfam India and Newslaundry. Who Tells Our Stories Matters: Representation of  Marginalised Caste Groups in Indian Newsrooms, 2019.

Pradhan, S. and A. Mittal. “Ethical, Health and Technical Concerns Surrounding Manual Scavenging in Urban India.” Journal of Public Health, vol. 28, 2020, pp. 271–276.

Toyama, Kentaro. “Can technology end poverty.” Boston Review, vol. 36, no. 5, 2010. pp 12–29.

Priteegandha Naik has submitted her thesis on Dalit-futurism which discussed Dalit studies, science fiction studies, and science and technology studies. She is currently working as a research associate at Tata Institute of Social Sciences, Mumbai. 


Extractive Practices Depicted in Adrish Bardhan’s Science Fiction



Extractive Practices Depicted in Adrish Bardhan’s Science Fiction

Monali Chatterjee

The imagination of human beings, beyond all existing wonders of science and technology, often fuels the creation of scientific inventions and interventions. One of the best manifestations of such imagination is science fiction in literature. Science fiction in films is sometimes restrained or modified by production constraints. But the world of imagination in literature is unlimited for both the writer and the reader. It is for this reason that the genre of science fiction is one of the most popular genres of the postmodern era. Although science fiction originated in the West, (Roberts 24) it has travelled beyond the borders of western countries as a highly sought-after and successful genre. Some of the most lauded authors of sci-fi in India are Satyajit Ray (1921-1992), Adrish Bardhan (1932-2019), and Anish Deb (1951-2021).

As a highly acclaimed writer of both crime and science fiction, a translator, and an editor, Adrish Bardhan is an immortal name in the world of science fiction among the readers of Bengali literature. He graduated in science from Calcutta University. His ingenious science fiction immediately captured the interest of young adults and adult readers alike. The main character in his science fiction, Professor Natboltu Chakra, is a dedicated and celebrated researcher who garnered overwhelming approbation among Bardhan’s readers. Apart from translating crime and detective fiction into Bengali and other stories, he has also edited a couple of science fiction magazines, Ascharya and Fantastic. Starting in 1963, Ascharya became the first science fiction magazine in India. 

As one of the pioneers of science fiction in a regional language in India, Adrish Bardhan’s stories have been immensely popular. His corpus of stories “distinguishes its fictional worlds to one degree or another from the world in which we actually live: a fiction of the imagination rather than observed reality, a fantastic literature” (Roberts 1). Much of his science fiction, without being pedantic, subtly conveys serious messages, hoping to encourage lay readers to become environmentally cognizant and socially responsible citizens through its subtle didacticism. As a postmodernist genre, science fiction is often a hard-hitting literary channel through which a futuristic depiction of the predicament of humans. This is typically characteristic of Adrish Bardhan’s literature.

These tales are erected upon flawlessly conceivable scientific elucidations of unusual manifestations or incidences and significantly concern human existence, like the mutations of hormones or organisms, an erratic android robot, and “dark energy” or “the talking tree” warning about the inevitable catastrophe of the irreversible destruction of the world. This paper explores how such innovative representation and techno-cultural advances demonstrate the concept of extraction in varying degrees and dimensions. Through this research, an attempt has been made to examine Bardhan’s use of coherently integrated science fiction and fantasy in some selected stories by proposing revolutionary resolutions for climatic changes, natural calamities, global terrorism, and extractive practices. Bardhan’s narratives conform to a “branch of fantastic, or non-realist, fiction in which difference is located within a materialist, scientific discourse, whether or not the science invoked is strictly consonant with science as it is understood today” (Roberts 2). The criterion for selecting these stories is the projection of science fiction through the lens of extractive practices that dominates much of the neo-liberalist economy in the present day.

The notion of extraction involves the coerced removal of resources, objects, or individuals from their current habitat to another space. This coercion may involve the violence of invasion, burglary, or parasitic infestation of another organism, individual, or space. Extraction also refers to the fortification of a certain structure or system by bringing resources from another place. This may lead to the imperialist displacement of entire communities and civilizations, thereby commodifying the resources of the victims.

Bardhan’s stories concerning such extractive practices can be classified into three categories for the purpose of this research: attempts of extraction, extraction of resources, and global extraction. However, every story that is discussed in this paper does not always befit a single category. The analysis of these selected science fiction stories by Adrish Bardhan is based on an English translation, originally written in Bengali. Sci-fi is a “cultural wallpaper” (Aldiss and Wigmore 14) and some of the Bengali diction has been retained in the analysis to preserve the authenticity of the research. Most of the stories are narrated by the character of Dinanath Nath as witnessed by him or told to him by Prof. Natboltu Chakra.

Attempts of extraction in Bardhan’s tales expose the vanity of human greed and ambition. The stories that are elucidated below depict failed attempts of extraction. A perfect balance of science and fantasy comes to the rescue and prevents this extraction. The story “Maron Machine” (“Death Machine”) demonstrates the sudden disappearance of rockets launched in space by various wealthy and ambitious nations. These rockets vanish into thin air, causing nations to indict one another with allegations of theft and deceit. Astronauts had previously reported seeing a planet-like puckered sphere, or a “death machine,” before they disappeared into this “black hole.” It is only when Prof. Natboltu confronts this machine through an expedition in a one-man spaceship that he learns that the world of machines in this spherical space-ship wishes to take over the entire Universe by killing all forms of life, including humans on Earth. It is only through immense persuasion that the professor establishes that humans and machines can coexist without making one feel inferior to the other, and he miraculously leaves with a cancer-destroying virus. Here, Prof. Natboltu uses extraction to his advantage. The story demonstrates a failed attempt at aliens’ extraction of the human race. Stableford points out that “Such accounts of ominous cosmic encounters often found abundant dramatic fuel in analogies drawn between physics and psychology” (65).

