Etnográfica Revista do Centro em Rede de Investigação em Antropologia vol. 21 (1) | 2017 Inclui dossiê "’s other sites: representations at home and abroad"

Edição electrónica URL: http://journals.openedition.org/etnografca/4790 DOI: 10.4000/etnografca.4790 ISSN: 2182-2891

Editora Centro em Rede de Investigação em Antropologia

Edição impressa Data de publição: 1 fevereiro 2017 ISSN: 0873-6561

Refêrencia eletrónica Etnográfca, vol. 21 (1) | 2017, « Inclui dossiê "India’s other sites: representations at home and abroad" » [Online], Online desde 10 março 2017, consultado em 17 março 2020. URL : http:// journals.openedition.org/etnografca/4790 ; DOI : https://doi.org/10.4000/etnografca.4790

Este documento foi criado de forma automática no dia 17 março 2020.

Etnográfca is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License. 1

SUMÁRIO

Artigos

Da resistência africanista ao suvenir africano: artesanato, nação e fantasmagoria na ilha da Boa Vista, Cabo Verde Eduarda Rovisco

Experiência da pena e gestão de populações nas penitenciárias de São Paulo, Brasil Rafael Godoi

Nosotros también somos indígenas: la vulnerabilidad del naturalismo en contextos occidentales de convivencia entre especies Santiago M. Cruzada

Ofício

A regulação ética da investigação e os desafios postos às práticas etnográficas Marta Roriz e Cristina Padez

Dossiê "India’s other sites: representations at home and abroad"

Introduction: representations of India at home and abroad Cláudia Pereira, Inês Lourenço e Rita Cachado

The corporeal and the carnivalesque: the 2004 exposition of St. and the consumption of history in postcolonial Pamila Gupta

Religious dances and tourism: perceptions of the “tribal” as the repository of the traditional in Goa, India Cláudia Pereira

“India has got it!”: lifestyle migrants constructing “Incredible ” in Varanasi and Goa Mari Korpela

Bollywood in : watching and dancing practices in the construction of alternative cultural identities Inês Lourenço

Beyond Martim Moniz: Portuguese Hindu Gujarati merchants in Rita Cachado

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Artigos

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Da resistência africanista ao suvenir africano: artesanato, nação e fantasmagoria na ilha da Boa Vista, Cabo Verde From Africanist resistance to African souvenir: handicraft, nation and phantasmagoria on the island of Boa Vista, Cape Verde

Eduarda Rovisco

1 Este artigo resulta de uma investigação em curso realizada no âmbito de um projeto de pós-doutoramento sobre turismo e identificação nacional em Cabo Verde e suporta-se em materiais colhidos no decurso de duas etapas de trabalho de campo efetuadas entre finais de 2011 e meados de 2015 nas ilhas de Santiago, São Vicente e Boa Vista.1 Na primeira secção deste texto apresenta-se uma síntese dos discursos sobre artesanato em distintas etapas dos processos de identificação nacional, incorporando materiais resultantes de uma pesquisa no arquivo do Centro Nacional de Artesanato e de um conjunto de entrevistas realizadas com produtores e comerciantes de artesanato nas três ilhas. Nas duas últimas secções são revelados dados de uma análise sobre a aceleração do crescimento do turismo, da imigração, do comércio de artesanato e dos seus conflitos na ilha da Boa Vista.

Da resistência africanista ao suvenir africano

Da era da “grande e confrangedora penúria”

2 No período colonial, os intelectuais implicados na construção, tematização e inquirição da cultura popular cabo-verdiana conferiram pouca atenção à sua componente material. Entre a escassa bibliografia dedicada ao tema contam-se dois textos de Nuno de Miranda (1968) e António Carreira (1983 [1968]) e um conjunto de curtas referências proferidas no âmbito do debate atiçado pelas polémicas declarações de Gilberto Freyre

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sobre a “instabilidade cultural” que afirmou ter encontrado no arquipélago, no decurso da sua visita a Cabo Verde em 1951. Para Freyre, esta “instabilidade” podia ser atestada pela “ausência, entre esses mesmos ilhéus, de artes populares em que se exprimisse uma saudável interpenetração das culturas que neles se cruzam”, ausência que derivaria do “pudor [do ilhéu] de ser africano” (Freyre 2001 [1953]: 277, 276).

3 Embora o retrato da cultura cabo-verdiana traçado por Freyre, que tanto desapontou os intelectuais da geração “claridosa”,2 tenha sido objeto de inúmeras críticas, a ideia de “ausência de artes populares” não foi contundentemente negada (Venâncio e Silva 2010). Baltasar Lopes, figura de proa desta geração, numa longa crítica às reflexões de Freyre, refere sobre esta questão: “É já coisa sabida – e Gilberto Freyre não deixa de a apontar – a indigência das formas decorativas de uma arte popular que, diga-se desde já, precisa de ensinamentos técnicos e de possibilidades de venda. […] Mas a verdade verdadeira é que não temos uma arte decorativa popular. Onde as nossas cerâmicas? Onde as nossas rendas regionais? Onde os nossos bordados? Onde os artefactos que se sirvam, com uma regionalidade inteligente, da matéria-prima que as ilhas oferecem? É curioso e convida à meditação, que esta indigência de acento regional aconteça no artesanato” (Lopes 2010 [1956]: 250-251).3 4 Veja-se ainda, fora do quadro de produção da geração “claridosa”, como a robustez das críticas de Manuel Ferreira às reflexões de Freyre vacila neste ponto, levando-o a afirmar que “devemos buscar” nas condições ecológicas do arquipélago, aliadas à “falta de escoamento e encorajamento à produção […] a quase impossibilidade da existência de uma arte que se imponha, de pronto, a olhos de europeus ávidos de exotismo ou de expressiva criação artística local” (Ferreira 1967: 51).4

5 Esta ideia da exiguidade da arte popular nas últimas décadas do período colonial ecoa ainda em textos mais recentes, como revela o seguinte excerto da autoria de José Luís Hopffer Almada: “A situação era de tal forma preocupante que os especialistas se revezam e contradizem na busca de explicações plausíveis para a aparente bizarria de tal fenómeno. Para uns, é na pobreza em recursos susceptíveis de servir de matéria- prima que residiria a razão fundamental desse estado decadente do artesanato caboverdiano. Para outros, a razão desse estado de coisas radicaria na geral inaptidão do caboverdiano para as artes plásticas, inaptidão que teria sido herdada da tradição muçulmana, consabidamente avessa à figuração e trazida para as ilhas por algumas etnias escravizadas. Essa propalada inaptidão seria tão congénita ao crioulo das ilhas como a sua natural vocação para outras artes, como a música ou a dança. […] Facto é que, à data da independência, a situação era de grande e confrangedora penúria” (Almada 2008: 116- 117).5

Da fase do espanto: a emergência do artesanato como expressão da resistência à opressão colonial

6 Alguns meses antes da independência, chegaram ao Mindelo três artistas plásticos – Bela Duarte, Luísa Queirós e Manuel Figueira – que, em pouco tempo, iriam revolucionar a produção, visibilidade e estatuto do artesanato cabo-verdiano. Terá sido sob o lema de manter viva a tecelagem cabo-verdiana e “inspirados nas resistências culturais deste povo [e] na obra de Amílcar Cabral” (Queirós, em Lança 2010) que estes artistas se lançaram na construção da Cooperativa de Produção Artesanal Resistência

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(1976) no Mindelo, convertida em Centro Nacional de Artesanato (CNA) no final de 1977.

7 Num documento intitulado “Proposta de Estatutos do Centro Nacional de Artesanato”, datado de 1978, podemos ler que “[o] CNA exerce a sua actividade em cooperação com as estruturas do Partido, os departamentos estatais, as organizações sociais e as organizações de massas” e que seriam suas atribuições: (a) “[p]romover o estudo das diversas formas de artesanato cabo-verdiano, como expressão da cultura popular, com vista à sua identificação, conservação, fomento e renovação”; (b) “[i]nventariar as matérias-primas nacionais susceptíveis de aproveitamento em moldes artesanais”; (c) “[f]omentar a produção artesanal popular de artigos utilitários, tendo em consideração as necessidades e tradições populares”; (d) “[p]romover o ensino das técnicas artesanais, tanto as já tradicionais em Cabo Verde como as mais modernas de âmbito universal”; (e) “[i]ncentivar a iniciativa criadora das massas populares no âmbito do artesanato”; (f) “[d]esenvolver o espírito cooperativista na produção artesanal”; (g) “[p]romover a divulgação do artesanato cabo-verdiano, tanto no País como no exterior”.6 8 Entre as atividades do CNA, destaco a produção na área dos têxteis (recuperação e renovação da panaria e introdução de técnicas de tapeçaria e batique),7 as missões de investigação realizadas em outras ilhas, o apoio concedido a vários artesãos das áreas da tecelagem, olaria, cestaria, bordados, costura, etc., e as inúmeras exposições realizadas, que atribuíram uma inédita centralidade ao artesanato na agenda cultural do país. 9 A emergência do artesanato após a independência, tornando-o uma das áreas mais criativas da construção nacional durante a I República, espelha a ideologia revolucionária e africanista deste período, apresentando o povo como herói da resistência ao colonialismo e o artesanato como expressão dessa resistência produtora de “objetos militantes”. Sublinhando-se a presença e valor de técnicas trazidas para o arquipélago por escravos (visíveis nos teares e nos panos ou nos métodos de modelagem e cozedura dos barros), celebrava-se o berço africano de muitos artefactos. Neste contexto, a alegada apatia da produção artesanal no período precedente começa a ser explicada através da opressão colonial sobre o povo que, com a liberdade, pôde por fim dar largas à sua capacidade criadora. Atente-se nas palavras de Manuel Figueira, a propósito de uma exposição realizada em julho de 1975: “Os objectivos da exposição eram exactamente desmistificar o conceito corrente de que o povo de Cabo Verde nada produzia de carácter artístico-utilitário (ideia bem urdida pelo colonialismo para sufocação total da actividade local); mostrar que todas as ilhas ao longo dos anos e apesar de todas as carências, souberam resistir culturalmente”.8 10 Três décadas após a publicação de Aventura e Rotina, onde Gilberto Freyre (2001 [1953]) relatou a sua viagem ao arquipélago, a equipa do CNA havia já revelado uma “arte popular” cabo-verdiana, item indispensável na construção das identidades nacionais. Embora salientasse as componentes africanas, o popular construído no CNA apresentou contornos certamente incómodos para o autor brasileiro. Desde logo, o demótico do CNA, refletindo a conjuntura do país, associou-se ao revolucionário, remetendo mais para a transformação do presente do que para a conservação do passado. Com efeito, a equipa do CNA parecia menos interessada em reproduzir objetos de um passado remoto do que em transformá-los, adaptando-os a novos usos e introduzindo novas técnicas. Se, como demonstrou Néstor García Canclini, o popular é uma construção híbrida,9 no

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caso do CNA parece ter havido um reforço dessa hibridez. Este reforço é detetável em objetos que emergem da rasura das fronteiras entre arte e artesanato, de que são exemplo algumas tapeçarias que constituem obras importantes na história de arte cabo-verdiana. Esta hibridez é ainda notória na própria constituição da equipa do CNA, que agregou experientes tecelões, jovens aprendizes mindelenses e artistas plásticos formados na Escola Superior de Belas-Artes de Lisboa.

11 Em 1989, coincidindo sensivelmente com o fim da I República, estes artistas plásticos afastaram-se desta instituição. O CNA viria a ser extinto em 1997, após ter perdido a componente criativa e laboratorial (resultante do cruzamento da investigação com a experimentação) que o caracterizou durante os seus primeiros 11 anos, sob a direção de Manuel Figueira (1978-1989). A saída de Manuel Figueira do CNA encerra assim um capítulo na história do artesanato cabo-verdiano, que deve ser lido como elemento integrante da construção nacional da I República, efetuada sob a égide do africanismo.

Dos tempos da “desafricanização” dos espíritos e das coisas e dos modos de nomeá-las

12 Embora o processo de “desafricanização da nação” tenha sido complexo,10 começando a definir-se logo após o colapso do projeto de unidade com a Guiné-Bissau (1980), terá sido após a realização das primeiras eleições pluripartidárias, em 1991, vencidas pelo Movimento para a Democracia (MpD), que os procedimentos desafricanizantes se amplificaram, manifestos na substituição da bandeira ou na reposição da toponímia colonial (Fernandes 2002: 180-181). A partir de então este processo far-se-á a par com o progressivo crescimento do turismo e da imigração. Estes fenómenos determinaram a emergência de um novo ciclo na produção e comércio de artesanato, cada vez mais articulado com o turismo e dominado por objetos provenientes do Senegal, comercializados por imigrantes, maioritariamente oriundos deste país. Uma das consequências mais imediatas destas alterações é detetável na própria linguagem, passando o termo artesanato a ser acoplado aos qualificativos “cabo-verdiano” ou “africano”. O “artesanato cabo-verdiano” passa a definir-se, paradoxal e genericamente, como aquele que não é “africano”, ou seja, que não é oriundo do continente, e a constituir-se como vítima da concorrência exercida pelo seu rival, o exótico e barato “artesanato africano”, vendido por imigrantes.

13 É neste novo contexto que o governo voltará a intervir na área do artesanato. Em 2011, o ministro da Cultura reúne artesãos do arquipélago no primeiro Fórum Nacional de Artesanato, que se repetiria nos anos seguintes. Desta primeira reunião resultaram uma série de recomendações que visavam incrementar a produção, distribuição, formação, associativismo, articulação com o design e implementar a certificação. Nesse mesmo ano foi criado o Centro Nacional de Artesanato e Design, mas a situação de permanente estrangulamento financeiro protelaria a aplicação de algumas destas medidas. Todavia, graças a esta intervenção, o artesanato voltava a ser notícia frequente na imprensa cabo-verdiana e, em muitos locais, os artesãos conseguiram associar-se e expor regularmente a sua produção. Em 20 de março de 2016, o Partido Africano da Independência de Cabo Verde (PAICV), que se encontrava no poder desde 2001, perdeu as eleições legislativas, desconhecendo-se, à data de elaboração deste texto, as orientações do novo governo do MpD para esta matéria.

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14 A importância conferida ao artesanato na I República e as inerentes operações de gentrificação de tantos artefactos, convertidos subitamente em símbolos da nação, terão certamente contribuído para a popularização e generalização do uso do termo “artesanato”, limitando as possibilidades de emergência de outros termos. Note-se que muitos estabelecimentos comerciais têm inscrito no seu nome a palavra “suvenir”, continuando, no entanto, a ser designados pela população como “lojas de artesanato”, o que só em parte pode ser explicado pelo facto de a maioria dos objetos expostos ser artesanal.11 Seguindo a terminologia utilizada no arquipélago, uso o termo artesanato em conformidade com os significados atribuídos pelos meus interlocutores, que parecem contrapô-lo mais à indústria do que à arte (Lima 2009) e adotar a definição atrás enunciada, elaborada por Manuel Figueira. Não obstante, nas próximas secções refiro-me sempre a artefactos com funções de suvenir (Swanson e Timothy 2012; Horodyski, Manosso e Gândara 2012; González 2008; Freire-Medeiros e Castro 2007; Stewart 1996 [1993]), dependentes do mercado turístico.

O crescimento do turismo e da imigração na Boa Vista

15 De acordo com os dados divulgados pelo Instituto Nacional de Estatísticas (INE), entre 2000 e 2015 o número de indivíduos que terá dado entrada nos estabelecimentos hoteleiros do país passou de 145.076 para 569.387 (INE 2005: 34, 2016: 34).12 Apesar da aposta na diversificação de produtos e destinos, expressa na criação do slogan “One Country… Ten Destinations”, este setor continua marcado pela hegemonia do turismo balnear, para o qual concorreu o “boom turístico” na ilha da Boa Vista, após a inauguração do seu aeroporto internacional em 2007. Entre 2000 e 2015, o número de hóspedes nos estabelecimentos hoteleiros desta ilha passou de 9402 para 181.771 (INE 2005: 43, 2016: 42). Nos anos de 2011 a 2013, a Boa Vista foi a ilha que recebeu mais hóspedes neste arquipélago (INE 2012: 54, 2013: 8, 2014: 8). Em 2015, a Boa Vista (com 32 %) e o Sal (com 43 %) captaram 75 % do número total de hóspedes registados no país (INE 2016: 42).

16 O número de quartos nos estabelecimentos hoteleiros na Boa Vista passou de 161 em 2000 para 2625 em 2015 (INE 2005: 14 / anexo, 2016: 15). Quase 90 % dos quartos existentes em 2015 pertenciam a apenas quatro hotéis, dois dos quais (Riu Karamboa e Riu Touareg) detinham cerca de 66 % do número total de quartos. Estes quatro hotéis, fortemente vigiados e excludentes, instalados em praias desertas e afastadas das povoações, são propriedade de empresários ou grupos económicos estrangeiros e todos funcionam em regime “tudo incluído”, limitando assim as saídas dos turistas e, consequentemente, os rendimentos que a população residente poderia auferir com o turismo. 17 Deve ser notado que estes hotéis possuem as suas próprias lojas, discotecas, bares, restaurantes, piscinas, ginásio e outros equipamentos desportivos, assistência médica e um programa de animação que inclui espetáculos de dança e música ao vivo. Constituindo zonas livres dos supostos “perigos da alteridade”, estes hotéis reproduzem o modelo apelidado de “enclaves” ou “bolhas turísticas” (Adiyia et al. 2015; Jaakson 2004; Urry e Larsen 2011), distinguindo-se em tudo do contexto social e cultural em que se inserem. Com efeito, excluindo os trabalhadores maioritariamente nacionais, Cabo Verde parece encontrar-se ausente nestes hotéis, não só no que concerne aos hóspedes, como também ao nível da arquitetura, decoração, alimentação e animação,

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estas últimas praticamente confinadas à realização de uma noite temática cabo- verdiana por semana.13 Nas várias conversas com guias, animadores e outros funcionários de diferentes hotéis, pude constatar que os meus interlocutores consideravam que a maioria dos hóspedes revelava um profundo desconhecimento e, em alguns casos, algum desinteresse pela música, gastronomia e outros itens da cultura cabo-verdiana. Atente-se nas palavras de um músico local que atua regularmente em dois destes hotéis, a propósito do aumento de músicos europeus no Sal, contratados por dominarem o reportório ocidental conhecido pelos turistas: “o que traz os turistas para a Boa Vista é o sol e a praia. Estarem em Cabo Verde ou nas Canárias é igual. A maioria dos turistas é inglesa, não sabe nada da cultura e da música cabo-verdiana e nem quer saber, quer ouvir a música deles”. 18 O crescimento do turismo na Boa Vista desencadeou um aumento acentuado da população residente, estimada em 4209 residentes em 2000, em 9162 em 2010 (INE: s / d.) e em 14.451 em 2015 (INE 2015: 36). Este aumento resultou de três fluxos migratórios com distintas dimensões e origens geográficas. Em primeiro lugar, em termos de dimensão, um fluxo maioritário constituído por indivíduos oriundos de Santiago e outras ilhas do país. Em segundo lugar, um fluxo proveniente de países da Comunidade Económica dos Estados da África Ocidental (CEDEAO), composto sobretudo por jovens do sexo masculino oriundos da Guiné-Bissau (na sua maioria empregados na construção civil e segurança) e do Senegal (em grande parte envolvidos no comércio de artesanato). De acordo com as estimativas dos dirigentes das associações de imigrantes destes dois países, em 2015, residiriam na Boa Vista cerca de 1500 bissau-guineenses e 300 senegaleses. Por último, um fluxo composto por imigrantes da União Europeia (UE), em especial de Itália, envolvidos em atividades relacionadas com o turismo ou com o ramo imobiliário. 19 Segundo o INE, 15,5 % (2239) da população residente na Boa Vista em 2014 seria estrangeira, sendo esta a ilha com o maior número relativo de residentes estrangeiros (2015: 41-42). Estima-se que o número real de estrangeiros seja mais elevado, uma vez que muitos não possuem visto ou cartão de residência, esquivando-se assim a responder aos inquéritos.14 Note-se que, na sua quase totalidade, os imigrantes da CEDEAO entraram legalmente em Cabo Verde ao abrigo do protocolo de livre circulação em vigor nesta região,15 que lhes permite permanecer 90 dias sem visto no país. Contudo, uma grande parte não conseguiu obter autorização de residência, por não ter conseguido reunir a extensa lista de documentação exigida pelas autoridades cabo- verdianas, em alguns casos impossível de obter (cf. UCI / OFII 2014: 47-48). 20 O crescimento do número de imigrantes provenientes de países da CEDEAO em Cabo Verde tem sido explicado através do desemprego estrutural, da instabilidade política e dos conflitos armados em muitos destes países, bem como do crescimento económico, em especial no setor do turismo, e da estabilidade política em Cabo Verde. No entanto, este crescimento deve ser relacionado com as disposições relativas à livre circulação no espaço da CEDEAO e com a impossibilidade de emigração direta para a Europa. Com efeito, o fenómeno da imigração em Cabo Verde não pode ser dissociado do progressivo endurecimento das restrições à imigração por parte da UE, consubstanciadas numa miríade de práticas de externalização da sua fronteira e de criminalização da imigração. Estas práticas têm direcionado cidadãos da CEDEAO para o arquipélago, que passou a ser descrito como país de trânsito e espaço liminar onde se eterniza a espera por uma oportunidade para chegar à Europa.16 Deste modo, Cabo Verde constitui hoje um

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terreno privilegiado para observar o corolário das orientações europeias em matéria de mobilidade, assentes na intensificação da mobilidade dos seus cidadãos (nomeadamente no âmbito do turismo) e na criminalização da mobilidade dos cidadãos de países africanos. 21 Este aumento acelerado do turismo e da imigração e, consequentemente, da população residente, que revolucionou a pequena vila de Sal Rei (elevada a cidade em 2010), não foi devidamente planificado, carecendo a população de infraestruturas básicas diversas. Estas carências são particularmente gravosas no que concerne à habitação, abastecimento de água e energia, saúde, saneamento básico, tratamento de lixo, educação e transportes. Grande parte da população de Sal Rei encontrava-se alojada num bairro insalubre, sugestivamente apelidado de “Barraca”, não coberto pelas redes de abastecimento de água e de energia elétrica.17 O custo de vida disparou nos últimos anos e a taxa de desemprego na Boa Vista subiu de 5,7 %, em 2010, para 17,9 % em 2014, sendo assim superior à taxa de desemprego global do país que, no mesmo ano, se situava nos 15,8 % (INE 2015: 52).18 22 Além da dureza das condições de vida e das dificuldades decorrentes de não possuírem autorização de residência, muitos dos imigrantes provenientes da CEDEAO enfrentam ainda o racismo e a “maurabeza”19 de muitos boa-vistenses e, no caso dos senegaleses, uma declarada hostilidade em relação à sua atividade no comércio de artesanato.

Produção e comércio de artesanato na Boa Vista

23 Na primavera de 2015, existiam 49 estabelecimentos comerciais de artesanato em Sal Rei: 23 pequenas lojas no Mercado de Feirantes e no Mercado Municipal, dois quiosques e 24 lojas no centro histórico. No total, seis estabelecimentos eram publicitados como lojas de “artesanato cabo-verdiano”, embora grande parte dos objetos expostos em três destas seis lojas fosse proveniente do Senegal, Brasil e China. Numa entrevista realizada com uma das proprietárias destes três estabelecimentos, esta cabo-verdiana lamentou ter nas suas lojas pouco “artesanato cabo-verdiano”, queixando-se do seu elevado preço, da “falta de criatividade” dos artesãos nacionais e da diminuta produção por parte dos boa-vistenses, praticamente circunscrita ao trabalho de um pequeno grupo de oleiros da Escola de Olaria do Rabil.

24 Grande parte da produção destes oleiros consiste num figurado com função de suvenir, produzido em série através de moldes. Nas prateleiras da loja desta oficina proliferam tartarugas (o símbolo da ilha), elefantes, pais natais e outras réplicas de objetos em barro que podemos encontrar em Portugal, e ainda pequenas placas magnéticas com a forma da ilha ou de tartarugas, sendo este o produto mais vendido.20 Esta oficina integrava a quase totalidade das excursões realizadas por turistas, sendo descrita pelos guias como oficina de “olaria tradicional cabo-verdiana”21 e como um dos poucos locais onde se podia adquirir “verdadeiro artesanato cabo-verdiano”. 25 Excluindo a olaria do Rabil, a produção de artesanato por parte de boa-vistenses era praticamente invisível, destacando-se a pequena produção de um cesteiro da Povoação Velha que executava chapéus, cestos e balaios, por vezes miniaturizados, e de um pequeno grupo de mulheres que efetuava rendas, bordados, costura e bijuteria, não vendendo, na sua maioria, a sua produção para lojas. Em 2014, foi criada uma associação de artesãos que contava com 14 associados em maio de 2015, mas apenas o seu presidente, Alcides Morais, oleiro do Rabil, vivia exclusivamente do artesanato. A

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criação desta associação deve ser entendida no âmbito de um conjunto de ações promovidas nos últimos anos pela Câmara Municipal da Boa Vista com o propósito de reverter o quadro de anemia que caracteriza a atual produção de artesanato por parte dos boa-vistenses 22 e aumentar a sua presença no comércio de suvenires nesta ilha, dominado por objetos importados do Senegal.

Da produção e comércio de “artesanato africano”

26 De acordo com os depoimentos de comerciantes que se encontravam há mais tempo em Sal Rei, a venda de artesanato da costa ocidental africana por imigrantes começou por ser feita na rua por um pequeno grupo de bissau-guineenses e senegaleses. Logo após o termo da construção do Mercado Municipal e do Mercado de Feirantes (2002, 2003), a Câmara Municipal da Boa Vista arrendou algumas lojas destes mercados a imigrantes envolvidos neste negócio, circunscrevendo-o assim a espaços definidos. Em 2015, estes dois mercados possuíam 23 pequenas lojas de venda de artesanato (sete no Mercado Municipal e 16 no Mercado de Feirantes), arrendadas a comerciantes do continente, na sua quase totalidade provenientes do Senegal.23

27 A partir de finais da última década, o aumento de pessoas oriundas do Senegal originou a abertura de 17 lojas no centro de Sal Rei e de oito na Povoação Velha, em muitos casos partilhadas por vários comerciantes. A maioria destes não possuía qualquer relação prévia com a produção ou venda de artesanato no Senegal, embora muitos tenham trabalhado em outros ramos do comércio informal em Dacar. Em Cabo Verde, a sua inserção na atividade terá começado sobretudo pela venda ambulante. Apesar de a Câmara Municipal da Boa Vista ter deixado de emitir licenças de venda ambulante em 2012, um grupo de jovens senegaleses trabalhava nas praias, no deserto de Viana e nas ruas de Sal Rei, circulando com os objetos escondidos em mochilas. 28 Todas as lojas possuem o mesmo tipo de objetos: roupa e sacos produzidos a partir dos coloridos tecidos estampados wax print, máscaras, cestaria elaborada através da técnica de espiral cosida, sandálias em couro, miniaturas de tambores e corás, bijuteria, estatuetas de madeira zoomórficas (tartarugas, elefantes, rinocerontes, leões, etc.) e antropomórficas (pensadores, dançarinas, colonos e mulheres com cargas sobre a cabeça) e quadros com motivos que designam como “africanos” elaborados na Boa Vista. Na sua maioria, estes objetos constituem ficções visuais (Steiner 1994: 35) produzidas no estilo que Ladd definiu, servindo-se de um texto de Wole Soyinka, como “neo-tarzanismo”: “an oversimplified, fictionalised meta-narrative of Africa which must include leopard skins, zebra stripes, dark wood and tall thin women” (Ladd 2012: 202). 29 Tal como foi assinalado por Freire-Medeiros e Castro a propósito das lojas de suvenires do Rio de Janeiro, também estas lojas tendem a eliminar distâncias geográficas e cronológicas, lembrando os wonder cabinets, pelo seu caráter heterotópico assente na construção de um “lugar-outro” exótico (Freire-Medeiros e Castro 2007; ver também Venkatesan 2009). 30 Com exceção dos quadros produzidos por estes imigrantes na Boa Vista, os restantes objetos são na sua quase totalidade importados do Senegal. A intensa produção de quadros torna-os omnipresentes na ilha. Para além de revestirem as paredes das lojas – que em muitos casos têm por nome “Galeria de Arte” –, são ainda usados na decoração de restaurantes, bares e pensões. Em Sal Rei, identifiquei 20 pintores (16 senegaleses e

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quatro originários da Guiné-Bissau, do Gana e da Nigéria); contudo, o seu número será certamente maior, uma vez que alguns quadros possuíam assinaturas de pessoas que se encontravam temporariamente no Senegal ou na ilha do Sal. 31 O grosso desta produção pode ser agrupado em duas categorias distintas. Em primeiro lugar, a pintura em acrílico sobre tela com colagens de pequenas tiras de tecidos wax print. Estes quadros são muito idênticos, variando a cor e os desenhos em torno das tirinhas de tecido que, quase sempre, dão forma a corpos femininos esguios e estilizados, com potes, feixes de lenha ou balaios sobre a cabeça. Em tamanhos que podem variar entre os 15 centímetros e um metro de largura, são vendidos entre 5 e 30 euros, não obstante os preços serem sempre negociáveis. 32 Em segundo lugar, encontramos um conjunto de quadros com colagem de areia colorida sobre tela ou madeira, com dimensões e preços idênticos aos da categoria acima exposta. Os motivos são bastante mais diversificados, embora também seja possível encontrar padrões temáticos que variam entre os ditos “motivos africanos” (choupanas, mulheres a pilar ou a carregar crianças ou objetos) e boa-vistenses (predominantemente tartarugas) e nos quais se inscrevem as marcas “No stress”, “Cabo Verde” ou “Boa Vista”. Em ambas as categorias, todos os pintores que contactei começaram a produzir estes quadros em Cabo Verde, queixando-se da forte concorrência que não permite elevar os preços.

Das acusações de assédio à resposta “No stress”

33 Todos os comerciantes que se encontram há mais anos na Boa Vista referem que este negócio seria muito mais rentável há 15 anos, apesar de existirem então menos turistas. De acordo com os seus testemunhos, não só os objetos seriam então vendidos pelo dobro do valor atual, como o volume de vendas seria superior.

34 Entre as razões apontadas pelos comerciantes para a atual carência de vendas encontra-se a concorrência que fez diminuir preços e clientes, o facto de os turistas saírem pouco dos hotéis, que possuem as suas próprias lojas de artesanato,24 a crise económica na Europa e sobretudo aquilo que consideram ser “a guerra” desencadeada pelos boa-vistenses contra os comerciantes de artesanato do continente africano e que tende a ser associada ao racismo.25 De facto, estes imigrantes foram sistematicamente acusados não apenas de venderem objetos não representativos da cultura cabo- verdiana, mas também de “assediarem” os turistas e desta forma ameaçarem a continuidade do crescimento do turismo na ilha. 35 A expressão “assédio aos turistas”, que causa estranheza por não indicar a qualidade do assédio em causa, instalou-se no arquipélago, sendo reproduzida acriticamente por órgãos de comunicação social para designar duas técnicas de venda usadas por alguns comerciantes: a insistência e a abordagem na rua. A generalização do uso desta expressão não pode deixar de ser lida no âmbito de um padrão discursivo assente na discriminação destes imigrantes, nomeadamente na criminalização das suas atividades e na inversa vitimização dos turistas, entendidos como sujeitos que devem ser protegidos dos supostos perigos do “outro”, africano. Atente-se no seguinte excerto de uma notícia relativa à ilha do Sal, intitulada: “Assédio aos turistas preocupa a população local”: “A mesma [‘gerente de uma operadora turística’ do Sal] adianta ainda que há quem afirme que ao sair do hotel já chegou a sofrer mais de 10 tentativas de assédio. O

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assunto está a ‘passar dos limites’, segundo os nossos entrevistados, pois para além do assédio, estes comerciantes passam-se por cabo-verdianos, alegando de forma ‘enganosa’, que os produtos artesanais que vendem são ‘genuinamente cabo- verdianos’ ” (Anónimo s / d., presumivelmente de 2014, itálicos meus). 36 Veja-se ainda o artigo de A Semana de 26 / 09 / 2009, também relativo à mesma ilha: “A polícia de fronteira está a identificar, para posterior expulsão, 11 cidadãos senegaleses que se encontravam a viver ilegalmente em Cabo Verde. Estes integravam um grupo constituído por 30 cidadãos da costa africana detidos pela Polícia Nacional na passada sexta-feira na Vila de Santa Maria a tentar impingir artesanato aos turistas” (Anónimo 2009, itálicos meus). 37 Apesar dos episódios de agressões físicas perpetradas pela Polícia de Ordem Pública de Santa Maria (Sal) sobre vendedores ambulantes senegaleses terem sido frequentes, muito raramente foram objeto de notícia na imprensa cabo-verdiana.

38 Como forma de combater as acusações de “assédio”, várias lojas da Boa Vista exibem placas com a expressão “No stress”, sugerindo que não pressionam os turistas a comprar. Remetendo simultaneamente para a propalada serenidade e indolência da ilha, a utilização do slogan “No stress” por parte destes comerciantes constitui uma máscara que muitas vezes encobre quotidianos ansiosos, decorrentes da imperativa necessidade de vender, da incerteza (Jung 2013) e da exclusão.

Considerações finais

39 Ao longo do século XIX e grande parte do século XX, os discursos sobre cultura material espelharam os processos de imaginação de várias nações europeias. Embora com contornos distintos, esta mesma articulação manifesta na seleção dos elementos materiais da cultura revelou-se basilar na construção nacional de vários países africanos recém-independentes, durante as décadas de 1960 e 1970. Em Cabo Verde, esta articulação foi complexificada por um conjunto de tensões decorrentes da especificidade da construção da nação cabo-verdiana. Esta construção tem sido pensada como um processo de instrumentalização da crioulidade, enfatizando, em diferentes períodos, uma ou outra das duas categorias (África e Europa) que a constituem, refletindo assim variações no valor e dimensão atribuídos à componente africana.

40 Como foi visto, uma parte significativa do discurso erudito sobre artesanato emergiu no arquipélago no seio das críticas a Gilberto Freyre efetuadas pelos “claridosos” a propósito das definições da cultura cabo-verdiana, considerada mais africana pelo primeiro do que pelos segundos, que a entenderam como um caso de regionalismo português. Assinalo ainda o facto de a inscrição institucional do artesanato na construção nacional ter sido operada nos primeiros cinco anos após a independência, coincidentes com o período de unidade com a Guiné-Bissau, marcado pelo africanismo do PAIGC. A partir desta fase, muitos artefactos passaram a ser investidos de uma nova missão: representar a nação. Desta missão, decorre, quanto a mim, a quase obsessiva preocupação com o artesanato no presente, consubstanciada num combate pela determinação dos objetos que podem traduzir a cabo-verdianidade contemporânea, num tempo marcado pelo turismo. 41 Na Boa Vista – a ilha geograficamente mais próxima do continente, mas que tem sido descrita como uma das mais afastadas em termos culturais (Almeida 2003: 96) –, o crescimento do turismo e da imigração proveniente da CEDEAO constitui uma nova

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moldura para a afirmação da cabo-verdianidade. Contudo, as componentes desta nova moldura (turistas europeus e imigrantes africanos) assemelham-se de forma confrangedora às componentes que estiveram na origem do longo processo que a urdiu: escravos negros e senhores brancos. 42 Os discursos identitários dos boa-vistenses parecem agora encravar-se no abismo que separa o poder do ócio turístico europeu e a subalternidade do trabalho dos imigrantes africanos, equiparados a escravos em setores como o da construção civil e destituídos de muitos direitos pela sua situação de clandestinidade. Nesta nova moldura, amplificam-se nesta ilha autodefinições assentes em visões branqueadoras sobre a sua cultura, que celebram a componente europeia e submergem ou esconjuram a africana, bem explícitas em práticas e discursos discriminatórios em relação aos comerciantes senegaleses. Nas imagens da crioulidade que os boa-vistenses aspiram a transmitir aos turistas, estes comerciantes e os seus objetos constituem o material excluído e esconjurado,26 e o “fantasma do africano negro” referido por Miguel Vale de Almeida, que se quer continuar a aprisionar simbolicamente “no território continental, do qual as ilhas se encontram seguramente separadas por oceano” (2004: 10).27 43 Todavia, para os turistas, maioritariamente ingleses e alemães que elegem esta ilha como destino de férias pela beleza das suas praias, o facto de a Boa Vista pertencer a um país africano pode constituir um acréscimo de atratividade. Desconhecendo, na sua maioria, as vicissitudes do processo de imaginação nacional neste país, muitos destes turistas não diferenciam senegaleses e cabo-verdianos, nem os seus objetos, vistos como igualmente africanos. 44 Na verdade, para estes “consumidores transestéticos” (Lipovetsky e Serroy 2014 [2013]: 69), pouco preocupados com a autenticidade da sua experiência turística, os objetos vendidos pelos imigrantes parecem ser mais atrativos. Desde logo, pelo lastro da sua própria história enquanto símbolos da invenção e apropriação da alteridade de África pela Europa (Mudimbe 2013 [1994], 2013 [1988]; Mbembe 2014 [2013]). Apesar da sua despromoção a fakes ou “arte de aeroporto”, muitos destes objetos carregam ainda uma carga de distinção herdada de estatutos atribuídos a objetos seus parentes, etiquetados, em diferentes períodos, como fetiches, curiosidades, objetos etnográficos e / ou arte africana (Steiner 1994; Clifford 2001 [1988]). São, de resto, assinaláveis as semelhanças entre o discurso erudito sobre arte africana da primeira metade do século XX e os discursos dos comerciantes senegaleses na Boa Vista sobre os seus objetos. Entre estas semelhanças destaco a mesma opacidade sobre a origem e autoria dos objetos e a sua caracterização monolítica que anula a diversidade (Kasfir 1992), decorrendo nos dois casos de um real desconhecimento sobre a proveniência de muitos artefactos. Os comerciantes senegaleses manipulam em seu favor esse desconhecimento, sublinhando o cunho pan-africanista das suas lojas, onde se misturam máscaras de vários países, às quais se poderiam juntar objetos cabo-verdianos.28 45 Entendendo os suvenires na aceção de Susan Stewart (1996 [1993]: 135-136), enquanto objetos que exprimem distância (espacial e temporal) onde se condensam operações nostálgicas, exotizantes e fetichistas, os objetos provenientes do Senegal poderão ainda ser dotados de maior densidade simbólica. Embora muitos dos artefactos produzidos por artesãos cabo-verdianos (concentrados sobretudo nas ilhas de São Vicente e Santiago) deem suporte a narrativas sobre a cabo-verdianidade, instituindo-se como símbolos da nação – de que são exemplos os desenhos do pelourinho da Cidade Velha ou de trapiches nos quadros feitos a partir de fibras de bananeira –, grande parte dos

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turistas da Boa Vista não consegue descodificá-los, por desconhecer o significado destes elementos (ausentes nesta ilha) na cultura cabo-verdiana. 46 Como refere Nelson Graburn (1979 [1976]: 15), os suvenires não devem apenas ser baratos e portáteis, devem também ser compreensíveis, ou melhor, imediatamente reconhecíveis. Constituindo uma língua de contacto entre turistas e hospedeiros, formada a partir da fusão de um número mínimo de elementos estéticos e simbólicos dos dois grupos (Ben-Amos 1977), os suvenires tendem a adaptar-se às representações que os turistas possuem sobre o lugar que visitam. Nesta perspetiva, a autenticidade de um suvenir decorrerá mais da sua repetição (González 2008: 43), que o torna progressivamente inteligível, do que da sua estrita correspondência com as representações dos hospedeiros sobre a sua cultura. Deste modo, dificilmente os objetos acima referidos, produzidos por artesãos cabo-verdianos, conseguem concorrer com os seus rivais, imediatamente reconhecíveis como símbolos do continente e que, pela sua história, constituem metassuvenires do encontro assimétrico entre a Europa e a África, reproduzido pelo turismo. Também nesta última aceção, os objetos vendidos pelos comerciantes senegaleses poderão estar mais aptos a tangibilizar a imaterialidade da experiência turística na Boa Vista, fundada sobre esta assimetria. 47 De acordo com Christopher Steiner (1994: 4-7, 87), os wolof exerceram um papel vital no comércio de arte africana, instituindo-se como um dos principais grupos de mediação no trânsito destes objetos entre África e a Europa.29 No presente, uma parte da diáspora senegalesa, envolvida no comércio informal em várias cidades europeias e americanas, continua a deslocar objetos (nem sempre artesanais) entre continentes e a trabalhar com representações ocidentais sobre a cultura material africana. Se este comércio informal e amiúde ambulante tem provocado conflitos reveladores do racismo e xenofobia existentes em muitas destas cidades (europeias, americanas e também africanas), em Cabo Verde, esta conflitualidade apresenta traços específicos que não podem deixar de ser articulados com a história da construção nacional cabo- verdiana e com o papel do artesanato nesta construção.