A more pronounced degree of attempted extraction is visible in the story “Molecule Manush” (“Molecule Man”). Pitambar, a well-equipped excavator, consults Prof. Natboltu and successfully excavates the hidden treasures of King Jaidev of Jaigarh Fort of Kashmir from clues that he forcibly extracts from its neighbouring tribal communities. The clues indicate that out of the four secret stone rooms under a stone slab, three are stuffed with gold jewellery and sovereigns, which Pitambar greedily extracts out of the cavity (Bardhan 421). The warning in the clues indicated that the fourth room should not be opened. However, Pitambar’s avarice prompts him to force open this cubicle, which contains King Jaidev’s tomb in a glass box. Suddenly, the corpse inside vanishes and all the extracted gold splashes and sinks into River Iravati, on the edge of which this secret vault existed. Pitambar mournfully relates this failed attempt to Prof. Natboltu in a very different voice, which later turns out to be that of the deceased King Jaidev.

King Jaidev had been hibernating in his tomb, through his capacity to change the structure of molecules within himself (gifted by this courtier scientist) and can assume the appearance of anyone he chooses. Since Pitambar comes to extract his treasures, he changes the molecular structure of the vaults and the gold appears to sink in the river, but is actually restored back to its vaults. King Jaidev parasitically invades Pitambar’s body by making changes to the molecular structure and assumes his appearance. Having reported about this extraction to the professor, King Jaidev likely moves into the body of some other powerful person in order to extract wealth and power from another place. While Pitambar’s extraction fails, King Jaidev’s extraction through molecular changes triumphs at the end of the story. This echoes the notion that “Values and beliefs, understanding and interpretations change with time and place but they take hold of the human imagination at a deep level” (Nichols viii).

The extraction of resources belonging to humans by external forces or aliens is vividly depicted in Bardhan’s stories. In the story “Android Atanko” (“Android Terror”), a human-looking Android tears apart a nine-year-old tribal girl after kidnapping her to see how her body was different from its own synthetic fibres. This is an unusual extraction of a human by an android machine. This android is not an operating system in a computer or a robot but, rather, a synthesised human manufactured in a laboratory. It reads the mind of a man and assists him in pilfering a lump sum of money from an ATM, claiming that the programme of morality or ethics has not been installed into his system. On learning this from the TV news, the creator, Dr. Mathamota (translates as Dr. Fathead) of this android machine, with Prof. Natboltu’s assistance rescinds the powers of the android to save the world from further damage. In this respect, the story recalls Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.

Extraction can also be a silent pursuit instead of a violent one. This is best illustrated in the story “Sona” (“Gold”). Instead of a single case of extraction, a series of extractive practices are conducted by aliens to secure gold from traditional sources that humans have accumulated for the last ten centuries and which are a form of a national legacy for each country from which it has been stolen. Two aliens receive shelter on the deserted island of Andaman with Prof. Natboltu’s help from the government of India. However, after some time, they send a swarm of insects loudly buzzing into a luxurious resort in Japan and cart away its prized gold bathtub despite strict surveillance. The locust-like swarm of insects dissolves statues of gold weighing hundreds of tons from a pharaoh’s tomb in Egypt, Ghengis Khan’s gold coins from Iran, Baron Rez’s gold from the Middle Ages, the gold of the religious crusaders of the 13th century in Paris, Khan Batu’s two golden horses from the Sahara desert, gold burgled from the temples of the Inca civilization by Spanish and Portuguese looters that had been drowned in the stormy seas, a large golden statue from Bangkok, Thailand, and vast reserves of gold from Fort Knox in the US. When Prof. Natboltu confronts the spike-headed aliens with charges of burglary, they admit that they need gold for survival just like humans require iron for their blood. Prof. Natboltu also detects that the culprits had extracted the idea of getting a species of insects to be able to coat itself with gold from the researchers of France and Germany so that the precious metal could be pilfered from anywhere in broad daylight.

These extractive practices demonstrate the subtle and dormant but immoral inclinations that sometimes take control of trespassing humans in the world. D’Ammassa is convinced that “it is extremely unlikely that humans would be able to live on alien worlds, even with compatible atmospheres, because the biochemistry of the local plants and animals would almost certainly not provide us with viable sources of food” (313). Therefore, Bardhan brings the aliens to the Earth to project his sarcasm about human avarice.

“Kaalo Chaakti” (“Black Diskette”) is a spine-chilling tale of a ruthless, rapid extraction of human bodies by a virus that pervades the world. It depicts all the forms of extraction mentioned above. In a lonely place, a medical student, Nikhil, finds a black diskette measuring an inch and half in diameter that suddenly pricks him with its unnoticeable barb. By the time Nikhil reaches his classroom with his roommate, Abhay, he is seized with a violent flu and is rushed to the hospital. The contents of his pocket are emptied into a drawer of the cabinet of the hospital ward. When no one is around, the black diskette emits light and a ray penetrates Nikhil’s eye and changes him forever.

Nikhil returns to the university campus hostel where he stays with Abhay, feeling fit and healthy, but Abhay notices drastic mutations in Nikhil’s body and personality. His eyes become listless and emit light in the dark. At 2:10 am one morning, Nikhil shows Abhay what appears to be a meteor shower in the dark sky. Nikhil does not seem to know how he knew about the meteor shower of Pleiades (Kritika constellation). This is a subtle extraction by a virus through the black diskette that inhibits his body and mind. Nikhil gets in touch with others who have been infected in a similar way and secretly disposes off the corpse of Natowar, a hospital ward-attendant whose case was under scrutiny because of his mysterious death by the diskette. This infection spreads in a police station and, at 2:30 am one morning, Abhay finds Nikhil in a secret meeting with thirty other such infected persons.

Abhay finds Nikhil downloading software, meeting Nitu Bose (in the same city), a software titan and Nikhil’s continuous efforts in spreading the virus. By this time, the mutating virus has infected not only the people of the city, but also spread throughout the world. People infected with the virus would buy the diskettes from infected shopkeepers for infecting their own children. People who were in power in various countries are also infected. Those infected exhort the others to join the community of the infected “superhumans.” Nitu Bose writes to the UN to get infected by the virus or be prepared for war. Abhay extracts a yellow fluid from the barb of the black diskette and consults Prof. Natboltu. The UN sends military arrangements through an aeroplane to the city of the university where Nikhil studies. A diskette flies past and the plane vanishes into thin air. This implies that the diskette is capable of creating a mini black hole, which is a lethal form of extraction. Instead of being governed by an individual’s own brain, a mutated person is governed by a super brain that exists in the Milky Way.