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LIMA, Ricardo Gomes, 2009, “Arte popular e artesanato: falamos da mesma coisa?”, Ciências Humanas e Sociais em Revista, 31 (1): 97-101.

LIPOVETSY, Gilles, e Jean SERROY, 2014 [2013], O Capitalismo Estético na Era da Globalização. Lisboa, Edições 70.

LOPES, Baltasar, 2010 [1956], “Cabo Verde visto por Gilberto Freyre”, Escritos Filológicos e Outros Ensaios. Praia, IBN, 229-275.

LOPES, Leão, 1983, “Olaria caboverdiana. Que futuro?”, Ponto & Vírgula, 2: 13-15.

LOPES FILHO, João, 1984, “Conversando com Mesquitela Lima”, Ponto & Vírgula, 10-11: 17-22.

MADUREIRA, Tânia, 2012, A Revitalização da Olaria em Trás di Munti e os Seus Significados Locais: Loiça Pintada Não É Património? Coimbra, Universidade de Coimbra, tese de mestrado em Antropologia Social e Cultural.

MARÇAL, Artur, 2012, A Tradição da Olaria em Fonte Lima. Viana do Castelo, Instituto Politécnico de Viana do Castelo, tese de mestrado em Educação Artística.

MARCELINO, Pedro, 2011, The New Migration Paradigm of Transitional African Spaces: Inclusion, Exclusion, Liminality and Economic Competition in Transit Countries. A Case Study on the Cape Verde Islands. Saarbrücken, Lambert.

MBEMBE, Achille, 2014 [2013], Crítica da Razão Negra. Lisboa, Antígona.

MIRANDA, Nuno de, 1968, “Cabo Verde”, em Fernando Pires de Lima (org.), A Arte Popular em Portugal: Ilhas Adjacentes e Ultramar, vol. I. Lisboa, Editorial Verbo, 319-376.

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POEZE, Miranda, 2010, In Search of Greener Pastures? Boat-Migrants from Senegal to the Canary Islands. Leiden, African Studies Centre.

ROCHA, Eufémia, 2009, “Mandjakus São Todos os Africanos, Todas as Gentes Pretas que Vêm de África”: Xenofobia e Racismo em Cabo Verde. Praia, Universidade de Cabo Verde, tese de mestrado em Ciências Sociais.

ROCHA, Eufémia, 2013, “Migração na África Ocidental e Cabo Verde: uma relação recente?”, Ciências Sociais Unisinos, 49 (1): 12-19.

SALL, Leyla, 2010, “Les champs commerciaux sénégalais à Paris: coprésences, luttes pour l’espace et stratégies commerciales au sein d’espaces urbains interstitiels”, Diversité Urbaine, 10 (1): 61-83.

STEINER, Christopher B., 1994, African Art in Transit. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.

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UCI, 2012, Estratégia Nacional de Imigração: Resolução n.º 3 / 2012, de 23 de janeiro. Praia, Unidade de Coordenação da Imigração, disponível em http://www.dgi.com.cv/?wpdmdl=3714 (última consulta em janeiro de 2017).

UCI / OFII, 2014, Estudo de Diagnóstico: Identificação das Necessidades dos Imigrantes no Processo de Integração Social em Cabo Verde. S / l., Unidade de Coordenação de Imigração (UCI) e Office Français de l’immigration et de l’intégration (OFII), disponível em http://www.dgi.com.cv/?wpdmdl=3769 (última consulta em janeiro de 2017).

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NOTAS

1. Este projeto é financiado pela Fundação para a Ciência e a Tecnologia (Portugal), através da bolsa SFRH / BPD / 72387 / 2010. 2. Articulada em torno da revista Claridade, esta geração urdiu um modelo identitário que apresentava Cabo Verde como um caso de regionalismo português. Segundo Gabriel Fernandes, este modelo, influenciado pelo luso-tropicalismo, concebia as componentes africanas da cultura como resíduos que se haviam diluído nas ilhas do Barlavento, encontrando-se praticamente confinadas à ilha de Santiago. O retrato do arquipélago efetuado por Freyre contraria este modelo, retirando-lhe parte do seu suporte teórico (Fernandes 2002: 78-106). Ver ainda, sobre este assunto, Anjos (2002: 77-136) e Fernandes (2006: 143-178). 3. Note-se que, enquanto Baltasar Lopes parecia procurar rendas, bordados e cerâmica que pudessem confirmar a sua leitura do arquipélago como região portuguesa, Gilberto Freyre pareceu buscar objetos que exprimissem “uma sobrevivência africana cultivada com algum carinho” (Freyre 2001 [1953]: 276), refletindo assim duas conceções divergentes sobre a cultura do arquipélago. 4. Também Nuno de Miranda, referindo-se ao labor decorativo do homem cabo-verdiano, refere: “A decoração é praticamente inexistente no arquipélago. […] Porque a decoração está-lhe na alma” (Miranda 1968: 349-350). 5. Vejam-se ainda as afirmações de Mesquitela Lima sobre esta matéria numa entrevista conduzida por João Lopes Filho (1984: 20-21). 6. Arquivo do CNA (ACNA), caixa 89. Note-se que Manuel Figueira entendia por artesanato “[A]quilo que é produzido pelo artesão, consistindo esta produção de objectos que podem ser artísticos ou não, utilitários ou não, servindo-se o produtor de meios rudimentares, ferramentas ou instrumentos, que podem considerar como que o prolongamento da mão ou do corpo humano, em geral, sendo este o motor e a máquina que desprende a energia para produzir a peça que contém um conjunto de valores tradicionais, carregados de grande dimensão cultural”. Dividia-o em “três ramos”: “Artesanato artístico-decorativo, com a função de embelezar, de cumprir somente um papel estético; Artesanato artístico-utilitário com função utilitária e apresentando simultaneamente valores estéticos; e Artesanato utilitário concebido e executado, sem preocupações artísticas, para dar resposta às necessidades materiais do dia-a-dia” (em “Programa

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de Desenvolvimento do Artesanato Nacional”, sem data, presumivelmente de 1981, caixa 89, ACNA). 7. O CNA possuía uma delegação regional na Praia, inicialmente dirigida por Luís Tolentino e, a partir de 1983, por Gustavo Duarte. Nesta secção, legatária da oficina existente no Centro de Informação e Turismo, produziam-se, maioritariamente, objetos feitos a partir de coco, chifre, osso ou carapaça de tartaruga. 8. “Complemento do Relatório da Exposição 5 de Julho de 1975”, com data de 24 / 08 / 1975, caixa 82, ACNA. 9. Servindo-me das palavras de João Leal, “[o] popular é – literalmente – o produto do encontro de duas culturas: a cultura que lá estava e que não sabia que era popular e a cultura de quem chega lá e a nomeia como popular” (2009: 475). 10. Para Gabriel Fernandes: “a desafricanização dos espíritos não foi algo linear, de que pudesse resultar um novo ciclo de ocultamento da herança afro-negra; ela traduz uma fase de despartidarização ou desideologização da cultura, possibilitando a atribuição de um novo conteúdo simbólico ao suposto resgate identitário operado sob a sigla de retorno” (Fernandes 2002: 178). 11. Conforme a tipologia proposta por Gordon, os suvenires podem ser divididos em: (a) produtos pictóricos (postais, livros e outros materiais com imagens do destino); (b) réplicas e ícones (por exemplo, miniaturas de monumentos); (c) marcadores (objetos como porta-chaves, canecas, t- shirts com a inscrição da marca do destino); (d) objetos piece of rock (fósseis, conchas, pedras, flores, etc.); (e) produtos locais (artesanato ou produtos alimentares, produzidos localmente) (Horodyski, Manosso e Gândara 2012; Swanson e Horridge 2006: 673). Em Cabo Verde, os produtos pictóricos, réplicas, ícones e marcadores têm uma presença muito menor do que os produtos locais, o que em parte é explicável pela debilidade da indústria no país. Ainda que muitas lojas vendam t-shirts, canecas e outros produtos industriais com a inscrição da marca Cabo Verde – na sua quase totalidade importados da China e vendidos também em lojas chinesas –, uma grande parte dos marcadores é produzida por artesãos. 12. Dando continuidade à tendência registada desde 2009, em 2015, a maioria dos hóspedes seria proveniente do Reino Unido (22,2%), seguindo-se os alemães (13,4%) e portugueses (10,9%). Nesse ano, os hóspedes residentes em Cabo Verde somaram 8,7% das entradas (INE 2016: 36). No que concerne à ilha da Boa Vista, em 2015, os hóspedes do Reino Unido corresponderam a 31% do total das entradas, seguindo-se os da Alemanha (19%), Bélgica e Holanda (14%), Portugal (9%), França (8%), Itália (6%) (INE 2016: 42). 13. Os dois hotéis da cadeia Riu possuíam um restaurante temático cabo-verdiano. Contudo, vários turistas se queixaram das dificuldades em conseguir efetuar reservas nestes restaurantes. Sobre alimentação, turismo e “bolhas ambientais culinárias”, ver Cohen e Avieli (2004). 14. No Censo realizado em 2010 (UCI / OFII 2014: 18), foram contabilizados pelo INE 14.373 estrangeiros residentes em Cabo Verde: 8783 dos quais da CEDEAO e 2446 provenientes da Europa. De entre os Estados da CEDEAO, a Guiné-Bissau surgia como o país com mais imigrantes em Cabo Verde (5544), seguida pelo Senegal (1634) e pela Nigéria (740). 15. Ver, por exemplo, Adepoju (s / d.). 16. Sobre a crítica aos usos da categoria “país de trânsito” e sua aplicação ao contexto cabo- verdiano, ver Barbosa (2014). Sobre as orientações do governo cabo-verdiano em matéria de imigração ver, por exemplo, UCI (2012). No que concerne à investigação produzida sobre o fenómeno do crescimento da imigração em Cabo Verde, veja-se, por exemplo, Barbosa (2014), Furtado (2012), Marcelino (2011), Rocha (2009, 2013). Relativamente aos estudos sobre a emigração senegalesa, veja-se, por exemplo, Bava (2005), Diop (2008), Fall e Bochaca (2012), Poeze (2010), Sall (2010). Sobre a articulação destes fenómenos na ilha da Boa Vista, veja-se Jung (2013). 17. Em 2010, foram contabilizadas pelo INE, 2305 residentes neste bairro. Na primavera de 2015, o número de residentes seria muito superior e o bairro encontrava-se já circundado por uma

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muralha de prédios em construção no âmbito do programa do governo “Casa para Todos”, nos quais se projetava realojar parte da população residente em barracas. 18. Em 2015 existiriam 1793 trabalhadores ao serviço nos estabelecimentos hoteleiros da ilha (INE 2016: 11). Destes, apenas 58 estavam enquadrados como pessoal permanente (INE 2016: 19). O trabalho na hotelaria foi sistematicamente caracterizado pela sua precariedade, pelas longas e penosas jornadas de trabalho e salários que não permitem fazer face ao elevado custo de vida. 19. Termo usado num documento da UCI / OFII (2014: 61) para designar o avesso da morabeza, i. e., o avesso da cordialidade cabo-verdiana para com os forasteiros. Deve ser notado que, na Boa Vista, esta “maurabeza” é também dirigida à população oriunda de Santiago, frequentemente descrita como sendo mais “africana” (cf. Fernandes 2002: 90-95; Fikes 2007). 20. Esta ilha possui alguns dos mais importantes locais de nidificação de tartarugas da espécie Caretta caretta. Nos meses de verão, a observação da desova de tartarugas constitui uma das atividades propostas aos turistas. 21. A Escola de Olaria do Rabil terá sido criada em 1959 (Lima 1997: 132), tendo sido dirigida por um oleiro português até à independência. Após um período de letargia, António Mosso Monteiro (filho de uma oleira do Rabil) conseguiu paulatinamente reanimar esta oficina. Num artigo de 1983, Leão Lopes afirmava que a olaria da Boa Vista havia sofrido “influências de formas estranhas trazidas por um oleiro português, que originaram na produção boa-vistense um hibridismo às vezes bizarro e desagradável” (Lopes 1983: 15). Sobre olaria cabo-verdiana, ver também Madureira (2012) e Marçal (2012). 22. A população mais idosa tende a enaltecer a qualidade do artesanato produzido na Boa Vista antes da independência, em especial a olaria, cestaria, rendas e bordados, objetos feitos de carapaça de tartaruga por Emiliano Silva, e por vezes a tecelagem praticada em tempos mais remotos. Almeida (2003: 108) e Lima (1997: 131) referem que alguns exemplares desta tecelagem terão sido exibidos nas exposições universais de Londres (1862) e Antuérpia (1885). 23. Na primavera de 2015, a renda mensal paga à Camara Municipal da Boa Vista era de cerca de 60 euros, sendo a área das lojas muito exígua. Em dezembro de 2015, este mercado terá sido desativado no âmbito do projeto de requalificação de Sal Rei que previa a construção de um hotel neste local. Os comerciantes terão sido deslocados para o espaço da antiga fábrica Ultra. 24. Os cinco maiores hotéis da Boa Vista detinham, no total, dez lojas com artesanato: o Marine Club e o Royal Decameron possuíam duas lojas, o Iberostar detinha quatro lojas e o Riu Karamboa e Riu Touareg juntos detinham também quatro lojas. Seis destas dez lojas pertenciam às cadeias Baobab (que comercializava objetos importados do Brasil) e Bazar & Co. Apenas a loja My Boa Vista, no Marine Club, exibia um conjunto significativo de artefactos produzidos por artesãos cabo-verdianos de outras ilhas. 25. Sobre racismo e imigração em Cabo Verde, ver Rocha (2009) e Furtado (2012). 26. Podendo, contudo, constituir-se como objeto de desejo. Muitos cabo-verdianos usam estes objetos na decoração das suas casas e algumas lojas de produtos chineses vendem imitações em plástico de estatuária dita africana. Em algumas áreas do artesanato cabo-verdiano, em especial na costura e bijuteria, assiste-se também a uma propagação do uso de tecidos estampados importados do Senegal. 27. Ver também Rocha (2013: 16). 28. Prática comum no Mindelo, onde a maioria dos comerciantes de artesanato provenientes da CEDEAO vende também objetos produzidos por cabo-verdianos. 29. A arte africana viria também a exercer um papel marcante na construção nacional senegalesa durante a presidência de Léopold Sédar Senghor (1960-1980), como ficou patente na realização, em Dacar, do Festival Mundial de Artes Negras, em 1966 (Ficquet e Gallimardet 2009).

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RESUMOS

Nos últimos dez anos, o crescimento do turismo e da imigração na ilha da Boa Vista (Cabo Verde) originou a abertura de um elevado número de lojas de artesanato, maioritariamente pertencentes a imigrantes senegaleses que se dedicam à venda de artefactos provenientes do seu país ou por si produzidos nesta ilha. Estes imigrantes têm sido alvo de práticas discriminatórias, sendo sistematicamente acusados de venderem objetos não representativos da cultura cabo- verdiana e de “assediarem os turistas”. Este artigo propõe uma reflexão em torno deste comércio, articulando-o com os processos de construção da nação cabo-verdiana e com o papel do artesanato nesta construção.

In the last ten years, the growth of both tourism and immigration on the island of Boa Vista (Cape Verde) has led to the opening of an increased number of handicraft shops, mostly owned by Senegalese immigrants who sell artifacts which are either locally crafted or shipped from Senegal. These immigrants have been facing a number of discriminatory practices, while being systematically accused of “harassing tourists” and of selling objects that are not representative of Cape Verdean culture. This article proposes to reflect on this handicraft trade in relation to the processes of nation building in Cape Verde and on the role of crafts in these processes.

ÍNDICE

Keywords: handicraft, souvenir, national identity, Boa Vista, Cape Verde Palavras-chave: artesanato, suvenir, identidade nacional, Boa Vista, Cabo Verde

AUTOR

EDUARDA ROVISCO

Instituto Universitário de Lisboa (ISCTE-IUL), CRIA, Lisboa, Portugal [email protected]

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Experiência da pena e gestão de populações nas penitenciárias de São Paulo, Brasil Punishment experience and population management in penitentiaries of São Paulo,

Rafael Godoi

Introdução

1 Transformações importantes no funcionamento do sistema de justiça penal, em diversos países, remontando, em linhas gerais, ao último quarto do século XX, foram e ainda são objeto de um vigoroso debate nas ciências sociais (cf. Canêdo e Fonseca 2012). 1

2 Não obstante divergências nas análises, ênfases e conclusões, é recorrente a abordagem de um determinado conjunto de elementos que indicaria essa grande transformação. O aumento exponencial da população carcerária e das taxas de encarceramento, mais ou menos concomitante em diferentes países, constitui uma das evidências empíricas de maior relevo e aponta para a importância, a profundidade e a amplitude das mudanças que resultaram nas atuais formas de controle e punição (Garland 2001). 3 A redefinição da função social da prisão é um ponto comum em diferentes análises. Existe relativo consenso quanto ao fato de a prisão ter sido esvaziada de seus objetivos ressocializadores, passando a funcionar como mero dispositivo de contenção e incapacitação de amplas camadas populacionais marginalizadas (Garland 2005: 41-42). A prisão passa a se figurar como depósito de um excedente populacional que não para de crescer em tempos de globalização e de ajustes neoliberais. 4 Minha proposta neste trabalho é tomar a prisão-depósito como problema para a investigação empírica, a partir de algumas observações que pretendem evitar uma aceitação por demais irrefletida dessa tese. Em primeiro lugar, ressaltaria a necessidade de não se tomar por análise crítica o que na verdade se constitui como o novo conteúdo

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programático dos sistemas punitivos contemporâneos. Operadores, apologistas e estrategistas do endurecimento penal são os primeiros a afirmar que a prisão funciona como mecanismo de contenção e incapacitação de criminosos (Feeley e Simon 2012: 28). A segunda observação decorre da primeira: é preciso problematizar a eficácia de tal programação. Muitas vezes, os estudiosos se limitam a constatar a nova função incapacitante da prisão para, em seguida, empreender maiores esforços na investigação de suas causas históricas e culturais (Simon 2001), dos sistemas de pensamento que lhe dão sustentação (O’Malley e Hutchinson 2007) ou dos mecanismos de poder que a integram numa estratégia de governo mais ampla (Rose 2000). A prisão contemporânea aparece então como algo que tem uma função social bastante clara, mas cujo funcionamento não inspiraria maior interesse – como se a nova prisão-depósito, simplesmente, armazenasse, anulasse e incapacitasse, e nela nada mais pudesse acontecer. 5 Ao enfatizar a necessidade de problematização da eficácia do programa neutralizador, evoco algumas das maiores contribuições de Foucault (1999) para a análise e a crítica de nossos sistemas punitivos: o cuidado de não tomar a prisão como dispositivo meramente repressivo, nem o poder como relação meramente negativa. Não é porque a prisão já não se representa como o aparelho disciplinar que Foucault analisou que deixa de fazer sentido o estudo de sua mecânica de funcionamento e a prospecção de suas produtividades. Ademais, se Foucault (1999: 226-227) coloca como questão estratégica a indagação sobre a eficácia que subjaz as reiteradas denúncias de fracasso da instituição, talvez, no momento atual, seja o caso de propor, inversamente, questionamentos sobre os fracassos que se produzem sob as reiteradas proclamações de que a prisão funciona. No estado de São Paulo, a emergência das facções prisionais, especialmente do Primeiro Comando da Capital (PCC), e a extensão de suas atividades para muito além do perímetro prisional (Adorno e Salla 2007; Telles 2010; Biondi 2010; Feltran 2011; Dias 2013) são fatores que colocam na ordem do dia a indagação sobre o funcionamento atual de uma prisão que se pretende meramente neutralizadora. 6 Proponho neste trabalho, portanto, o seguinte percurso: partir da função prisão- depósito para uma exploração do funcionamento da prisão “massificada”. Isto é, não se trata de elucidar, mais uma vez, qual a função geral da prisão contemporânea, mas de questionar como ela vem funcionando, num contexto específico e estratégico como São Paulo. Para tanto, recorro a algumas sugestões foucaultianas sobre a governamentalidade e o neoliberalismo (Foucault 2008a, 2008b). Técnicas atuariais, modos de intervenção ambiental, formas de responsabilização dos sujeitos, estratégias de condução e capitalização de suas escolhas e ações, entre outros elementos característicos da governamentalidade neoliberal, podem, com proveito, iluminar as linhas gerais que articulam os mecanismos mais amplos de segurança e justiça – onde a prisão figura como um elemento entre outros –, servindo também de referência para conferir inteligibilidade a emergentes dinâmicas de gestão do próprio espaço penitenciário (Garland 1997). 7 Esses temas serão aqui trabalhados desde uma perspectiva etnográfica, a partir da observação participante nas atividades de um grupo da Pastoral Carcerária – organização ligada à Igreja Católica – no interior de algumas penitenciárias de São Paulo. As técnicas de gestão da população carcerária paulista são, portanto, prospectadas a partir de algumas experiências de campo, nas quais me parece ter sido possível acessar dinâmicas estruturantes da própria experiência da pena (Kaminski e

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Kokoreff 2004: 11) que é imposta, se não a todos, a um número significativo dos presos condenados pelo estado de São Paulo.

Uma visita pastoral

8 “A pastoral, a pastoral…” é o grito que emana do outro lado da porta de aço. Eu e Fátima 2 estamos na “gaiola” que dá acesso a um dos “raios” de uma penitenciária do estado de São Paulo. Um agente de segurança penitenciária (ASP) foi avisar a respeito de nossa chegada, outros três estão ali, trocamos algumas palavras de cordialidade. Minha atenção se volta para o que se pode ver através de uma pequena janela: o futebol é interrompido imediatamente, os presos se agitam, correm para as suas celas, vestem camisetas, alguns penduram terços no pescoço. A um sinal dos presos, o ASP que estava lá dentro nos convida a entrar. Passamos pela porta de aço e adentramos em outra “gaiola”, menor, dentro do “raio”. Três grades nos separam de um grupo de presos que já vai se aglomerando, alguns sorrindo, outros curiosos. Quando se fecha a porta às nossas costas, o ASP abre outra, passamos; ele nos tranca dentro do “raio” e sai.

9 Cumprimento com um aperto de mão todos os que se aproximam, os “setores de judiciária”, presos responsáveis pela nossa recepção, e os demais, conhecidos ou não. Uma enorme quantidade de gente passa a caminhar em círculo pelo pátio central, em pares ou pequenos grupos, aproveitando do sol. Muitos continuam suas atividades, observando-nos de longe, sentados na porta de uma cela, jogando baralho, costurando bolas. Num canto do pátio, uma grande mesa de madeira vai sendo disposta a fim de centralizar o nosso atendimento. Antes de iniciá-lo, Fátima diz que quer fazer uma oração. Os “setores” então gritam “A oração, oração…” e, com o grupo que já se forma ao nosso redor, caminhamos para o pátio, que vai se abrindo. Rapidamente, um enorme círculo se forma, nem todos se aproximam, alguns ficam só olhando, mas um silêncio se faz. Quando todos no círculo já estão de mãos dadas, Fátima cumprimenta: “Bom dia, povo de Deus!” A resposta vem grave e uníssona: “Bom dia, Dona Fátima!” Ela então explica rapidamente que trouxe os extratos pedidos na última semana, que só levará mais pedidos daqueles que não conseguiram fazê-lo na última vez, e que estes só poderão ser entregues depois de quinze dias, já que na semana seguinte não os visitaremos. Proclama então algumas breves intenções para a família e a saúde, e inicia o Pai Nosso ecumênico. Os católicos emendam a Ave Maria, os evangélicos calam. Uma salva de palmas encerra o momento da oração. 10 Caminhamos em direção à mesa, enquanto somos abordados por vários presos e suas questões: “O que precisa para pedir o extrato? Número de matrícula serve?” Quando nos aproximamos, uma longa fila já está formada. Fátima procura em sua pesada sacola o maço de extratos correspondente ao “raio” em que estamos e o entrega nas mãos do “setor”, que repassa a outro que o leva para a sala da “judiciária”, a fim de organizar a distribuição – um volume grande de presos se dirige para lá. Fátima também retira da sacola um maço de papéis em branco e uma caneta, o “setor de judiciária” pede então que um preso que estava ali do lado se encarregue de fazer a relação. Fátima reitera que é só para aqueles que não pediram na última visita. Do outro lado da mesa, ele começa a anotar no papel os dados daqueles que estavam em fila. Dá-se início, então, aos atendimentos individuais. 11 Eu e Fátima ficamos de pé, perto da mesa, cada um rodeado por presos ansiosos por conversar e tirar dúvidas. Além das questões pontuais sobre as informações necessárias

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para a realização do pedido do extrato, todo um universo de questões processuais nos é apresentado. O diálogo se inicia com um aperto de mãos, o preso então explica sua situação. Muitos têm uma condenação de X anos, já cumpriram Y da pena, tendo, portanto, lapso para progredirem de regime ou mesmo para serem soltos; no entanto, estão lá ainda, sem informação sobre o andamento de seus “benefícios”. Outros, ou têm um advogado particular que deixou de atuar em seu caso; ou já progrediram para o regime semiaberto e ainda não foram transferidos; ou apelaram da condenação e não têm informação alguma sobre esse processo; ou acabam de ser condenados num outro processo e não sabem como vai ficar a pena. Questões pessoais de diversas ordens também emergem: a necessidade de óculos, de medicamentos, de notícias da família; protocolos para contrair matrimônio, para registrar um filho. Fátima tem praticamente todas as respostas, anota nomes e problemas em sua agenda; o círculo ao seu redor é bem maior que ao meu. Eu respondo o que posso, anoto alguns nomes e dúvidas. 12 Conforme os extratos vão sendo distribuídos na sala da “judiciária”, muitos vêm nos procurar para interpretá-los, uma vez que as informações neles dispostas são bastante cifradas, não permitindo observar muito mais que as datas em que o processo foi movimentado e onde ele atualmente se encontra. Tendo somente por base o extrato, é praticamente impossível ter conhecimento acerca da natureza dos pedidos e dos encaminhamentos que vão sendo dados. Por mais frustrante que seja a desinformação imposta pelo papel, o registro de uma movimentação recente é suficiente para amenizar a angústia e os ânimos mais exaltados. 13 Fátima olha para o relógio: estamos atrasados, há muito ainda a visitar. Desculpando-se, interrompe os atendimentos e recolhe a relação de pedidos de extratos. Um calhamaço, dezenas e dezenas de nomes e números. Aqueles mais atrasados tentam incluir, na última hora, o nome na lista; Fátima resiste e cede, resiste e cede; anotações de última hora também são feitas em sua agenda – uma pomada, um telefone de familiar, um número de processo de apelação – tudo enquanto o “setor de judiciária” chama na “gaiola”: “Senhor, atenção aqui para o raio…” Depois de Fátima ter guardado a relação, enquanto esperamos a reação dos funcionários, presos ainda se aproximam pedindo que levemos bilhetes com seu nome e número de execução, também com indicações do tempo de pena imposta e cumprida, ao que cedemos conforme a insistência de cada um. Um ASP entra na “gaiola” do “raio” e abre a porta para nossa saída. Vamos nos despedindo e com promessas de voltar. Do outro lado da porta de aço, os outros ASP recebem um preso vestido de branco, empurrando um carrinho repleto de tinas com arroz, feijão, carne e banana, comida que naquela hora seria distribuída naquela mesma mesa em que há pouco atendíamos. Ele cumprimenta “Dona Fátima”, pede ajuda para ver como anda o seu processo e diz que na sua cela tem uma petição de liberdade condicional para ela protocolar no Fórum.

Um modo de governo à distância

14 Extratos da Vara de Execuções Criminais (VEC) e de apelação são os mais pedidos e distribuídos em qualquer “raio” que eu, Fátima e outros agentes pastorais visitamos. Do universo de problemas que se apresentam nas penitenciárias paulistas, não temos nenhuma predileção pelas questões processuais, mas elas se impõem, incontornáveis, quando dialogamos com os presos, demonstrando abertura e interesse por suas maiores angústias. A apreciação desses documentos e de seus efeitos no “raio” de penitenciária

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possibilita jogar luz sobre algumas dimensões estruturantes do governo e da experiência da punição em São Paulo.

15 O extrato da VEC é um documento que informa sobre os encaminhamentos de pedidos de “benefício” – geralmente progressão de regime ou liberdade condicional – no processo de execução penal. É emitido pelo Tribunal de Justiça do Estado de São Paulo via Internet e se compõe de quatro colunas com diferentes tipos de dados. Nas sete linhas aparecem as sete últimas movimentações no processo de execução, em ordem cronológica decrescente. A primeira coluna é a mais legível. A sucessão de datas informa se o processo está parado ou em andamento, o ritmo das movimentações processuais, o intervalo entre elas, e o momento preciso em que foram realizadas. A leitura dessas datas depende de outras referências temporais, que os presos, em geral, dominam: o dia da prisão, a duração da pena imposta, os lapsos de tempo legalmente determinados para progressão de regime segundo as diferentes condenações. Na segunda coluna, registros como “Autos no Ministério Público”, “Autos na Defensoria Pública”, “Autos Remetidos à Comarca”, “Autos Recebidos da Comarca”, “Autos no Arquivo” são referências espaciais que indicam onde está se passando algo com o processo. Sendo jurisdicionalizada a execução da pena – constituída, portanto, de ações e transações entre os diversos agentes que conformam o sistema de justiça (Teixeira 2009) –, as informações dessa coluna possibilitam identificar quem é o responsável por cada movimentação em curso – se o promotor, o defensor ou o juiz – e, relacionando-as com as da primeira coluna, quanto tempo cada um desses agentes leva para concluir seus procedimentos. Entretanto, o número limitado de sete movimentações apresentadas no extrato impossibilita a reconstituição do percurso geral de um “benefício”. Assim, o andamento processual mais se apresenta como um incessante ir e vir, sem início, sem fim, imprevisível, ilegível. Ademais, no extrato da VEC jamais figurará a decisão judicial proferida – o que eleva a ilegibilidade do documento ao paroxismo. Não obstante, com o extrato da VEC em mãos, o preso continuamente redimensiona os aspectos quantitativos e qualitativos da pena que sofre: seu tempo de duração e regime de cumprimento. De um lado, especula sobre a data provável de sua saída, se ela tende a se aproximar do cumprimento integral da pena ou se já se anuncia para o próximo período. De outro, questiona a justeza de sua própria condição: se a pena que lhe vem sendo imposta corresponde ou não aos seus direitos legalmente estabelecidos. Feitas e refeitas a cada extrato, a cada dia, verdadeiros focos de angústias e incertezas, essas estimativas e considerações carecem de precisão, em grande medida, devido à quase total ilegibilidade do restante da tabela, que, por sua vez, prolonga uma opacidade que é própria do sistema de justiça. Se não deixa de ser surpreendente o fato de existir tamanha demanda por um documento tão lacunar, deve-se ter em mente que, nas penitenciárias paulistas, são por demais escassos os canais de circulação de informações processuais. 16 Os extratos de apelação, embora igualmente demandados e também acessíveis via Internet; são distribuídos em menor número que os da VEC. Geralmente os presos, no “raio”, não dispõem de informações precisas para a sua busca. Apenas com o nome completo, o número do processo de execução e da matrícula no sistema prisional – esses os dados de que os presos, em geral, dispõem – é quase sempre impossível emitir o extrato de apelação requerido. Nesse documento figuram informações acerca do processo de apelação à condenação proferida em primeira instância. Trata-se de outro processo, diferente da execução penal, mas que também se vincula ao preso e a seu

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destino. O direito de apelação é amplamente consolidado nos sistemas jurídicos modernos; visa proteger acusados e acusadores de possíveis negligências ou equívocos numa primeira decisão judicial. Geralmente, o processo de apelação se inicia logo após o primeiro julgamento, quando se dá a conhecer a pena imposta, considerada inapropriada pelo defensor ou pelo promotor – pelo excesso ou pela falta de rigor. Para além de toda a justificação própria da doutrina jurídica, a existência de processos de apelação nos gabinetes do sistema de justiça e o interesse por seus extratos nos “raios” do sistema penitenciário indicam que a pena, mesmo quando já estabelecida, pode ser vivida como algo potencialmente mutável, para mais ou para menos, continuando mesmo enquanto é aplicada, em alguma medida, ainda indefinida. 17 Diferentemente do extrato da VEC, no de apelação, a consulta às movimentações pode recuar até o cadastramento do processo, possibilitando uma visão geral sobre o ir e vir processual. Na coluna “Movimento”, sucedem-se ao cadastro múltiplas remessas, distribuições, recebimentos, pareceres e publicações que envolvem arquivistas, cartorários, procuradores, defensores e magistrados. Após o julgamento, são necessárias outras remessas e publicações para que a nova decisão proferida incida no processo de execução, redefinindo (ou não) condições, lapsos e direitos no interior do sistema prisional. Quando existe uma decisão judicial, sua natureza é telegraficamente informada no extrato, com meras indicações do acolhimento total ou parcial, ou da refutação da demanda do apelante. 18 Os extratos da VEC e de apelação distribuídos pelos agentes pastorais são importantes e muito demandados no “raio” de penitenciária, porque permitem que o preso estabeleça um mínimo contato com o andamento, nos circuitos do sistema de justiça, de dois dos mais importantes processos que definem seu destino. No entanto, trata-se de um contato ambivalente, que pode amenizar ou agravar os ânimos: saber que seu processo de apelação está estagnado há anos num arquivo, ou que o “benefício” está parado há meses na mesa do juiz, enquanto se aproxima a próxima saída temporária ou outro lapso está para ser cumprido, conforma circunstâncias que intensificam a angústia vivida na prisão. Por outro lado, saber que o pedido de “benefício” se movimentou diversas vezes num mesmo mês pode alimentar esperanças de uma antecipação da liberdade. De um modo ou de outro, a leitura dos extratos traz à tona um tipo particular de sofrimento experimentado na prisão, referente ao próprio regime de processamento das condenações e dos condenados pelo sistema de justiça. 19 É sempre possível problematizar a opacidade do sistema de justiça, a ilegibilidade de suas operações, também as experiências e sofrimentos que engendram, analisando as diversas instituições, seus aspectos organizacionais, suas disfunções logísticas. Desde esse ponto de vista, é possível discutir a precariedade das estruturas voltadas à defesa jurídica gratuita; o desconhecimento, por parte de promotores e juízes, das condições reais de encarceramento; ou a inadequação dos recursos técnicos e administrativos das varas. A análise, no entanto, não ultrapassaria os limites do registro negativo. As situações e experiências que acabo de descrever apareceriam então como decorrência da falta – de eficiência, de recursos, de procedimentos, no limite, de Estado. No entanto, não é porque juízes e promotores só muito raramente visitam unidades penitenciárias, não é porque inexiste um número adequado de defensores públicos exclusivamente voltados para a execução penal, que o sistema de justiça deixa de fazer o seu trabalho no que diz respeito ao regime de processamento penitenciário. Ele age à distância, por meio do processo e das várias documentações que nele confluem. Concluir que a

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experiência de uma pena ilegível e indefinida resultaria da ausência ou ineficiência do Estado na prisão só seria possível se se mantivesse irrefletido o pressuposto de que o perímetro institucional bem delimita uma unidade de análise (Cunha 2004). Ou seja, seria o mesmo que negligenciar tanto as múltiplas conexões que ligam uma unidade prisional a outros territórios, quanto a profusão de documentos que por essas vias circulam, permeando a vida e definindo o destino dos presos. 20 Na prisão contemporânea, que abdicou de seus ideais ressocializadores, que incapacita um número cada vez maior de pessoas, o gerenciamento meramente burocrático da população prisional assume uma renovada importância estratégica. Os extratos descritos colocam presos e agentes pastorais diante das expressões mais cotidianas e triviais dos expedientes de gestão de maior peso na operacionalização do fluxo de condenados pelo sistema penitenciário. Transações documentais têm, com efeito, o poder de determinar a duração e as condições do período de reclusão, não importando se se efetuam em outras territorialidades. Se os prazos procedimentais são sistematicamente extrapolados, se as intervenções dos diversos operadores do direito são por demais protocolares e se a desorganização logística é a marca da relação entre as diferentes agências do sistema de justiça, o particular regime de processamento que viabiliza o funcionamento do sistema penitenciário não deve ser apenas visto como obviamente incompatível com o código legal, mas também, sobretudo, como a compatibilização prática, empírica, entre o imperativo securitário da contenção incapacitante e as exigências legais de um sistema que se caracteriza pela progressividade das penas e pela jurisdicionalização da execução. 21 Esse regime de processamento pode ser pensado como uma forma particular de governo à distância (Miller e Rose 1990; Rose 2000; Rose, O’Malley e Valverde 2006) que opera por meio de tecnologias de escrita (Latour 1986; Das 2007; Gupta 2012), onde a interação direta entre presos e agentes estatais é reduzida ao mínimo possível. Cadastros, peças, remessas, juntadas, distribuições, vistas, publicações são apenas alguns exemplos das modalidades de ação estatal que prevalecem nesse circuito. Escrever, compilar, transportar e ler uma infinidade de registros é um tipo de ação cotidiana das forças estatais, com efeitos próprios. A composição e a manipulação dos diferentes processos não são meros expedientes burocráticos, colaterais, secundários em relação a outro tipo de ação que seria mais real – seja o mero confinamento, seja algum tipo de tratamento penitenciário. Foucault já chamava a atenção para a centralidade dos registros escritos – das “técnicas documentárias” (1999: 157) – na operacionalização e desenvolvimento das disciplinas. O vínculo estratégico entre formas de conhecer o indivíduo e de exercer poder sobre o corpo parece funcionar agora de outro modo – em escala, por agregado. Se nas disciplinas, através de sucessivos exames, as autoridades fazem proliferar um conhecimento sobre as aptidões e as tendências subjetivas de cada um, a fim de classificar e prognosticar o tratamento específico ao indivíduo, nesse particular governo judiciário, os registros do processo operam por redução, por extração (Latour 1986: 17) dos elementos considerados centrais para fundamentar a decisão sobre direitos adquiridos e sobre a necessidade (ou não) de dar continuidade à reclusão do maior número de pessoas, no menor tempo possível. 22 O conjunto de documentos escritos que constitui um processo duplica a existência do preso num outro circuito, ao mesmo tempo em que concretiza o Estado e sua ação sobre a população carcerária, por outros meios que não a muralha. Se no “raio” de

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penitenciária prevalece a indistinção das penas, a mistura dos sujeitos e o tratamento uniforme, o processo opera as segmentações, fixando as condenações e lapsos a cumprir, diferenciando o tratamento para primários e reincidentes, hediondos e comuns. É pela materialidade e pelo fluxo dos papéis que se condiciona o fluxo dos corpos e se assinala o destino de todos e de cada um. Nos gabinetes do sistema de justiça, os processos – não diretamente os presos – são avaliados, encaminhados e chancelados, e esse fluir impacta, conforma e individualiza a experiência que cada um terá na prisão. O gabinete do juiz é como um centro de comando – de avaliação, cálculo e intervenção (Miller e Rose 1990: 7) – a partir do qual é possível que um único agente, baseado num conjunto de papéis, decida sobre a vida e o destino de milhares de pessoas. Entretanto, indicar a centralidade do sistema de justiça no funcionamento do sistema penitenciário não é o mesmo que proclamar sua ascendência absoluta. Não há uma relação de dominação unívoca dos agentes do sistema de justiça sobre os funcionários da prisão, nem dos letrados da burocracia estatal sobre uma população (presa) majoritariamente iletrada. Nessa particular tecnologia de governo não só há espaço para a ação fora dos gabinetes do judiciário, como essa ação é continuamente incitada para o bom funcionamento do sistema. A abordagem dos processos de sindicância permitirá interpelar as práticas próprias da administração prisional que incidem de modo determinante nesse regime de processamento. A apreciação dos modos pelos quais os presos se mobilizam para interferir na deriva processual, por sua vez, mostrará como eles não são meros objetos passivos dessa particular forma de governo à distância.

Outra visita pastoral

23 A ala do “castigo” é um corredor estreito de odor pesado, com celas dispostas do lado esquerdo numa sequência de portas de aço e suas pequenas portinholas, de onde se projetam mãos e olhares ansiosos. Nem todas estão ocupadas. Um ASP nos acompanha. Fátima e eu caminhamos até o fundo do corredor, dizendo: “Bom dia pessoal, é a Pastoral Carcerária, viemos conversar com vocês”. No trajeto, posso entrever os presos se vestindo para nos receber, ouço suspiros de alívio e esperança – “Dona Fátima, Dona Fátima, aqui! Por favor, aqui!” Observo melhor o espaço de uma cela vazia, o “pote”: uma pequena janela envidraçada oposta à porta, sob a qual uma fenda na parede permite a entrada do ar; um buraco no chão, uma torneira pingando, uma caixa de concreto fazendo as vezes de cama.

24 Do fundo para a frente, através das portinholas, conversamos com doze fragmentos de bocas ou olhos, distribuídos em sete celas: na primeira, estavam dois presos acusados de serem os donos de uma porção de maconha encontrada na última blitz; cumpriam dez dias de castigo provisório, enquanto não se concluía a sindicância. Anotamos os contatos de seus familiares para avisarmos que não poderiam visitá-los no próximo fim de semana; ambos estavam preocupados com o gasto e o esforço inútil. Também pediram ajuda para viabilizar alguma defesa no processo de sindicância, para livrar pelo menos um deles do castigo. No segundo “pote” visitado estava um preso que foi flagrado recebendo um telefone celular do advogado, já havia cumprido dez dias de castigo provisório, passado uma semana no “raio” – aguardando a conclusão da sindicância – e estava, naquele momento, no penúltimo dos vinte dias de pena pela falta. Na terceira cela, apenas um dos dois presos quis conversar conosco; não estava de

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castigo, mas em regime de observação, tendo chegado há pouco na unidade, vindo de uma penitenciária no interior do estado. Pediu que avisássemos seus familiares do novo endereço o mais rápido possível, para que não viajassem inutilmente no próximo fim de semana. Na quarta cela, conversamos com dois presos recapturados, um depois de ano e meio na rua, outro depois de alguns dias. Ambos não retornaram à unidade depois de uma saída temporária. O primeiro contou que, em liberdade, trocou de namorada e teve um filho; pediu-nos ajuda para recompor seu rol de visitas. O segundo pediu um extrato de apelação. Na quinta cela, também um preso recapturado e um que voltou com um dia de atraso da última saída temporária; este disse que precisou desse dia para viabilizar um abrigo para os filhos, que estavam morando na rua com a mãe viciada em crack. Estava bastante revoltado, disse que se soubesse que teria o mesmo tratamento dispensado aos recapturados, jamais teria voltado “com as próprias pernas”. No sexto “pote” estava um preso sozinho, mais velho e conhecido de Fátima. Ela se surpreendeu ao reconhecê-lo: “Você aqui?” Ele, visivelmente constrangido, tentou se explicar: na última blitz, encontraram o controle remoto da televisão nas suas coisas; controle remoto é proibido, ele bem sabia, mas a preguiça de levantar toda vez para trocar de canais, desafortunadamente, tinha sido mais forte. Fátima se preocupou com o andamento de seu processo: “uma sindicância bem agora que o regime semiaberto parece que finalmente vai sair?” Ele tranquilizou-a, disse que o diretor de disciplina lhe garantiu que não abririam sindicância, que cumpriria um castigo de uma semana, mas que não seria registrado, por ser ele um preso antigo e que não dá problema. Na última cela de castigo visitada, estavam dois presos acusados de desacato a funcionário. Um não quis muita conversa conosco, apenas pediu um terço que não tínhamos para lhe dar. O outro falou mais, estava inconformado, falava alto a fim de que o ASP que nos acompanhava ouvisse, dizia não ter desacatado ninguém, que o acusaram por perseguição, que no processo de sindicância não teve direito à defesa, que foi sua palavra contra a do funcionário. Pediu-nos ajuda para formalizar algum tipo de apelação. Ao perceber um sorriso mal disfarçado no rosto do funcionário se exaltou, colocou o braço inteiro para fora da portinhola, apontando o indicador para o ASP, batendo nervoso na porta de aço, proferindo ameaças: “O senhor me conhece, veja lá minha ficha, o senhor sabe que comigo não tem chance, que mais cedo ou mais tarde saio daqui e aí já viu…” Eu e Fátima tentávamos acalmá-lo, dizendo que poderíamos conversar com mais tranquilidade quando ele estivesse no “raio”, ele já não nos ouvia, seguia gritando sua inocência e suas reivindicações de justiça. O ASP interrompeu a situação tirando-nos do “castigo”. Disse que era bom vermos como esse preso era problemático, que ele ali não tinha mais nenhum futuro, que tomaria outra falta por novo desacato, e que, por coisas como essa, não gostavam que visitássemos aquela ala.

Uma particular gestão dos riscos

25 O breve relato de uma visita (quase) ordinária ao espaço do “castigo” de uma unidade penitenciária visa cercar um campo de práticas e discursos que é também estruturante do governo e da experiência da punição nas prisões de São Paulo: o processo de sindicância. Trata-se de um sistema punitivo particular, que funciona no interior do sistema prisional e que interfere, em grande medida, nas condições e no tempo de cumprimento da pena. Assim como aos presos e a seus familiares, aos agentes pastorais é também vetado o acesso a informações mais aprofundadas sobre tais processos, de modo que só acessamos a dinâmica que rege a distribuição dos castigos no interior da

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prisão através de visitas como esta e de conversas no “raio” com presos que passaram por essa experiência.

26 Se os processos de execução penal ou de apelação se desenrolam fundamentalmente no âmbito do sistema de justiça, na sindicância, funcionários e gestores da prisão desempenham maior protagonismo. Mesmo sua formatação institucional é híbrida: parte estabelecida na Lei de Execuções Penais (LEP) – Lei n.º 7210 / 84; parte a cargo de autoridades administrativas da esfera estadual – em São Paulo, a última regulamentação se deu através da Resolução n.º 144 da Secretaria de Administração Penitenciária (SAP), de 2010. A LEP estabelece o conjunto de faltas graves, as principais sanções, as diretrizes gerais do processo disciplinar e, desde 2003, normatiza a mais dura punição que é oficialmente admitida pelo Estado brasileiro: o Regime Disciplinar Diferenciado (RDD). O Regimento Interno Padrão das Unidades Prisionais do Estado de São Paulo detalha o conjunto de faltas leves e médias, as circunstâncias atenuantes ou agravantes, e especifica os procedimentos do processo de sindicância – as formas de instauração, instrução, audiência, relatório e decisão –, que é quase inteiramente conduzido no âmbito da própria unidade prisional (Silva 2011). 27 Replicando o sistema punitivo mais amplo no interior da prisão, o processo de sindicância, em tese, é também jurisdicionalizado – ou seja, dependente da participação de juízes, acusadores e defensores. No entanto, o registro e a apuração de infrações disciplinares, normalmente, são realizados por funcionários da administração penitenciária – os ASP e diretores – sem a participação de agentes do sistema de justiça; no mais das vezes, o julgamento é proferido pelo diretor geral da unidade, que apenas informa sua decisão ao juiz de execução, que, por sua vez, acata-a e passa a considerá-la nas apreciações de pedidos de “benefícios” que possam vir a ser feitos ulteriormente. 28 Em linhas gerais, imediatamente após o registro de alguma infração, o preso é transferido preventivamente para o “castigo”, por um tempo máximo de dez dias. No decorrer desse período, o preso deverá ser ouvido num simples depoimento ao funcionário responsável pela sindicância. Embora esteja legalmente previsto que todo o processo de sindicância deve seguir os princípios do contraditório e da ampla defesa, os advogados da Fundação Prof. Dr. Manoel Pedro Pimentel 3 (FUNAP) que trabalham na unidade pouco participam desse particular processo. Muitos presos relatam que prestaram depoimentos sem a assistência de um advogado de defesa, e que tudo o que falaram, na verdade, não teve consequência prática nenhuma, bastando a acusação do ASP para imputar-lhes a culpa. Depois desse período inicial, se o processo de sindicância não for concluído, o preso retorna para o “raio”, onde aguarda a decisão final, que pode levá-lo novamente ao “pote”, por mais um período de até vinte dias. A depender da decisão de diretores e funcionários, o período de “isolamento” pode se dar em dupla (ou com mais pessoas), o processo de sindicância pode nem ser aberto e o juiz pode só ficar sabendo, muito depois, de tudo o que já foi decidido. 29 A sindicância é o processo que, em São Paulo, mais realiza o que Foucault designa como a “soberania punitiva” (1999: 207) da administração penitenciária. Através da sindicância, o poder de determinar a qualidade e a duração das penas, os direitos adquiridos e os lapsos de progressão escapa ao judiciário, que acaba por exercer um papel secundário, de mero avalista (CNJ 2012: 18). O fluxo do processo de execução penal de um preso castigado em sindicância é totalmente alterado, em primeiro lugar, porque o período no “pote” não encerra o “castigo”; o preso volta para o “raio”, mas carrega um novo lapso a ser cumprido – um tempo de reabilitação, que pode chegar a

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um ano em casos de falta grave. Nesse período, nenhum pedido de “benefício” poderá ser feito e o que já tramita ficará parado. Ainda, para aqueles que já estão em regime semiaberto, a sindicância pode levar à regressão de regime. Finalmente, após o cumprimento do prazo de reabilitação (sem novas faltas), o registro de sindicância em seu prontuário passa a condicionar, negativamente, as decisões do juiz a respeito da concessão de “benefícios” que o preso venha a ter direito, mesmo depois de muitos anos. Tais impactos dos processos de sindicância no desenvolvimento das penas são fontes de muita angústia e ansiedade no “raio” de penitenciária, objeto de muitas dúvidas e questionamentos nas visitas pastorais. 30 Se, em linhas gerais, o regime de processamento penitenciário opera como uma forma de governo à distância (Miller e Rose 1990) – alijado nos circuitos do sistema de justiça, através de mediações documentais (Latour 1986), os processos de sindicância indicam que a operacionalização desse regime não se realiza a despeito dos agentes da administração prisional, mas sim através da sua ação cotidiana, da produção contínua de situações e registros que orientarão as posições e decisões dos operadores do direito. Nas prisões contemporâneas, onde prevalecem funções de contenção e incapacitação, agentes de segurança e outros funcionários não podem ser vistos como meros guardiões de um perímetro. A ação contínua e cotidiana desses funcionários, os modos como se relacionam com os presos e como apreendem as interações dos presos entre si são determinantes para o fluir das condenações e dos condenados. 31 Foucault afirma que a soberania punitiva da prisão – sua “Declaração de Independência carcerária” (1999: 207) frente ao sistema jurídico que lhe dá sustentação – resulta do emprego de um multifacetado conjunto de técnicas disciplinares, que, programaticamente, visam à correção dos indivíduos condenados. É certo que, na passagem do programa de correção ao de contenção, as intervenções disciplinares recuam; o monitoramento dos corpos e das disposições subjetivas de cada um já não é tão detalhista. No entanto, as sanções disciplinares seguem fundamentais e continuam estabelecendo clivagens no conjunto de presos, retardando a saída daqueles considerados mais problemáticos. De um programa a outro, a soberania punitiva tende a mudar de mãos: dos agentes técnicos – da medicina, psiquiatria, criminologia e de outras ciências do homem – aos agentes administrativos, especialmente àqueles com funções de gestão e segurança. 32 Atualmente, no estado de São Paulo, o registro objetivo da falta parece interferir mais na determinação da duração efetiva e condições de cumprimento da pena que um parecer informado sobre as disposições subjetivas do preso. Embora o instituto do exame criminológico evoque a dinâmica propriamente disciplinar, sua realização não é obrigatória desde a reforma da LEP de 2003 (Almeida 2014). Ademais, mesmo quando o exame é requisitado pelo juiz, as considerações dos técnicos sobre a subjetividade do preso não se sobrepõem à objetividade dos registros administrativos no processo. Quando o parecer especializado é negativo, os juízes tendem a confirmá-lo, indeferindo o pedido de benefício; quando é positivo, os juízes tendem a ignorá-lo e a também negar o benefício (Teixeira e Bordini 2004: 69). Para além de seu impacto reduzido na motivação das decisões judiciais, sua realização protocolar e burocrática torna o exame mais um trâmite documental, cujo principal efeito é mais prolongar o tempo de espera do que interferir decisivamente no destino do condenado. Não só o registro administrativo da falta se sobrepõe à documentação propriamente técnica – funcionando como uma espécie de marcador objetivo de risco (O’Malley 2009),

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evidência de periculosidade, suficiente para retardar a progressão da pena e ampliar o tempo de reclusão – como os ritos de produção e a própria materialidade da documentação técnica são indistinguíveis de outras movimentações documentais que conformam o andamento processual.

Uma forma de responsabilização

“Aos cuidados da excelentíssima Assessora da Presidência […] Amparo Legal: Em conformidade e o fundamento do artigo 83, inciso XIV, sucessivamente artigo 112, ambos da Lei n.º 7.210 / 84 (Lei das Execuções Penais), subsidiárias ao artigo 5.º, XXXIV, alínea (2) da Constituição Federal de 1988 (Carta Magna). Requerente / Paciente: [Nome Sobrenome], Já devidamente qualificado nos autos da Execução Criminal em epígrafe, atualmente preso e recolhido em cumprimento de pena de reclusão em regime fechado na Penitenciária [Nome] de [Cidade]-SP, sob matrícula SAP: [AAA.BBB], vem com o devido acato e mui respeitosamente em meu favor ante a presença de Vossa Excelência por intermédio desta infra-assinada representação, ‘requerer’ o meu pedido de Liberdade Condicional tendo em vista as razões e motivos aduzidos na forma seguinte: I – Dos Requisitos Objetivos Condenado com o incurso a uma pena de reclusão totalizada em 5 anos e 6 meses, por infração do artigo 155, 155 [sic] do Código Penal Brasileiro (CP). Dos quais até a presente data já estou cumprindo ininterruptamente [N] anos e [N] meses em regime fechado, onde, desta forma preencho o requisito objetivo conforme estipula o artigo 112 da Lei de Execuções Penais (LEP). […] II – Do Requisito Subjetivo No que tange a esta situação o requerente preenche o requisito subjetivo sempre com ‘bom’ comportamento carcerário, trabalhando e respeitando funcionário e seus companheiros de infortúnio, seguindo os conformes do artigo 40 da Lei de Execuções Penais n.º 7.210 / 84. III – Do Pedido Desta forma conforme todo exposto e face ao perfil apresentado não se pode negar o deferimento do meu pedido de Liberdade Condicional”. 33 Estes trechos foram literalmente transcritos de uma carta escrita à mão, em folha de papel almaço, com canetas azul e vermelha, que enviei por correio ao Supremo Tribunal Federal (STF), a pedido de um preso. Sua forma, estrutura e conteúdo não diferem muito de vários documentos que cotidianamente recolhemos nas visitas pastorais para serem protocolados em Varas de Execução Penal ou enviados, por correio, a diferentes instituições – do Tribunal de Justiça do Estado de São Paulo à Presidência da República.

34 A gestão da população penitenciária se dá, em linhas gerais, através da mediação dos processos, das transações documentais nos circuitos do sistema de justiça, das quais os tão demandados extratos da VEC e de apelação dão notícias. Embora se constitua como uma gestão à distância, por meio do fluxo dos processos, a forma como a conduta dos presos no interior da prisão é apreendida pode determinar, em grande medida, o desenrolar das penas. Os processos de sindicância – operacionalizados soberanamente pelos agentes da administração penitenciária – constituem a ferramenta mais generalizada para assinalar indivíduos e grupos de risco entre a população prisional, para os quais as penas serão, invariavelmente, ainda mais duras e longas. No entanto, há também todo um conjunto de práticas e saberes que os presos mobilizam cotidianamente no sentido de abreviar a permanência na prisão e melhorar as

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condições de cumprimento de pena. A carta parcialmente supratranscrita é um exemplo desse tipo de iniciativa. 35 No sentido de fazer andar a execução, acelerar seus trâmites, agilizar as movimentações processuais, os presos precisam mobilizar continuamente ações e relações, tanto dentro, quanto fora dos muros. Essa mobilização – que a carta expressa – não se prescreve na lei, mas replica suas formalidades e se realiza, quase sempre, por vias informais – por intermédio de familiares, amigos e agentes pastorais. Para compreender todo esse esforço é preciso levar em conta um fator determinante no funcionamento do sistema de justiça: qualquer movimentação processual em matéria de execução penal é disparada, via de regra, por provocação. Segundo os juízes do Conselho Nacional de Justiça (CNJ), que, no âmbito de um mutirão carcerário, no segundo semestre de 2011, inspecionaram todas as unidades prisionais do estado de São Paulo e apreciaram 76.098 processos, é manifesta a “inexistência de uma organização cartorária nas Varas de Execução no Estado, de forma que possibilite o controle das fases e das movimentações processuais [de modo que] o processo de execução, praticamente, só é movimentado quando há pedido expresso da parte interessada” (CNJ 2012: 8). Portanto, o regime institucional de processamento de pessoas, no sistema penitenciário de São Paulo, depende, em grande medida, da agência dos presos, de seus familiares e / ou defensores para que possa se desenrolar. 36 Não obstante a ilegibilidade característica do processamento penitenciário, o preso é quem mais se interessa e sabe sobre seu processo e direitos adquiridos. O acompanhamento das movimentações processuais, através dos extratos, não só permite ao preso vislumbrar o ritmo das transações que, à distância, definem seu destino, como também o mantém atualizado sobre o que poderia ou deveria ser feito em sua causa. O esforço cotidiano para saber do processo se complementa com o de promover o seu andamento. Nas visitas pastorais, é comum entrarmos na unidade com uma porção de extratos e sairmos com uma porção de documentos escritos à mão, para enviarmos pelo correio ou protocolarmos diretamente no Fórum. 37 Os requerimentos mais frequentes são precisamente os de progressão de regime e liberdade condicional. A precariedade do suporte material contrasta com a linguagem formal e a polidez no tratamento. Muitas vezes, os manuscritos seguem modelos que circulam nos “raios”, de modo que os presos alteram somente dados pessoais e algumas passagens específicas que qualificam cada situação. Em muitos “raios”, existe ainda a figura do “recursista”, preso versado na produção dessas petições, o qual atua em causa própria, mas também presta seus serviços a “colegas de infortúnio”, por solidariedade ou alguma remuneração. Alguns são reconhecidos como melhores que muitos advogados, públicos ou particulares. Embora não haja garantias para a eficácia do procedimento, é certo que muitos presos atribuem a esses documentos alguma melhoria ou avanço processual que experimentaram depois do seu envio. 38 A proliferação de documentos – sua iteratividade – é a paradoxal contrapartida de um regime de gestão calcado na ilegibilidade (Das 2007: 168). A circulação de modelos, o labor do “recursista”, a redação e o envio desses manuscritos conformam todo um universo de práticas que, mesmo num embate agonístico contra as forças estatais, acaba por reproduzir suas formas e duplicar sua linguagem. Ao operacionalizar formas de gestão por meio de tecnologias de escrita, as agências estatais também instauram a possibilidade permanente – para aqueles que são assim governados – da ação por meio de falsificações, adulterações e outras performances miméticas (Das 2007: 163; Gupta

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2012: 141-144, 226-231). Agentes pastorais, presos, seus amigos e familiares mobilizam técnicas de escrita, mimetizam os procedimentos que vigoram no sistema de justiça, para acionar fluxos documentais e incidir no desenrolar da pena. Operam, portanto, na mesma gramática que estrutura a gestão penitenciária, mas para viabilizar a abreviação das penas, a melhoria das condições de vida e, no limite, a saída da instituição. 39 Tamanha proatividade que testemunhamos e compartilhamos nas visitas pastorais evoca a crescente, contínua, mas também atomizada, responsabilização dos sujeitos que se constituem como objetos de governo (Rose 2000: 324; Garland 2005: 211-216; O’Malley 2012: 112). No entanto, nas prisões de São Paulo, não se trata de uma injunção deliberada à participação ativa e ao empoderamento dos sujeitos na gestão de suas próprias penas, como parece acontecer em alguns laboratórios de alta tecnologia penitenciária de países do primeiro mundo – como na Escócia (Garland 1997), na Espanha (Garreaud 2010) e no Canadá (Chantraine 2006). No estado de São Paulo, a estratégia de responsabilização se apresenta numa modulação, ao mesmo tempo, mais generalizada e particular. Generalizada porque não se restringe a alguns centros de excelência e inovação em disciplina penitenciária, mas estrutura o funcionamento do sistema como um todo. Particular porque prescinde de incentivos positivos como programas de formação, monitoramento e mecanismos formais de articulação dos diferentes sujeitos implicados nessa gestão. Nas penitenciárias paulistas, a responsabilização dos presos pelo desenrolar de suas penas é uma estratégia que funciona sem programação explícita e deliberada; é pautada pela urgência, um imperativo que decorre da necessidade de sobreviver, com a mente sã e com alguma esperança.

Considerações finais

40 Neste trabalho, procurei expor alguns elementos da experiência da pena e das formas de gestão que incidem sobre a população de presos condenados no estado de São Paulo, tal como puderam ser apreendidos no decorrer das visitas pastorais. Tentei colocar em diálogo os dados etnográficos com algumas formulações sobre as tecnologias de saber- poder que caracterizam a governamentalidade contemporânea – especialmente, os mecanismos de governo à distância, de gestão de riscos e de responsabilização dos sujeitos. Desta experimentação emerge uma figuração do sistema de justiça penal, cujo funcionamento cotidiano se viabiliza por certas tecnologias de escrita, formas de soberania administrativa e um deflagrado regime de urgência – o que permite extrapolar a imagem estática de uma prisão-depósito.

41 Embora se trate de um trabalho marcadamente etnográfico e exploratório, gostaria de finalizá-lo com algumas questões para o debate sociológico acerca da grande transformação contemporânea nos regimes de controle e punição, bem como sobre as atuais querelas em torno do problema carcerário paulista, especialmente no que diz respeito à emergência e expansão do PCC. 42 Em primeiro lugar, no debate internacional sobre a grande transformação punitiva dos últimos anos, assim como a narrativa geral prevalecente acompanha o percurso histórico das políticas criminais dos Estados Unidos e Europa ocidental (Garland 1997, 2005), a figuração hegemônica do encarceramento em massa e suas prisões-depósitos também parece se ater às experiências dos sistemas punitivos que se situam nesse mesmo eixo geopolítico. No entanto, entre os dez países que mais encarceram no

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mundo – em termos absolutos e relativos –, apenas os Estados Unidos tanto seguem o roteiro do desmantelamento de um Estado de bem-estar social e concomitante edificação de um Estado penal – para ficar numa das mais consagradas versões dos fatos (Wacquant 2003) –, quanto dispõem de um sem-número de instituições de segurança máxima onde o preso parece, efetivamente, ser enterrado vivo (Chantraine 2006).4 Os demais países, situados no sul global, apresentam uma gama bastante diversa de estruturas organizacionais, jurídicas, políticas e sociais, bem como de percursos históricos que levaram a um punitivismo exacerbado. A abordagem dos mecanismos de funcionamento do maior sistema penitenciário estadual do quarto país que mais encarcera no mundo, além de válida e interessante por si mesma, visa também deslocar minimamente o eixo geopolítico que vem organizando as análises do encarceramento contemporâneo. Uma melhor compreensão da grande transformação punitiva deve passar por outras vias de problematização que contemplem as especificidades dessas realidades díspares e que, por isso mesmo, ofereçam novos elementos para se repensar as trajetórias e atuais circunstâncias dos sistemas penais nos países hegemônicos do Atlântico norte. A exemplo do que Roy (2009) sugere para os estudos urbanos, talvez seja o momento de se forjar uma nova geografia dos estudos prisionais, sem a qual corremos o risco de mal entender o que vem se passando no mundo. 43 Finalmente, quanto ao debate sobre a particular centralidade do PCC nas dinâmicas criminais, no sistema penitenciário e na sociabilidade das periferias urbanas de São Paulo, neste trabalho também proponho um deslocamento. No decorrer desta pesquisa, pude vislumbrar um sistema penitenciário cujo próprio funcionamento incita os presos a se mobilizarem ininterruptamente e a se articularem o quanto puderem com agentes do mundo extramuros. A dinâmica de processamento de pessoas nas prisões de São Paulo depende dessa ampla e contínua mobilização, dentro e fora das muralhas. Eis uma formulação que não só questiona o paradigma da prisão incapacitante, como conforma um novo plano de referência para situar o problema do PCC. Desde essa perspectiva, um conjunto de práticas conhecidas e atribuídas à facção ganha novos contornos e significações, que podem contribuir para uma melhor compreensão do fenômeno. Mecanismos de assistência jurídica – o pagamento de advogados particulares para membros e aliados da facção – já não aparecem como meras práticas assistenciais que visam favorecer um grupo de presos privilegiados (Dias 2013). Considerando o PCC como um coletivo, nos termos de Biondi (2010), tais práticas aparecem como reações coletivizadas às exigências que o estado de São Paulo impõe a todas e cada uma das pessoas que encarcera, nomeadamente, a exigência de o preso cuidar de saber sobre o seu processo e fazê-lo andar e a exigência de extrair de sua rede de relações os recursos necessários para a manutenção de um horizonte factível de liberdade. 44 A partir desse renovado plano de referência que se esboça em minha etnografia, a figuração do PCC que emerge não é a de uma “organização criminosa” que ocupa as lacunas e vazios deixados por um Estado ausente, inoperante ou meramente (e, para alguns, sempre insuficientemente) repressor. A mobilização contínua e a articulação dos presos com agentes circulando fora das muralhas – fenômeno que o PCC expressa, mas não totaliza – são fatores fundamentais para o próprio funcionamento do sistema. É a prisão, como instanciação do Estado, que, para funcionar, incita os presos a se mobilizarem e se articularem com o outro lado dos muros. Se o PCC revela esse transbordamento da instituição, ele jamais poderá explicá-lo, porque é um de seus

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efeitos – talvez o mais espetacular – mas não pode ser sua causa, como sugerem Adorno e Dias (2013). 45 No horizonte de toda minha trajetória de pesquisa sobre a questão prisional sempre esteve presente a indagação sobre o que permite a irrupção de algo como o PCC. Agora, após anos de visitas pastorais, arrisco uma hipótese: é o próprio funcionamento intestino da prisão – em termos positivos e produtivos – que se constitui como uma de suas mais fundamentais condições de possibilidade. O lugar do PCC no dispositivo carcerário paulista contemporâneo só poderá ser mais bem compreendido se forem consideradas a experiência de urgência que vigora nos “raios” das penitenciárias e as tecnologias de processamento que acabam por mobilizar uma variedade de agentes, dentro e fora das muralhas, não para subverter a prisão, mas para fazê-la funcionar.

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GARLAND, David (org.), 2001, Mass Imprisionment: Social Causes and Consequences. Londres, Sage.

GARLAND, David, 2005, La Cultura del Control: Crímen y Orden Social en la Sociedad Contemporánea. Barcelona, Gedisa.

GARREAUD, Álvaro, 2010, “Biopolítica y prisión: Umbrales de trabajo”, em Dario Malventi (org.), Umbrales: Fugas de la Institución Total, entre Captura y Vida. Sevilla, Universidad Internacional de Andaluzia, 36-54.

GUPTA, Akhil, 2012, Red Tape: Bureaucracy, Structural Violence and Poverty in India. Londres, Duke University.

KAMINSKI, Dan, e Michel KOKOREFF, 2004, Sociologie pénale: système et expérience. Ramonville Saint-Agne, Érès.

LATOUR, Bruno, 1986, “Visualization and cognition: Thinking with eyes and hands”, em Henrika Kuklick e Elisabeth Long (orgs.), Knowledge and Society: Studies in the Sociology of Culture Past and Present. Greenwich, Jai, 1-40.

MILLER, Peter, e Nikolas ROSE, 1990, “Governing economic life”, Economy and Society, 19 (1): 1-31.

O’MALLEY, Pat, 2009, Governmentality and Risk: Legal Studies Research Paper n.º 09 / 98. Sydney, Sydney Law School.

O’MALLEY, Pat, 2012, “Punição contraditória e volátil”, em Carlos Canêdo e David Fonseca (orgs.), Ambivalência, Contradição e Volatilidade no Sistema Penal: Leituras Contemporâneas da Sociologia da Punição. Belo Horizonte, UFMG, 101-128.

O’MALLEY, Pat, e Steven HUTCHINSON, 2007, “Reinventing prevention: Why did ‘crime prevention’ develop so late?”, British Journal of Criminology, 47 (3): 373-389.

ROSE, Nikolas, 2000, “Government and control”, British Journal of Criminology, 40 (3): 321-339.

ROSE, Nikolas, Pat O’MALLEY, e Mariana VALVERDE, 2006, “Governmentality”, Annual Review of Law and Social Sciences, 2: 83-104.

ROY, Ananya, 2009, “The 21st-Century metropolis: new geographies of theory”, Regional Studies, 43 (6): 819-830.

SILVA, Anderson Castro e, 2011, Participo que… Desvelando a Punição Intramuros. Rio de Janeiro, Publit.

SIMON, Jonathan, 2001, “Fear and loathing in late modernity: reflections on the cultural sources of mass imprisonment in the United States”, em David Garland (org.), Mass Imprisionment: Social Causes and Consequences. Londres, Sage, 15-27.

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TEIXEIRA, Alessandra, 2009, Prisões da Exceção: Política Penal e Penitenciária no Brasil Contemporâneo. Curitiba, Juruá.

TEIXEIRA, Alessandra, e Eliana BORDINI, 2004, “Decisões judiciais da Vara de Execuções Criminais: punindo sempre mais”, São Paulo em Perspectiva, 18 (1): 66-71.

TELLES, Vera, 2010, A Cidade nas Fronteiras do Legal e Ilegal. Belo Horizonte, Argvmentvm.

WACQUANT, Loïc, 2003, Punir os Pobres: A Nova Gestão da Miséria nos Estados Unidos. Rio de Janeiro, Revan.

NOTAS

1. Este artigo é baseado em pesquisa realizada com recursos da Fundação de Amparo à Pesquisa do Estado de São Paulo (FAPESP). 2. Nome fictício. 3. Autarquia ligada à SAP que conta com uma equipe de cerca de 200 advogados responsáveis pela defesa de mais de 90% dos presos condenados de todo o estado. 4. Segundo o International Centre for Prison Studies (ICPS), os dez países que mais encarceram no mundo, em maio de 2014, são – em ordem decrescente: Estados Unidos, China, Rússia, Brasil, Índia, Tailândia, México, Irã, África do Sul e Indonésia, em números absolutos. E em números relativos: Seychelles, Estados Unidos, São Cristóvão e Nevis, Anguilha (colônia britânica), Ilhas Virgens (colônia estadunidense), Barbados, Cuba, Belize, Ruanda e Rússia. Ver: http:// www.prisonstudies.org/highest-to-lowest.

RESUMOS

A partir de observação participante no interior de algumas penitenciárias de São Paulo, na qualidade de voluntário da Igreja Católica, exploro certas dimensões estruturantes do funcionamento atual e cotidiano dessas prisões, especialmente no que se refere à execução penal e às sanções disciplinares. Recorro a algumas sugestões foucaultianas sobre a governamentalidade para identificar particulares dinâmicas de gestão de uma cada vez mais expansiva população carcerária. Finalmente, discuto como esses achados de pesquisa podem contribuir para o entendimento do encarceramento em massa contemporâneo, bem como do fenômeno das facções prisionais brasileiras.

In this paper, I explore some structural dimensions of the daily functioning of São Paulo penitentiary system, especially related to juridical and disciplinary issues. The field work focused on some penitentiaries in São Paulo’s metropolitan region – where I entered as a catholic volunteer. I turn to some suggestions on foucauldian governmentality to identify certain management dynamics of an increasingly expansive prison population. Finally, I discuss how these research findings can contribute to the understanding of contemporary mass incarceration as well as the phenomenon of prison factions in Brazil.

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ÍNDICE

Keywords: prison, justice, state, governmentality, São Paulo Palavras-chave: prisão, justiça, estado, governamentalidade, São Paulo

AUTOR

RAFAEL GODOI

Departamento de Sociologia da Universidade de São Paulo, Brasil [email protected]

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Nosotros también somos indígenas: la vulnerabilidad del naturalismo en contextos occidentales de convivencia entre especies We are also indigenous: the vulnerability of naturalism in western contexts of interspecies coexistence

Santiago M. Cruzada

Introducción

1 La historia teórica de las relaciones entre los seres humanos y la naturaleza consolida la idea de que los modelos binarios sobre el cosmos se agudizaron en Occidente a partir del pensamiento cartesiano y mecanicista (Glacken 1996).1 Una nueva ciencia moderna positiva, más eficiente en la descripción de la realidad y con reminiscencias platónicas y judeocristianas, fue la base para presentar a los humanos por encima del resto de seres (Ingold 1994). Más tarde, con el surgimiento ilustrado, se incidió en las dicotomías sobre la propia existencia: mente-cuerpo, individuo-sociedad o naturaleza-cultura son un ejemplo (Sahlins 2011). Esto fue el sustrato, a grandes rasgos, para el esquema de pensamiento que hoy prevalece entre nosotros. El programa dicotómico nos ha hecho herederos de una concepción particular de un mundo jerarquizado, regulado por oposiciones binarias, que ha sido denominado naturalismo occidental (Descola 2001).