Apart from the diskette and the meteor showers, the extractors are not visible to humans. Prof. Natboltu realises that the black diskette releases “prion” proteins into the human body, which activates a dormant lethal virus that is present in the DNA of human genes. By spreading a special kind of laughing gas using missiles all over the world (with the help of his millionaire friend and missile owner, P. G. Putatundo) and dousing the diskettes into liquid oxygen, the effect of the mutation-causing virus is finally dispelled and the human beings are liberated from the deadly virus. About sixty per cent of the total population of the world had been infected by this virus. Most of these humans die and the rest are morphed back to their original human form. The Earth becomes much lighter with the decrease in population. This helps the governments to curb poverty and unemployment.

Global-level extraction is evident in those of Bardhan’s stories in which non-humans urgently point out important messages to human beings. The subtly didactic stories remind   the readers how human beings have been extracting precious resources from the planet without being concerned about its consequences and the possible extinction of the entire human race. Under the influence of neo-liberalism, humans have been extracting a far greater quantity of natural resources and non-renewable energy in order to commodify them in the international market. The human extraction of natural resources leads to the extinction of both.

The ultimate form of human extraction by humans in the form of war, terrorism and all forms of actions that threaten world peace is poignantly depicted in the story “Dark Energy.” In order to put an end to the violent atrocities, the “quintessence” (as expounded by Aristotle) or “Dark Energy” shows Dinanath Nath around the war-smitten and terror-stricken nations of the world. “Dark Energy” depicts the reification of scientific fantasies into reality by a sudden bombardment of all the defence systems of countries that are governed by the hegemony of terrorism and tyranny. Dark Energy—represented by a very heavy marble—turns out to be a wondrous antidote to world terrorism and anarchy. However, it shows how this extraction could be avoided if human beings value world peace.

The warning against human extraction of natural resources is firmly reinstated in the story “Gaachh” (“Tree”). Prof. Natboltu finds a square stone and is hypnotically drawn to Easter Island on the Pacific Ocean. A large ancient tree on its neighbouring island, Motu Nui, communicates to the professor through its cells about the perilous consequences of climatic changes due to the continual human extraction of natural resources and deforestation. Bardhan suggests a production-oriented economy instead of an “extractive economy” (Hecht 257).

Prof. Natboltu is an unbiased scientist who has taken upon himself the task of restoring world peace and stopping any form of forcible or unethical extraction. He ensures that poetic justice is present and retribution is meted out to those who deserve it. In most of these stories, the extraction is stopped or prevented in order to bring about poetic justice in the interest of humans and the survival of the planet. Bardhan’s style of depicting sci-fi vs reality rises beyond binary aspects like nature vs technology, history vs global progress, and human beings vs nature. Extractive activities have been part of human existence since the inception of humans on the planet. Bardhan’s science fiction proposes simple solutions that may require the vast majority to think alike, towards the conservation of natural and ecological resources in order to minimise the effects of climate change. The hope that the urgent messages against extraction in Bardhan’s stories may reach a wide audience convinces Bardhan’s readers (most notably, through the story “String Bhoot”) that the science of the past may become outdated, but the science fiction of today becomes the science of the future (Bardhan 658).


WORKS CITED

Aldiss, Brian. W. and David Wingrove. Trillion Year Spree: The History of Science Fiction. Gollancz, 1986.

Bardhan, Adrish. Professor Natboltu Chakra Sangraha. Ananda Publishers, n.d.

D’Ammassa, Don. Encyclopaedia of Science Fiction. Facts on File Library on World Literature, 2005.

Hecht, Susanna. “Extraction, Gender and Neoliberalism in the Western Amazon.” Nature, Raw Materials, and Political Economy: Research in Rural Sociology and Development, vol. 10, 2005, 253–285.

Nichols, Bill. “Foreword.” Cognitive Theory and Documentary Film, edited byCatalin Brylla and Mette Kramer.  Palgrave Macmillan, 2018, v-x.

Roberts, Adam. Science Fiction: The Critical Idiom. Routledge, 2000.

—. The History of Science Fiction. Second Edition. Palgrave, 2006.

Stableford, Brian. Science Fact and Science Fiction: An Encyclopedia. Routledge, 2006.


Why Women Can’t Be Space Marines…or Priests: Warhammer 40K and Catholic Theology



Why Women Can’t Be Space Marines…or Priests: Warhammer 40K and Catholic Theology

Jess Flarity

Warhammer 40,000 (henceforth, 40k) is the world’s most popular miniature war game (“Top Five”, Harrop 3) while the Jesuits are the largest male religious order in the Catholic Church (Jesuits.org). Both institutions are founded on principles featuring women’s exclusion: women cannot serve as Jesuit priests nor become “Space Marines,” a kind of warrior-priest in 40k’s science fictional far future (the year 40,000). The Catholic priesthood officially became male-only in the late 4th century, at the Council of Laodicea near the end of the Perso-Roman War (New Advent, Cannon 11), while 40k’s fan base has remained overwhelmingly male since it debuted in 1987 (Harrop: 1 in 36 players are women; Dakkadakka.com: 7% of site users are female-identifying respondents). This essay analyzes the Church’s public response to women-as-priests by Catholic leaders, such as Jesuit Superior-General Arturo Sosa, Pope Francis, and Pope John Paul II, then draws comparisons to the response of women as Space Marines by the creators and fans of 40k; the two communities have striking similarities. This would not be surprising to German philosopher Jürgen Habermas, who stated in his treatise on the intersection between secular and religious communities, An Awareness of What is Missing: “Secularization functions less as a filter separating out the contents of traditions than as a transformer which redirects the flow of tradition” (18). The goal of this essay is to bridge what Habermas calls the “cleavage between secular knowledge and revealed knowledge” (17) and provide a clear breakdown for a devout Jesuit priest or a fanatical 40k player on how their organization directly supports the oppression of women. My intention is to create communicative action in the Habermasian sense and redirect the flow of a harmful tradition: the exclusion of women from what should obviously be gender-neutral spaces.