2 Sin embargo, ¿es posible entender formas y modos de vida occidentales más allá de este naturalismo histórico, teórico y social? En este artículo pretendo discutir la asignación del modelo teorético naturalista al contexto occidental basado en presupuestos dicotómicos que separan la naturaleza de la sociedad. Argumento que su formulación teórica esencializa territorios, culturas y perspectivas teóricas bajo un homogéneo paraguas cosmológico y analítico (Ramos 2012; Bessire y Bond 2014; Vigh y Sausdal 2014; Guillo y Hamilton 2015), reduciendo las condiciones de posibilidad para analizar

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la generación creativa de mundos no dicotómicos en sociedades occidentales (Candea y Alcayna-Stevens 2012; Ingold 2016). Si bien entiendo los avances logrados en la teoría social que por contraposición al naturalismo ha forjado grandes campos de investigación en contextos no occidentales, quiero enfatizar en la idea de que en Occidente muchos de nosotros también (o todavía) somos “indígenas”. 3 Dividiré el texto en tres apartados. En el primero repasaré cómo se construyen modelos teoréticos con base al naturalismo y cómo, al mismo tiempo, se crea un “otro” ecológico que cuestiona el universo occidental. En el siguiente epígrafe esbozaré algunas críticas sobre esos postulados. La última parte del texto estará dedicada a la composición teórica que deseo presentar como desembocadura del debate y que lleva como rúbrica una “antropología de la convivencia”, la cual intentará exceder lo que considero es la parcialidad de las teorías socio-ambientales contemporáneas a partir de un ejemplo extraído de mi trabajo de campo centrado en las relaciones entre humanos y animales.

El naturalismo occidental y la creación del “otro” ecológico

4 El programa dicotómico propició que durante las tres últimas décadas los estudios antropológicos centrados en ecología se propusieran la deconstrucción misma del concepto de “naturaleza”. Esta no era única, cambiaba dependiendo de prácticas, circunstancias y lugares en las que se representase o percibiese, y opuesta a la “sociedad” mostraba precariedad para los análisis socio-ambientales. Sin embargo, las investigaciones no se realizaron con tanta asiduidad ni con marcos tan deconstructivos donde el naturalismo operaba, es decir, en Occidente, dando por hecho que la dicotomía sigue existiendo como forma moderna dominante de pensamiento (Escobar 2000: 118).

5 Una primera aproximación que sentó las bases comenzó a realizarse en la década de los 90 observando cómo existían cosmologías a lo largo del planeta que no contemplaban una disyuntiva radical entre naturaleza y cultura, o entre humanos y animales, como la que se producía en contextos occidentales desde donde los investigadores partían (Croll y Parkin 1992; Gray 1996). Superar los prejuicios que los investigadores occidentales llevaban al campo en el estudio de sociedades no occidentales sería, desde entonces, una meta primordial (Escobar 2000; Henare, Holbraad y Wastell 2007). 6 Estos planteamientos de partida han sido etiquetados como “modos de identificación naturalista” (Descola 2001, 2004, 2012) y se insertan en un marco cosmológico mayor denominado naturalismo. Su definición paradigmática la ofrece Descola, abriendo un campo idóneo para la construcción de postulados monistas. El naturalismo, dice el autor, es la creencia de que la naturaleza existe gracias a un principio ajeno tanto a la suerte como a la voluntad humana, siendo típico de cosmologías occidentales en las que se crea un dominio ontológico específico donde nada ocurre sin una razón o una causa, y llega a ser una presuposición “natural” epistemológica e incrustada en nuestro sentido común (Descola 2001: 108-109). 7 Según Descola (2012) los procesos cognoscitivos universales en los seres humanos se caracterizan por la conciencia de una dualidad de planos entre los procesos materiales, a los cuales denomina “fisicalidad”, y los estados mentales, a los que llama “interioridad”. El naturalismo compromete la suposición de que las exterioridades de

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los seres – humanos y no humanos – son similares, mientras que la interioridad sólo es poseída por humanos. Es decir, una naturaleza unitaria sobre la que se superponen muchas culturas o visiones del mundo particulares, o en otras palabras, una naturaleza como objeto externo a nuestro ser subjetivo concebible (Kohn 2015: 317). A él se opondrían otros modelos ontológicos como el animismo, el totemismo o el analogismo, donde las fisicalidades y las exterioridades variarán con respecto al naturalismo.2 8 Para Descola (2001: 106) la forma en que las personas construyen representaciones de su medio ambiente físico y social está organizada a través de patrones significativos y diagramas cognitivos. A partir de ellos se pueden descubrir modelos ontológicos generales en las diferentes relaciones socioecológicas (Descola 2001: 107), teniendo siempre en cuenta que la forma genuina occidental de interaccionar con el medio se basa en un modelo ontológico de “protección” o bien “predatorio”. En ambas existe un interés explícito por beneficiarse de la naturaleza y en ellas se ejemplifican de manera clara las pautas mecánico-cartesianas de representación de lo natural (Descola 2001: 110-112). 9 En tono similar discute Viveiros de Castro los términos en que las epistemologías occidentales ponen en marcha un mecanismo ontológico dicotómico derivado de un programa ilustrado que separa esferas irreductibles en otros contextos (Castro 2004 y 2010). Por ejemplo, argumenta que las oposiciones binarias deberían ser redistribuidas y asociadas en contextos amerindios donde, a diferencia de nosotros los occidentales, residen cualidades de perspectivas relativas y puntos de vista diferentes para los distintos seres que habitan el cosmos (Castro 2004: 37). El naturalismo occidental (para Viveiros de Castro, “multiculturalismo”) viene predeterminado por la idea de que la naturaleza existe debido a la universalidad objetiva de los cuerpos y las sustancias, al mismo tiempo que la diversidad cultural está garantizada por la particularidad subjetiva de los espíritus y el significado – una naturaleza universal, muchas culturas particulares. Este se opone al “multinaturalismo” (para Viveiros de Castro, cosmologías no occidentales), definido por la unidad del significado y la diversidad de los cuerpos – una cultura universal, muchas naturalezas particulares (Castro 2004: 38). 10 Marilyn Strathern (2004) o Bruno Latour (2007) se posicionan en este sentido criticando el típico pensamiento popular y académico contemporáneo euro-americano que nos sobrepasa y al mismo tiempo nos es transcendente separando dominios inconmensurables en otros contextos. La idea de multiplicidad es central en sus propuestas alegando que las relaciones son rizomáticas en la vida social y en las interacciones que la gente mantiene con su medio en otros contextos no occidentales, lo cual facilita pensar sin oposiciones y superar las reflexiones que separan a los individuos de las sociedades, de la naturaleza o de los animales. La condición de la modernidad, para Latour (2013), ya no sólo corre un tupido velo que invisibiliza entidades “naturculturales” (Haraway 2003), sino que es bajo esa condición que separa la naturaleza de la cultura con lo que se amenaza la pluralidad de modos de ser (Kohn 2015: 322). 11 El modelo naturalista aparece definido y contestado en muchos trabajos que se enmarcan dentro de este giro epistemológico de apertura hacia la ontología (Candea y Alcayna-Stevens 2012; De la Cadena 2014). En todos ellos el naturalismo soporta unas críticas que albergan como telón de fondo la idea de que los humanos son los dueños de la naturaleza y que su dominación tiene una localización occidental. En cambio, no se

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cuestiona qué es la naturaleza en Occidente, cómo se relacionan los humanos con ella en todo Occidente o qué se entiende por Occidente. 12 Tim Ingold tampoco escapa de construir ideas opuestas a los inconvenientes que la cosmovisión occidental ha incrustado en los análisis sociales. Ingold (1991: 365) cree que el discurso occidental separa ontológicamente los ámbitos de lo subjetivo – mente y significado – y lo objetivo – materia y sustancia. El paradigma occidental está vinculado a las nociones de orden, racionalidad y uniformización, un modelo hilomórfico que concibe la separación diferencial entre formas – comportamiento humano – y sustancias – materias del mundo natural (Ingold 2008: 7). Su semejanza a las ideas anteriormente expuestas es más que evidente, aunque añade la utilización de la noción persona-organismo como hito que supera la linealidad y la estructura jerárquica de las relaciones bio-psico-sociales de la ortodoxia científica occidental (Ingold 2008: 12). Por tanto, sólo cuando el mundo se presenta como algo exterior a lo humano puede ser concebido como “naturaleza”, y esa serie proposicional ha sido comúnmente establecida en el mundo occidental, siendo poco realista en otros contextos (Ingold 2000: 40-61).3 13 La tarea de presentar diversamente el mundo occidental no es fácil, más cuando se tiene la hipótesis de que el modelo naturalista funciona como mecanismo de acción práctica ab initio y como elemento articulador del pensamiento ad aeternum. Menos cuando al mismo tiempo esta creencia sirve como antítesis teórica y como valija donde arrojar las causas de las crisis planetarias medioambientales. El naturalismo se ha convertido en una idea “generalizante” y generalizada, ya sea aquí o allende los mares, estableciendo a su vez un pensamiento diferenciado entre el “Norte” y el “Sur”. 14 Arturo Escobar, por ejemplo, define al modelo naturalista como “colonialidad de la naturaleza”, presentando las características de las que se componen este tipo de discursos y prácticas que tienen resonancia desde la Europa post renacentista: clasifica en jerarquías dejando a la naturaleza y a los primitivos al final de la escala; esencializa la naturaleza como fuera del dominio humano; subordina el cuerpo y la naturaleza a la mente; hace subalternas las articulaciones entre el ser, el conocer y el hacer, etc. (Escobar 2011: 51). Todas estas dimensiones del modelo son enseñadas a la mayoría de las personas de Occidente, argumenta, aprendiendo aquellas a desear y depender de un “logocentrismo occidental” que permite pensar la realidad social de manera ordenada y racional (Escobar 2011: 64). En este sentido se posiciona Blaser (2009) al definir su propuesta de ontología política que intenta trascender las premisas de la modernidad eurocéntrica presentadas como universales, cuando simplemente es una más de muchas, o más bien hegemónica entre muchas. 15 El naturalismo hace su aparición en los diferentes modelos teóricos que tienen como intención desintegrar la herencia de la modernidad occidental, tanto en su plano teórico como social. Aquí hemos presentado algunas de las consideraciones más conspicuas para comprobar cómo en ellas el modelo naturalista ha servido de soporte sobre el que construir paradigmas que dieran rigurosa cuenta de las relaciones que se producen entre los seres humanos y el medio en otras partes del mundo. Pero paralelamente en esa oposición se ha creado un “otro” ecológico que se enfrenta de manera trasversal al “nosotros” occidental, siendo lo primero diverso y lo segundo invariable. El naturalismo ha llegado a ser, como señalan Candea y Alcayna-Stevens (2012: 37), un exótico y desconocido “otro” antropológico en el seno mismo de nuestro

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“yo” imaginado, que se presenta como un horizonte lejano y como punto de fuga de argumentos antropológicos de otra cosa. 16 Poco obstáculo pondré a estas desarticulaciones. Las consecuencias devastadoras del naturalismo para el medio ambiente se patrocinan bajo una lógica mecánica, racional, progresista y totalizante del mundo, minando saberes y prácticas en cosmologías locales históricas (Sahlins 2011). Sin embargo, entiendo que el naturalismo no sólo puede ser explicado por su propia historia sin necesidad de recurrir a una constatación real y contemporánea de su existencia en ese “homogéneo Occidente”: ¿es extrapolable el modelo naturalista a todo Occidente? ¿Hay variabilidad de modelos teoréticos y prácticos en Occidente? ¿En qué medida afecta el naturalismo a saberes y prácticas históricas propias de contextos occidentales?

Problematización y vulnerabilidad de los postulados con base en el naturalismo

17 Si bien la deconstrucción del proyecto dualista favoreció ir más allá de los estados y las sustancias para centrarse en los procesos y las relaciones (Descola y Pálsson 2001: 23), han surgido nuevas problemáticas en relación a la correspondencia entre las diferentes concepciones de naturaleza o en la comprobación de cada construcción cultural única de naturaleza, incluida la nuestra occidental (Ellen 2001: 125). En otras palabras, se trata de mirar si efectivamente la naturaleza se construye y negocia sin ambigüedades en el seno de una sociedad.

18 Sin embargo, la falla en estas nuevas problemáticas es, a mi juicio, que preexiste la idea de que la construcción de la naturaleza en Occidente está bien establecida, sin posibilidad de variaciones, ambigüedades o combinaciones que hacen, efectivamente, afirmar su existencia. Por lo tanto, a priori existe una homogeneización sobre la representación de la construcción social de la naturaleza en Occidente que invalida cualquier tipo de hibridación o coexistencia cosmológica y cultural. De la misma forma se bloquea una posible reflexión sobre la misma porque un modelo naturalista híbrido está condenado a permanecer en el terreno de la utopía o sería, simplemente, una antinomia, una paradoja o un sinsentido, como apunta Descola (2001: 115-119). 19 El naturalismo se concibe como ontología totalizante, pero no sólo para la esfera académica, sino también para el resto de la sociedad occidental, sin saberse muy bien donde se posiciona realmente (Fischer 2014). Quizás esta asociación intermitente se produzca del no discernimiento de los tipos de naturalismo definidos epistemológicamente o, en el peor de los casos, de su desconocimiento. Diéguez Lucena (2014) señala varios tipos: naturalismo metodológico, naturalismo ontológico, naturalismo epistemológico y naturalismo filosófico. Este último podría englobar indistintamente a los anteriores y, de manera extensa, al que me estoy refiriendo en este texto. 20 Por otro lado, las teorías con base en el naturalismo suelen asimismo generalizar la idea del indígena como el “otro” ecológico, siendo difícil comprender cómo esas poblaciones, globalizadas o no, nos representan a “nosotros” los occidentales (Morales Inga 2014: 22; Citro y Gómez 2013: 262). Ampliar sin matices una cosmovisión no occidentalizada de algunas sociedades entraña el riesgo de difuminar de un plumazo las transformaciones políticas, económicas o históricas de otros muchos grupos sociales de

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naturaleza diferente dentro de la misma sociedad o territorio (Ramos 2012; Vigh y Sausdal 2014; Kohn 2015), haciendo de casos particulares una totalidad que no tiene por qué tener su correspondencia etnográfica (Bartolomé 2014; Bessire y Bond 2014; Reynoso 2015). Ampliar sin matices una cosmovisión occidentalizada de un gran territorio conlleva un enclaustramiento de los cuestionamientos particulares (Sánchez- Criado 2009: 151) al quedar agotados bajo posiciones herméticas de cualquier idea de contínuum ontológico. Más adecuado sería posicionar a esta de forma “privilegiada” entre otras (Sahlins 2014: 288). 21 Los resultados que desprenden estos postulados son uniformes y generales con respecto a la cosmología binaria que se supone existe para todo Occidente (Ramos 2012). Si bien es verdad que algunos autores dejan apertura a interacciones polifónicas y matizaciones (Ellen 2001), se presenta como un paradigma con regímenes limitados en el tiempo y en el espacio (Carrithers et al. 2010). La preconcepción de un modelo teorético dicotómico confina la atención que se necesitaría para observar cómo se producen las relaciones entre los seres humanos y los entornos en aquellos lugares donde se supone que la naturaleza se encuentra cosificada y realmente ajena a los humanos (Candea y Alcayna-Stevens 2012). 22 Más allá de esto, las afirmaciones vertidas sobre nosotros los occidentales oscurecen de forma inmediata la práctica común que se tiene en estos contextos de dotar de “cuerpo social” y de “personalidad humana” a plantas, animales y cosas (Sahlins 2014: 288-289), al mismo tiempo que niega la existencia de experiencias occidentales modernas de animismo o perspectivismo en los procesos socio-subjetivos de organización de la vivencia en el entorno (Pazos 2007: 372; Pedersen 2011). Un ejemplo contradictorio sería el desarrollo de religiones y creencias occidentales que han pervivido a la supuesta imposición de un modelo cartesiano que las domine (Citro y Gómez 2013: 263-264; Bartolomé 2014: 17). 23 Todo ello redunda en la asunción de que existe un “pensamiento indígena” diferenciado de un homogéneo “pensamiento occidental” (Candea 2011; Bartolomé 2014: 10). Muchas veces se ponen de relieve trabajos abstractos que esencializan a los pueblos indígenas bajo premisas exóticas que no encuentran su paralelo empírico, reforzando desde otros postulados estereótipos sobre esas sociedades ya superados anteriormente, o simplemente posicionándolos en lugares que ellos mismos no han elegido (Pazos 2007; Graber 2015). 24 Otra cuestión que vulnera los postulados con base en el naturalismo es el rezumo etnocéntrico que muchos trabajos desprenden. La incapacidad de volver a mirar el contexto de partida naturalista hace de estas perspectivas fórmulas paradigmáticas unidimensionales, asemejándose a las antropologías coloniales que olvidaban trabajar con los condicionantes globales más amplios (Bessire y Bond 2014; Hage 2014). Existe una ilusión de que las culturas donde el naturalismo no opera han estado aisladas de influencias externas (Marcus y Fisher 2000), lo que define una línea que se desplaza desde “cosmologías no modernas” a “cosmologías modernas”, siendo los etnógrafos los conectores entre dos mundos (Sánchez-Criado 2009: 151; Bartolomé 2014: 13; Morales Inga 2014: 31-32). 25 Todas esas perspectivas repasadas en el anterior epígrafe podrían ser denominadas, sin lugar a dudas, corrientes naturalistas, porque efectivamente desde ellas se afirma que el naturalismo opera en Occidente. En definitiva, son modelos explicativos metonímicos, pues toman de manera precisa la parte – prejuicios de la investigación

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“occidentalizada” u ontologías supuestamente occidentales – por un todo – sociedad occidental –, mezclando indiscriminadamente epistemología y realidad, coincidiendo en muchas ocasiones pero errando en otras, y finalmente opacando el análisis de una posible generación creativa de mundos no dicotómicos en sociedades occidentales. Esto ha provocado, no obstante, que hayan terminado siendo modelos teoréticos incuestionados y ecuménicos que muestran a la sociedad occidental como la antítesis de la naturaleza o el medio ambiente. Según Guillo y Hamilton (2015: 123-124) lo que se trata no es tanto de garantizar si el naturalismo es verdadero o falso como de determinar los diversos significados específicos que pueda tener para examinarlos con suficiente precisión, ya que no se puede pensar en una imposición automática a todo Occidente de una constitución moderna. 26 Un proceso reflexivo donde se discutiera la efectividad del naturalismo en contextos occidentales sería saludable para el debate socio-ambiental, pues existen lugares, cosmovisiones y prácticas donde es imposible establecer dicotomías tan plausibles. Grove y Rackhan (2001), por ejemplo, señalan que en el occidente europeo, sobre todo en la cuenca mediterránea, existen espacios alterados por la acción humana a lo largo de la historia, lo que refiere no sólo a cómo los humanos se aprovechan del entorno, sino más bien a la complicidad que se ha adquirido en estos contextos con la naturaleza durante el tiempo, permitiendo vivir en y con ella. 4 Esa falta de retorno expresa no sólo una carencia en la voluntad de la investigación, sino que atraviesa críticamente la epistemología, la metodología y las técnicas del trabajo etnográfico. Por un lado porque demuestra insuficiencia reflexiva para las condiciones de producción académica (Bourdieu 2003) y por otro porque ejemplifica las formas de hacer periféricas ciertas antropologías (Oliveira 1999; Narotzky 2010).

Nosotros también somos indígenas: esbozo de una “antropología de la convivencia”

27 Durante el inicio de mi trabajo de campo con un colectivo de cazadores en el sur occidental de Extremadura (España), me di cuenta de que las proposiciones que venía leyendo sobre el naturalismo no tenían una virtualidad efectiva en la realidad que observaba.5 Incluso una práctica social como esta, considerada el epítome de la rapacidad, la depredación o la dominación de la naturaleza en Occidente, no podía explicarse desde dicotomías que dieran sentido a las relaciones entre los cazadores y su entorno.

28 Enclavados en las estribaciones norte de la Sierra Morena extremeña, una cordillera que atraviesa de este a oeste la Península Ibérica, las poblaciones locales en estos espacios siguen viviendo principalmente de la agricultura y la ganadería. Allí las relaciones exceden las propiamente humanas, siendo necesario valorar las vinculaciones continuadas entre humanos y animales domésticos, de crianza o silvestres, materializadas cada día de diferentes maneras. La actividad de la caza, entonces y como mínimo, tenía que comprenderla como proceso anidado en las interacciones amplias de los grupos campesinos, ya que esta ha sido una actividad complementaria a ese sistema agrosilvoganadero hasta no hace mucho tiempo. 29 Uno de los primeros días en los que me ofrecí para acompañar a un ganadero a realizar sus tareas diarias entendí el sentido profundo de las relaciones entre humanos y animales en estos contextos. Al llegar a su campo, a unos doce kilómetros por

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carreteras y caminos de la localidad, el ganadero me indicó que había una vaca tumbada en el suelo mientras que las demás, unas treinta, pastaban dispersas por la finca. No alcancé a verla hasta que él la señaló con el dedo. Observé que efectivamente sobresalía el color del animal sobre el verde de la hierba. Santi, que se llama el ganadero, cambió la tonalidad de la voz y empezó a lamentarse. Yo todavía no sabía qué pasaba, pero cuando llegamos a la altura de la vaca con el todoterreno frenó bruscamente y salió a correr en su dirección. Le seguí bruscamente tropezando por piedras y ramas dispersas por el suelo. 30 Una vez llegué vi que al lado de la vaca había un becerro, colorado de piel, a diferencia de la novilla blanca. Santi le dio varias vueltas. Al preguntarle qué había pasado el ganadero levantó la cabeza y con ojos medio llorosos me espetó: “se ha muerto la novilla en el parto”. Su semblante y la situación, en medio de un bosque de encinas, me estremecieron. Pero Santi sabía que el becerro estaba vivo aunque a mí no me lo pareciese. A pesar de ello, el ganadero arrojó su malestar a través de insultos abstractos al tiempo que golpeaba con los pies pequeños ripios. 31 Poco después se apartó y se subió en lo alto de una piedra grande para coger cobertura y llamó a su hermano Félix. Le comunicó el fallecimiento de la novilla, la cual me enteré entonces que tenía por nombre Felipa. Cuando Santi terminó la conversación telefónica se vino hacia mí y me ordenó que fuera con el coche al pueblo, a su casa, y le dijera a su mujer que me diera los calostros de cabra que tenía congelados en el frigorífico.6 Él me esperaría allí “lavando” al becerro. De la novilla muerta se encargaría su hermano.7 32 Así lo hice y al regresar de nuevo con dos botellas de calostros Santi había cambiado su actitud. Le había puesto nombre al becerro, se llamaría Felipe. Lo montamos limpio en la parte trasera del coche y lo llevamos a la casilla del campo. Calentamos los calostros en una cuba metálica al fuego lento de su anafe, hasta que estuvieran tibios “como para un niño”, comentó, y justo después comenzamos a darle de mamar. Felipe bebió casi dos litros. Santi me dijo que ya no se moriría. Le hicimos una cama de paja y allí lo dejamos, en buen cobijo y en un lugar caliente. Ese día hicimos el resto de tareas, sin embargo, Felipa, la novilla fallecida, fue un lamento para Santi todo el día, no sólo por la pérdida material y económica, decía, sino también porque en dos años y medio de vida le había “cogido cariño al animal”. 33 Dos semanas después volví a hablar con Santi para preguntarle sobre el estado de Felipe. Me dijo que fuese yo a visitarlo. En ese período de tiempo el ganadero le había buscado “tres madres postizas”, es decir, tres cabras con las ubres lo bastante grandes como para poder dar de mamar a Felipe. Mientras que Santi agarraba por el cuello a las “pobres cabras” – decía él –, había enseñado a su perro Curro a sujetar a Felipe por el rabo para que no se asustara si alguna de las cabras daba patadas (ver figura 1). Así crió al becerro durante un mes, siendo Santi el “padre postizo de Felipe” y las tres cabras las nodrizas, mientras que Curro hacía “de hermano mayor”, según la definición del ganadero. Un mes y medio más tarde le pregunté a Santi por Felipe; apenado pero contento al mismo tiempo, me dijo: “lo he vendido para semental porque lo hubiese tenido que mandar al matadero… ya tenemos dos toros… al que se lo he vendido le he dicho que se llama Felipe”.

Figura 1

Santi sujetando a una de las “madres” de Felipe mientras que Curro, su “hermano mayor”, le retiene el rabo para que mame.

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Foto: Santiago M. Cruzada

34 Este episodio extraído de mi trabajo de campo servirá para esbozar una “antropología de la convivencia” que haga ampliar el alcance de la etnografía hacia ámbitos que superen los límites que impone el naturalismo, entendiendo las relaciones entre sociedad y naturaleza de manera enmarañada para contextos occidentales como el que estoy refiriendo. Si bien las perspectivas que se basan en el naturalismo como fundamento epistemológico han creado un marco idóneo para el estudio socioecológico, sus generalidades se agotan en los múltiples casos en los que el naturalismo no opera como se le define. No obstante, extraeré de ellas ideas que apoyen las mías para cuestionar, más si cabe, la efectividad del modelo naturalista en su circunscripción estereotipada contextual.

35 Desde el punto de vista de la representación de las relaciones, es decir, la representación metafórica y la objetivación conceptual de la naturaleza (Rival 2004: 97-98), Santi estaría dentro de una comunidad conformada por diferentes seres que habitan el entorno (Descola 2004: 32). En su día a día con los animales no distingue sobre criterios específicos que lo diferencien del resto de individuos, pues aquellos aparecen como entidades caracterizadas no por sus cualidades como animales, sino por caracteres abstractos como los utilizados para las personas. Habla de la personalidad de los animales, de su temperamento, de sus problemas, de su historia individual, de su parentesco con otros animales o, por ejemplo, de su modo de comer. Su interacción hace borrosas las fronteras entre seres en un contexto donde es necesaria la cooperación para la vida. Si efectivamente en última instancia Santi vive de ello, los animales también viven de Santi, por lo que la idea de un aprovechamiento de la naturaleza (Descola 2001: 110-112) no tiene sentido porque la misma idea de naturaleza queda agotada. 36 La “objetificación” de su cotidianeidad la realiza en términos igualitarios en relación a las dimensiones básicas de la vida social (Descola 2012), muy influenciadas por las categorías de parentesco como esferas de unas relaciones cotidianas íntimas y de proximidad. Así, por ejemplo, dotar de nombre social a los animales, en este caso Felipa y su cría Felipe (aunque esto es extensivo a otros animales), orienta a pensar que las relaciones sociales de parentesco humano tienen un sentido extendido, y el hecho de

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que le pusiera a la cría el nombre de la madre nos muestra la voluntad por hacer duraderas esas relaciones, prolongadas en este caso de forma matrilineal.8 37 La animalidad y la humanidad quedarían aquí redefinidas ya que el sujeto queda ampliado y supera al objeto, siendo el ser de cada humano o animal el que juega un papel importante en las relaciones (Souza 2013), lo que se enfrenta a nuestras oposiciones históricas igualmente. El hecho de “calentar los calostros como para un niño” pone de manifiesto la cualidad relativa de perspectivas. Es una relación construida que toma como base las propiedades corporales humanas y la experiencia del cuidado infantil para traspasarlas al cuerpo animal. Se resalta, por tanto, el carácter social que se produce entre la serie humana y no humana (Castro 2004: 46). 38 Efectivamente, la investigación aquí tampoco puede estar centrada en los individuos entendidos como pasivos y autónomos. Más bien ha de enfocarse a las personas completas actuando dentro de contextos particulares (Descola y Pálsson 2001: 17), comprendiendo la diversidad de influencias recíprocas en el vivir cotidiano. Lo que a primera vista pudiese estar separado desde una perspectiva naturalista queda anexionado, pues las vinculaciones sociales abarcan más que las propias relaciones humanas (Escobar 2000: 119) en términos de simetrías ante las circunstancias de la vida que son compartidas (Latour 2008). 39 En el ejemplo que propongo el sistema de parentesco opera sobre los modos de relacionarse, lo que acarrea obligaciones y deberes con / para otros seres con los que se comparten vivencias, que incluyen al mismo tiempo pautas de clasificación y modos de identificación (Descola 2001). De tal modo se conforma un mundo ampliado en un contexto involucrado que viene definido por la redistribución de “compromisos” dependiendo de la especificidad necesaria para cada acontecimiento convivido, pero con una base socialmente reconocida. En este caso vendrían establecidas desde una idea de parentesco reducido al núcleo familiar inmediato: un padre (Santi), tres madres (las cabras), un hermano mayor (el perro) y Felipe, el ternero que tendría el perfil de un bebé lactante. Que el padre y las tres madres sean expresados en términos “postizos” refuerza, pero no suprime, la relación original sobre la que se basa.9 40 En esa diversificación de responsabilidades con otros seres el lenguaje adquiere gran significación. A través de patrones lingüísticos se dota de agencia a los seres interactuantes desde un punto de vista intersubjetivo y representacional (Ingold 1992; Kohn 2007). Esto se ve materializado en las pautas comunicativas que se establecen en la cotidianeidad. Pero no todos los individuos aparecen involucrados ni en la misma medida.10 Al volver por segunda vez para comprobar el estado de Felipe, Santi llamó a las tres cabras con el estilo que se utiliza en estos contextos. Una locución abreviada (“ mina, mina, mina”) seguida de un silbido fueron suficientes para que las tres madres, sabiendo lo que tenían que hacer, se apartaran de la piara de doscientas cabras y se acercaran al ganadero. Por otro lado llamó a Curro, que estaba tumbado debajo del todoterreno, con un peculiar “Curro ¡vamos!”. Por último llamó a Felipe con una repetición sonora: “toma, pué, Felipe, toma, pué”.11 El becerro se acercó a ellos y comenzó a mamar de la cabra mientras que Curro le sujetaba el rabo y Santi sostenía la cabeza de la cabra. Por el llano de la casa pululaban gatos y gallinas, los cuales iban “a su aire”, como si ese asunto no tuviese “nada que ver con ellos”, dijo Santi. 41 La representación de la relación con los animales a través de un léxico del parentesco reducido al núcleo familiar inmediato encuentra valor tanto por lo que son en sí mismas como por lo que se les atribuye significativamente, y la comunicación que el

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ganadero establece con los animales queda al servicio de la construcción cultural de un mundo ampliado lleno de sentidos que se desarrollan con la experiencia. Pero la comunicación verbal que se produce entre especies actúa como imperativo lingüístico que hace explícito los procesos de difuminación ontológica entre ellos, incorporando modalidades comunicativas de cada especie en el lenguaje humano, o lo que es lo mismo, enredos a través de códigos lingüísticos trans-especies (Kohn 2007: 14). 42 Los animales en este caso no están solamente para ser utilizados para el interés propio humano, para su explotación, ni tan siquiera se presentan como facilitadores de la interpretación humana (Ingold 1992), sino que están, como sostiene Haraway (2003: 5), para “vivir con”. En el caso propuesto, los animales representan una intencionalidad a través de señales corporales que funcionan como indicadores comunicativos en una ecología que podría llamarse “de los seres” (Kohn 2007: 4) redefinida ahora para contextos occidentales.12 Esto no elimina que existan, de alguna manera, en los mecanismos necesarios para el control y el cuidado ganadero, relaciones de dominación y sumisión entre humanos y animales (Ellen 1999), que sin embargo son inherentes a la sociabilidad de cada especie doméstica al elegir a figuras alfas de liderazgo en las piaras. En definitiva, sugiero que el significado, de acuerdo con Kohn (2007: 5) o Goodwin (2007: 100), no es exclusivo de los seres humanos. Estos, al concebirse como entidades que existen junto a otros y entre otros, más que relacionarse individualmente con el entorno, lo integran (Ingold 2000). 43 Esto me lleva a analizar las relaciones desde el punto de vista de la percepción, o lo que es lo mismo, a reconsiderar para contextos occidentales los términos de la acción y la experiencia práctica de los humanos en el entorno (Rival 2004: 97). El mundo perceptivo y la experiencia vivida son inseparables de la representación humana y pueden ser comprendidos como un adiestramiento involucrado en el medio ambiente (Ingold 2001: 55-57). Así por ejemplo, en nuestro caso concreto, Santi localizó la vaca muerta a gran distancia. Felipa yacía sobresaliente entre una gran extensión de hierba verde, pero la diversidad cromática que acompañaba esa imagen impidieron que yo me fijara en eso. Santi me aseguró que le “saltó a la vista” aquella imagen por ser anómala en su día a día. El entorno había cambiado y Santi lo percibió de inmediato. 44 Asimismo, cuando bajó del todoterreno, Santi corrió hacia la vaca como si lo estuviese haciendo sobre una superficie lisa. Yo, sin embargo, tropecé muchas veces con piedras y ramas que había en el trayecto. Como dice Escobar (2000: 121), los seres humanos se encuentran inmersos en los entornos a través de actos prácticos localizados que definen diferentes arraigos contextuales producidos en el seno de una cultura específica. Santi tenía incorporada una forma de pisar que, incluso trabándose con algún elemento del entorno, no lo desestabilizaban. El cuerpo es el modo de ser y de estar en el mundo, no es una posición como objeto, sino una situación como sujeto (Almeida 1996: 11-12).13 45 Si bien percepción y representación (a la cual he incluido elementos comunicativos) son la base analítica para la mayoría de estudios de relaciones socioecológicas, entiendo que para comprender de manera definitiva las relaciones ambientales que se producen en Occidente es necesario conjugar otras variables que abarquen las ambigüedades y paradojas que en estos contextos operan. Una teoría social ha de explorar lo emotivo como campo de la vida social que no está separado de la vida perceptual, estando en interrelación con la realidad representada y la práctica social extensa (Csordas 1990). Las emociones, los valores, los sentimientos y los afectos se integran en un marco

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amplio de convivencia, son aprendidos, compartidos y operan en cada representación o percepción del mundo. 46 En otras palabras, examinarlos es necesario porque muchas veces definen las rutas individuales de acción y pensamiento que explicitan de manera profunda las interconexiones que se producen entre los seres humanos y sus entornos, es decir, redefinen las dimensiones propias de la experiencia vivida y del acto de conocer (Surrallés 2005). Sin embargo, entender las emociones como signos no es otra cosa que interpretarlas como hechos objetivos que guían metafóricamente una clasificación esencialista de creencias y prácticas, por lo que conviene sustituir esta unidad mínima por el conjunto de significantes y actos que muestran un cuerpo afectivo (Surrallés 2005: 5-6). Es conveniente situar las emociones en el campo de lo relacional, alejadas de los estados absolutos (Le Breton 1999). 47 Entonces, si entendemos el campo emotivo como experiencia socialmente compartida, en el caso que propongo las experiencias sensitivas no humanas ya no estarían fuera de la capacidad explicativa en las etnografías (Latour 2014). Los humanos no pueden ser descritos ajenos a los mundos que ellos mismos representan (Kohn 2013: 9). Es por ello por lo que la emotividad ha de ser entendida como un acontecimiento apoyado en un sistema de sentidos y valores comunes, o lo que es lo mismo, basados en una cultura afectiva y en sentimientos compartidos (Le Breton 1999: 22). En este caso los sentimientos son compartidos de manera inter-específica, es decir, entre los diferentes seres que habitan y conviven en un mismo entorno. 48 Durante el proceso en el que todos los animales hacían una coreografía para alimentar a Felipe, Santi acariciaba a cada uno de ellos. Estos le respondían con señales corporales interpretadas por el ganadero como alegría para el perro y el becerro, y como paciencia para la cabra.14 Así, el vínculo afectivo que él mantiene con los animales, y los animales con él, adquiere una forma homeostática que mantiene dentro de un universo de sentidos interdependencia entre los diferentes actores (Le Breton 1999: 99).15 El hecho de que cierto tipo de animales utilicen signos interpretables para las emociones y los afectos ante circunstancias concretas no sólo muestra que existe mundo más allá de los sistemas humanos de significado (Khon 2013), sino que pone de manifiesto cómo ese significado se ha ido construyendo de manera compartida entre humanos y animales a partir de una convivencia íntima a lo largo del tiempo. 49 Los valores asignados a los individuos en esa circunstancia pivotan sobre los atributos sociales de una sociedad local ensimismada como en la que se encuentra Santi (Catani, Amaya y Díaz 2001), donde la lealtad, el apoyo mutuo, la correspondencia o incluso el consentimiento son compartidos tanto por humanos como por animales. De ahí la razón de ser del comportamiento animal, el cual se desea que sea social. De lo contrario perdería su condición pasando al plano de la pura animalidad, separada de lo humano. Aquí se considera el respeto y la confianza como el desempeño transcendental en las relaciones humanas con los animales (Haraway 2003: 39). De este modo se impone una clasificación social y de valor al mundo de los animales, y los términos que se usan para definir el comportamiento colectivo de humanos se traslada al mundo no humano (Ellen 2001: 136). Al darle sustento, apoyo y alimento a Felipe, tanto Curro el perro, como las tres madres postizas y Santi, se unen como parte de un mismo campo afectivo que va más allá de sus límites como especies, esto es, un efímero “yo” distribuido entre los diferentes cuerpos (Kohn 2007: 17).

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50 Sin embargo, al preguntarle a Santi por Felipe días más tarde y decirme que lo había vendido para semental se produjo una súbita duda: si tanto lo había cuidado, tanto lo quería y tanto se lamentó por su madre, ¿cómo es que lo había vendido? Su contestación fue rotunda: “ya tenía otros sementales” y, antes de enviarlo al matadero, había preferido buscar un comprador que lo cuidara para reproductor. La economía campesina se interpuso a los sentimientos, sin embargo, Santi jugó con ambos factores, pues al mismo tiempo que lo había vendido garantizó la continuidad de la vida del animal. El discurso que separa a humanos y animales en estos contextos pierde su sentido cuando la decisión humana acerca de la continuidad de la vida de un animal crea cargos de conciencia y establece remordimientos. Humanos y animales, en definitiva, se unen como parte de un mismo campo que va más allá de sus límites como especies en procesos de “personalidad flexible” (Shir-Vertesh 2012: 421). 51 Estos cuatro bloques analíticos no tendrían alcance sin atravesarles variables tangenciales que, de manera inevitable, operan sobre las relaciones entre las diferentes especies que habitan el entorno. La edad o el género juegan un papel fundamental no sólo en el plano humano, sino también en el ámbito animal, como comprobamos en las interacciones comunicativas. Así, es necesario no olvidar cuestiones que tienen que ver con el posicionamiento de los actores, ya sea desde el plano de las clases sociales para los humanos como desde el plano de especies para animales. Como vimos, no todos los animales se encuentran involucrados ni en la misma medida en la convivencia socioecológica, aspectos que convenientemente sigo utilizando en el estudio de la caza.