40k and the lore surrounding the game is a particularly useful comparison to Catholicism because of how quickly it grew from being a niche hobby into something like its own religion. What started as a tabletop battle system has transformed over three decades into a multimedia platform that publishes novels, video games, and a variety of other content all marketed towards its predominantly male audience; its parent company, Games Workshop, now has market capital of more than a billion British pounds (Hern). Violent games and the surrounding “geek culture” have been overwhelmingly masculine since their development in the 1970’s, as the Atarigame console and pen-and-paper games like Dungeons and Dragons were developed and tested almost exclusively by men. While this “default maleness” in geekdom has slowly shifted to be more welcoming to women in recent years, incidents such as 2014’s Gamergate and the Sad/Rabid Puppies controversy at Worldcon continue to prove how reluctant these conservative cultures are to accepting women as full members of their communities.

While 40k players tend to be middle-class, white “geeks” between the ages of 15 and 40 (Hern), Jesuit priests are a diverse congregation known around the world for their academic contributions and their commitment to helping impoverished communities. This is despite the fact that the Order’s modern vow of chastity is based on Saint Augustine’s incredibly biased theological writings equating a woman’s sexuality with sin (Torjesen 223), creating a dynamic that psychologist and laicized Catholic priest Eugene Kennedy calls, “[a] signature [that] has been branded so deeply into the ecclesiastical organizational tree that it seems as natural to those who tend it as the grain of the wood itself” (174). As of August 2022, Pope Francis continues to block any attempts allowing priests to marry, or for women to be elevated into the lesser role of a church deacon, even though he stated in 2018’s Synod for the Amazon, “Let us not reduce the involvement of women in the Church, but instead promote their active role in the ecclesial community” (Chapter V, 99).

In a similar tactic to skirt accusations of misogyny, the newest Eighth and Ninth editions of 40k feature female characters as centerpieces in Games Workshop’s promotional materials (“Warhammer-Community”), and the previously sexualized models in the armies called the Sisters of Battle (space nuns) and the Dark Eldar (space elves) have been “toned down” since their original creation, possibly in response to related feminist backlash against the game in the early 2010’s. Despite the increase of women’s roles in media portrayals, the various factions of the male-only Space Marines continue to dominate in popularity among casual and tournament players, comprising over 50% of all the armies fielded in 2019, while the Sisters of Battle were less than 2% of all the armies fielded (40kstats.com). In addition, Space Marine characters serve by far as the most common protagonists for the game’s supplementary materials, such as the hundreds of in-universe novels, as well as in related movies and video games (Black Library).

The fact that Space Marines can only be men is echoed throughout the ranks of every Catholic priesthood, but this essay will focus specifically on the Jesuits, as the Order’s reputation of being the most “liberal” wing of the Church was first recognized in the secular American consciousness during the 1960’s (McDonough: “Metamorphoses” 329), suggesting that individual Jesuit priests may secretly be in favor of ordaining women in spite of their current leader, Arturo Sosa, stating in 2017 that women’s full inclusion into the priesthood “has not yet arrived” (“Stirring the Waters”). In contrast to Sosa, feminist scholar and practicing Catholic Tina Beattie positions female priests as a modern necessity in the introduction of New Catholic Feminism:

…until women are recognized as full and equal participants in the life of faith, until we are acknowledged as persons graced with the image of God, capable of representing Christ to the world as fully and effectively as men do, the Church herself will continue to be a spiritual desert where men’s fears and fantasies lead them to refuse the grace that female sacramentality might bring to Catholic liturgical and institutional life (2).

Beattie’s idea that men’s “fears and fantasies” control their views of women is a critical building block in the philosophical parallels between 40k’s history and Jesuit theology. Strict adherence to holy scripture/game lore is necessary for maintaining the identity of a priest/player, and unfortunately, blaming women’s biology, specifically its reproductive or sexual power, serves as a scapegoat for these individuals having to reflect on their institution’s own problematic teachings.

Fictional Game Lore Functions as Religious Doctrine

When Catholic priests and 40k players follow a “divine” canon, it relieves them of personal responsibility regarding their beliefs and actions related to these beliefs. This technique is a very common one in conservative circles, and was used to negate any chance of women Catholic priests by Pope John Paul II in his 1994 apostolic letter, Ordinatio sacerdotalis:

I declare that the Church has no authority whatsoever to confer priestly ordination on women and that this judgment is to be definitively held by all the Church’s faithful…The fact that the Blessed Virgin Mary…received neither the mission proper to the apostles nor the ministerial priesthood clearly shows that the nonadmission of women to priestly ordination cannot mean that women are of lesser dignity, nor can it be construed as a discrimination against them. Rather, it is to be seen as the faithful observance of a plan to be ascribed to the Wisdom of the Lord of the Universe.

This statement leads devoted Catholics to absolve John Paul II of any moral failure related to the ostracization of women because it is the Church which “has no authority”—and his repeated message of obedience or faith to a mysterious “plan” further reinforces his helplessness as an individual. This type of cognitive bias serves as not just one, but two of the central pillars of Jesuit vows to obedience (Jesuits.org). Another trait visible in the Pope’s statement will feature as a motif in this essay, and that is the role of paying “lip service” to women while also treating them unequally, as this kind of “cheap talk” does not require communicative action in the Habermasian sense (Risse). John Paul II states that “nonadmission of women to priestly ordination cannot mean women are of lesser dignity” or “be construed as discrimination,” but nearly all feminist scholars as well as many female Catholics are clear in their disagreement with this position. Pope Francis has continued the tradition of mitigating the potentiality of female priests as recently as 2020, stating in the Querida Amazonia Apostolic Exhortation:

[Involving women in the Church] summons us to broaden our vision, lest we restrict our understanding of the Church to her functional structures. Such a reductionism would lead us to believe that women would be granted a greater status and participation in the Church only if they were admitted to Holy Orders. But that approach would in fact narrow our vision; it would lead us to clericalize women, diminish the great value of what they have already accomplished, and subtly make their indispensable contribution less effective (100, emphasis mine).

According to Pope Francis, the clericalization of women into advanced leadership roles within the Church will somehow “subtly make their indispensable contribution less effective,” though he provides no evidence to support his reasoning as to why, and he goes on to state:

In a synodal Church, those women…should have access to positions…that do not entail Holy Orders and that can better signify the role that is theirs…This would also allow women to have a real and effective impact on the organization, the most important decisions and the direction of communities, while continuing to do so in a way that reflects their womanhood (103, emphasis mine).