Conclusiones

52 He intentado llevar lo más lejos posible un análisis que permita comprender la efectividad de las diferentes formas de relación que pueden producirse en entornos occidentales donde, a pesar de las propuestas proyectivas estereotipadas sobre estos contextos, se pueden extraer ideas claras de seres relacionales tomando conciencia no sólo de su posición en el mundo, sino también dándole la importancia necesaria a cómo escuchan, cómo se comportan o cómo sienten (Bird-David 1999: s72). La investigación sobre las vinculaciones inter-especies sitúa a los animales como parte importante, e indisociable, de las realidades humanas (Knight 2005: 1), lo que al mismo tiempo permite repensar contextos periféricos y asignaciones epistemológicas parciales.

53 Las limitaciones de un naturalismo impuesto excluyen a Occidente, sin matices, de una reflexión monista de las relaciones entre la sociedad y la naturaleza. Las teorías que se sustentan en este modelo caen en una doble forma de homogeneización: definen el contexto occidental asignándole categorías dicotómicas tanto a la sociedad en general como al conocimiento que produce académicamente y representan en su investigaciones sociedades esencializadas donde se excluyen variables como la edad, el género o la influencia del campo emotivo sobre las prácticas y las representaciones. 54 El naturalismo, tal y como es definido, presenta vulnerabilidades en contextos occidentales específicos donde la naturaleza no queda ajena a la voluntad humana. Una antropología centrada en la convivencia debe intentar mostrar cómo ciertas prácticas, situaciones, actividades o espacios occidentales están conformados a partir de la idea de mundos ampliados que incluyen dentro de contextos involucrados a diferentes seres que habitan el entorno, superando las relaciones sociales humanas y alcanzando un tejido interactivo de dilatado espectro. Este texto ha pretendido ser una muestra de ello

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y una llamada de atención para un tipo de antropología centrada en recorrer altas esferas académicas antes que en transitar las realidades que deconstruye.

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NOTAS

1. Este texto ha sido elaborado en el marco de financiación de las Ayudas para la Formación del Profesorado Universitario (FPU, 2013) del Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte del Gobierno de España. Agradezco a la Comisión Editorial de Etnográfica y a los revisores anónimos de la revista sus comentarios y críticas constructivas. Asimismo manifiesto mi deuda a colegas del departamento con los que he debatido y a la gente de Segura de León que me abrió la puerta de sus casas. 2. Esta concepción está vinculada, como veremos, a un conjunto de argumentos que de manera genérica oponen el naturalismo a formas alternativas de relacionamiento ecológico en otras partes del mundo, pero también a estudios de ciencia, tecnología y medicina, tanto dentro como fuera de la antropología (Candea y Alcayna-Stevens 2012; Latour 2013). A la gama de investigaciones que se focalizan en el análisis de las diversas formas de concebir el ser, la otredad y la realidad como condición para la existencia se les ha venido caracterizando dentro de un movimiento mayor denominado “giro ontológico” (Henare, Holbraad y Wastell 2007; Costa y Fausto 2010; Salmond 2014). 3. A pesar de ello en un reciente trabajo de revisión al naturalismo que propone Descola, Tim Ingold se retracta sugiriendo que el modelo hilomórfico de producción, como la imposición del diseño sobre la materia, no concuerda con la manera en que los artesanos del mundo occidental piensan su trabajo (Ingold 2016: 316-317). 4. Lo mismo apunta Coca (2010), por ejemplo, al referirse a los “indígenas interiores” andaluces, observando cómo discurso tecno-científico y políticas ambientales chocan con formas de vida históricas vinculadas al medio que se resisten a desaparecer ante una imposición dualista que concibe el entorno “sin gente”. 5. El trabajo de campo lo comencé en el año 2011, e ininterrumpidamente lo continúo en la actualidad para la realización de mi tesis doctoral, en la localidad sur extremeña de Segura de León. 6. Santi trabaja con una piara de 200 cabras. Vende la leche desde noviembre a junio, periodo de ordeño que él tiene establecido. En octubre nacen los cabritos que se venden en diciembre, para Navidad. De todos los que nacen deja una reposición de hembras para ir sustituyendo las posibles bajas. Las primeras leches de las cabras tras el parto, los calostros, a veces sobran, ya que las cabras tienen ubres muy grandes que generan más leche de la que puedan beber uno o dos cabritos, que son normalmente el número de crías que tienen estos animales. Entonces Santi extrae el sobrante y lo congela para ocasiones como esta donde “algún animal queda huérfano”, según sus palabras, por muerte en el parto de la madre. Normalmente estos calostros se administran a vacas, a cabras o a ovejas.

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7. Desde hace varios años los animales domésticos muertos han de ser declarados a las aseguradoras para proceder a su incineración previa recogida del animal fallecido en el campo. Posteriormente se lo llevan en camiones herméticos a un centro común donde realizan todos los procesos. Es una nueva normativa de bioseguridad y de sanidad animal que impide las ecorregulaciones que realizaban los animales carroñeros como los buitres o los cuervos, con las cuales estaban más contentos los ganaderos. 8. En un sentido similar se posiciona Blanchard (2015) al observar que entre personas sin hogar que poseen perros el nombre asignado al animal es fundamental no sólo para guardar el vínculo afectivo, sino que arroja luz sobre las historias de vida de sus propietarios. 9. Lo refuerza porque el animal “quedó huérfano”, como dijo Santi, lo que confiere una relación de parentesco mayor no sólo con el becerro sin madre, sino con la madre misma. Hay que matizar, no obstante, que si bien términos como madre o padre “postizo” son utilizados comúnmente por ganaderos del pueblo ante casos de orfandad animal, que Santi utilizase “hermano mayor” para denominar al perro pudo ser una prolongación nominativa del parentesco humano por la colaboración de este animal en el cuidado diario del becerro. Govindrajan (2015: 505) sostiene, en un caso particular, que el parentesco entre humanos y animales está sustentado por las prácticas diarias de cuidado, atención y sujeción sobre los animales, donde se crea un reino afectivo, relacional y de lenguaje encarnado entre animales humanos y no humanos que permiten una serie de compromisos y reconocimientos mutuos. 10. Un ejemplo de la intensidad y la involucración es el nombre que se le pone a los animales más cercanos. En ese sentido se les otorga un nombre humano que, la mayoría de las veces, tiene su evocación en el grupo social del ganadero. Este nombre, como vimos, es transmitido generacionalmente entre los miembros de la especie. Por ejemplo, Curro se llama así porque su tatarabuelo fue dado a la familia de Santi por un ganadero llamado Curro. Otras veces los nombres están asignados por la semejanza del animal al humano, sobre todo cuando aquellos tienen alguna disfunción corporal. 11. Tanto “mina, mina, mina” como “pué, toma, pué” son locuciones que proceden de una base onomatopéyica, es decir, es una representación del sonido que hacen los animales. Este sonido es interpretado por el ganadero de diferentes maneras, de tal forma que cuando una cabra come hace un sonido parecido al que es utilizado por el ganadero para llamarlas. Las vacas, específicamente las crías, realizan un sonido cuando tienen hambre que es el que utiliza de base el ganadero. Sin embargo, en esta representación onomatopéyica se proyectan categorías sociales como la edad o el género. Así a los machos cabríos se les llama con “mino” y a las crías se les reclama con “mini”, distinguiendo con léxico masculino el primero y con una semántica “delicada” en referencia a la edad el segundo, respondiendo cada animal, efectivamente, a esa llamada sin mezclarse. 12. Por ejemplo, las cabras mueven las orejas de un lado a otro durante tres o cuatro veces al mismo tiempo que “estornudan” sacando la lengua hacia sus orificios nasales. El perro mueve el rabo constantemente y se posiciona detrás de Santi. El becerro Felipe brinca y mueve el rabo al mismo tiempo que muge en señal de felicidad, según interpreta Santi. 13. Del mismo modo, cuando Santi quiso llamar a su hermano Félix para comunicarle que Felipa había fallecido en el parto, vio que su teléfono móvil no tenía cobertura. Inmediatamente se desplazó hacia una piedra grande y elevada donde sabía que cogería línea. Fue un acto específico y literalmente su cuerpo hizo las funciones de antena telefónica, funcionando, en el doble sentido, como transmisor y receptor de información (Douglas 2004). 14. Cuando la cabra movía la cabeza o la pata Santi decía “pobre cabrita, ya falta poco”, intentando tranquilizarla con la voz pero también con caricias. Según Santi, las embestidas del becerro mamando causaban dolor en el animal, de ahí que se refiriera a la “paciencia” de la cabra.

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15. En el momento que Santi vio a la vaca muerta se lamentó profundamente pues le “había cogido cariño”. Luego la ira le sobrevino y lo expresó dando patadas a piedras en señal de enojo.

RESÚMENES

Muchos de los estudios ambientales en la disciplina antropológica asumen que el naturalismo es una ontología característica de la sociedad occidental a través de la cual se dibuja una frontera entre la naturaleza y la sociedad o que separa a los seres humanos de los animales. Este modelo teorético se fundamenta al concebir una naturaleza compartida, unitaria y ajena a la voluntad humana, sobre la que se aplican diversas formas culturales de entenderla. Por contraposición se han configurado paradigmas monistas de relaciones ecológicas en otras partes del mundo, sirviendo el naturalismo como base para erigir explicaciones alternativas acerca de cómo sociedades no occidentales se relacionan con el entorno. Sin embargo, esta asignación cosmológica enclaustra la reflexión socio-ambiental en Occidente, reforzando la disyunción entre occidental y no occidental, al mismo tiempo que encierra el análisis de una posible generación creativa de mundos no dicotómicos en sociedades occidentales. Este artículo problematiza esas asunciones a través de un ejemplo extraído del trabajo de campo en el suroeste de Extremadura (España), estableciendo un punto de partida teórico para el debate bajo la idea de una “antropología de la convivencia”. Esta abarca y comprende etnográficamente las relaciones entre diferentes seres que habitan el entorno más allá de una circunscripción estereotipada contextual.

Many environmental studies in the anthropological discipline assume that naturalism is a characteristic ontology of western society through which a border is drawn between nature and society or that separates human beings from animals. This theoretical model is based on the conception of a shared nature, unified and unrelated to the human will, on which different cultural forms of understanding it are applied. In contrast, monistic paradigms of ecological relations have been set up in other parts of the world, serving the naturalism as a basis for constructing alternative explanations of how non-western societies relate to the environment. However, such a cosmological assignment entails a socio-environmental reflection in the West, reinforcing the western/non-western disjunction while enclosing the analysis of the creative generation of non-dichotomous worlds in western societies. This article problematizes these assumptions through an example from the fieldwork in the southwest of Extremadura (Spain), establishing a theoretical starting point for the debate under the idea of an “anthropology of coexistence” that ethnographically encompasses and comprehends the relationships among different beings that inhabit the environment beyond a stereotyped contextual circumscription.

ÍNDICE

Keywords: epistemology, environment, naturalism, ontology, ethnography, interspecies coexistence Palabras claves: epistemología, medio ambiente, naturalismo, ontología, etnografía, convivencia entre especies

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AUTOR

SANTIAGO M. CRUZADA

Grupo de Investigación Social y Acción Participativa (GISAP), Departamento de Antropología Social, Psicología Básica y Salud Pública, Universidad Pablo de Olavide, España [email protected]

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Ofício

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A regulação ética da investigação e os desafios postos às práticas etnográficas Research ethics regulations and its pitfalls for ethnographic practices

Marta Roriz e Cristina Padez

Introdução

1 Nos últimos anos tem-se assistido a uma proliferação de diferentes debates sobre ética, tal é a explosão discursiva em torno do tema. Hoje em dia é comum ouvir-se falar da ética em todas as dimensões da sociedade. Desde as grandes questões da bioética presentes no espaço público, especialmente as questões postas pelos desenvolvimentos tecnológicos, ao meio empresarial, no qual se ouve falar da responsabilidade social e da corporate ethics e ainda no espaço económico, onde são comuns os apelos aos produtos e consumo éticos. Na antropologia, esta discursividade, por certos contágios e mesmo por obrigação, não é exceção. Fala-se da ethical turn na disciplina, tal tem sido a produção de conhecimento em torno do tema, assim como dos debates acerca do que se constitui como ética na investigação social face à crescente regulação da investigação já em marcha em diferentes países.

2 Este artigo pretende oferecer, por um lado, uma revisão sobre a regulação da investigação em contextos como os Estados Unidos da América (EUA) e o Reino Unido, focando a institucionalização dos procedimentos de revisão e regulação ética da investigação já em prática em diferentes países, com constituição de órgãos para esse fim, e, por outro lado, fazer uma revisão aos debates em torno da ética na prática etnográfica e na investigação social, focando em particular os problemas e incomensurabilidades que o modelo atual de regulação da investigação tem colocado à prática etnográfica.1 3 No que diz respeito à regulação ética da investigação, há hoje uma diversidade de abordagens que difere de acordo com os contextos nacionais (Bartlett 2008). Há países,

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como os EUA, o Reino Unido e ainda o Brasil, onde os institutional research boards (IRB) ou os research ethics committees (REC) e os comités de ética em pesquisa (CEP) – corpos cujo objetivo é avaliar a adequação ética dos projetos de investigação que envolvam sujeitos humanos – estão bem estabelecidos e institucionalizados nas universidades, e há países onde esta regulação e órgãos só existem para a investigação biomédica, como é o caso de vários países europeus, como Portugal, Espanha, Itália, Holanda, entre tantos outros. Embora numa grande parte dos países esta obrigação de submissão dos projetos de investigação a uma avaliação ética seja inexistente, há fatores que poderão alterar este cenário. Um deles é a tendência para a investigação ser cada vez mais financiada globalmente por instituições que se reveem num modelo de regulação; outro fator é, por exemplo, a tendência para a harmonização de políticas e práticas entre os diferentes contextos nacionais dentro da União Europeia. Nesta medida, e face a esta tendência, pretendemos com este artigo analisar as experiências dos contextos em que a regulação da investigação que envolve sujeitos humanos está em prática, focando em particular o impacto que a regulação nestes moldes tem tido para a investigação das ciências sociais em geral, e para as práticas etnográficas mais concretamente. Nas próximas secções pretende-se, primeiro, fazer uma breve incursão à origem da regulação da investigação, partindo da criação do Código de Nuremberga em 1947 até à atualidade da institucionalização da revisão prospetiva para todo o tipo de investigação que envolva sujeitos humanos; e, segundo, focar em concreto os desafios que esta regulação e revisão tem posto à investigação etnográfica e como diferentes noções do que se constitui como ética são mobilizadas. Partindo de uma análise às características e natureza da investigação etnográfica, oferece-se uma reflexão acerca da adequação da noção de risco e do princípio de consentimento informado, pilares na base do modelo de regulação da investigação, e do que estes podem significar no trabalho etnográfico.

A regulação ética em investigação: do Código de Nuremberga à revisão prospetiva institucional

4 Falar de princípios éticos ou regulação ética da investigação implica que falemos na sua origem, o Código de Nuremberga estabelecido em 1947. Este código, um conjunto de princípios éticos para a experimentação humana criado na sequência dos julgamentos de Nuremberga, após a Segunda Guerra Mundial, tornou-se o texto fundacional para os subsequentes acordos internacionais sobre a investigação que envolva sujeitos humanos. A sua criação teve origem nas revelações feitas sobre as experiências nazis com prisioneiros dos campos de concentração (Lifton 2000). Mais tarde, com a Declaração de Helsínquia, criada pela Associação Médica Mundial em 1964, elaborou-se um conjunto de princípios éticos universalistas a aplicar aos participantes na investigação médica visando a sua proteção, que inclui princípios como o consentimento informado, o respeito da confidencialidade e a proteção da vida humana (WMA 2008).2

5 Estes documentos são ainda hoje a base e guia da conduta de práticas de todos os tipos de investigação que envolva sujeitos humanos. O consentimento informado tornou-se condição e prática sine qua non na investigação médica e está incorporado na legislação da maioria dos países. A sua influência, contudo, assim como dos restantes princípios, alargou-se para além da investigação clínica. O modelo de regulação da investigação e de proteção de sujeitos envolvidos na investigação biomédica tem sido apresentado

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como modelo para todas as outras formas de investigação envolvendo sujeitos humanos, nomeadamente entre as ciências sociais, aparecendo ainda nos códigos de práticas de quase todas as organizações profissionais, agências de financiamento e instituições envolvidas com a investigação (Boulton e Parker 2007; Parker 2007; Macdonald e Spiegel 2013; Nunes 2011). 6 A necessidade de regular a investigação que envolve sujeitos humanos originou-se então a partir dos vários casos de abusos no passado. Alguns destes casos foram tão graves e controversos que despoletaram várias transformações durante a segunda metade do século XX. Assistiu-se a uma proliferação da criação de códigos de ética profissionais, para diferentes classes de profissionais, assim como à criação de comissões de ética institucionais, e ainda a um crescente processo de institucionalização em vários contextos, especialmente nos países do Norte, de regras e procedimentos de revisão por parte de comissões externas como os IRB, REC, CEP e outros equivalentes como se conhecem hoje. Nos EUA, um dos casos de abuso mais mediáticos foi o caso de Tuskegee, um estudo de sífilis conduzido ao longo de mais de 40 anos pelo Serviço de Saúde Pública americano, no qual homens afro-americanos no Alabama rural ficaram deliberadamente impedidos de aceder a um tratamento para a sífilis sob o propósito de melhorar o conhecimento público acerca da história natural da doença. O mediatismo em torno do caso levou à aprovação do National Research Act de 1974 e posteriormente, em 1981, o Congresso americano aprovou o que veio a ficar conhecido como a Common Rule, regulamentação para toda a investigação financiada por dinheiro federal que estabelece uma série de requisitos e obrigações legais, entre os quais a aprovação por uma comissão de investigação institucional, um IRB. A emergência dos IRB nos EUA,3 expoente máximo desta tendência, tem vindo a definir grande parte do cenário da revisão ética noutros contextos. Isto deve-se, entre outros fatores, ao facto de muito do financiamento para a investigação internacional estar ligado a instituições americanas, de que são exemplos o National Institute of Health (NIH) ou os Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), entre muitas outras agências financiadoras. Consequentemente, muita da investigação internacional fica sujeita aos moldes adotados neste país para a supervisão ética, na maior parte das vezes seguindo e aplicando uma perspetiva médico-científica da investigação. 7 A regulamentação ética que se estipulou para a experimentação e investigação clínica com sujeitos humanos tem vindo a servir de base para a regulação de todo o tipo de investigação que envolva sujeitos humanos. Isto cria uma distorção, na medida em que nem todo o tipo de investigação que lida com sujeitos humanos o faz numa perspetiva biomédica ou clínica, mas a orientação que regula a investigação em geral, onde se incluem as ciências sociais e humanas, tem as suas bases na ética biomédica. A par desta questão ligada ao financiamento global por parte dessas agências que exigem a regulação ética da investigação nestes moldes, há ainda mudanças políticas e estruturais ligadas à própria governação da ciência que estão a pôr desafios aos métodos das ciências sociais e, em particular, às práticas etnográficas. Alguns antropólogos têm desenvolvido a noção de audit society (Shore e Wright 1999; Strathern 2000) para falar de uma cultura latente no ensino superior dos últimos anos, onde um regime cada vez mais rigoroso de auditoria e inspeção – sob o propósito da manutenção da qualidade, seletividade da investigação, revisões das aulas, etc. – foi instituído. Alguns autores identificam que a ética, as revisões éticas e as comissões de ética que se têm formado nas instituições de investigação e de ensino, na forma de IRB, REC, etc.,

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são precisamente uma extensão desta nova cultura ligada à noção de audit society (Pels 1999; Strathern 2000). 8 Mas, como afirmávamos atrás, há, de acordo com diferentes contextos, uma diversidade de abordagens no que diz respeito à regulação ética da investigação (Bartlett 2008). Se, por um lado, países como os EUA, o Reino Unido e ainda o Brasil – país este onde a antropologia, em particular por intermédio da Associação Brasileira de Antropologia (ABA), tem liderado a discussão sobre a regulação ética na pesquisa das ciências sociais 4 – institucionalizaram estes organismos regulatórios nas suas universidades, no caso europeu, dentro da União Europeia, existem variações, apesar de a tendência ser no sentido da harmonização das diferentes agências de financiamento nacionais, das associações profissionais e dos códigos de ética para a investigação definidos para cada país.5 Apesar das tendências neste sentido, no que diz respeito aos códigos de ética profissionais, há na antropologia alguma resistência a adotar estes códigos e guidelines de conduta para a investigação antropológica, talvez por os códigos de ética serem gerais e absolutos. Como De Laine (2000: 4) afirma, estes códigos são construções intelectualizadas e objetivas que não permitem variações culturais, sociais, pessoais e emocionais. Ao contrário da Associação Americana de Antropologia (AAA), que teve este debate há já alguns anos, tendo criado o seu próprio código assim como princípios de responsabilidade profissional,6 ou da Associação Brasileira de Antropologia, 7 a Associação Europeia de Antropólogos Sociais (EASA) não tem um código estabelecido, embora tenha uma rede de investigação dedicada à ética, que fornece aconselhamento ao seu conselho executivo quando há necessidade.8 O mesmo acontece no contexto nacional português: não existe um código oficial de conduta ética estipulado pela Associação Portuguesa de Antropologia (APA). Ao contrário do que se passa no Reino Unido e nos EUA, que, além de terem códigos profissionais ou guidelines de práticas estabelecidas, têm os IRB e REC nas instituições de investigação bem estabelecidos, em Portugal, Holanda, Itália, entre muitos outros países onde esta revisão prospetiva não existe, não temos de, como investigadores ou estudantes, identificar a priori as implicações éticas do nosso trabalho, preencher formulários e seguir as investigações com base nos princípios do consentimento informado.9 As obrigatoriedades impostas pelos procedimentos formais de avaliação ética por parte destas comissões, sejam as das instituições de investigação ou as das agências de financiamento nacionais, têm causado muito debate e inclusive problemas e bloqueios à investigação etnográfica. Estes problemas têm estado na base de uma série de publicações e reflexões acerca do que se constitui como ética na etnografia. Torna-se importante, portanto, ter em conta estas experiências, assim como os problemas e desafios que esta regulação ética, nos moldes em que é feita, trouxe à prática etnográfica, principalmente nos países onde a revisão prospetiva não existe,10 de maneira a que, na eventualidade da sua institucionalização, a nossa comunidade de prática (Lave e Wenger 1991) como antropólogos e etnógrafos esteja concertada e se faça representar.

A regulação ética e a investigação das ciências sociais: as particularidades da prática etnográfica

9 Apesar da intensificação discursiva em torno da ética nestes últimos anos, os debates em torno do tema na antropologia não são novos. Como demonstra Caplan (2003b), na revisão histórica que faz, pode notar-se uma intensificação da discussão ética na

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antropologia sempre que a disciplina sofre transformações paradigmáticas.11 Ou seja, é nos momentos em que as fronteiras da disciplina são redefinidas que o discurso sobre ética se intensifica e é, portanto, nestes momentos que, enquanto antropólogos, também nos constituímos como comunidade moral. Sempre que a disciplina se debatia nas suas bases, de que são exemplos as transformações nas décadas de 1960 e 1970 com os movimentos civis nos EUA, as descolonizações e a influência destes acontecimentos na teoria antropológica, com o pós-modernismo e ainda a viragem do milénio, todas estas transformações tectónicas na antropologia foram acompanhadas pelo debate da ética na disciplina. Representativo da preocupação ética foi, por exemplo, o debate em torno do código de ética da AAA, em resposta a certos desenvolvimentos na disciplina, muito marcado por episódios como a crise do Projeto Camelot nos EUA ou ainda pela entrada dos alunos na antropologia aplicada (Fluehr-Lobban 1991; Pels 1999).12 Episódios como o Projeto Camelot e outras transformações sociais levaram a que várias associações profissionais de antropólogos, sociólogos e outros profissionais adotassem códigos de ética ou guidelines de conduta que definem os deveres e responsabilidades dos cientistas sociais. Como expõe Caplan (2003b), os cientistas sociais não só têm de se comportar eticamente como também têm de ser reconhecidos como estando a agir eticamente, quer seja pelos sujeitos da investigação, quer por colegas, alunos, financiadores e comissões de ética. Para muitos, isto consegue-se através da adesão a um código de ética profissional; contudo, esta não é uma questão pacífica, uma vez que tais códigos são regularmente contestados na sua formulação e o acordo quanto à sua interpretação também é problemático (Caplan 2003b). Alguns autores têm apontado uma certa resistência por parte dos cientistas sociais a acomodaram-se a este tipo de regulação. Não se trata aqui de uma recusa de algum tipo de regulação do ponto de vista ético – aliás, a ética foi sempre vista como qualidade inerente à antropologia, uma virtude incorporada dos investigadores (Fassin 2006) –, antes são contestadas as formas como as exigências processuais e burocráticas dos IRB, nos contextos onde funcionam, podem deslocar os esforços realmente necessários para resolver os dilemas éticos sérios que são postos pela etnografia (Bosk e De Vries 2004), além de poderem criar obstáculos à liberdade de investigação e à viabilidade de certos tipos de pesquisa.

10 A ética costumava ser vista como uma virtude incorporada dos investigadores (Fassin 2006) e não como um conjunto de práticas normativas ou uma forma de regular a investigação. Os desafios éticos apareciam por norma associados às experiências do trabalho de campo e aos dilemas da investigação situada. A prática etnográfica na antropologia tem sido, ao longo da sua história, explícita ou implicitamente “ética”, pois trata, na sua base, de falar sobre o “outro”, incorporando assim dimensões éticas dessa prática. Contudo, nos últimos anos, é de notar também uma tendência para pensar as obrigações morais do antropólogo para com os seus sujeitos de investigação (Scheper-Hughes 1995; Battaglia 1999; Pels e Meskell 2005). A “viragem ética”, como tem sido mencionada na antropologia, emerge, nesta medida, quer a partir de debates internos na disciplina – com as mudanças de paradigma dentro da antropologia, o reconhecimento de que a própria história da antropologia foi pautada por valores, pelo colonialismo, a crise da representação, etc. – quer por desenvolvimentos externos a ela, de que são exemplo a institucionalização da regulação da investigação, as mudanças culturais do tecido científico e os próprios desenvolvimentos da investigação clínica e médica (Parker 2007; Nunes 2011; Boulton e Parker 2007; De Laine 2000; Fassin 2006; Guillemin e Gillam 2004).

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11 Desde que se instalaram os IRB para a proteção dos sujeitos humanos, tem havido aquilo a que Bruner (2004) e Lederman (2006b) chamam mission creep, ou seja, a ideia de que esta revisão e regulação ética se expandiu e generalizou além do propósito inicial, não para a proteção dos sujeitos, mas muito no sentido de evitar litígios e proteger as instituições.13 O resultado desta regulação tem sido na prática, para muitos cientistas sociais, um verdadeiro obstáculo, resultando num aumento dos atrasos dos projetos de investigação, da burocracia e das dificuldades em obter aprovação para os seus projetos.14 Se, por um lado, estes desenvolvimentos são racionalizados em termos da qualidade ética na investigação, que tem de ser exigida, as universidades também estão preocupadas com a possibilidade de ações legais, e veem a ética e o consentimento como formas de evitar o litígio. Há, portanto, claramente, como diz Caplan (2003b), uma política e uma economia da ética a ser mobilizadas. 12 Quando se discute ética na antropologia discute-se os principais aspetos da disciplina, desde a própria epistemologia às práticas do trabalho de campo. Quando falamos na regulação ética da investigação – que normalmente compreende a visão da ética fundada na ética biomédica – torna-se necessário pôr em evidência as particularidades do método etnográfico, pois falar de ética na investigação antropológica toca diretamente a forma como produzimos conhecimento. 13 Para os antropólogos, ou qualquer cientista social que use o método etnográfico, a principal ferramenta de recolha de dados são as relações que enceta com aqueles que são os participantes da sua investigação, ou os principais informantes do contexto sobre o qual se debruça. Normalmente não iniciamos a investigação com uma hipótese específica que testemos a posteriori de forma sistemática, como acontece nas ciências exatas. As situações com que o trabalho de campo nos confronta são substancialmente diferentes das encontradas na investigação biomédica, por exemplo. Como diz Fassin, “A etnografia não trata de sujeitos humanos em experiências clínicas. Mas sim seres sociais em circunstâncias históricas, incluindo o etnógrafo” (2006: 524). 14 Quando falamos em revisão prospetiva, seja na submissão de um projeto a um IRB ou a uma comissão de ética de um hospital,15 é muitas das vezes impossível indicar formalmente como vamos proceder, podendo apenas garantir a nossa presença no contexto do estudo, seja uma comunidade, um hospital ou um bairro, para o qual levamos as questões básicas que nos guiarão, assim como também não se consegue antever os “riscos” que podem advir dessa investigação. A investigação qualitativa e a etnográfica têm de ser vistas como um processo em aberto que implica que, em muitos casos, nem o investigador nem os participantes conseguem antecipar como a investigação irá desenvolver-se ou quais as questões que irão emergir, tornando impossível identificar a priori os riscos envolvidos na participação (Miller e Bell 2002; Boulton e Parker 2007). E a revisão prospetiva, com os seus formulários a que a proposta de investigação tem de ser ajustada, requer isso, que se identifique em detalhe o que será realizado em termos de investigação, assim como os riscos que essa investigação comporta. A ética na etnografia é algo tendencialmente emergente, algo que surge na prática, no decurso da investigação. Os dilemas éticos que encontramos no trabalho de campo são, nesta medida, diferentes das preocupações éticas espelhadas nos procedimentos de revisão ética formais. Como sublinha Fabian (1991), muitas das questões de investigação emergem ex post factum, e como tal não podem ser antecipadas. Há, portanto, na investigação social, algumas incomensurabilidades com estes modelos éticos com base na ética biomédica. A noção de risco faz aqui pouco

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sentido. Como referem Boulton e Parker, “a investigação social pode ser intrusiva mas não é invasiva e tende a não envolver danos físicos, prejuízos ou morte. Os riscos sociais e psicológicos associados à investigação social não são diferentes daqueles encontrados no dia-a-dia e são riscos que devemos aceitar como o custo de vida numa sociedade livre: eles não requerem os mesmos tipos de proteção que requer a gestão de riscos físicos na investigação médica” (2007: 2190). Outro pilar base desta regulação e que é problemático é a noção de consentimento informado, que necessita ser pensada de forma diferente em etnografia. Como identifica Parker (2007), o consentimento tende a ser interpretado em termos antecipatórios, baseado na ideia de que as implicações, a metodologia, o objeto e questões da investigação podem ser previstos, discutidos e acordados antes do seu início (Parker 2007: 2252). Esta visão do consentimento informado é redutora, pois está relacionada com mudanças na prática médica, com desenvolvimentos tecnológicos da investigação biomédica e o crescente interesse nas implicações destes desenvolvimentos. Este domínio da ética, que envolve os debates públicos sobre as grandes questões postas pela bioética na sociedade (temas como a manipulação genética, a clonagem, a eutanásia e outros desenvolvimentos biotecnológicos) e o declínio da confiança que alguns escândalos na investigação biomédica provocaram, tem sido empurrado para o domínio da investigação social (Boulton e Parker 2007: 2188). Desta forma, a crítica a uma certa visão do consentimento informado tem sido bastante explorada, não só nas ciências sociais, mas também dentro da própria biomedicina. 15 As ciências sociais têm vindo a elaborar as suas próprias posições quanto ao significado e prática do consentimento informado, assim como aos modelos de práticas de investigação ética concebidos de uma forma geral, baseados em preocupações e métodos particulares de investigação social. Ao argumentar contra a imposição de um modelo de consentimento informado baseado no paradigma da investigação biomédica, os cientistas sociais têm frisado a distinção dos seus próprios paradigmas de investigação e as preocupações éticas que estes levantam. Ao apelar a estas diferenças, desafia-se a adequação e viabilidade do modelo biomédico de consentimento informado para a investigação social e qualitativa, reconhecendo que este tipo de trabalho tem importantes implicações éticas, para as quais são necessárias formas alternativas de ter em conta as vulnerabilidades e responsabilidade dos envolvidos na investigação (Boulton e Parker 2007: 2190). 16 Os antropólogos de forma geral veem o consentimento como algo negociado e processual. O princípio da observação participante implica deixar o controlo contextual na mão dos participantes na pesquisa. Como Lederman descreve, a prática da observação participante implica uma abertura sistemática à contingência, explora as implicações inesperadas geradas pelos participantes (2006b: 485). Há, portanto, na prática etnográfica, uma informalidade que lhe é característica. Informalidade essa que se refere àqueles momentos da prática etnográfica em que “investigação” e “vida quotidiana” são inextricáveis (Lederman 2006a). Fazer trabalho de campo é incorporarmo-nos nas situações sociais, que não são desenhadas pelo investigador social. É estar na situação. E esta informalidade exige uma atenção especial, pois tem sido problematizada nos EUA, onde os IRB supervisionam os investigadores e a sua conformidade com as regulações federais na pesquisa com humanos (2006a: 477). 17 É por trabalharmos imersos na situação social, que estudamos mas que não controlamos – a situação existe fora de nós –, que nos limitamos a observar, a registar e

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a participar (quando isso acontece). Nesta medida, informar os nossos sujeitos acerca dos riscos e benefícios em cooperarem connosco torna-se difícil, pois os riscos e os benefícios para os sujeitos não são diferentes dos que estão presentes numa interação normal com um estranho (Bosk e De Vries 2004). Os riscos de se ser um informador etnográfico não se põem ao nível dos riscos encontrados na investigação com experimentação – como o ensaio clínico, por exemplo. O que fazemos não é como a experimentação médica, que desenha um protocolo de investigação com o objetivo de o cumprir até ao fim (Bruner 2004). 18 Outro aspeto problemático é a exigência de assegurar a confidencialidade e anonimato dos sujeitos sob estudo, o que pode ser relativamente fácil de conseguir, mas que em algumas situações é mais difícil. Quem trabalha campos como a antropologia do poder e das elites, ou em domínios públicos, nem sempre pode garantir o anonimato. Por exemplo, alguém a investigar sobre o trabalho de um governo, seja a nível local ou do estado, que tenha de passar pela regulação ética nestes moldes, ficará paralisado (Bosk e De Vries 2004); certas controvérsias públicas ou mesmo científicas também não poderiam ser estudadas. Por outro lado, há pessoas que quando dão o seu testemunho querem ser identificadas, querem ter voz e exigem que o seu caso apareça identificado. 19 As preocupações e dilemas éticos são, em todos os tipos de investigação, parte da prática, e uma preocupação de qualquer investigador. Nos contextos em que a regulação ocorre, é útil a distinção de Guillemin e Gillam (2004) entre duas dimensões éticas: a ética processual e a ética na prática. A ética processual diria respeito a uma das primeiras fases do processo de investigação, em que se submete o projeto à autorização de uma comissão de ética, seja ela pertencente à instituição que promove a investigação ou à instituição onde o trabalho será desenvolvido (muitos de nós têm de passar por estas comissões quando a trabalhar em hospitais, por exemplo). Esta ética processual é vista como uma mera formalidade, um obstáculo que tem de se superar para avançar com o projeto. Envolve o uso de uma linguagem que a comissão entenda, livre de jargão, mas que em todo o caso assegure à comissão que somos competentes e investigadores com experiência que podem ser fiáveis. Isto envolve ainda explicar a metodologia a uma comissão que na maior parte das vezes não está familiarizada com os métodos qualitativos. Por outro lado, a ética na prática diz respeito às questões éticas que emergem no decurso da investigação, as reais questões que nos surgem no terreno. Estas questões normalmente não são visadas nas submissões às comissões de ética, nem são eventos que possam ser antevistos quando se pede aprovação. Estas situações constituem aquilo a que Guillemin e Gillam (2004) chamam “momentos eticamente importantes”, que, não sendo previsíveis, enfrentamos durante o encontro etnográfico. Estes momentos eticamente importantes podem ser de vários tipos, encaixando ainda na noção de “microética”. Komesaroff (1995) propõe o termo microética para referir as questões éticas que surgem no dia-a-dia da prática clínica no âmbito do estabelecimento de uma relação de confiança entre médico e paciente, em situações como a recolha da história sexual, quando se lida com medos ou se ouve a experiência de doença do paciente, mas pode aqui ser também aplicado à dinâmica complexa entre o etnógrafo e o sujeito pesquisado. Os aspetos interpessoais da pesquisa e as interações entre o investigador e os sujeitos são uma importante dimensão ética da prática de investigação, pois é nestas interações que residem as possibilidades do respeito pela autonomia, dignidade e privacidade dos participantes e também os riscos de falhar com estas, causando assim potenciais danos para os participantes. É nestas interações que o processo de consentimento informado realmente ocorre (Guilleman e Gillam 2004: 275).

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Estes autores sugerem ainda que estas duas formas de ética, a processual e a ética na prática, têm uma continuidade entre si, e portanto não devem estar separadas. É ao nível da ética na prática que a noção de reflexividade se integra e se pode estender às preocupações da ética processual. Esta continuidade entre ambas consiste no facto de, embora a ética processual seja incapaz de informar e guiar todos os aspetos da prática de investigação (nomeadamente as situações relativas à microética), ela serve a função de nos obrigar a considerar e a refletir sobre os princípios fundamentais que regem a integridade da investigação (Guilleman e Gillam 2004: 277). Aqui a reflexividade torna- se uma forma de assegurar não apenas uma prática rigorosa da investigação, mas também uma prática que seja ética. Ser reflexivo num sentido ético significa reconhecer e estar sensibilizado para as dimensões microéticas da pesquisa, e ao fazê-lo ficamos alerta para as formas de lidar com as tensões éticas quando estas surgirem. Como Geertz afirmava, a etnografia é fundamentalmente um projeto interpretativo (1973) e isto é bem captado no conceito de reflexividade, característica da investigação social. Trata-se até de uma questão metodológica, pois envolve tomar responsabilidade pelos nossos processos de produção de conhecimento.