Pope Francis establishes that “appropriate” gender roles are the true foundation of Catholicism, and his command that women should serve in a way that “reflects their womanhood” is a familiar conclusion the Church has been claiming for over a thousand years. Academic researcher Peter McDonough criticized this viewpoint in 1990:

In a patriarchy, the institutional consequences of [reforms] in what might seem to be merely symbolic quandaries about the role of women are potentially very great. The connections between gender inequality, psychosexual identity, and organizational authority are—or once were—extraordinarily tight in Catholicism. Change in this area, which poses a crisis of individual and corporate identity and purpose, is centered on the working out and sustenance of a male role and personality in opposition to women (“Metamorphoses” 334).

A devoted 40k player undergoes an identical form of disassociation regarding the role of women as Space Marines; this person is heavily invested in the “world” of the game, as they have developed a kind of mental landscape out of the myriad of details regarding the different armies and alien races across a ten-thousand-year timeline that also includes many lengthy characterizations of the universe’s key human figures. In this fictional universe, the God-Emperor of Mankind is the most important character, similar to how Jesus or God plays a central role in the life of a Jesuit—when John Paul II uses terminology such as “the Lord of the Universe,” it is not difficult to see the connection between the two different mindsets. In fact, the origin story of 40k’s God-Emperor and the creation of the Space Marines from his own genetic material was intended to be a satire of religion and was partially inspired by Milton’s Paradise Lost (McAuley 192).

The ever-expanding 40k lore is known within the community as the “fluff.” While some players pay minimal attention to the fluff and instead focus on the tabletop, skirmish-based combat of the game or the hobby of painting its miniature models, other players become monk-like chroniclers of this information, with some even contributing their own material to the canon, establishing a greater ethos in their “faith” in a process not unlike being formally accepted as a priest. As of June 2020, there were over three hundred books set in the 40k universe published under Games Workshop’s literary imprint, the Black Library; some of these stories began as fan fictions which won a sponsored competition (Walliss 129). As one player stated in Walliss’ 2012 study on gender in 40k fanfiction: “the existing fluff is a kind of Bible of sorts…the established fluff is law, and breaking that is to commit some unwritten crime” (123). A central pillar of this “40k Bible” is that Space Marines can only be male, according to the original lore by Rick Priestly, and this outlook is still quietly supported by Games Workshop. A lengthy article on the game’s official website contains many explanations and diagrams regarding the pseudo-scientific enhancements a Space Marine must undergo to become an immortal, godlike super-soldier, and one section states, “…only a small proportion of people can become Space Marines. They must be male because zygotes are keyed to male hormones and tissue types, hence the need for tissue compatibility tests and psychological screening” (“Rites of Initiation”, emphasis mine).

This innocuous detail supports the baseline of a misogynistic worldview in the fictional far-future of 40k: because the vast majority of its players are male, many don’t even recognize how this element effectively denies a woman a sense of normality in the game’s hierarchy, where the Space Marines, like bishops or cardinals in the Church, are at the very top of the organization’s bureaucratic power structure. This is in part due to an internet phenomenon known as Poe’s law. First recognized in response to a Creationism forum in 2005, Poe’s law states: “Without a winking smiley or other blatant display of humor, it is utterly impossible to parody a Creationist in such a way that someone won’t mistake for the genuine article” (Ellis). Poe’s law functions as a philosophical shield for a 40k player who can point to the game’s hypermasculinity and hyperbolic levels of violence as a parody of the space opera genre, allowing them to safely assert that its feudal, “grimdark” setting should not be taken seriously, thereby inoculating its lore, and their personal beliefs, against all arguments regarding gender politics. This is in direct opposition to one of the game’s primary creators, Rick Priestly, who stated in an interview in 2015:

To me the background to 40k was always intended to be ironic…There’s no guarantee that the Emperor is anything other than a corpse with a residual mental ability to direct spacecraft. It’s got some parallels with religious beliefs and principles, and I think a lot of that got missed and overwritten (Duffy).

Many modern 40k fans and writers have fallen into the trap of Poe’s law and are unable to discern the satirical elements of the game from the parts they actively enjoy: the actual misogyny is indistinguishable from the ironic misogyny. One of many, many examples of this fractured mental state is in the 2006 novel focusing on the Sisters of Battle, titled Faith & Fire, by James Swallow. Throughout the book, male characters often muse about what it would be like to “bed” one of the Sisters, and the women are referred to constantly as “church bitches,” “wenches,” “harlots,” and “whores” throughout the text. But this one book is just the tip of a misogynist iceberg; these books inhabit shelf space at your local library and used book stores around the world, with some even appearing on the New York Times bestseller list (Harrop 4). Nearly every book is by a male author, and they are so riddled with casual sexism that the mindset of these super-fans lies in the same state Kennedy writes about Catholic priests, with “the signature branded so deeply into the ecclesiastical organizational tree that it seems as natural to those who tend it as the grain of the wood itself.” Priestly recently spoke against this trend in another interview in 2019:

…in the ‘history’ of the Imperium I always imagined there were a number of eras during which human space was divided or where societies diverged and different moral or ethical values prevailed—however—[Games Workshop] always tended towards ‘Waagh the Emperor’—for such is the nature of the business—so the portrayal of the Imperium as one, simple idea became the things that it was possible to promulgate through the business as a whole…I always thought of the Imperium as a vast self-serving bureaucracy in which no-one really knew what they were doing but they continue [to] do it out of a sense of tradition and routine—so status and power become bound up with all kinds of half-baked assumptions, received wisdom and superstition. Much like the real world really (BaronBifford).

Unfortunately, the tradition of excluding women in 40k has become “bound up” as Priestly says, with “status and power and half-baked assumptions,” but this is also an accurate portrayal of the Catholic church when addressing issues related to feminism. Tina Beattie notes the Church’s bias in her response to a 2003 letter to the public from Pope John Paul II:

Instead of seeking a balanced engagement that would acknowledge affinities as well as dissonances between Catholicism and feminism, the letter sets the (male) authority of the Catholic hierarchy over and against feminism, in such a way that all feminists are discredited and the Church’s expertise in humanity is confidently asserted (New Catholic Feminism 18).

Many 40k fans response to feminist arguments like this one in the exact same way as Catholic leaders: they assert their ethos as players/priests and cite examples of lore/doctrine as “proof” that the sexism was already there all along. What’s worse is that while these arguments are circulating, a vast amount of mental inertia accumulates as a form of religious interpretation; in over three decades of 40k’s existence, Games Workshop has slowly grown and adapted to this audience as a source of income. The company determines what remains in the canon, and radical adjustments to the lore would turn away the “hardcore” players, who are their best customers. Thus, the only hope of changing the rule of “male hormones and tissue types” for Space Marines lies in lobbying 40k’s core audience to ask for this change—the male fans—making the task appear impossible. Brunkhorst notes this obstacle in her summary of Habermas’ philosophy: “[Habermas] has never abandoned the Marxist thesis that the economic forces that determine social action have become autonomous and therefore represent a problem…” (30).

Much like other geek-identified spaces, such as Magic: The Gathering and online video games, the road to equality begins with convincing a single, biased individual to self-reflect and choose to change his thinking or behavior regarding his own sexism (Muñoz-Guerado and Triviño-Cabrera 195). But this is an incredibly difficult proposition for a population who use their identities as geeks as a form of escapism: their loyalty to the game supersedes their loyalty to any moral arguments surrounding gender equality, which many fans with traditionally conservative beliefs may actively fight against anyways. McDonough puts the Jesuits in a similar position in his book Passionate Uncertainty, which analyzes the worldviews of American priests, stating, “The Jesuits are in a bind. They cannot go back, insofar as that course would entail a return to clerical dominance in an age of lay ascendancy. But they cannot move forward without placing their clerical identity at risk” (2). Likewise, the majority of 40k fans are trapped in a cycle of moral limbo regarding the more problematic aspects of their fictional universe, and it is often easier for individuals to convince themselves that it is all “just a game” and return to a state of sublime indifference as they paint the imaginary boltguns of their immortal, eight-foot tall warrior-priests…who can only be men.

The Problem of Women’s Bodies

Perhaps what is most surprising about 40k pre-2017 was its total erasure of empowered female characters across the in-game universe, as succinctly pointed out by Muñoz-Guerado and Triviño-Cabrera (198-205). Their essay proves that it doesn’t matter which army a player chooses across the dozens of different factions and species available in the game: women are inevitably silenced, invisible, deceitful, or cruel, and when they are present, such as in the Sisters of Battle or with the elf-like Eldar, they are always subjected to the male gaze (200). But a striking example of Games Workshop shifting into post-sexism, defined by Lorente as needing to create its own aesthetics to break away from its previously stale, virile image, is with the Repentia, a squad of Sisters of Battle who have failed in their oaths to the Emperor and given up one of their “senses,” transforming them into zealous warriors. The older, pre-2017 Repentia models featured women wearing scraps of clothing, exposing oversized breasts ubiquitous in female characters throughout fantasy and science fiction settings, but in the newer, version eight models, these women are more realistically muscular and they now wear modest shorts and tank tops (“Warhammer-Community”). But nothing else about the lore surrounding this squadron has changed—these women are still whipped into a frenzy with a literal whip as punishment for their “loss of purity,” which is an echo of Christianity’s obsession with virginity and a nod to the Inquisition’s practice of flagellation. Making any alterations to the lore surrounding the Repentia would be considered heretical by most players, as adhering to the game’s “grimdark” tone makes it so that the universe is in a process of endless war: every character (male, female, or alien) is effectively dehumanized as a form of necrocapitalism, or the subjugation of life to the power of death by political and economic forces (Banerjee 1). Changing the rules or backstory of even a single problematic squad, such as the Repentia, is an impossibility because of the multiple novels, tactical books, and physical models that are already in the hands and minds of players, reinforcing the unit’s existence as a “fact.”

But despite having many instances of sexualized female characters in 40k’s models, art, and story descriptions, most lore contrasts any imagery of a woman’s body with a strong de-emphasis on romantic or consensual relationships; these are stories about brothers-in-arms going to battle, even if the characters are women (The Black Library). The “eye candy” is for the player only, as Space Marines are entirely asexual, evidenced by Dembski-Bowden when he writesupon the mindset of a new soldier,“Sexuality is a forgotten concept, alien to his mind, merely one of ten thousand humanities his consciousness has discarded” (9). In accordance with the fluff, 40k remains a tabletop war game that, like the Space Marine character, has no need for sexuality, and is powered by what Wallis calls, “a universe of testosterone-fueled conflict with little or no room for the emotional complexities or morally grey areas that characterize everyday life” (130). Because of this purposeful choice in tone by both fans and Games Workshop, a woman in this universe, the same as a man or an alien, exists only as an object that produces or absorbs violent acts. This leaves no space for empathy, confirming what J.J. Bola writes in Mask Off: Masculinity Redefined:

The effect of [violent games] is not only that extreme violence is normalized, and a social talking point for boys and men, but these games also constantly reinforce the idea of an ‘Other’; an enemy. Many boys grow up thinking that there is always someone to fight against, inculcating a kill or be killed mentality… (55).

For many 40k fans, the Beauvoirian idea of the feminine Other becomes synonymous with the enemy Other, as the nearly all-male fanbase engages in conversation with itself about the game. Some psychologists, such as Donald Meltzer, might compare this behavior with that of an individual trapped in a level of pseudo-maturity that results in masturbatory behavior; or sociologist Michael Messner could assert this is another form of “soft essentialism” which creates a naturalized version of men who society dictates can’t control their actions, as both these comparisons have been drawn from academics analyzing a variety of gaming and “men’s rights” communities on the internet (Ging). In either case, voluntarily celibate priests or involuntarily celibate players may manifest a subconscious fear and hatred of women as the source of their sexual frustration. Beattie draws this conclusion:

While celibacy can be a beautiful vocation and an inspiring witness to faith, it can also be a form of gynophobia if it leads men to form closed communities as a way of avoiding contact with women. Gynophobia infects church teaching with an impetus to dominate women through various tactics of sexual and reproductive control and priestly exclusion (“Empire of Misogyny?”).