Considerações finais

20 Em jeito de conclusão, e como nos lembra Bruner (2004), a etnografia é uma conversa sustentada com outros, que inclui o diálogo, a observação e a participação ao longo de um período de tempo. O modelo em prática dos IRB implica que haja uma separação entre sujeito e objeto, como entre o médico e o paciente, mas na etnografia a linha separadora entre o observador e os observados é muitas vezes problemática. Quando se vive por longos períodos interligado com outros, imerso em certos contextos, é difícil separarmo-nos dos outros. A investigação não é algo que se separa facilmente de nós. Desde a criação dos IRB e organismos similares e deste aparato regulatório, o mundo tem mudado, tal como as estratégias metodológicas também se desenvolveram. A etnografia expandiu-se nos tópicos sobre os quais se debruça, tornou-se global e multissituada (Marcus 1995, 1998), focando quer fenómenos alargados quer populações em movimento. A estrutura de revisão dos IRB nos EUA, por exemplo, não se alterou tão rapidamente quanto a investigação etnográfica. Como resultado, os processos de revisão que tendem a disciplinar novas pesquisas e experimentações criam efeitos e consequências no trabalho etnográfico, especialmente entre os estudantes e investigadores mais jovens (Bruner 2004; Macdonald e Spiegel 2013).

21 Quando se analisa a vária literatura sobre o funcionamento dos IRB e demais casos (como o do Brasil, entre outros países) onde este modelo vingou e é aplicado nas ciências sociais, fica-se com a ideia de que, além de os sistemas de revisão prospetiva avançarem no que diz respeito à proteção dos sujeitos, os cientistas sociais em geral e os etnógrafos não estão contentes com os atuais moldes desta regulação. Há um ceticismo de que a regulação inspirada na ética biomédica vá melhorar a qualidade da investigação e que, pelo contrário, essa regulação pode atrapalhar o ritmo da investigação por encontrar incomensurabilidades de difícil ajuste; por isso é importante tomar estas experiências em conta, face à tendência e à possibilidade de vermos a implementação da regulação da investigação alargada aos demais países europeus, e em particular a Portugal, e nesse sentido importa garantir que, a haver

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revisão prospetiva, as particularidades da investigação qualitativa e etnográfica serão consideradas, protegidas e representadas.

Documento 1

Lista de documentos requeridos

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Documento 2

Formulário

BIBLIOGRAFIA

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CAPLAN, Pat, 2003b, “Introduction: anthropology and ethics”, em Pat Caplan (org.), The Ethics of Anthropology: Debates and Dilemmas. Londres e Nova Iorque, Routledge, 1-34.

De LAINE, Marlene, 2000, Fieldwork, Participation and Practice: Ethical Dilemmas in Qualitative Research. Londres, Thousand Oakes e Nova Deli, Sage Publications.

DUARTE, Luiz F. D., 2004, “Ética de pesquisa e ‘correção política’ em antropologia”, em Ceres Víctora et al. (orgs.), Antropologia e Ética: O Debate Atual no Brasil. Niterói, EDUFF / ABA.

DUARTE, Luiz F. D., 2014, “Práticas de poder, política científica e as ciências humanas e sociais: o caso da regulação ética em pesquisa no Brasil”, História Oral, 17 (2): 9-29, disponível em http:// revista.historiaoral.org.br/index.php? journal=rho&page=article&op=view&path%5B%5D=401&path%5B%5D=pdf (última consulta em janeiro de 2017).

DUARTE, Luiz F. D., 2015, “A ética em pesquisa nas ciências humanas e o imperialismo bioético no Brasil”, Revista Brasileira de Sociologia, 3 (5): 31-52, disponível em http://www.sbsociologia.com.br/ revista/index.php/RBS/article/view/90/64 (última consulta em janeiro de 2017).

FABIAN, Johannes, 1991, “Dilemmas in critical anthropology”, em Lorraine Nencel e Peter Pels (orgs.), Constructing Knowledge: Authority and Critique in Social Science. Londres, Sage Publications, 180-202.

FASSIN, Didier, 2006, “The end of ethnography as collateral damage of ethical regulation?”, American Ethnologist, 33 (4): 522-524.

FLEISCHER, Soraya, e Patrice SCHUCH (orgs.), 2010, Ética e Regulamentação na Pesquisa Antropológica. Brasília, Letras Livres / Editora Universidade de Brasília.

FLUEHR-LOBBAN, Carolyn, 1991, Ethics and the Profession of Anthropology: Dialogue for a New Era. Filadélfia, University of Pennsylvania Press.

FONSECA, Claudia, 2015, “Situando os comitês de ética em pesquisa: o sistema CEP (Brasil) em perspectiva”, Horizontes Antropológicos, 21 (44): 333-369.

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LAVE, Jean, e Etienne, WENGER, 1991, Situated Learning: Legitimate Peripheral Participation. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.

LEDERMAN, Rena, 2006a, “Introduction: anxious borders between work and life in a time of bureaucratic ethics regulation”, American Ethnologist, 33 (4): 477-481.

LEDERMAN, Rena, 2006b, “The perils of working at home: IRB ‘mission creep’ as context and content for an ethnography of disciplinary knowledges”, American Ethnologist, 33 (4): 482-491.

LEWIS, Graham, et al., 2004, “The international dimension to research ethics: the significance of international and other non-UK frameworks for UK social science”, Economic and Social

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Research Council Research Ethics Framework, discussion paper n.º 2, disponível em http:// www.york.ac.uk/res/ref/docs/REFpaper2_v2.pdf (última consulta em janeiro de 2017).

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MACDONALD, Helen, e Andrew SPIEGEL, 2013, “ ‘Distraction from the real difficulties’: ethical deliberations in international health research”, Anthropology Southern Africa, 36 (3-4): 146-154.

MACHADO, Lia Z., 2007, Ética em Pesquisa Biomédica e Antropológica: Semelhanças, Contradições, Complementaridade. Brasília, Letras Livres / Editora da Universidade de Brasília.

MARCUS, George E., 1995, “Ethnography in / off the world-system: the emergence of multi-sited ethnography”, Annual Review of Anthropology, 24: 95-117.

MARCUS, George E., 1998, Ethnography through Thick and Thin. Nova Jérsia e West Sussex, Princeton University Press.

MILLER, Tine, e Linda BELL, 2002, “Consenting to what? Issues of access, gate-keeping, and informed consent”, em Melanie Mauthner et al. (orgs.), Ethics in Qualitative Research. Londres, Sage Publications, 53-69.

NUNES, João Arriscado, 2011, “Sobre a ética (e a política) da investigação social em saúde”, Sociologia On Line, 3: 167-188, disponível em http://revista.aps.pt/cms/files/artigos_pdf/ ART4e66506fb71b1.pdf (última consulta em janeiro de 2017).

PARKER, Michael, 2007, “Ethnography / ethics”, Social Science and Medicine, 65: 2248-2259.

PELS, Peter, 1999, “Professions of duplexity: a prehistory of ethical codes in anthropology”, Current Anthropology, 40 (2): 101-136.

PELS, Peter, e Lynn MESKELL, 2005, Embedding Ethics: Shiffting Boundaries of the Anthropological Profession. Oxford, Berg.

RIBEIRO, Gustavo L., 2006, “IRBs are the tip of the iceberg: State regulation, academic freedom and methodological issues”, American Ethnologist, 33 (4): 529-531.

SARTI, Cynthia, 2015, “A ética em pesquisa transfigurada em campo de poder: notas sobre o sistema CEP / Conep”, Revista Brasileira de Sociologia, 3 (5), disponível em http:// www.sbsociologia.com.br/revista/index.php/RBS/article/view/94 (última consulta em janeiro de 2017).

SARTI, Cynthia, e Luiz F. D. DUARTE (orgs.), 2013, Antropologia e Ética: Desafios para a Regulamentação. Brasília, ABA Publicações.

SCHEPER-HUGHES, Nancy, 1995, “The primacy of the ethical: proposition for a militant anthropology”, Current Anthropology, 36 (3): 409-440.

SHORE, Chris, e Sue WRIGHT, 1999, “Audit culture and anthropology: neo-liberalism in British higher education”, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 5 (4): 557-576.

SIMPSON, Bob, 2011, “Ethical moments: future directions for ethical review and ethnography”, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 17: 377-393.

SOLOVEY, Mark, 2001, “Project Camelot and the 1960s epistemological revolution: rethinking the politics-patronage-social science nexus”, Social Studies of Science, 31 (2): 171-206.

STRATHERN, Marylin, 2000, Audit Cultures: Anthropological Studies in Accountability, Ethics and the Academy. Londres e Nova Iorque, Routledge.

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VÍCTORA, Ceres, et al. (orgs.), 2004, Antropologia e Ética: O Debate Atual no Brasil. Niterói, EDUFF / ABA.

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NOTAS

1. Este artigo tem, em parte, origem numa pesquisa e num working paper apresentado no encontro “Ethics and Methodological Pitfalls in Health Research” organizado pela European Sociological Association, mais concretamente a rede RN16 Sociology of Health and Illness, a 27 de agosto de 2014, em Helsínquia. Foi ainda possível escrevê-lo graças ao apoio e financiamento da Fundação para a Ciência e a Tecnologia, através de uma bolsa de doutoramento, assim como ao apoio de uma bolsa de viagem concedida pela European Sociological Association. 2. A Declaração de Helsínquia já teve seis revisões, a última em 2008. Surgiu como o primeiro esforço da comunidade médica para regulamentar a investigação. É hoje o padrão internacional para a investigação biomédica, servindo ainda de base para muitos outros documentos (ver mais em WMA 2008). 3. Para mais detalhe sobre os procedimentos burocráticos e a regulação ética dos IRB, ver Lederman (2006a). 4. Para mais detalhes sobre o estudo de caso brasileiro, e o seu debate público da regulação em pesquisa das ciências sociais, visto que não há espaço neste artigo à sua análise em detalhe, consultar Fonseca (2015), Fleischer e Schuch (2010), Duarte (2004, 2014, 2015), Machado (2007), Ribeiro (2006), Sarti (2015), Sarti e Duarte (2013), Víctora et al. (2004). 5. Para mais detalhes sobre os diferentes códigos na Europa em comparação com o contexto britânico, consultar o working paper de Lewis et al. (2004). 6. O código de ética da AAA está disponível em http://ethics.americananthro.org, onde existe ainda um fórum sobre ética e os princípios de responsabilidade profissional. 7. A ABA tem um código de ética para o antropólogo e antropóloga criado em 1986 e revisto em 2012, disponível em http://www.abant.org.br/?code=3.1. 8. Consultar http://www.easaonline.org/networks/ethics. 9. Nestes contextos, e em Portugal, apenas a investigação biomédica está sujeita a regulação, havendo, nas faculdades de Medicina e nos centros de investigação biomédica ou clínica, comissões de ética para o efeito. Também os hospitais têm as suas comissões de ética, onde todos os projetos que aí tomem lugar, mesmo os de ciências sociais, estão sujeitos a uma avaliação por parte desses órgãos. 10. Há, contudo, uma possibilidade de vir a existir, quer na Europa quer em vários países em desenvolvimento, por pressões externas, nomeadamente devido ao crescente financiamento global da investigação e aos modelos de governação científica, a adoção de protocolos éticos, não apenas para a investigação biomédica, que tem uma história no que diz respeito a este tipo de regulação, mas também nas ciências sociais (Freed-Taylor 1994; Fassin 2006; Lederman 2006a, 2006b; Macdonald e Spiegel 2013; Simpson 2011). 11. Para uma revisão detalhada ou apanhado histórico dos debates sobre ética na antropologia aquando das principais mudanças paradigmáticas da disciplina – período pós-colonial, feministas, pós-modernismo, a viragem do milénio, etc. –, ver Caplan (2003a, 2003b) e Pels (1999). 12. O Projeto Camelot foi um estudo realizado pelo exército norte-americano, pelo seu gabinete de operações especiais que, em plena Guerra Fria, em 1964, reuniu uma série de cientistas sociais, como antropólogos, sociólogos, psicólogos, economistas e outros intelectuais, tendo em vista a

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análise cultural de diferentes países e a criação de um modelo de análise de sistemas sociais que detetasse a contrainsurgência. O objetivo era melhorar a capacidade do exército para prever, assim como influenciar, certos desenvolvimentos nesses países. Foi um projeto muito polémico, tido como imperialista, que fez acender o debate acerca das obrigações morais dos antropólogos e outros intelectuais. Para mais detalhe sobre o caso, ver, por exemplo, Solovey (2001). 13. A expressão anglo-saxónica mission creep descreve a expansão de um projeto ou missão para além dos seus objetivos originais, normalmente considerada indesejável por poder servir outros fins mais ambiciosos. 14. Para um caso examinado em detalhe, veja-se, por exemplo, Macdonald e Spiegel (2013). 15. O atual projeto e trabalho de campo de Marta Roriz teve de ser sujeito ao exame da comissão de ética de um hospital central que tem regras e formulários próprios, documentos que se apresentam no fim deste artigo. Note-se que nestes documentos foram suprimidos os elementos que identificam a instituição.

RESUMOS

Face à crescente tendência de institucionalização de mecanismos de regulação ética da investigação com sujeitos humanos, discute-se com este artigo os impactos que a regulação prospetiva dos projetos de investigação tem tido nas ciências sociais e, mais concretamente, os desafios que tem colocado à investigação etnográfica. A partir de uma revisão histórica, quer da origem da regulação ética da investigação quer da própria antropologia, analisa-se o que se constitui como ética na prática etnográfica, salientando as incomensurabilidades que este tipo de investigação tem encontrado nos modelos de regulação fundados na ética biomédica. Através de noções como a noção de risco ou da primazia do princípio de consentimento informado, ilustra- se como é mobilizado um entendimento da investigação com humanos que é redutor para a investigação social, qualitativa e etnográfica, substancialmente diferente da investigação das ciências exatas ou da experimentação clínica.

Given the growing tendency of institutionalizing regulatory ethical procedures for research with human subjects, this article discusses the impacts of prospective research in the social sciences, and in particular in ethnographic research. Departing from a historic revision both of research regulation and of anthropology, we analyze what constitutes ethics in ethnographic practice, highlighting the incommensurability that this type of research has been facing in biomedical- based regulation models. Through notions such as risk and the primacy of informed consent we illustrate how the understanding of research with human subjects being mobilized is a reducing one when looked from the angle of social, qualitative or ethnographic research, which is substantially different from research in exact sciences or clinical experimentation.

ÍNDICE

Keywords: ethics, ethnographic research, regulation, IRB, informed consent Palavras-chave: ética, investigação etnográfica, regulação, IRB, consentimento informado

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AUTORES

MARTA RORIZ

CIAS, Departamento de Ciências da Vida, Universidade de Coimbra, 30004-516 Coimbra, Portugal [email protected]

CRISTINA PADEZ

CIAS, Departamento de Ciências da Vida, Universidade de Coimbra, 30004-516 Coimbra, Portugal [email protected]

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Cláudia Pereira, Inês Lourenço and Rita Cachado (dir.) Dossiê "India’s other sites: representations at home and abroad"

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Introduction: representations of India at home and abroad Introdução: representações sobre a Índia no país e no estrangeiro

Cláudia Pereira, Inês Lourenço and Rita Cachado

1 This dossier explores processes of cultural and social representations in which India is the central reference.1 It analyses memories and imaginations of India used by individuals and groups as key elements in their identity construction processes (cf. Hall 2003 [1997]; Appadurai 1996). The first aim is to fill gaps in the knowledge on representations about India. Secondly, it proposes to deconstruct the role these representations play in the practices of everyday life. It examines them in differentiated contexts, among Indians and migrants both at home and abroad, as well as among tourists, pilgrims and consumers of Indian cinema and dance, thus broadening the debate in South Asian studies.

2 Our main finding is that the contents of the representations are heterogeneous. They are produced and consumed both within and outside of India and based on diverse perceptions of past and present time. These representations of India converge in that they are key mechanisms used by the different actors to define choices in everyday life and therefore their identity. 3 The Portuguese context is scarcely acknowledged by the international literature on South Asian diaspora, despite the remarkable group of researchers in this field in Portugal. Anthropological and historical studies on India tend to limit research to Anglo-Saxon perspectives, mainly due to their prevalence in Indian studies and to the importance of South Asians in the migrant population of the and USA. There is a considerable volume of scientific production on South Asian studies from Portuguese researchers; nevertheless, this literature is almost unknown internationally. This may be explained not only by the seniority of Anglo-Saxon production in the field, but also by the fact that the South Asian diaspora to the United Kingdom and USA is larger and older than that to Portugal. However, many Portuguese social scientists, and particularly anthropologists, conduct research in Indian studies, in part because the Portuguese administration held colonial territories in India.

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Portuguese post-colonial anthropological production is therefore abundant but, as already noted, is scarcely acknowledged in the related international literature. 4 This dossier includes articles by both Portuguese and non-Portuguese authors. All have done ethnographic fieldwork in post-colonial settings such as Goa, Diu, Lisbon – areas within countries inhabited by thousands of families with origins in former Portuguese colonies in India. The ethnographic descriptions and contexts presented by the authors contribute to widen the knowledge of the international academic production, and to highlight the Portuguese research on South Asian studies. 5 In this dossier, Rita Cachado examines South Asians in Portugal from the perspective of entrepreneurship in Lisbon. Hindu-Gujaratis came to Portugal in the early 1980s and are therefore deeply embedded in Portuguese society. Well-established shops owned by illustrate an important branch of the Gujarati diaspora. The author therefore analyses representations in relation to the Indian migrants’ embeddedness through economic processes. 6 The representations about India by the lifestyle migrants in India and the Portuguese consumers of Indian popular culture is another strand of the research. Two papers challenge these hegemonic representations by deepening images of India through their role in daily life. Mari Korpela studies lifestyle immigrants in India and compares what it means to them to adopt Indian social habits in their everyday life, in Varanasi (north) and in Goa (south). Moreover, she explores the heterogeneity among them. Inês Lourenço provides insights into the importance of India as a reference when filling leisure time in Portugal. Furthermore, she contrasts the meanings attributed to India by the Portuguese who are practitioners of Bollywood dance with those of regular spectators of Bollywood movies. 7 A third less known perspective concerns the contemporary changes in representations about Goa and the former Portuguese administration through tourism and religion. Two papers discuss both producers and consumers of tourism, articulating it with religion. Pamila Gupta focuses on the religious exposition of the corpse of the catholic Saint Francis Xavier, a Jesuit missionary in Goa in the 16th century, when the territory first came under Portuguese administration. In this public display, the huge number of tourists and pilgrims consume “religion” and “history”, but strikingly they also take part in producing a new image of Goa’s colonial past and disseminating it for future generations. Cláudia Pereira examines the reshaping of the perception of a “tribe” that is currently promoted to tourists as representative of the Goan identity; it represents “traditional Goa” through religious dances that have been socially constructed as vernaculars of the state, for dating back to prior to the arrival of the Portuguese in the 16th century. 8 The papers in this dossier strive to contribute to scientific knowledge about Indians from former Portuguese colonies in India, at home and abroad; to provide new data about Indian migrant populations; and to explore emerging realities such as the immigrants in India, thus giving rise to the social construction of “other” Indias. Considering cultural representations and migration subjects, at first glance South Asian studies already seem well established in anthropological literature. However, we note that while the usual ethnographic contexts in this area are improving theoretical debates, they neglect the heterogeneity of the populations, and this ultimately impairs the debate. Simultaneously, we find a great variety of research from different scientific domains around the world, concerning South Asian studies produced by Portuguese

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researchers or on former Indian territories under Portuguese administration or on representations about India (e.g. Newman 2001; Bastos and Bastos 2001; Fruzzetti and Perez 2002; Roy 2002; Ashutosh 2008; Safran, Kumar and Lal 2008; Cardoso 2010; Chaturvedula 2010; Knott and McLoughlin 2010; Mapril 2010; Marques 2010; Mehta and Pandharipand 2011; Kumar 2011; Lourenço and Cachado 2012; Rosales 2012; Vicente 2012; Bauman and Young 2014; Frenz 2014; Oliveira, Dias and Padmadas 2014). We believe that the research of these authors, among others, should be developed to encompass less known cultural representations of Indian migrants and settlers. 9 Indians and their descendants, both within and outside of India, shape their lives and places in a distinct fashion and they negotiate representations that are, firstly, modelled by different historical and colonial pathways. As described in this dossier, the use of history must be seen in relation to the individual memory and daily life in terms of religion, symbols and localities, through social, cultural and historical approaches that transform imagination. Multiple processes of localisation, driven by migration dynamics, reflect ambivalent emotions of belonging vis-à-vis different national sites. Diverse life experiences, itineraries and memories contribute to the construction of real and imaginary spaces that act as strong features of identity in the present. The everyday pathways of South Asians show that India and Asian societies act as a permanent inspiration, nourished by the media and the contemporary consumption society.

Representations of India and their role in identity construction

10 Cultural representations associated with India are explored through different analytic and ethnographic perspectives: they have a central role not only in South Asians’ lives but also in the identity construction processes of lifestyle immigrants. Representation is a central feature of the process of meaning production. It is through representation that the members of a culture use language to produce meaning (see Hall 2003 [1997]). In this context, language should be interpreted broadly to include different kinds of visual images, performances and other kinds of language such as gestures, fashion or clothes; or even the human body, central in the process of representation and also easily representable (see Featherstone and Wernick 1995: 3). Moreover, meanings change over time and from one culture to another. In this sense, the meaning of things is never fixed, final or true (Hall 2003 [1997]: 61).

11 On the other hand, as the representation of “others” always implies interpretation, representations are never completely realistic (see Spivak and Harasym 1990). As can be seen in the papers that discuss the western relationship with Indian cultural representations, orientalist interpretations (cf. Saïd 2003 [1978]; Inden 1986) coexist with cosmopolitan perspectives (cf. Clifford 1992; Novak 2010) about cultural Indian references. In these processes, individuals articulate orientalist elements in accordance with their own perspectives on India and the way they fit into their lifestyles. Representations thus pervade the various topics of this dossier, described below.

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Outline of the dossier

12 All the papers in this dossier are grounded in ethnography. The scientific core lies in anthropology, but history, cultural studies and sociology also support the theoretical backgrounds from an interdisciplinary perspective advocated by the editors. The papers, written by authors from Portugal, Finland, and South Africa, combine ethnographic methods, historical discourse analysis, and the examination of testimonials.

13 The dossier opens with two articles that address transformations in the contemporary representations of Goa, bridging past and present. Pamila Gupta illustrates the widespread representation in the decennial Exposition of Saint Francis Xavier among both Goan Catholic visitors and tourists: the cultural difference of Goa in India, which promotes the state as a tourist destination. The paper follows her ethnography on the social, religious, and touristic event. Readers can understand what it means to be in Goa during the Exposition of Saint Francis Xavier’s corpse and how participants represent their singular experiences in heterogeneous modes. Gupta argues that, by disseminating a hegemonic value to the fragile corpse through their visual consumption, the pilgrims and tourists are making history by being part of a postcolonial identity of the state under construction. This identity is based on a selected colonial representation. 14 Cláudia Pereira explores a less known aspect stimulated by tourism: the image of who were previously thought of as “tribal” but are currently valued as Goa’s repository of the traditional. This state follows international tourism trends. Tourists look for specific Goan populations that live in an idealised past, and search for the experience of knowing the “tribal populations”. Therefore, identity construction and identity policies are part of what is shown to and told to tourists. Pereira concludes that the change in the “tribal” image, acknowledged by tourists, further modified the group’s representation of itself by giving it an awareness of its own identitary value. 15 The next two papers connect India and the “West” through cultural representations of India made by two kinds of consumers. Mari Korpela compares the notions of lifestyle held by immigrants in India from diverse areas of the world, such as Israel, North America, Australia and a number of European countries. They spend long periods in Varanasi and in Goa. In Varanasi, the search is for an “authentic” India. In Goa, they seem to look for a particular type of freedom, so they can develop a social construction of “other” Indias. In this paper, the reader will learn about the lifestyles of these immigrants in India, their activities and their Indian representations in light of what they have left in their home countries and what they find in two distinct emblematic settings within India. Korpela shows that they construct their own representations of “Incredible India”, in the search for a more meaningful lifestyle in the country, although the images attributed to it are themselves heterogeneous. 16 Inês Lourenço analyses the consumption of Bollywood in Portugal and its implications in the creation of new cosmopolitan identities through cultural alternatives originating from India. Her analysis of audiences of popular Indian cinema as well as those who practice Bollywood dance in Portugal examines how references to Indian popular culture are selected and how they contribute to the construction of these two different groups as alternative and creative cultural identities. The empirical data presented provide a reflection on the commodification processes of India to which old orientalist

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ideas still make a vigorous contribution. Critically rethinking the concept of cosmopolitanism, the author intends to show that the representation processes largely ignore the real life of individuals and societies upon which those representations are constructed, but continuously please the exotic Asian cool imagination. 17 The last paper portrays South Asians in Portugal. Rita Cachado studies South Asian merchants in Lisbon and their professional trajectories, following old Hindu shops and their owners’ narratives on the Portuguese economic crisis. Though the majority prefer to remain where they settled over 30 years ago, some consider remigration. What was unexpected in her ethnography was that even though other countries, such as India and Mozambique, were experiencing economic growth during the Portuguese financial crisis, her interlocutors were very cautious in their discourses and in their choices for the near future. Ethnography also provided data that implies an analysis of the ethnic cluster concept. This article tends to agree with the mix-embeddedness approach more than that of the ethnic cluster, and the author explains this through an original overview of the urban areas where Hindu-Gujarati shopkeepers work and live. 18 As a whole, this dossier makes a critical analysis of the formation and recontextualisation of contemporary identities through the cultural representations of not only Indian migrants and settlers, but also lifestyle immigrants in India. It also addresses the role of colonial history and imagination and of the Indian migration and diaspora in less known contexts. All the contributions provide new arenas where cultural identity practices can be reconceptualised by incorporating cultural features and places that hitherto have scarcely been acknowledged.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

APPADURAI, Arjun, 1996, Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. Minneapolis, University of Minnesota Press.

ASHUTOSH, Ishan, 2008, “(Re-)creating the community: South Asian transnationalism on Chicago’s Devon Avenue”, Urban Geography, 29 (3): 224-245.

BASTOS, Susana Trovão, and José Gabriel Pereira BASTOS, 2001, De Moçambique a Portugal: Reinterpretações Identitárias do Hinduísmo em Viagem. Lisbon, Fundação Oriente.

BAUMAN, Chad M., and Richard Fox YOUNG, 2014, Constructing Indian Christianities: Culture, Conversion and Caste. Delhi, Routledge India.

CARDOSO, Hugo, 2010, “The African slave population of Portuguese India: demographics and impact on Indo-Portuguese”, Journal of Pidgin and Creole Languages, 25 (1): 95-119.

CHATURVEDULA, Nandini, 2010, “Preserving purity: cultural exchange and contamination in late seventeenth century Portuguese India”, Ler História, 58: 99-112.

CLIFFORD, James, 1992, “Travelling cultures”, in L. Grossler, C. Nelson and P. Trichler (eds.), Cultural Studies. New York, Routledge, 96-116.

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FEATHERSTONE, Mike, and Andrew WERNICK (eds.), 1995, Images of Aging: Cultural Representations of Later Life. London, Routledge.

FRENZ, Margret Frenz, 2014, “Transimperial connections: East African Goan perspectives on ‘Goa 1961’ ”, Contemporary South Asia, 22 (3): 240-254.

FRUZZETTI, Lina, and Rosa PEREZ, 2002, “The gender of the nation: allegoric feminity and women’s statues in Bengal and Goa”, Etnográfica, VI (1): 41-58.

HALL, Stuart, 2003 [1997], Representation: Cultural Representations and Signifying Practices. London, Sage.

INDEN, Ronald, 1986, “Orientalist constructions of India”, Modern Asian Studies, 20 (3): 401-446.

KNOTT, Kim, and Seán McLOUGHLIN (eds.), 2010, Diasporas: Concepts, Intersections, Identities. London and New York, Zed Books.

KUMAR, P. Pratap (ed.), 2011, special issue “Religion and the South Asian diaspora”, South Asian Diaspora, 3 (1).

LOURENÇO, Inês, and Rita CACHADO, 2012, “Hindu transnational families: transformation and continuity in diaspora families”, Journal of Comparative Family Studies, 43 (1): 53-70.

MAPRIL, José, 2010, “Banglapara: imigração, negócios e (in)formalidades em Lisboa”, Etnográfica, 14 (2): 243-263, available at http://etnografica.revues.org/284 (last access January 2017).

MARQUES, Sandra C. S., 2010, “Réplicas topográficas nas narrativas de viagem sobre a Índia”, Etnográfica, 14 (3): 419-442, available at http://etnografica.revues.org/241 (last access January 2017).

MEHTA, Bhattacharya, and Rajeshwari PANDHARIPAND (eds.), 2011, Bollywood and Globalization: Indian Cinema, Nation and Diaspora. London and New York, Anthem Press.

NEWMAN, Robert, 2001, Of Umbrellas, Goddesses and Dreams: Essays on Goan Culture and Society. Mapusa, Other India Book Press.

NOVAK, David, 2010, “Cosmopolitanism, remediation and the ghost world of Bollywood”, Cultural Anthropology, 25 (1): 40-72.

OLIVEIRA, Isabel Tiago de, José G. DIAS, and Sabu S. PADMADAS, 2014, “Dominance of sterilization and alternative choices of contraception in India: an appraisal of the socioeconomic impact”, PLoS ONE, 9 (1): e86654, available at http://journals.plos.org/plosone/article? id=10.1371/journal.pone.0086654 (last access January 2017).

ROSALES, Marta Vilar, 2012, “My umbilical cord to Goa: food, colonialism and transnational Goan life experiences”, Food and Foodways: Explorations in the History and Culture of Human Nourishment, 20 (3-4): 233-256, available at http://www.tandfonline.com/doi/pdf/10.1080/07409710.2012.715966 (last access January 2017).

ROY, Srirupa, 2002, “Moving pictures: the postcolonial state and visual representations of India”, Contributions to Indian Sociology, 36: 233-263, available at http://journals.sagepub.com/doi/pdf/ 10.1177/006996670203600108 (last access January 2017).

SAFRAN, William, Ajay KUMAR, and Brij V. LAL, 2008, special issue “Indian diaspora in transnational contexts”, Journal of Intercultural Studies, 29 (1), available at http:// www.tandfonline.com/toc/cjis20/29/1 (last access January 2017).

SAÏD, Edward, 2003 [1978], Orientalism. London, Penguin Books.

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SPIVAK, Gayatri, and Sarah HARASYM (eds.), 1990, The Post-Colonial Critic: Interviews, Strategies, Dialogues. London, Routledge.

VICENTE, Filipa Lowndes, 2012, “A photograph of four orientalists (Bombay, 1885): knowledge production, religious identities, and the negotiation of invisible conflicts”, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient, 55: 603-636.

NOTES

1. The initial idea for this dossier came from the contributions presented at the panel “India’s Other Sites: Social and Cultural Pathways at Home and Abroad” in the 9th SIEF (Société Internationale de Ethnologie et Folklore) Conference in Lisbon, in 2011, coordinated by the editors of this publication. Acknowledgement is due to Centro de Investigação e Estudos de Sociologia (CIES-IUL), Instituto Universitário de Lisboa (ISCTE-IUL), for funding the proofreading of this introduction.

ABSTRACTS

This dossier makes an original contribution to the semantic analysis of the representations on India. It aims to broaden the academic debate on South Asian studies by focusing on the cultural practices of both Indians and migrants and on their representations of India, a much neglected subject in the literature. The five articles it comprises examine three dimensions of representations about India. One concerns the connection between tourism and religion, and the transformation of representations of Portuguese presence in Goa. Another dimension addresses the representations of the lifestyle migrants in India and the population in Portugal, notably regarding the consumption of an Indian and Bollywood lifestyle. A third dimension focuses on South Asian migrants in Portugal embeddedness, through economic processes. The main finding that brings these papers together is that the importance given by the different actors to the cultural representations about India is so strong that it defines decisions for their life experiences. These cultural representations are heterogeneous, circulating with divergent meanings in India and abroad, grounded on different images of past and present. The articles explore their production and uses in various settings.

Este dossiê temático oferece um contributo original para a análise semântica das representações sobre a Índia. Tenciona alargar o debate académico no domínio dos estudos sul-asiáticos, focando-se nas práticas culturais de indianos e de migrantes e suas representações sobre a Índia, até agora menos conhecidas na literatura. O dossiê é composto por cinco artigos, que abordam três dimensões das representações. A primeira explora a relação entre turismo e religião, e a transformação das representações sobre a presença portuguesa em Goa. Uma outra aborda os imigrantes ocidentais na Índia e o seu consumo de um estilo de vida indiano e, por outro lado, a criação de identidades alternativas da população em Portugal através da influência de Bollywood. Por último, uma dimensão que narra o enraizamento de populações sul-asiáticas imigrantes em Portugal, através de processos económicos. A conclusão comum é a centralidade dada pelos diferentes atores às representações culturais sobre a Índia, de forma tão marcada que define

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decisões para as suas opções na vida quotidiana. Estas representações culturais são heterogéneas: circulam com significados divergentes na Índia e no estrangeiro, baseadas em diferentes imagens do passado e do presente. O dossiê explora a sua produção e usos em vários espaços.

INDEX

Keywords: South Asian diaspora, cultural representations, tourism, Bollywood, ethnic clusters, lifestyle migration Palavras-chave: diáspora sul-asiática, representações culturais, turismo, Bollywood, clusters étnicos, migração conotada com um estilo de vida

AUTHORS

CLÁUDIA PEREIRA

Instituto Universitário de Lisboa (ISCTE-IUL), Centro de Investigação e Estudos de Sociologia (CIES-IUL), Lisbon, Portugal [email protected]

INÊS LOURENÇO

Instituto Universitário de Lisboa (ISCTE-IUL), Centro em Rede de Investigação em Antropologia (CRIA-IUL), Lisbon, Portugal [email protected]

RITA CACHADO

Instituto Universitário de Lisboa (ISCTE-IUL), Centro de Investigação e Estudos de Sociologia (CIES-IUL), Lisbon, Portugal [email protected]

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The corporeal and the carnivalesque: the 2004 exposition of St. Francis Xavier and the consumption of history in postcolonial Goa O corpóreo e o carnavalesco: a exposição de S. Francisco Xavier em 2004 e o consumo da história na Goa pós-colonial

Pamila Gupta

Introduction

1 To enter Velha Goa ( as it is now called) during the 16th Exposition of St. Francis Xavier’s “Sacred Relics” is to experience a world where the corporeal and the carnivalesque coalesce. Not only does it operate as a ritual space wherein the 450-year- old decaying corpse of a Jesuit missionary-turned-saint takes center stage – an event that takes place only once every ten years –, but a diverse group of people come together – including Goans, Catholic pilgrims from both India and abroad, and local, national, and international tourists –, all standing in the same lines to “see” Xavier’s corpse and “touch” his glass casing. In this article, based on ethnographic research conducted in Goa, I explore the many facets of the last exposition of Goa’s patron saint that took place between November 21, 2004, and January 2, 2005, by way of the experiences of individual members of the public.1 I will suggest that by taking part in a set of highly ritualized acts centered on Xavier’s corpse and image, participants simultaneously transform the space of Old Goa, consume its “Portuguese” past even as they have differing relationships to that past, become part of history-in-the-making in the face of the increasing fragility of his corpse, produce and disseminate postcolonial images of Goa that are indelibly shaped by Xavier, and finally, reinterpret Goa’s

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colonial history for future generations. Even as this article is based on ethnographic research conducted ten years ago, its themes remain relevant given that Xavier’s last decennial exposition was staged in 2014-2015 and will continue most likely in the future to take place at ten-year intervals.

The production of “Goa” as a tourist destination

2 Within the imaginary of India as a postcolonial nation-state, Goa is a popular tourist destination. Precisely because of its distinct history, its representation today is imbricated in its past position as a Portuguese colony, the main attraction being its unique Indo-Portuguese heritage as it is manifest in food, architecture and religion. Moreover, Goa increasingly draws both national and international tourists, its proximity to Mumbai, its miles of pristine beaches, and the availability of inexpensive charter flights from Europe all being contributing factors. Postcolonial Goa increasingly promotes itself as a tourist site that is “culturally distinct” from the rest of India (Gupta 2009), a discourse that relies on, and explicitly showcases a history of Catholicism (over its Hindu or Muslim past). Absent from the celebration of this Indo-Portuguese heritage is the recollection and representation of the politics of Portuguese colonialism that of course accompanied the Catholic conversion of Goa. As anthropologists Lina Fruzzetti and Rosa Perez suggest, economic change has taken place “too quickly and too dramatically, especially when the impact of tourism on Goan society is concerned” (Fruzzetti and Perez 2002: 52). In other words, Goa today is very much grappling with tourism and its (unforeseen) consequences (cf. Gupta 2014a).

3 The expositions of St. Francis Xavier play a curious role in the production of postcolonial Goa as a tourist site. Proto-tourists and pilgrims, many from neighboring British India, had been visiting Xavier’s corpse and mausoleum since the mid-19th century (Xavier 1861; Anonymous 1890), wherein a colonial pattern of exposing his corpse at regular ten-year intervals was established, and by way of what the Estado da Índia labelled “exposições” [expositions]. The first postcolonial exposition was staged in 1964, three years after the end of Portuguese colonial rule (1961), thereafter continuing the colonial practice of decennial expositions to coincide with the Saint’s Day, December 3rd (1974, 1984, 1994, 2004, 2014). Throughout the postcolonial period, Xavier’s expositions have continued to develop into distinctly “Goan” festivals that are simultaneously local and global, religious and secular, their continued success relying on their ability to simultaneously harness a ritual pattern established during colonial times and incorporate new practices. These festivals not only bring Catholics from near and far to worship at the feet of Xavier and renew their faith, but also global tourists, and members of Goa’s global diaspora.2 In the discussion and analysis that follows, I pay attention to both for as João Leal reminds us, we need to be “more attentive to the actual processes of critical appropriation and creative transformation of culture” (Leal 2011: 318), particularly in the realm of religion and ritual. 4 Xavier’s postcolonial expositions then are less about colonial and missionary power and the symbolics of it as was the case during earlier historical periods (Gupta 2014b), but rather about the production of Goa as a multi-layered hybrid festival space that promotes Goa as a tourist destination by way of its religious and cultural difference (“a taste of Europe” in India as it is often described in tourist brochures).3 Just as in colonial times, the “public” that forms around this festival is made up of members with

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widely varying attachments to Xavier, and hence to Goa’s imperial and missionary past. However, increasingly, those individuals who participate in Xavier’s ritualization are part of a globalized world wherein the flows of people, culture and values have not only “multiplied and intensified” but are also “linked to the rise of unprecedented and novel kinds of flows” that we have yet to fully contend with (Leal 2011: 329).