In contrast to Games Workshop’s shift into post-sexism, the Catholic church refuses to budge even remotely on their position regarding women’s bodies as representations of sin and sexuality, having lapsed since the 1960’s into what one Jesuit has called “pelvic theology” (McDonough, Passionate Uncertainty 1). The current doctrine of Catholic beliefs in this area is still influenced primarily by the conclusions made by St. Augustine in the early 400’s, as his teachings became the Church’s main structuring device since Pope Pius XI in 1930, even though many references regarding marriage and sexuality existed before him (Clark 1-2). According to Augustine, the root of evil lies in the emotion of sexual passion, a necessity required to stimulate an erection, which results in a pleasure that is not on the account of God, and because of this, the only way to entirely avoid sin is to refrain from marriage and become celibate (On Marriage 1.19, 1.27). Because a woman’s sexuality—the sensory experience of her body by a man—is what triggers this “blush of shame” (Chapter 7), her uncontrollable physicality is what separates her from the purity of the priesthood and God. Thus, the requirement of celibacy in the Jesuit priesthood is inextricably linked to both a woman’s physical body and her ability to become ordained in their Order, creating a similar philosophical conclusion to the impossibility of female Space Marines in 40k. The Catholic church and Games Workshop teach that a woman has the wrong “tissues,” and this mantra remains a cornerstone of these biased institutions. A final warning about the lengths the Catholic church is willing to take against women comes from Beattie, who has been erased in the real world by the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith. She spoke out against the hypocrisy being perpetuated by Pope Francis, stating in 2018:

Yet far from offering a genuine model of equality in difference, [Catholic] theology of the body is ridden with sexual stereotypes and essentialisms that are largely motivated by a resistance to feminism, women’s ordination, homosexuality, abortion, contraception and, more recently, what is usually referred to in magisterial documents as “gender ideology” (“Empire of Misogyny?”).

Her arguments here were partially in response to having speaking engagements at both churches and Catholic universities cancelled, the modern-day equivalent of being branded as a heretic.

Inequality is Equality: Sisters of Battle and Nunneries

The most common argument against female Space Marines or female Catholic priests is that women already have their place within their respective institutions: in secular, working positions and nunneries for the Church, and as Sisters of Battle or in minor roles of other armies in 40k. The fact that priests/players have difficulty fathoming how weak these female organizations are when compared to their powerful, male-only counterparts is due in part to what social philosopher Zygmunt Bauman has termed “liquid modernity,” which emphasizes globalization and individualization as the major factors that have shaped our modern world, resulting in a depersonalized sociality. Sociology scholar Ross Abbinnett meshes liquid modernity with the philosophy of Emmanuel Levinas, stating that the proximity of close relationships, such as the “brothers-in-arms” mentality of priests/players, creates an ethical bond where the principles of justice do not apply to the strange Other (107), and draws this conclusion:

This then is the mechanism of destitution that is implicit in liquid modernity: the constant re-creation of vast tracts of waste humanity who are deprived of means of securing a place in the productive networks of global capitalism…if one falls below, or never acquires, a given level of social and economic capital, one is permanently cut adrift from all but the most basic necessities of life (114-115).

Abbinnett is referring here to poverty-stricken populations who are kept in the cycle of endless need, but this lesser social status parallels the position imposed on nunneries and the Sisters of Battle. By never being allowed an equal foothold within their institutions, they are limited to the “basic necessities” of their status, which translates to fewer model options and less powerful units in 40k, and women serving only as workers in Catholicism, i.e., having subservient roles that do not participate in the higher echelons of the Church’s decision-making hierarchy; examples of this include the appointment of an all-male Catholic Council for the Economy in 2014 (Zagano), and the more obvious fact that all of the voting members at the 2019 Amazon synod were men despite Pope Francis declaring earlier that year that women “should be fully included in decision-making processes” (Viggo Wexler) as yet another example of his “cheap talk” that fails in the Habermasian sense.

Games Workshop has majorly mitigated the Sisters of Battle since their inception, resulting in the army having only expensive, metal models for over twenty years, as well as a lack of flexibility in customization of their units, and a higher “point-per-unit” cost on their current models. Even though Gav Thorpe wrote the original Sisters of Battle codex in 1997, the models were only available as pewter figurines, by far the most expensive method of production (Floyd), meaning that a playable “army” of Sisters could cost a player well over a thousand dollars. This created a chicken-and-egg problem: because the Sisters had such a high price point, they sold poorly, and because nobody bought them, there was no incentive to produce plastic models. As a macabre example from my own experience with 40k, one of my fellow players bought a few Sisters models only because he thought they made exquisite corpses—he would mutilate their bodies and place them under the feet of his mighty Chaos Marines.

Even though Games Workshop finally committed to the promise of selling cheaper, plastic units for the Sisters in 2019, this army is still more costly by a wide margin than a Space Marine army of equivalent point value. As a comparison, creating a 650 point “field” for both armies using the official website, the Sisters cost $415 (U.S.), while the Space Marine army of equivalent points is only $185 (“Warhammer-Community”, prices in June 2020). In addition to this “pink tax” where the Sisters are more than twice as expensive, there are only about thirty different models for sale in their army, while the variety of Space Marine units is in the hundreds. Also, even though this army is the Sisters of Battle, five of their available units are still male models, and the masculine presence in this supposedly all-women organization breaks the common fan argument of “there can’t be female Space Marines because there are no Brothers of Battle.” In contrast, the only female unit that can be included in a Space Marine army is from the Emperor’s elite assassins, a woman whose shape-shifting capabilities only function because the drugs are “compatible with her gender,” reinforcing the woman-as-betrayer trope that is so frustratingly common throughout 40k (Muñoz-Guerado and Triviño-Cabrera 202).

This game-based data shows a measurable, mathematical way of tracking how the Sisters of Battle are at best, a third-rate competitor to the Space Marines, but correlating data from the Catholic church regarding various female-only groups of nuns and male-only groups like the Jesuits is more of a challenge. According to a survey in 2014, the number of the Catholic sisters in the U.S. has fallen from 180,000 in 1965 to about 50,000, whereas the total number of priests has dropped comparatively less, from 58,000 to 38,000 during the same time period (Lipka); the percentage of male priests has dropped by 34%, while the nuns have dropped by over twice that, at 72%. While the reasons for this discrepancy are multifarious, the main culprit appears to be tied to the secular women’s rights movement: in 2012, an all-women Catholic organization, the Leadership Conference of Women Religious (LCWR), 80% of whom are Catholic nuns, was investigated by the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith—the same Church branch which has branded Beattie as a dissenter—and many of the letters exchanged between these two factions were kept from the eyes of the public (NCR Staff).

 Leaders in the LCWR have made their voices heard regardless of any sanctions the organization received: these women are simply demanding equality in the Church, yet are continually told to “rediscover their identity” by conservatives (Fiedler), causing many women to simply abandon traditional Catholicism in favor of more progressive interpretations of the doctrine. One such group is the Roman Catholic Women Priests, who reject the penalty of excommunication imposed on them by the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith in 2008, and identify as “loyal members of the church who stand in the prophetic tradition of holy obedience to the Spirit’s call to change an unjust law that discriminates against women” (Roman Catholic Women Priests). Unlike 40k, where there are so few female players that their voices go unheard, Catholic women are loudly proclaiming and making statements in the public sphere regarding the unjust practices of the Church, who continue to engage in cheap talk in response to them—the only strategy that has proven effective in creating change, regrettably, is for women to leave their own Faith.

The Jesuits often contradict themselves on the issue of women’s ordination. Norbert Brieskorn, a Jesuit and Professor of Social and Legal Philosophy in Munich, responded to Habermas’ initial argument in An Awareness, stating, “The protection of human rights and the freedom of the religious communities to organize themselves must be guaranteed no less than the limitations placed on religious communities by generally valid laws” (35). Brieskorn believes that a religion, in this case Catholicism, should be allowed to organize itself however it wants, with an all-male voting leadership, for example, in response to the limitations placed on the religion by “generally valid laws,” which intersects meaningfully with the German Constitution, which was changed in 1994 to read: “Men and women shall have equal rights. The state shall promote the actual implementation of equal rights for women and men and take steps to eliminate disadvantages that now exist” (Article 3). Brieskorn, like the majority of Catholic priests, has decided that this particular portion of the German Constitution is one of the “not generally valid laws,” and therefore believes the Church does not need to follow a State document and take the necessary steps to eliminate the sexist disadvantages in his own Order. He defends his position thusly: “There cannot be a state Church. Reason does not presume to act as a judge concerning truths of faith and it does not require that religion should be truncated into socially useful morality” (35, emphasis mine). One of these “truths of faith” in the view of a male priest like Brieskorn is that women cannot be ordained, so the rules of the State do not apply, and thus their religion cannot be “truncated into socially useful morality,” despite the Church’s continued claims of serving as a moral authority on many social issues. Feminist theorists are exasperated by this type of reasoning, as it sets up what Beattie calls “draping [the implications of dominating women] in the romantic language of maternal nature and ‘feminine genius’” (“Empire of Misogyny?”).

An example of this “draping” is when Arturo Sosa, Superior General of the Society of Jesus, argues that the Jesuits are making movements in the direction of equality, even though his rhetoric falls into the same lip service category as the statements made by Pope Francis. He made many compliments to the “feminine genius” at the Vatican in 2017, ironically concluding with, “We can listen carefully to the experience of women in the public sphere, hear how they work together, and be inspired by their courage. These are stories of doing the impossible” (“Stirring the Waters”). To be clear, this is the message women are getting from the Catholic World Church: We will listen to you, and then change nothing.

In 2017, as a way of maintaining his liberal persona, Pope Francis created a “Study Commission on the Women’s Diaconate” to explore the history and role of women in the Church structure, and to many of the Faithful, the act of making this commission looked like an extended hand to build communicative power with women in the Habermasian fashion. But members of the academic and secular community now see this motion as a massive failure: the commission finished its research in 2019 and not only did the review board advise the Pope that women can’t be priests, even the matter of making them deacons, a lesser role that still has little power in the Church hierarchy, was questioned—and yet another commission has been formed to look into that matter (Winfield). Again, because of the rapid pace people live under during “liquid modernity,” Pope Francis and his successors only need to keep making commissions where the board members draw disapproving or mixed conclusions, and then the argument for making women priests, or even deacons, can be suspended indefinitely.

Conclusion: No Girls Allowed?

If Arturo Sosa truly wants to make a difference in the lives of women, he must follow his own advice and do more than just listen—he should reach out to the Women’s Ordination Campaign (WOW). Founded in 1996, WOW has meticulously documented all the ecclesiological arguments necessary to ordain Catholic women priests and has support from individual Jesuits, though usually posthumously or on their deathbeds (Sagado). With the combined efforts of WOW, the LCWR, Roman Catholic Women Priests, and other like-minded organizations, the Jesuits have the unique opportunity to blaze a new path by being the first Order in the history of the Church to ordain women. But Sosa, like all the other male-only priests, possibly fears repudiation at the hand of Pope Francis, who upholds traditional doctrine and has excommunicated both male priests who support the ordination of women and also women who try and become priests, as well as any advocates for other hardline topics such as gay rights or the right to an abortion (Dias and Gorny). Likewise, Games Workshop fears the loss of their hardcore male fanbase if they are too openly “woke” in regards to female Space Marines.

Patriarchal institutions stay in power because of the collective like-mindedness of their male populations while also keeping access to resources restricted to the men in their leadership roles. By comparing the beliefs and behavior patterns of members of the Jesuit faithful to the nonreligious members of the 40k gaming community, this essay implores both priests and players around the world to undertake action on the personal level and begin lobbying their institutions to stop the cheap talk regarding the subjection of women. As Habermas states near the end of An Awareness:

Violations of universally accepted norms of justice can be more easily established, and denounced with good reasons, than can pathological distortions of forms of life…I suspect that nothing will change in the parameters of public discourse and in the decisions of the politically empowered actors without the emergence of a social movement which fosters a complete shift in political mentality (73-74).

The lack of gender equality in 40k and Catholicism is a pathological distortion that people everywhere should no longer abide. As Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote in 1825, “He who begins loving Christianity better than truth will proceed by loving his own sect better than Christianity, and end in loving himself better than all” (Dupre 173). Whether these men read the Bible or a Space Marine codex, pray to Jesus while kneeling behind a pew or to the Chaos Blood Gods when rolling attack dice in a Games Workshop store, Catholic or secular, their sexist beliefs remain the same. It’s past time we made the change: we need Jesuit women and female Space Marines, not 40,000 years in the future, but today.


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