The corporeal and the carnivalesque

5 Old Goa in its everydayness is a quiet and reserved historic district located ten kilometers from Goa’s capital city of Panjim (or as it is also called) that sees the occasional tourist wandering past the many fine examples of Indo-Portuguese architecture, the lone Catholic pilgrim paying homage to Xavier, or group tours learning about Goa’s Portuguese past, a few entering the Church of Bom Jesus 4 to catch a brief but distant glimpse of Xavier’s casket located high up inside his Italian mausoleum.5 However, once every ten years, Old Goa is transformed into a ritual space (Turner 1974) almost unrecognizable save for the visible presence of the many religious buildings dotting the landscape:6 the main street is filled to capacity – some 15,000-20,000 persons from all walks of life filing past to see Xavier’s corpse on a daily basis –,7 the air fragrant with the smell of burning candles and incense, and fresh food – omelets, samosas, etc. – busily being prepared in makeshift stalls built on all sides of the festival, and a cacophony of noises – church bells ringing, children singing, men hawking items, and police whistles – envelope the crowd. After Old Goa was declared a UNESCO World Heritage site in 1986, the expositions of St. Francis Xavier took on a more central role in promoting tourism to Goa. Organized jointly by the Archaeological Survey of India, the Department of Goa Tourism, and the Archdiocese of Goa, preparations are generally underway one year in advance of the actual event to complete the makeover of Old Goa, a makeover that resurrects its past image of “Golden Goa,” echoing earlier (colonial and postcolonial) expositions which were also always occasions for showcasing Goa to the world and itself (Gupta 2014b).8

6 Thus, when one leaves the hustle and bustle of Panjim to attend the 16th Exposition of St. Francis Xavier in Old Goa, one viscerally enters a world of corporeality, a place where one is not only confronted with the materiality of Xavier’s corpse, but also all its various fragmentations, embodiments and reproductions (Douglas 1973). Further, it is the very materiality of Xavier’s corpse that allows for its history to be registered at two levels: the religious and the carnivalesque, that is to be interpreted, appropriated, and sentimentalized by its participants in personalized, yet highly ritualized ways.9 Inside the Se Cathedral of St. Catherine, the designated area where Xavier’s corpse has been positioned throughout the duration of his exposition is a place of origins, authenticity, singularity, religiosity, and history. It represents Goa’s Portuguese Catholic past in all its golden glory and asserts the official power of church and state. 7 Outside the Se Cathedral, on the festival grounds, the carnivalesque is constituted by and feeds off of Xavier’s corporeality: it is a place of pluralities and proliferations, copies, and history in the making. It allows the present and future to take over the past, operates as a space of equality, laughter, madness, play, and sensorial pleasures (Bakhtin 1984; Parker 1991), and finally, leaves open the possibility that the grotesque body might take on new audiences and social meanings. Thus, the corporeal and the carnivalesque conjoin during Xavier’s exposition to encompass a larger physical and

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temporal space and allow for a wider range of images, participants, and dispositions. A liminal space and time is created, one that both allows Xavier’s corpse to operate at two different registers, that of officialdom (and solemnity) inside the Se Cathedral and playfulness on the outside, and produces the simultaneity of the past, present, and future in a place normally reserved for showcasing the past. In other words, throughout the ritual days, it is by way of these two conjoined discourses that a diverse group of participants are invited and encouraged to have a sensory embodiment and engagement with Xavier and Goa’s history. 8 The opening ceremony, which takes place on the morning of November 21st to inaugurate the exposition, involves the ceremonious – it is full of the pomp and pageantry characteristic of Roman Catholic religious services (here the funeral of Pope John Paul II, which took place on April 8, 2005 and was aired on live television comes to mind as an apt comparison) – and historic removal of Xavier’s corpse from his mausoleum inside the Jesuit 10 in a procession that moves through the main street of Old Goa. It is attended by some 5,000 people, including Goa’s most important dignitaries of church and state, and ends inside the main of the Se Cathedral where Xavier is placed and readied for public veneration, after which a Catholic mass is performed by the Archbishop of Goa to bless his safe arrival and ritual display. It is only then that Xavier’s corpse is exposed for public viewing. 9 A feeling of excitement mixed with anticipation permeates the long line of people waiting to enter the Se Cathedral on any given day of the Exposition. The diversity of those in line is apparent: one sees with their rosaries and candles standing alongside Western tourists with their backpacks and cameras. When one finally reaches the inner sanctum of the cathedral, twenty minutes on a “good” day, two to three hours on a “bad” day, a place where silence is proclaimed and a ban on photographs is strictly enforced, one is rushed along by the attendants, typically a group of three to five people that carefully guard over the glass and gilded casket that encases Xavier’s corpse, making sure that only proper acts of veneration are performed, and in a timely fashion, in front of Goa’s most popular patron saint. 10 Allowed by these same attendants to sit on the sidelines, I observe multiple acts of veneration inside the Se Cathedral, some clearly deemed less “appropriate” than others by the officials in charge. I witness the lighting of candles in honor of Xavier, the crowding around his casket by people intent on getting as close as possible to his corpse, some even peering into the glass to look at his priestly vestments or particular body parts out of a sense of curiosity, as well as the quiet touching and kissing of the glass by those who seek his blessing, and finally, the bewildered look, usually of tourists unfamiliar with his history of venerations, who file past his casket without so much as a touch or a kiss. A priest circles the coffin three times, inspecting the corpse from all angles, before he is motioned to move on by the attendants for spending too much time in front of Xavier. A man presses his rosary to Xavier’s glass case while praying with his eyes closed, and a woman, tears running down her cheeks, bends down to touch her gold necklace to the glass casing before being moved along by the attendants. These observations not only suggest the range of intentions of those who patiently stand in line to see the decaying corpse of a 450-year-old saint, but also serve as a reminder of the deeply personal (and personalized) nature of religious devotion. 11 Outside the Se Cathedral, I speak to members of the public in an effort to gain a sense of why they have come to Goa; what, if any, is their relationship to Goa as a place; and

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finally, what their reactions are to Xavier’s corpse and image.11 A family of devout Catholic Goans has traveled from a small village in the south of Goa. While it is the second exposition for husband and wife, it is the first for their eleven-year-old son and eight-year-old daughter who are both dressed in their Sunday best. The entire family is on its way to attend a Catholic mass, scheduled, according to the exposition program, to take place in their native language of Konkani in ten minutes.12 A pregnant Catholic pilgrim from Bangalore (in the neighboring state of Karnataka) has come to pray for the health of her unborn child, and a newly married Catholic couple seeks Xavier’s intercession in helping them to start a family,13 both of them continuing a devotional (and often gendered) practice originating in colonial times when the saint was associated with powers of fertility. A Hindu Goan, now living in Mumbai, proudly tells me that he attended St. Xavier’s College, one of several Jesuit institutions in India named in honor of Goa’s patron saint, and well known for its high educational standards.14 This same visitor regularly plans his annual trip to Goa to visit family and friends to coincide with Xavier’s yearly feast day of December 3rd. Yet another Hindu Goan I speak with explains to me the reason why all Goans, both Hindu and Catholic, pay homage to Xavier, stating that “it [Xavier’s exposition] marks a sacred place where both Catholics and Hindus come together to celebrate Goencho Saib, their ‘Lord of Goa’ as he is called in Konkani” (interview, December 7, 2004). A Catholic Goan now living in the US is less reverent towards Xavier, arguing that his exposition should be discontinued since he is a symbol of a colonial past rife with oppression and racism. Informing me that it was Xavier himself who started the Inquisition in Goa, he is appalled that he is venerated at all at this time and in this place.15 A young man visiting Old Goa from Mapusa, a bustling market town in the north of the state, decides that the hours long bus trip to Old Goa was well worth the effort to see Xavier’s corpse, possibly on the occasion of his last exposition.16 Thus, for many Goans, Xavier is associated with certain types of devotional practices and educational institutions throughout the Indian subcontinent. At the same time, and in spite of their differing religious affiliations and attitudes towards him, Xavier represents and serves as a reminder of their shared past of Portuguese colonialism and Catholic conversion, and finally, helps maintain a fluid sense (often diasporic) of identity as simultaneously Goan alongside Portuguese, Indian, American, British, etc. 12 The public of Xavier’s postcolonial exposition also includes international tourists, many visiting Goa for the first time; they respond to Xavier and Old Goa in their own distinctive ways. A young British couple, taking advantage of the inexpensive charter flights available between London and Goa during the holiday season, had booked a two- week beach vacation.17 They express their surprise at the fact that the Portuguese outlasted the British in India, the “oldness” of Old Goa, the “small” size of Xavier corpse inside his casket, and the fact that his right arm is “missing”, the historical bits of information all gleaned from a guidebook they purchased upon entry. An Argentinian tourist has come to Goa specifically because of the exposition, Xavier being a familiar icon to him because of his Catholic upbringing in Buenos Aires. While he finds the Indo- Portuguese architecture of Old Goa distinct, he is particularly saddened by the “grotesque” state of Xavier’s feet, going so far as to say that he feels sorry for him for not being able to rest in peace after death. Yet another tourist, a man of Goan origin who grew up in Uganda but now lives in Toronto, expresses his viewpoint that the corpse of Xavier is obviously a “fake” that is used to dupe the people of Goa, and that it is only (Roman) Catholicism that continues to perform such archaic rituals, an opinion

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that was also expressed by visitors to Xavier’s expositions during colonial times (Gupta 2014b). On numerous occasions, I come across individuals who, dragged to Old Goa by a friend or family member, refuse to enter the Se Cathedral to touch or kiss Xavier’s casket, choosing instead to wait outside having a cold drink or shop in the nearby stalls. 13 In the end, I come away from my conversations with this diverse group of participants, individuals who cannot be strictly labeled “Goans,” “tourists” or “pilgrims” for none of these categories is mutually exclusive, with a sense of the uniqueness of each person’s perspective on, relationship to, and experience of Old Goa and Xavier. In other words, public festivals like this one are important for allowing very particular motivations and relations to remain and be experienced personally while also giving people a sense of collectivity, of participating in something larger than themselves. At the same time, these ethnographic encounters reinforce the point that Portuguese colonialism and Catholicism were simultaneously local and global processes, and expose the complexity of Xavier’s role in Goa, past, present, and future (Gupta 2014b). 14 Xavier’s corporeality, displayed with such solemn reverence inside the Se Cathedral and the centerpiece for acts of devout religious faith, is taken up in a carnivalesque mode outside this same space. In the central square, one is besieged on all sides by men selling wax arms, feet, hearts, and other body parts, the Catholic belief being that one tries to cure a particular ailment by burning a wax replica of that same body part in honor of Xavier, who will then intercede on one’s behalf, a ritual practice once again reminiscent of colonial times (Xavier 1861). Countless stalls sell wax and plastic figurines of Xavier and his corpse, and up-close color photos of Xavier’s body parts, the most popular images being those that are the most macabre: those of his face, hand and feet. While the fixation on body parts, Xavier’s corpse, and his death is clearly a legacy of a form of corporeal religiosity and devotional practice that goes back centuries in colonial Goa (Gupta 2014b), strikingly today, it is the international tourists who are buying the wax and photographic body parts, largely, it seems from my conversations with them and multiple vendors, out of a sense of morbid curiosity. As one vendor points out, the religious pilgrims visiting Old Goa tend to buy the Catholic paraphernalia – that is, the rosaries, crosses, and images of Xavier as a missionary (i. e. images of Xavier in life), as compared to the tourists who tend to buy the kitschy items – that is, the wax body parts, photographs of his body parts, and miniatures of his corpse (i. e. images of Xavier in death), a ritual detail that suggests differing attitudes on the part of the participants towards how one chooses to “see” and “remember” Xavier. While these same ritual items were also associated with his colonial expositions, this time they are available for a very different consumer audience. That is, they have found a new social life and appeal amongst Goa’s international tourists. Finally, the abundance of imagery of the saint in both life and death reinforces the pleasures of the body and its acceptance as a concrete symbol (Bakhtin 1984; Douglas 1973), the history of his corpse and the corporeal focus on the part of these ritual participants being examples of deep history and constant transformation (Foucault 1979; Dirks 1993).

The consumption of history

15 Just as Michel-Rolph Trouillot suggests that commemorative ceremonies typically “package” history, Goa’s colonial past is “packaged” in multiple ways for a range of

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participants during this commemoration of Xavier’s death (Trouillot 1995: 5). For example, one of the many guide books available for sale in Old Goa describes an itinerary that “will help you walk in the imaginary footsteps of a sixteenth century visitor to the city, and drink of times past” (Noronha 2004: 24). In a similar manner, the ritual space of Xavier’s exposition promotes the public consumption of Goa’s colonial history. Even as one enters the grounds of the exposition, one is struck by the “archaic nature” of the place; it is almost as if one had stepped back in time save for the visible presence of ritual’s accoutrements such as lights, metal detectors, and hi-fi stereo systems that serve as reminders of the temporal present. Fittingly, it is India’s national heritage organization, the Archaeological Survey of India, that is put in charge of setting up Goa’s history for consumption throughout the duration of Xavier’s exposition, a ritual detail that serves as a reminder of Goa’s integration into the larger Indian nation-state in spite of all the visual markers that suggest a more disparate history as well as the fact that it is clearly invested in Goa’s status as a UNESCO world heritage site. Specifically, this organization oversees the readying of Old Goa prior to the exposition; this includes sprucing up the churches and museums on the inside and out, protecting the unique Indo-Portuguese architecture from any irreparable damages during the days of the exposition, and finally, after the closing ceremony, cleaning up Old Goa in order to return it to its original pristine state,18 the past (and its hedges) taking over once again. But more than the physical space of Old Goa, it is Xavier’s biography that becomes the organizing discourse for consuming Goa’s past, a colonial history that is very often confusing and complicated. Here I employ an analytic of consumption to suggest a constant oscillation between the personal and the social, the private and public. On the one hand, visitors to Old Goa take part not only in a collective event but also a collective act wherein they all gather together in this historic city, stand in the same lines, and buy the same Xaverian items. On the other hand, these same ritual practices simultaneously foster personal and particular experiences and interpretations of history, religious and secular.

16 Visitors can either choose to take a three hour guided tour of Old Goa conducted by an official tourism operator, or wander by oneself through the numerous churches and buildings that make up Old Goa, and which are filled with enough historical dates, facts, and figures to give a sense of the longevity of the Portuguese colonial presence in Goa. Moreover, the numerous guide books that are available not only promote the self- guided tour, but also inform the public of the rich history of Xavier’s colonial expositions, and ensure that every visitor to Old Goa, even if he or she does not step foot inside the Se Cathedral to bear witness to Xavier’s corpse, leaves with some (limited) sense of Goa’s rich Portuguese past. 17 In my conversations with the official tour guides of Old Goa, I encounter a wide range of responses to the “packaging” of Goa’s colonial past for public consumption. I meet several guides who pride themselves on their vast knowledge of Goa’s history which necessarily includes Xavier, one going so far as to narrate Xavier’s entire biography to me, from birth to death (interview with Goa tour guide, December 13, 2004). Another guide tells me the infamous story of Dona Isabel de Carom who was rumored to have bitten off two of Xavier’s toes during his first public reception in 1554.19 Here the tour guide serves the role of local historian. More importantly, by tapping into Xavier’s remarkable biography in death, he makes the figure of Xavier (in spite of the obvious deplorable condition of his corpse) come alive in the present for a diverse audience.20

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The majority of these tour guides feel that Goa’s colonial past must not be forgotten, several of who highlight, once again, its difference (both historical and cultural) from the rest of India. Not only do they see the occasion of Xavier’s exposition as an appropriate venue for reviving and re-enacting Goa’s Portuguese past, but they recognize, and take pride in the importance of their own positionality in retelling that past. 18 The participants I encounter have differing and often complicated relationships to Goa’s history. I speak to international tourists who, armed with guidebooks, curios, and souvenirs, are invested in learning about Goa’s past, as well as those who express little interest in learning about Goan history beyond witnessing the spectacle of Xavier’s corpse. An Indian couple visiting Goa for the first time from Delhi expresses both their shock at the length of Portuguese colonial rule in India, and the “non-Indian” feel of Goa. A Japanese traveler knows little about Xavier beyond the fact that he was the founder of Catholicism in Japan.21 I speak to an elderly Goan couple currently living in Portugal, having immigrated to Lisbon under the status of “refugees” after India’s so called “invasion” (a term still used by many Goans today) of Goa in 1961,22 their biographies suggesting that their fate remains bound up with the former colonizer. A group of young Portuguese tourists were attracted to Goa for a holiday precisely because it is a former colony, but their knowledge does not go beyond this fact, at least not until their visit to Old Goa where they find themselves immersed in its past, as well as their own. 19 Each ritual participant is encouraged to “consume” Goa’s past through the figure and corpse of Xavier himself. Throughout the days of festivities, the biography of St. Francis Xavier is brought to life through a variety of ritual measures. The official 2004 Exposition Guidebook (Rodrigues et al. 2004) includes not only useful information on hotel accommodations, timings of events, and additional attractions in and around Goa, but a chronology of Xavier’s life, a brief history of his “past expositions,” and extracts from letters the missionary wrote while in residence in Goa during the 16th century. Xavier’s feast day of December 3rd (the official date of Xavier’s death in the year 1552) witnesses a record attendance – some 65,000 people file past his corpse –, and is celebrated with a Catholic mass and speech, the theme of which is the “relevance of Xavier in our times.” 23 Lectures on the life of Goa’s patron saint are scheduled at regular intervals throughout the days of Xavier’s exposition in a variety of languages, including English, Portuguese, Konkani, Marathi, Hindi, and Tamil (Rodrigues et al. 2004: 7-8). In addition, numerous biographies and hagiographies on Xavier are available in the same stalls where the guidebooks are sold. Stall after stall sells posters, framed pictures, and laminated wallet-sized images of Xavier, the narrative of his biography (in life and death) told through a standardized series of pictures and labels: “Crab with crucifix”, “Shrine”, “Baptizing”, “Chapel of St. Francis Xavier”, “Basilica of Bom Jesus”, “The body of St. Francis Xavier”, “Preaching”, and “Right Hand.” Each image signifies a particular “moment,” “object,” or “practice” that defines Xavier’s importance for Goa, and unwittingly tells the story, albeit in a very basic form, of Goa’s Portuguese past. Not only are reproductions of the saint’s figure labeled “souvenirs” available for tourists to take home with them,24 but a newly released DVD on the life history of Xavier, with a catchy title (in English) nonetheless (Grace, Guts, and Glory: A Movie on the Life of St. Francis Xavier) is also available for sale. Throughout my wanderings on the grounds of the exposition, I find that a discourse on Xavier’s biography (importantly, in life and death) permeates the festival space and serves as a way to enter Goa’s labyrinth of

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history. Participants are encouraged not only to consume Goa’s past through a variety of books, images, and new media centered on Xavier that are readily made available to them, but to carry home souvenirs, often representations of his body, which in turn, following Susan Stewart (1993: 134), sustain the ritual’s presence long after it is over, and move history into the private realm by individualizing its experience. 20 There is one last lesson of history that the participant consumes upon leaving Old Goa. Lest one forget, upon exiting the exposition space, that Goa is no longer a Portuguese colony, one walks past the highly visible statue of Mahatma Gandhi which stands at the epicenter of the stalls, and which replaced the statue of Vasco da Gama, Portugal’s famed explorer who first landed in India in the 16th century, shortly after Goa’s decolonization and integration into India as a Union Territory at the end of 1961. Even as many Goans point out to me that Gandhi vacillated on the issue of Goa’s freedom struggle against the Portuguese, his statue serves as a fitting reminder of Goa’s emplacement within the Indian nation.25

History-in-the-making

21 In October 2004, a fire broke out inside the church of Bom Jesus, in close proximity to Xavier’s mausoleum. Many Goans, including a Jesuit priest I spoke with, declared it a “miracle” that Xavier’s corpse was not destroyed in the fire.26

22 Others I spoke with were less fantastic in their assessment, suggesting that it merely pointed to the lack of an adequate security system to protect the valuable monuments of Old Goa. Fortunately, the situation was rectified immediately by those in charge and in time for Xavier’s 2004 exposition (Noronha 2004: 41). I point to this incident to highlight a larger point; part of the wider appeal of attending the exposition of St. Francis Xavier is that, as a ritual event, it promotes the idea that one is participating in a process of history-in-the-making. Visitors to Old Goa on the decennial occasion of his public exposure rarely leave Goa without a sense of the fragility of Xavier’s “sacred relics”, and as a result, the historicity of the present moment. There is always a sense of imminent foreclosure, a horizon just ahead, a sentiment that promotes an emotional charge amongst the participants. Moreover, in the case of Xavier, this idea of the imminent end has been around for centuries, always animating desire and producing the fragility of the body while emphasizing its age and value. At the same time, this sense of imminence is also tied to the desires and discourses of modernity that animate tourism, a tourism that increasingly encroaches on the expositions of St. Francis Xavier as a site of religious pilgrimage. 23 In my conversations with participants about their experiences of being part of history- in-the-making in Goa, I encounter a range of responses. More generally, for the many religious pilgrims who travel to Goa from within the Indian subcontinent as well as abroad, their Catholic faith has been renewed. Many of those tourists who have come to Goa for some rest and relaxation alongside some heritage tourism recognize the fact that they have witnessed a remarkable event, the majority of them telling me that Xavier should be put to rest, one participant confirming the widespread opinion that his bones look “tired and old.” 27 The majority of Goans (again, local, national, and international) inform me that his decennial exposition is a “tradition” that brings Goans together, from both near and far. Precisely because the Goan experience under Portuguese colonial rule was by nature an itinerant one as so many moved for

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economic opportunities within an empire that spanned Asia, Africa, and South America, cultural events like this one are important for gaining a sense of one’s past, however distant one may be temporally or spatially from that past. Interestingly, for this diasporic Goan community, the condition of Xavier’s corpse is largely incidental to the staging of his exposition; rather it is his enduring historical role and popularity that keep these global Goans coming back to visit on the occasion of his expositions. Thus, Xavier’s corpse continues to provide a sense of community for a group of people (both Catholics and Hindus) that share a common history, and that is devoted to their patron saint. 24 The sense of imminent end is fueled by rumors that are widely circulated via word of mouth and newspapers prior to the event that this might possibly be the last exposition of Xavier’s “sacred relics” due to their fragile state, a practice that also played a role in attracting participants during colonial times (Gupta 2014b). However, in the postcolonial period, it has become a more pressing issue as many officials – of both church and state – question the validity of his continued display. One Jesuit priest I spoke with voiced the opinion that many in the Archdiocese of Goa have shared since the end of colonialism: that “they should quietly bury Xavier” given the poor condition of his corpse and the changing socio-political context.28 This same Jesuit priest also pointed out to me that it is largely the Tourism Department in Goa that does not want to see the end of Xavier’s expositions, as it has the most to gain from its continuation. In other words, this rumor not only ensures a large number of attendants that, as a result, visit Old Goa partly out of a desire to be part of this soon-to-be historic moment, but it helps boost Goa’s position as a tourist destination both locally and globally, Xavier’s endangered and thus highly valued corpse being its continuing “main attraction.” However, I would also suggest that his postcolonial expositions, as part of a larger historical tradition of venerating his corpse, serve as a reminder of the power of history, and the uncertainty of the future, particular at a time when Xavier, much like Christopher Columbus, is being re-evaluated as a controversial historical figure in both private and public arenas. Here I point to one such incident: at an academic conference organized in 1994 to coincide with Xavier’s 15th exposition, an event at which I was in the audience, a Hindu Goan scholar presented a paper entitled “St. Francis Xavier: an anti-view,” in which he argued that Goa’s patron saint should be buried, and his veneration discontinued based on the “facts of colonial history” (Shirodkar 1994). His paper was not received without controversy; it provoked long editorials defending both sides of the debate in the local newspaper, The Navhind Times, and reinvigorated the way Goans today not only understand their colonial and missionary past, including Xavier’s role in these historical processes, but interpret it for future generations.29

Conclusion

25 To visit Old Goa during the exposition of St. Francis Xavier’s “Sacred Relics” is to take part in a remarkable event that only takes place once every ten years. As one Goan historian has suggested: “Today, four hundred and fifty years after his death, Xavier is still very [much] alive” (Gracias 2004). In this article, I have attempted to analyze the public display of a saint’s corpse as a ritual event wherein the corporeal and carnivalesque join forces to create a temporality where the present and future take over a space reserved for showcasing the past. Moreover, it is Xavier’s biography (in

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life and death) that becomes an organizing discourse for not only re-enacting Goa’s colonial and missionary past, renewing Catholic faith and confirming Goa’s place as a center of religiosity, but also packaging it for public consumption, and exposing the uncertainty of his fate in the hope of attracting more visitors to Goa, religious as well as secular. Nor can the role of the participants go unrecognized in these ritual processes. Together, this diverse group of individuals – local and diasporic Goans, Catholic pilgrims, and global tourists – take part in the transformation of the space of Old Goa, consume Goa’s “Portuguese” past, become part of history-in-the-making, and as a result, play a continuing role in determining the fate of Xavier. Most importantly, by participating in Xavier’s exposition, these individuals make meaning in their own lives out of the public display of the decaying corpse of a 450-year-old Catholic saint.

26 I end my exposition on the topic of Xavier with the reflections of a well-known postcolonial Indian writer who reinforces the persistent “problem” of Goa’s representation within the Indian nation-state, and which helps us to better understand the complex legacy of Portuguese colonialism in India. V. S. Naipaul in his travelogue, entitled India: A Million Mutinies Now, dedicates one mere paragraph to the subject of Goan history. He writes: “History in Goa was simple. In the long colonial emptiness the pre-Portuguese past had ceased to matter; it was something to be picked up from books; and then the 450 years of Portuguese rule was like a single idea that anyone could carry about with him. To leave Goa, to go south and west along the narrow, winding mountain road into the state of Karnataka, was to enter India and its complicated history again” (Naipaul 1990: 143). 27 Unlike Naipaul, I urge Goa’s present and future visitors to seek out its historical complexities and curiosities, the corpse and sacred relics of St. Francis Xavier being perhaps a good place to start.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

ANONYMOUS, 1890, Guide to the City of Old Goa: A Handbook for Visitors to the Exposition of the Sacred Body of St. Francis Xavier, Apostle of the Indies, During the Month of December 1890. Bombay, The Bombay Circulating Library Printing Press.

BAKHTIN, Mikhail Mikhailovich, 1984, Rabelais and His World. Bloomington, Indiana University Press, translation of H. Iswolsky.

CACHADO, Rita, 2004, “Em torno da anexação de Diu à União Indiana: ambientes políticos e memórias”, Oriente, 10: 94-106.

DIRKS, Nicholas B., 1993, The Hollow Crown: Ethnohistory of an Indian Kingdom. Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press.

DOUGLAS, Mary, 1973, “The two bodies”, in Mary Douglas, Natural Symbols: Explorations in Cosmology. New York, Random House, 69-87.

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FERNANDES, Newman, 2014, St. Francis Xavier and Old Goa: An Historical Guide. Panjim, Koinia Publications.

FOUCAULT, Michel, 1979, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. New York, Vintage Books, translation of A. M. Sheridan.

FRUZZETTI, Lina, and Rosa Maria PEREZ, 2002, “The gender of the nation: allegoric femininity and women’s status in Bengal and Goa”, Etnográfica, VI (1): 41-58.

GRACIAS, Fatima da Silva, 2004, “St. Francis Xavier, his memories in Goa”, unpublished paper presented at the Indo-Portuguese Seminar in History, Porvorim Goa, Xavier Centre for Historical Research.

GUPTA, Pamila, 2009, “Goa, the internal ‘exotic’ in South Asia: discourses of colonialism and tourism”, in A. Phukan and V. G. Rajan (eds.), Reading the Exotic: South Asia and its Others. Cambridge, Cambridge Scholars Press, 123-148.

GUPTA, Pamila, 2011, “Gandhi and the Goa question”, Public Culture, 23 (2): 321-330.

GUPTA, Pamila, 2014a, “Frozen vodka and white skin in tourist Goa”, in David Picard and Michael Di Giovine (eds.), Tourism and the Power of Otherness: Seductions of Difference. Bristol, Channel View Publications, 95-109.

GUPTA, Pamila, 2014b, The Relic State: St. Francis Xavier and the Politics of Ritual in Portuguese India. Manchester, Manchester University Press.

LEAL, João, 2011, “ ‘The past is a foreign country?’ Acculturation theory and the anthropology of globalization”, Etnográfica, 15 (2): 313-336, available at http://etnografica.revues.org/952 (last access January 2017).

NAIPAUL, V. S., 1990, India: A Million Mutinies Now. New York, Penguin Books.

NORONHA, Oscar de (ed.), 2004, Old Goa: The Complete Guide. Panjim, DTP Plus Publications.

PARKER, Richard, 1991, “The carnivalization of the world”, in R. Parker, Bodies, Pleasures and Passions: Sexual Culture in Contemporary Brazil. New York, Beacon Press, 153-183.

RAYANNA, P. (SJ), 1982, St. Francis Xavier and His Shrine. Panjim, Imprimatur (2nd edition).

RODRIGUES, A., et al. (eds.), 2004, The Goan Observer Guide to Exposition 2004. Panjim, Goan Observer Private Limited.

SHIRODKAR, Prakascandra Panduranga, 1994, “St. Francis Xavier: an anti-view,” paper presented at the seminar “St. Francis Xavier: Issues for Today”, Porvorim Goa, Xavier Centre of Historical Research.

STEWART, Susan, 1993, On Longing: Narratives of the Miniature, the Gigantic, the Souvenir, the Collection. Durham, Duke University Press.

TROUILLOT, Michel-Rolph, 1995, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History. Boston, Beacon Press.

TURNER, Victor, 1974, The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure. Hammondsworth, Penguin Books.

XAVIER, Felippe Neri, 1861, Resumo Historico da Maravilhosa Vida, Conversões, e Milagres de S. Francisco Xavier, Apostolo, Defensor, e Patrono das Índias. Nova Goa, Imprensa Nacional.

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NOTES

1. This article is based on fieldwork conducted in Old Goa from November 20, 2004 to January 4, 2005. 2. Xavier’s shrine operates alongside Our Lady of Health in Velkananni (Tamil Nadu), these being the two main sites for Catholic religious veneration on the Indian subcontinent. 3. See, for example, “Villa Paradiso” advertisement, Indian Airlines in-flight magazine between Mumbai and Goa (December 2004). 4. Built between 1594-1605, designed in the baroque architecture style, and originally called the “Casa Professa de Jesus” (House of Jesus), the Jesuits later changed the name of the Professed House to “Bom Jesus” in the 17th century. In Portuguese, “Bom” (Good or Holy) Jesus refers to the Infant Jesus whose statue was added next to those of St. Francis and St. Ignatius, founders of the . This basilica was conceived for the explicit purpose of showcasing the Jesuits; it later became the site of veneration for Xavier after his corpse was moved there in 1610 and his subsequent canonization in 1622. See Rayanna (1982: 162-168) and Gupta (2014b: chapters 2 and 3). It was declared a UNESCO World Heritage site in 1986 alongside Old Goa itself, and remains one of the finest examples of baroque architecture in India. 5. Inside the Bom Jesus, even if one stands on his / her tiptoes, one can barely see the actual corpse of Xavier as it is housed inside an elaborate casket and mausoleum. His Italian mausoleum, on the top of which is placed the silver casket of the body of St. Francis Xavier, was the gift of the last of the Medicis, Cosimo III, Grand Duke of Tuscany in 1696, and a devotee of Xavier. Commissioned by the Duke, and designed by the 17th century Florentine sculptor Giovanni Battista Foggini, it took ten years to complete. See Rayanna (1982). Xavier’s decennial exposition is the only time that the public is allowed access to his corpse, a move that authenticates and revives interest in him. 6. Tourists visiting Old Goa typically visit the Arch of the Viceroys, Basilica of Bom Jesus, Church of St. Francis of Assisi, Convent of St. Monica, Se Cathedral, and St. Augustine’s Tower, amongst other historic landmarks. 7. This approximate number was generously supplied to me by the “Exposition office” that was in charge of the day-to-day operations in Old Goa, as well as the following additional figures provided (December, 2004). 8. The Archdiocese of Goa is in charge of scheduling and overseeing Catholic masses and accommodating pilgrims to Goa, while the Goa Tourism Department is in charge of advertising, marketing, security, overseeing the market stalls, etc., and the Archaeological Survey of India is in charge of the buildings in Old Goa itself, making sure that no damages occur during the exposition. 9. By highly ritualized, I mean to say that participants take part in a series of actions that are both historically and culturally prescribed. 10. Since the beginning of the 20th century, the practice of transferring Xavier’s corpse from his “home” of Bom Jesus to the Se Cathedral to accommodate more people during his decennial expositions has continued. For additional details, see Fernandes (2014) and Gupta (2014b). 11. I point to different testimonies as representative of different experiences by a variety of pilgrims and tourists to Goa. All the following observations, interviews, and conversations with visitors took place in Old Goa, during fieldwork between November 2004 and January 2005. 12. Catholic masses are scheduled at regular times and in a variety of languages (English, Portuguese, Konkani, Marathi, Hindi, and Tamil) to accommodate a diversity of participants. 13. People come to Goa seeking Xavier’s intervention for a variety of reasons, including the healthy birth of a child, the cure of an illness, the securing of a job, etc. Others come to give thanks for all kinds of successes (Gracias 2004).

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14. St. Xavier’s College in Bombay is highly regarded in India for its quality of education. The naming of schools and academic institutions after Xavier is an extremely common practice that has contributed to his popularity. While the Jesuits were known for their innovative teaching methods, Jesuit schools today carry a reputation in India as being respectable institutions of higher learning. 15. This is a controversial topic as Xavier had written a letter to his fellow Jesuits in 1545 in support of initiating the Inquisition in Goa. However, he himself did little to install the Inquisition, what was not realized until 1560, eight years after his death (see Gupta 2014b). 16. The rumor that this is the last exposition of Xavier’s corpse is commonly spread with each of his expositions. I will return to this point in the last section of the article. 17. The Goa Tourism Department maintains strict quotas at the same time that it promotes Goa’s tourism industry. During the holiday season (December-February), inexpensive charter flights (historically from London, but more recently from Moscow) enable tourists to fly directly to Goa, without having to stop off in Mumbai, and often involve inexpensive package deals that are all inclusive of hotel accommodation, food, local travel, etc. (see Gupta 2014a). 18. Interview with an employee of the Archaeological Survey of India, December 13, 2004, Old Goa. 19. This is probably one of the most popular Xaverian stories, one that is repeated often. The retelling of past events such as this one in the present is an important aspect of the consumption of history as it keeps the figure of Xavier alive in the minds of the audience. It is not just a dead corpse, but rather a corpse with a rich and quite remarkable history. For more details on the retelling of this narrative throughout Goa’s history, see Gupta (2014b). 20. It struck me as significant that all of the Old Goa tour guides I encountered were male, suggesting that the role of local historian / tour guide was very much a gendered profession. 21. Xavier arrived in Japan in 1549 to set up the Jesuit mission. Even though his efforts were largely unsuccessful he did manage to create a small Catholic population in southern Japan that continues to celebrate Xavier. See Gupta (2014b). 22. Many Goans of an older generation refer to the end of Portuguese colonial rule as an “invasion” by the Indian Government. Goans were immediately given “refugee status”, and allowed to immigrate to Portugal as a result. It was not until the early 1990s that Goa and Portugal re-established diplomatic ties. For more details, see Rita Cachado (2004). 23. Reverend Pedro Lopez Quintana performed the service and speech. See “St. Xavier’s Feast,” in The Navhind Times, December 4, 2004, pp. 1-4. 24. These souvenirs are labeled with the words: “Souvenir of Solemn Exposition of the Sacred Relics of St. Francis Xavier, Goa, 2004-2005”. 25. Gandhi vacillated on the “Goa Problem” as it was referred to, at one point saying that the newly established Indian Government (post-1947) would help Goa gain its independence from Portugal, on another occasion saying it was up to the Goans to decide their own fate. In the end, many Goans perceive Gandhi as failing them and their drive for self-rule (Gupta 2011). 26. Interview, Xavier Centre of Historical Research, Porvorim Goa, December 10, 2004. 27. Interview, Old Goa, December 12, 2004. 28. Interview, Xavier Centre for Historical Research, Porvorim Goa, December 10, 2004. 29. See editorials of The Navhind Times, December 3, 4 and 5, 1994.

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ABSTRACTS

To enter Old Goa during the 2004 Exposition of St. Francis Xavier’s “Sacred Relics” is to experience a world where the corporeal and the carnivalesque coalesce. It is a ritual and religious space wherein the corpse of a 16th century Jesuit missionary-turned-saint takes center stage: pilgrims and tourists stand in the same line to “see” Xavier’s corpse and “touch” his glass casing, Goa’s (Portuguese) colonial legacy is exhibited for public consumption, Catholic religious services and lectures on this missionary’s biography in a variety of languages take place at regular intervals, makeshift stalls sell numerous iconic objects associated with the saint, and finally, the uncertainty of Xavier’s fate is exposed. In this article, I explore the many facets of this exposition of Goa’s patron saint, suggesting that by taking part in these highly ritualized acts focused on Xavier, tourists and pilgrims simultaneously transform the space of Old Goa, consume its “Portuguese” past, and become part of history-in-the-making in the face of the increasing fragility of his corpse. Although this paper is based on ethnographic research conducted in 2004, its themes remain relevant given that Xavier’s last decennial exposition was staged in 2014-2015, and will continue to take place at ten-year intervals.

Entrar em Velha Goa (Old Goa) durante a exposição das “relíquias sagradas” de S. Francisco Xavier em 2004 significa experienciar um mundo onde o corpóreo e o carnavalesco se unem. Trata-se de um espaço ritual e religioso onde o corpo do jesuíta missionário do século XVI, transformado em santo, adquire destaque: turistas e peregrinos esperam na mesma fila para “ver” o corpo de S. Francisco Xavier e “tocar” o seu túmulo de vidro; o legado colonial (português) de Goa é exibido para consumo público; serviços religiosos católicos e conferências sobre a biografia do missionário são realizados em diversas línguas a várias horas do dia; bancas improvisadas são montadas para vender numerosos objetos icónicos associados ao santo; é exposta a incerteza sobre o destino de S. Francisco Xavier. Neste artigo exploro estas várias dimensões desta exposição do santo patrono de Goa, sugerindo que os turistas e os peregrinos, ao participarem nestes atos fortemente ritualizados, simultaneamente transformam o espaço de Velha Goa, consomem o passado “português”, e passam a fazer parte de uma história em processo de construção, face à crescente fragilidade do corpo do jesuíta. Apesar de o artigo ser baseado numa pesquisa etnográfica conduzida em dezembro de 2004, os seus temas mantêm-se atuais, já que a última exposição de S. Francisco Xavier ocorreu em 2014-2015, prevendo-se que continue a realizar-se de dez em dez anos.

INDEX

Palavras-chave: Goa, Índia, S. Francisco Xavier, colonialismo português, jesuítas, turismo em Goa Keywords: Goa, India, St. Francis Xavier, Portuguese colonialism, Jesuits, Goa tourism

AUTHOR

PAMILA GUPTA

Wits Institute for Social and Economic Research (WISER), University of the Witwatersrand, South Africa [email protected]

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Religious dances and tourism: perceptions of the “tribal” as the repository of the traditional in Goa, India Danças religiosas e turismo: os “tribais” percecionados como o repositório do tradicional em Goa, Índia

Cláudia Pereira

Transforming identity through the institutionalization of dance

1 Certain Catholic Goans perform dances during religious worship that refer both to Catholicism and Hinduism.1 These religious ceremonies grant the group collective well- being while other Catholics that do not celebrate them are now slowly becoming acquainted with the dancing. From relative obscurity in the village, these ceremonial dances have transitioned to urban stages through tourism, where they are performed in what is perceived to be unique to this group as compared to other Goans – their cultural heritage. I focus the analysis on the transformations that occurred in the Catholic Gawda’s tribal identity through the visibility gained by the performance of their dances.

2 Since they are considered the most “backward,” in part because they lived near the forest, the Gawda are perceived by other Goans to be the original inhabitants of the area. This representation suffered a transformation because in the 21st century they have become a repository of traditional Goa by representing an authentic Goan identity in their dancing. This is believed to be originally Goan and pre-colonial, hence revealing Indian authenticity. Located in the considered “lower tiers” of the caste system, the Gawda’s social status has been revised through the qualification of their dancing as vernacular, both by foreign and domestic tourists and by Goans themselves.

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The relevance of their dancing as integral to Goa’s cultural heritage has therefore provided the Gawda with integration into Goan society, starting from the bottom of the social system. Across India folk dances have witnessed change with transitions to public performance (in fact a pan-Indian phenomenon).2 The paradox of the situation lies in the fact that as the Gawda gained visibility vis-a-vis the outside world while experiencing modernization and globalization, their identity suffered the opposite effect, being reified as “timeless,” or frozen in time. Hence, there is an “invention of tradition” (Hobsbawm 1992 [1983]), though this does not necessarily imply that what is presented in their performances is a fabrication (although they are homogenized for touristic performance). Instead, the “invention” is symbolic in nature as put forth by Hobsbawm (1992 [1983]: 1), revealing a stereotypical perception of the Gawda’s identity under the assumption that they carry out ancestral practices. Therefore, the categorization as tribal linked to the Gawda remains unchanged, though now attached to a whole new meaning. 3 Enabling this identitary transformation has been the fact that the Gawda may be considered either aborigine or indigene in transnational indigeneity discourse because their members are considered the initial inhabitants of a location. Questions, however, arise: how do groups considered tribal transform their identity in today’s modernizing India? What role has the government and tourism played in this process? 4 The Gawda’s invisibility has been conferred by their omission from the literature on Goan music, both in references to their caste/tribe as well as to the style and scope of their performance. However, some works have focused on the Gawda’s musical heritage (Henn 2003; Henn and Siqueira 2010; Fernandes 2009; Pereira 2010, 2012; Bara 2013), and the dhalo ritual, dance and songs (Khedekar 2004; Dessai 2006). Recently, the project Archives and Research Centre for Ethnomusicology (ARCE) of the American Institute of Indian Studies (University of Chicago) in New Delhi, coordinated by the ethnomusicologist Shubha Chaudhuri, has enabled online publication of much of the Gawda’s musical repertory.3 The existing studies on Goan music have mainly focused on the dominant culture displaying a mixture of vernacular and Western influence. The Brahmins and the Chardé, considered Catholic high castes, due to their former proximity to Portuguese colonizers (cf. Newman 1984) had the literacy and authority to define Goan culture in order to distinguish it from Portuguese culture (Sardo 2011). In regard to the scope of their performance in tourism, literature makes no reference to the Gawda, focusing on broader-scale phenomena arising from the transformations in the tourism sector after the to India, such as: the trance music festivals (Saldanha 2005; D’Andrea 2007; St. John 2011); lifestyle migrants (Korpela 2016); Portuguese heritage and Goa as an exotic destination for Indians (Perez 2006; Trichur 2007; Gupta 2009); and the impact of the tourism industry (Wilson 1997; Alvares 2002; Noronha et al. 2002; Breda and Costa 2012). As such, it is necessary to document the relationship between the touristic performances of the Gawda and their religious ceremonies outside the events, in the “back stage” (cf. MacCannell 1973). 5 The Gawda are predominantly farmers who towards the end of the 20th century gained some economic mobility thanks to land reforms and government education grants as a result of their Scheduled Tribe status. The majority of the Gawda are Hindu (57%), the remainder Christian (Government of Goa 2005). They can be divided into three groups: Hindus, Catholics and Neo-Hindus. The Hindu Gawda are known as the Konkanne Gawda, a term which refers to an inhabitant of the area (where Goa is located) as well

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as to Hinduism (the original religion of India).4 The Catholic Gawda are the section of the Hindu Gawda that converted to Catholicism through contact with the Portuguese when the latter colonized Goa from the 16th century onwards.5 The Neo-Hindu are the Catholic Gawda who performed the Shuddi, a Hindu purification ceremony, between 1926 and 1932, and have since become Hindu. 6 The Gawda are placed in the lower fringes of the social scale by the remaining castes, classified either as tribal (hence excluded from the caste system) or regarded in the social space between the Sudra and the Untouchables, at the very bottom of the scale (Pereira 2009). In Goa in 2003, the Gawda, Kunnbi and Velip gained the status of Scheduled Tribe. The arguments for this administrative classification were based on their economic and educational backwardness and their being considered the first inhabitants of Goa.6 In India, a group within the population which has been given tribal status will enjoy the benefit of political instruments by the government in order to assure its members’ educational and economic mobility by attaining the administrative classification of “Scheduled Tribes,” who are 8.6% of the total Indian population and 10.2% in Goa (Government of India 2013: 126). The categories “caste” and “tribe” are not mutually exclusive, but contiguous, as observed among the Gawda at a social, ritual and administrative level (Pereira 2009). 7 This paper is based on ethnographic research conducted over a year in 2006 and 2007 in Goa among Catholic Gawda. Goa is located on the southwest coast of India. The territory was colonized by the Portuguese in the 16th century and was only integrated into the Republic of India by annexation in 1961. In 1987 it became one of the youngest states of India, months after Konkani and Marathi were declared the official languages of Goa. Portuguese influence, largely through Catholicism, is visible even today, particularly in the Catholic population in the central coastal area – nearly one fourth of the total population (25% according to the 2011 Census), while the rest of the territory is markedly Hindu (66% in 2011).7 Research was conducted in a small village in the taluka of Quepem, a majorly Hindu area in the south of Goa. 8 This taluka holds the largest proportional percentage of Scheduled Tribes in Goa, 34% as of 2005 (Government of Goa 2005: 24). The village of Avedem’s population totals 1,650 inhabitants,9 one third of which are Gawda, equally divided between Christians and Hindus. 8 The analysis is grounded in the ethnographic method, namely including participant observation, interviewing, transcription of song lyrics and a structured field diary. The participant observation through daily interaction with the Gawda allowed observation of the identity transformation within the group, by following its members at home, in the rice fields, at prayer, annual religious ceremonies and in their performances for tourists, all of which has been systematized in a field diary. On one occasion I was invited to take part in the Gawda’s dance during the ritual of dhalo, where I was able to experience firsthand their embodied practices, and this communion led women in the group to provide me with further data they had previously withheld. Several in-depth, semi-structured interviews conducted with the Catholic Gawda enabled me to document the evolution of the dance group and rituals over the years; the religious beliefs involved in the practice of rituals; and song lyrics that were transcribed. Hindu Gawda and members belonging to other castes were also interviewed, as were cultural and tourist agents, and even tourists, in order to provide a broader context of the Catholic Gawda’s position in modern Goa.

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9 This case study of Catholic Gawda therefore focuses on a village in the predominantly Hindu southern Goa. Given that their self-designation as Gawda diverges from their being known to the outside as Kunnbi, I begin by analyzing the differences and similarities between both terms, in order to grasp how these “Kunnbi dances” have been socially constructed as vernaculars of Goa. Then I provide a description of a same practice, dhalo, in a touristic performance where it is danced before an audience, and in a religious ceremony where it is performed in private, examining Hindu influence in their Catholic worship and providing excerpts from song lyrics. In the analytical sections I shall begin by comparing religious ceremony with touristic performance, given Goffman’s concept of ritual as a closure of borders (Goffman 2005 [1967]), then verifying how the Gawda’s performances, as any other touristic phenomenon, are an identity construction directed towards tourists, while still remaining an integral part of the Gawda’s own identity (cf. Boissevain 1996). Though these public performances produce identity in the sense that they lead to gains in political, economical and cultural capital for the Catholic Gawda (and are also a means of reducing social inequality), they are also a product of transformations in their own identity, set in a broader structure of political, economic and cultural changes across the state of Goa. This transformation hence reveals an “invention of tradition” (Hobsbawm 1992 [1983]) not in the sense of a fabrication of the content of the Gawda’s performance, but rather by attaching to the Gawda the perception of a repository of traditional India. This perception is stimulated by the selected form in which the Gawda perform before their audience through the use of costumes and homogenization of their performances. 10 I propose that through a process of commodification of culture and subsequent validation in the public realm, the tribal identity attributed by other Goans to the Gawda has shifted from being regarded as backward to valued as traditional and respected for maintaining and promoting cultural heritage. This process arises in the wake of a global trend, in which marginalization and backwardness are reversed and promoted to culture; in this case, the Gawda’s musical manifestations have been objectified as Goan culture (cf. Handler 1988). 11 Together with this conclusion, over the course of this research two additional findings surfaced. Their dancing includes both Catholic and Hindu references, which is understandable given the context of Hindu hegemony, although until recently the Catholic Gawda were among those who lived farthest away from the remaining castes (cf. Pereira 2009). The second unexpected finding was a shift in the way the group perceives its own dancing, now valuing what was previously disregarded. When I revealed my interest in their dancing, a member of the group responded: “Why study us, when there are more interesting dances such as the ones in higher castes that even speak Portuguese?” [Tina, age 51].10 Later on, they allowed the transcription of song lyrics (until then only transmitted orally) for the first time in 2006. These songs were also for the first time translated from their native into Portuguese on the same occasion.11 It is important to point out that the translation of the Gawda’s songs took place under the condition that, at most, small excerpts would be published, in order to prevent plagiarism from other groups.12 One year later, with the influence of tourism being felt by the group, they began to reflect upon the value of their dancing, fearing identitary misappropriation, because they themselves view their dances as part of a unique heritage, much like other Goans view them. This perception of singularity strengthens the idea of a genuine India, untouched by outside influence,

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often through the strategic avoidance of other castes (through endogamy and commensality) and through isolation, which is now valued – such as the present study case shows. 12 To put this strategy into perspective, the Gawda, like most of India’s population, live in rural settings (68.8% for the general population, according to Census 2011, in Chandramouli 2013: xi), where most community members have few resources, aggravated by government policy, which left them largely illiterate. Recent efforts in education initiated towards the end of the 20th century have granted younger generations the access to new economic and educational capital. As is the case with their religious worship, which includes practices unique to them within the Catholic population in the village, in their touristic performance the same strategy of avoiding other castes and musical groups is employed as a device for the closure of borders (cf. Goffman 2005 [1967]). The Catholic Gawda also prevent the digital reproduction of their songs in order to minimize the risk of being copied, which singles them out from other musical groups with equally scarce resources from India and other countries who have chosen to benefit from modern technology to maximize their exposure (cf. Naithani 2005; Hayward 2011; Nhlekisana 2011).

Gawda and Kunnbi: group’s status through nomenclature

13 The intangible heritage built socially as a vernacular expression of Goa is directly attributed to the Gawda and also to the Kunnbi, who share several cultural and socio- economical similarities, as the anthropologist Robert Newman points out: “Among the lower castes is a large group who, while Catholic or Hindu, particularly resemble the tribal population of other areas of India. Known as ‘Gavda’ or ‘Kunnbi’, they share much the same appearance, folk culture and socio-economic position, despite their religious affiliations. Because of this, they may be said to form the solid base of Goan regional culture: Konkani-speaking, having a common world- view of a syncretic Hindu-Catholic variety, with a shared livelihood based on agriculture, fishing and liquor-distilling” (Newman 1984: 436). 14 These similarities led to the dancing in question being attributed to both Gawda and Kunnbi, being frequently referred to as “Kunnbi Dance,” as they are usually presented in the Kala Akademi Lokotsav (Folk Festival).13 Curumbim is the Portuguese word used by the Catholic elite of Goa to translate from Konkani both Gawda and Kunnbi (Pereira 2009). However, Gawda and Kunnbi are distinguishable by religion, the villages and regions of Goa they inhabit and also their economic status. Both groups employ the same points to argue their uniqueness when they are identified as similar by outside observers. Though they consider themselves different based on these three criteria, the Gawda and Kunnbi groups have not been isolated from one another and they have long intermarried as well.

15 In some villages, nonetheless, the Gawda consider themselves of higher comparative social value than the Kunnbi, because they regard the Kunnbi as backwards and as the inhabitants of the top of hills. The Gawda claim they are called Kunnbi by outsiders due to their social and cultural proximity, although they are in fact Gawda. 16 Moreover, when another similar group of a different religion resides in the same village, the case-study group in my research prefers to be regarded as Gawda, as has

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been verified in other locations in Goa (cf. Montemayor 1970; Khedekar 2004; Government of Goa 2005). For these reasons, rarely are both Hindu and Catholic Gawda found in the same village, as occurs as well with Hindu and Catholic Kunnbi (Silva 1993 [1989]). The homogenization of the two groups in the same village by other castes, who regard them as similar, leads to the maintenance of a certain distance in terms of the groups’ nomenclature, so that there may be balance in their social relations. This contrast claimed by both Gawda and Kunnbi is hence revealed specifically through: — religion – the Catholic Gawda say the “Kunnbi are Hindu,” as the Hindu Gawda say the “Kunnbi are Catholic;” — village population – in the Canacona area (southern Goa) there are no Catholic Gawda and the Hindus define themselves as Kunnbi; in Ponda villages (central Goa) it is said there are no Catholic Kunnbi and the Hindus declare themselves to be Gawda; — regions of Goa – there appears to be a greater number of Kunnbi in Canacona (most Southern region of Goa) and the number of those who identify themselves as Gawda appears to increase as one advances from South to the Centre and North of Goa; — economic status – associated to the Kunnbi is a notion of economic backwardness due to the fact they have traditionally lived in reclusive areas or in the mountains, which leads to a reluctance to being recognized as Kunnbi, in contrast with the Gawda. 17 Research sheds light on this complexity within only one village: when questioned, some interviewees designated the Catholic and Hindu Gawda as Kunnbi/Curumbim; while others separated the group in classifying the Catholic Gawda as Kunnbi and the Hindu Gawda as Gawda; others would make this distinction in the opposite manner (Catholics as Gawda and Hindu as Kunnbi). However, in the case-study village, both the Catholic and Hindu groups refer to themselves as Gawda and for that reason Gawda is the term used to refer to them in this article. Two women, for instance, who travelled from neighboring villages in another area, , to marry in this village, referred to themselves as Kunnbi/Gawdi (being from Betul and Raia, where there were no Hindu Gawda, there was no need for a terminological distinction between Catholics and Hindus). Also, when requesting the status of Scheduled Tribe, the Hindu and Catholic Gawda together assumed themselves as Gawda, according to the administrative data of the Talathi, which initiated the attribution of this status to the Gawda, Kunnbi and Velip (Pereira 2009).

18 The media, literature and museology have displayed this classificatory ambiguity by identifying the group under analysis here interchangeably as Gawda or Kunnbi.14 Such is the case of the Goa State Museum in Panjim where the dancing group is referred to as Kunnbi. In one of their performances at the folk festival organized by Kala Academy in February 2006 they were introduced as “tribal of Goa, Kunnbi-Gawda,” bringing the two categories together. In the media, the dancing group named Keniabhat Mahila Mandal (“the dancing women of the Keniabhat neighborhood,” from the village studied in this research) is usually identified as Kunnbi. This, according to the group’s director, is due to the fact that when they first performed in Panjim in 1972 the information provided by the group was misleading: they were introduced by the Department of Art and Culture as Kunnbi in order to distinguish them from the Hindus of the Mardol village, Ponda, identified as Gawda. They used therefore the criterion of religion to distinguish the two groups, calling the Catholics Kunnbi and the Hindus Gawda, and for that reason the group was from then on designated by outsiders as Kunnbi.

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19 The fact that the group’s status has been negotiated shows us how it is neither stable nor permanent, often challenged by its own members in their group’s nomenclature and not consensually accepted by the other castes (cf. Pereira 2003). The dance group is also known as Kunnbi as are other groups of Goa due to similar cultural references linking them to that social category, a classification which is disliked by the group’s members. Often the group is distinguished from other Kunnbi dance groups by their director’s name, Amélia Dias. 20 This process has consolidated their identity among Goans and other Indians as Kunnbi and “tribal” (associated pejoratively to backwardness), but this perception is now shifting to a more positive light through the inclusion of their practices, still considered tribal, in Goa’s cultural heritage. In fact, Kunnbi dance as a touristic item became widespread in Goa, performed in tourist boats and by school children in their functions. In the present case study, this distinction between Gawda and Kunnbi has become instrumental in the group’s affirmation of not being classed as Kunnbi by making use of their dance’s identitary influence. By generating greater value for their own status through performance, the Gawda look to establish the Gawda identity as more socially valuable than that of Kunnbi.

Dhalo as touristic performance and religious practice

21 Catholic Gawda women’s main celebration is dhalo, in which they dance and sing dhalo (the same name for a ritual and a form of dance) and fugdi. They also perform dhalo and fugdi during some of their farming work, as well as “wedding songs” at their marriage ceremonies. The men’s ritual is intruz, which coincides with carnival in which khell (a Gawda-specific form of theater) and mhell (“being together”) is performed when visiting neighboring villages. In the same fashion, Hindus practice shigmo, which occurs around the same time and in which requests of protection and fertility are renewed. The Hindu and Catholic Gawda’s songs are alike in their representations of everyday life and of nature, and are different when relating to Catholic and Hindu entities, as would be expected. To better grasp how the Gawda’s religious dancing reach the stage, I shall first describe one of their touristic performances as well as one of their religious ceremonies, dhalo, taking place in the same year.

22 One evening in October 2007 I was invited to accompany the Catholic Gawda to a performance for tourists, as I had been several times before, joining the women in their makeup preparations for the show. They then dressed in their traditional outfit, which distinguishes them from the remaining castes who wear untied, full-length saris. The sari used by the Gawda women is the kapod, a red and white checkered cotton knee- length sari, tied at the shoulder (deutelli). Finally, the women adorn themselves with accessories, a necklace of black and golden beads (az);15 another necklace (gholshiri) made of coins (povnam) and a red stone (poule); an earring with an additional chain attached to the woman’s hair (sorpinati); the bracelets (kankon) and marigolds in their hair. The men collect their musical instruments, already adorned in a knee-length white cloth with red stripes tied along the waist (toalo) and a white sleeveless undershirt (banniyan).16 This traditional costume is an important identitary element which distinguishes the group from the remaining castes and evokes the past, social roles and status, having a specific association with farming work, given that the majority work in the field. The women, for instance, would not be able to bend over in

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the rice floodplains without wetting their clothing were the kapod not knee-length, as opposed to longer saris (Pereira 2010). 23 Upon finishing the aesthetic preparation, we moved on to the venue of the performance. We crossed the rice fields (freshly green due to the recent monsoon) in a pickup truck to arrive at the Palácio do Deão (“Dean’s Palace”)17 in the neighboring city of Quepem. A gathering of people in red kapods and white scarves passed along outside the palace toward the performance venue, which was surrounded by canopies of the garden’s trees and filled with seating for spectators, where the Palace’s owners awaited the group. The audience was a group of Portuguese tourists who had purchased an organized tour package to visit Goa. 24 In the performance the men play the musical instruments and women sing and dance. A male Gawda begins the performance playing a crescendo rhythm with sticks on a drum (ghumat, an oval shaped clay drum covered on one end with lizard skin), and is joined soon after by other local percussion instruments, such as the kaansaalem, dhol and taaso. This is followed by the rhythmic stomping of the dancers’ feet, intensified with the jangling of their bracelets, and finally the voice of a Gawdi singer. For over an hour the tourists listen and applaud. The western spectators remarked they were surprised because it transported them to an exotic setting, alien to their usual references. Since the performance included specific parts of their rituals selected backstage for presentation, the audience gauges the group’s identity through their uniform performances and carefully composed costumes. 25 To this exaltation of the senses adds the taste experience, when the tourists dine on Goan food in an Indo-Portuguese palace hall, in which the Portuguese historical memory and identity also play an important role for the tourists while in Goa. The Gawda were perceived as unique by the tourists and one of them wished to own a recording of their music, to whom I explained the groups’ fears of their repertoire being copied, which has impeded recording their performances: “We have visited several parts of Goa but hadn’t yet seen anything like this, this is an authentic Goan group, are they not? They remind me of other indigenous, tribal groups of other countries. How can I get hold of a CD or DVD of their performance? I am deeply enjoying Goa and this was one of my favorite moments, very unexpected. This palace feels like Goa, as well as Portugal” [António, Portugal, age 42; translated from Portuguese]. 26 In spite of living within two kilometers of this palace, the Gawda’s very first visit occurred only in 2006 when they performed there, and to this date their contact has been limited to the external architecture; they have never been inside. The Gawda’s weak socio-economical status through the eyes of other castes has led them to display a corporal habitus (Bourdieu 1972), which shows their unease in these surroundings, known to them only through their performances. Adult and elderly Gawda had been farm laborers (mundkar) in the rice paddy fields and coconut palms belonging to large Catholic landowners or to the Hindus of more socially valued castes. They were paid in a share of crops, with no exchange of money, which they were unaccustomed to utilizing for economic transactions. These Gawda were widely targeted by policies of dominance that only subsided after the implementation of agricultural reforms that took place after the annexation of Goa in 1961, as well as the government subsidization after their classification as a Scheduled Tribe in the early 21st century. This highly unequal social structure barred them from achieving social mobility and in a way

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limited them to only socializing in a restricted circle within their own group, which has led to them being regarded today as unique and “uncontaminated.”

27 This social exclusion is hence the circumstance that allows them to be valued and perceived as a repository of genuine Goan identity nowadays. This process led to the increase of their cultural and “identitary” capital, due to the dances commodification, which enabled them to visit new locations and have contact with different social entities with greater economic and cultural capital. 28 Later in October 2007 into early November I witnessed the same dancing but in the religious dhalo ceremony. As a ritual, its role in the Gawda’s annual calendar is of great importance. It is the moment when women dance within their neighborhood, performing the same dances yet, unlike the performance described above, hidden from the exterior (once more the closure in Indian society). The dhalo includes practices unique to the Gawda, not shared with other Catholics in the village, who have little knowledge of it, revealing the identitary distance between groups. 29 The religious dhalo takes place at an auspicious time because there is plenty of food after the rice harvest, which is the foundation of their diet. In the Catholic liturgical calendar, the dhalo takes place before the “day of souls” or of “the departed,” alma dis, on November 2nd. As a dance, women perform it splitting along two parallel lines, facing each other with joined arms, one line coming forth singing, stepping back, then the other line repeating the pattern. This back and forth movement justifies the dhalo’s (or dhalop’s) etymology, signifying “flowing” or “swaying” in Marathi (cf. Dessai 2006). 30 Women commence the dance three, five or seven nights before November 2nd, always on odd numbered nights. According to Gawda women, this is because odd numbers symbolize fertility and are auspicious. They start the ritual either on a Wednesday or a Sunday, the days of Gaon-Purush, the only days not dedicated to Hindu gods in the Hindu weekly calendar, which is respected by the Catholic Gawda. Gaon-Purush is a protector spirit with a human form, their ancestor from whom they trace the genealogy (whose name derives from the word for “village,” gaon, and Purush, the original inhabitant of the vaddo, or neighborhood). Dhalo is a propitiatory dance, seeking to ease Gaon-Purush into not disturbing the deceased and their living relatives on the day their souls return home, the day the church remembers its dead (Pereira 2009). This ceremony stems from the Hindu cult of diwali (in short, “festival of lights”), 18 in the words of one of the performers: “Our Hindu ancestors worshiped in honor of the dead on diwali, but upon conversion to Catholicism this was prohibited by the pakli [‘white’, meaning ‘Portuguese’], which led to the celebration taking place on alma dis, when the Church remembers its dead, usually after diwali. By this time the rice has been picked, and alma dis takes place before diwali so he [Gaon-Purush] does not get irate for our continuing to remember the dead on dhalo” [Maria, age 59]. 31 This explanation, the same one given by other women in the group, is of relevance for demonstrating the Catholic Gawda’s logic in negotiating rituals between Catholicism and Hinduism. Together with Catholic practices, they also adapt and practice rituals with Hindu references passed down by parents and relatives (Pereira 2009), as the following description of the religious ceremony shows.

32 In dhalo ritual there is a division by gender, in which the women sing and dance and the men watch; in the men’s rituals, intruz, the opposite occurs. In 2007 the Catholic Gawda began dhalo on a Wednesday, one of Gaon-Purush’s assigned days, as already mentioned.

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That evening, as in the following ones, the women removed their shoes (as do their Hindu neighbors in their religious ceremonies) and sat in a circle around the sacred space of the maand, a yard located in front of the home of its guardian, the maandkar (in other cases, in front of Hindu temples), where the religious dances take place. The maandkar lights the holy lamp (deuli), as do the Hindus in their ceremonies, thus commencing the dhalo. The maandkar then carries the lamp towards the cross located in the maand, where Gaon-Purush can be found on such nights, according to the Gawda. This is the reason why Catholic prayers are offered to Gaon-Purush, such as Hail Marys and Our Fathers, also invoking Goenchen Saibini, “Our Lady of the Village,” in this case, “of Conception”, the patron saint of the parish. 33 After praying, the women begin their dancing and sing one song; an excerpt of its lyrics is here presented:

Dhalo

Row Amgelea Maandarin dovorla narl A coconut is in our maand 1

Row Te nallak paio tumi podai ghe, Lean on to Him, displaying respect in your prayer, 2 aichean dhalo tumi lo korai […] we shall commence dhalo as from today […]

Row Toleantali dadhoy tolem firta A fish swims round in the lake 1 Toleantali dadhoy tolem firta A fish swims round in the lake

Row Saibinicho roth bado maandari khelta Seems like the cart that goes round like Our Lady in 2 re dhalo, the maand

Saibinicho roth bado Maandari khelta Seems like the cart that goes round like Our Lady in […] the maand […]

Row Ogi eili ogi eilo kitya eilolim gue? Why have you come so slowly? 1

Row Ami eiloli, ami eilolim Katarina We have come to propose marriage to Catarina […] 2 soirikek gue […]

Row Ghodé sotri laun tankam bolonn hadai Send the horse and the sunshade to call for them 1 gue

Row Sov vorachem tat tanka zevon vadai Feed them at 6 in the evening 2 gue […]

34 These verses are sung by both the Catholic and Hindu Gawda women, noting the similarity of the cults. When this collection of songs of the Catholic Gawda was compared with the one of the Hindu Gawda of the same location, Quepem, carried out by the folklorist Ullas Dessai (2006: 7-19), there was a strong resemblance in the verses. Therefore, the Catholic Gawda adapt the hegemonic Hindu references by maintaining them in most verses, replacing Hindu gods with Catholic deities in certain parts, as the excerpted lyrics show. We find a reference to a coconut, essential to any Hindu practice (puja), as well as a horse and a sunshade, calling upon the Hindu groom (before he

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meets his bride in a marital ceremony) and the wooden cart, which is the most privileged means of transportation for parading Hindu deities around their temples during annual festivities such as zatra.19 However, in this case it is Saibini, “Our Lady” who is taken on the cart, while we find in the Hindu version of the song the goddess Santeri (Pereira 2009). Hence the song in both Catholic and Hindu versions presents the same structure, save for the verse in which Santeri is replaced by Saibini.

35 The way dhalo is practiced by the Catholic Gawda and the lyrics in its songs show a religious pluralism with both Catholic and Hindu references when observed from an outside perspective (etic); contrasting their practices with those of other Catholic castes who consider themselves to have ways of acting more in line with what they conceive as a legitimate Catholic religiosity. However, from inside (emic perspective) the Catholic Gawda regard their religion authentically only as Catholicism. In their native language, Konkani, they refer to it as cristao dharma, using the word assigned to religion in India that is derived from the Sanskrit dhri, meaning that which has been established or has become firm. This is only approximate because this word has no direct translation into western languages nor a semantical equivalent (Flood 1996: 52).20 Therefore, dharma has a specific meaning that differs from “religion.” Just as the Hindu dharma has several gods, to the Catholic Gawda Catholicism also harbors several deities and references, and the word dharma is used to refer to Hinduism and Catholicism as two distinct beliefs, but in an inclusive manner, in which the worship of one does not preclude the worship of the other (cf. Pereira 2012). 36 Returning to the ritual in itself, contrary to the performance for foreign and Indian audiences, where the costume is stereotyped for every performer, this ritual is more informal and youth can dance in everyday clothing such as jeans, t-shirt, skirt and blouse, or the vistid (“dress” in Konkani); adults dance with a cotton sari or vistid; while elderly women wear their traditional dress, the kapod, tied in a knot over their shoulder, or the vistid. They wear ornaments ranging from gold to plastic, depending on their personal choice and therefore quite different from the standardized aesthetic effect when performing for tourists. 37 On the final night of November 1st, “all saints day” before the souls of the deceased are believed to “come home,” the celebrations go on until early morning in order to coincide with the time when these souls are believed to visit their loved ones. A few hours later, on the morning of November 2nd, the Gawda attend mass at their church together with the village’s other Catholics, where a packed congregation remember their dead relatives and take part in the homily for their eternal rest. This is followed by a trip to the cemetery where the dead relatives’ graves are decorated with colored flowers, after which the attendees proceed to their jobs.

The dance as a mobilizing force of political, economical and cultural capital

38 Processes of commodification of culture such as the one the Gawda are experiencing occurred before in other countries (cf. Handler 1988), such as Indonesia, where “… practice has become performance” (Acciaioli 1985: 153). These performances by the Catholic Gawda have been included in what is called “folk dancing” in India, in regard to musical heritage of rural origin. These usually belong to groups at the bottom of the

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social system, be it amateurs or professionals, where dances are passed down from elders to the younger generations at social and religious functions, as well as agricultural ones, such as the harvest.

39 In order to grasp the transition that objectification of culture has brought upon the group, it is necessary to understand the difference between the religious ritual and the touristic performance (cf. Boissevain 1996), and later analyze how tourism now becomes new ground for negotiating the Gawda’s identity. What sets the Gawda apart is their relationship with the Goan government and individual agencies that bring value to their tribal identity (as well as transforming it), and integrate them in Goan society by giving them visibility and a new voice. This connection between politics and culture has hence revealed itself to be intrinsic to the construction of the Gawda’s identity.21 40 Upon comparing the two performances described above, as religious ritual and touristic event, three striking differences are apparent. First, religious cult is absent from the touristic presentations. Secondly, longer dance practices in the ritual are shortened for public performance. Thirdly, the format of the dancing and the costumes are consolidated in order to present uniform touristic performances, reserving spontaneity and creativity in dance and outfits only to the religious ceremony. 41 These differences are identical to those found in the case of other forms of dance that have been folklorized, becoming stage demonstrations and object of consumption by the general public (cf. Castelo-Branco and Branco 2003). Other terminology has also been used to describe similar cases in different regions, such as revival, institutionalization, objectification, commercialization, turistification, democratization of culture and mediatisation of culture (cf. Alge 2007), all used in this text to better illustrate these processes. 42 However, certain similarities were found between the private religious practice and the public performances. Both are rituals in accordance to Goffman’s (2005 [1967]) concept, that is acts of symbolic interaction through stereotypified forms which reach beyond a mere religious ceremony. Given this conception of ritual as an element of interaction, both in the private practice and in public performance of the Gawda’s dancing there is symbolic signaling – the removal of shoes in the holy ground of the maand as the ceremony begins or the use of traditional dress in public and secular stages, among other possible examples. Additionally, both are focused and delimit the group’s borders (cf. Goffman 2005 [1967]). In the religious ceremony there is an exchange of cultural heritage through body language and voice in their dancing, which is orally handed down from generation to generation only among the Gawda, barring others from taking part in it, which also justifies their reluctance to record their performances in audio or video registrations, in order to better control the group’s borders. 43 We now move on to address the political, economical and cultural changes at a national level in India and at a regional level in Goa that have allowed for the shifting of the Gawda’s folk dancing to the stage and their resulting gains in capital and resources. 44 The repositioning of tradition as tourism attraction is a wider process of government- driven folklorisation taking place throughout India (cf. Chatterji 2004). As a post- colonial strategy of building the nation, Indian governments have promoted public performances of folk dancing: from 1953 onward the Republic Day parades in Delhi (annually on January 19th) have featured performances of folk groups from each state, where each wears matching costumes and rehearses a standardized performance

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(cf. Tarabout 2005). The following year, 1954, the Folk Dance Festival was created (Tarabout 2005). These strategies sought to promote a common Indian identity through integration of “tribal” art forms as “authentic Indian culture” (Ashley 1993). 45 Politicians of regional governments, just as politicians in Goa, have resorted to the same strategy, seeking to present a state identity distinct from other states. For this reason, the Gawda, known as “tribal” and a part of “Goan authentic culture,” have been promoted by the regional government. This promotion, again, is in itself a postcolonial tool of building the identity of the state. 46 This process of folklorisation started off slowly after Goa’s annexation to India in 1961. In 1987, Goa became a state of India and the tourism industry settled in the region, now requiring the services of local folk groups (cf. Sardo 2011). Following this, the Gawda began to be regarded as a form of vernacular culture of the Goan state, and consequently “authentic.” Authenticity meant that which was original, in other words, a present-day social construction that remits to a past that is perceived as genuine (cf. E. Cohen 1988; MacCannell 1973; Wang 1999; Korpela 2010). In the case of the Gawda this authenticity invokes an imaginary setting in which their dancing is perceived as “pre-Portuguese heritage,” being pre-colonial and original of Goa (Pereira 2010). The cultural agents of the government of Goa (the Directorate of Art & Culture and its institutions, such as Kala Academy) have wished to portray Goa’s culture in stage demonstrations in national events as well as in international ones, such as when the Catholic Gawda performed in Russia in 1978. This institutionalization sought not only to promote tourism economically, but also to use it to benefit certain political interests. 47 The global trend of democratizing culture is also felt in Goa, where these heritagisation processes are no longer restricted to the dominant classes’ cultures, and today include alternative voices such as the Gawda’s. The section for “Goan Folk Dances and Art Forms” of the Department of Tourism of the Government of Goa has spread throughout India Goa’s cultural singularity when compared to India’s remaining states, founded in a combination of vernacular and colonial legacies: “Goa has a unique cultural heritage, rich and lively and it is known for several folk festivals and performances. […] Many castes, sub-castes and tribes mingled in its social texture in Goa’s long history […]. The traditional folk music and dances have continued uninterruptedly, while the influence of the Portuguese music and dance on the local culture has helped evolve new forms. […] The diversity of these cultural influences makes Goa distinctive although it shares in a general way the culture of the coastal Konkan strip” (Department of Tourism’s website).22 48 The Directorate of Art and Culture has also continued to promote its state’s folklore, seeking to fulfill the goal of “preservation, promotion and development of cultural traditions of the state […] by implementing the programmes towards the welfare of artists and development of Arts organisations by way of providing financial support” (presentation of the Directorate of Art and Culture in Government of Goa’s website).23

49 The folklorization of dancing in Goa has been mobilized politically by a few Gawda who sought to gain the status of Scheduled Tribe in order to receive educational and economical benefits. Although the Gawda in this case study were not directly involved in the political struggle to obtain this status, the Gawda of other villages used their intangible heritage as well as that belonging to other similar groups to match their case for the Gawda’s cultural singularity as a tribe. Consequently, the Gawda, Kunnbi and Velip were administratively classed as Scheduled Tribes in 2003 and have since gained

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schooling benefits, been assigned vacancies in universities and received quotas for jobs in the civil service, among other privileges. 50 What set the politically motivated Gawda, Kunnbi and Velip apart was the fact that the individuals involved in this process belonged to an educated middle class, politically conscious of their rights. Some of these middle-class individuals began by identifying local cultural traits that set their groups apart from other castes, leading them to revitalize certain local rituals, as did other groups of different states in the struggle for the Scheduled Tribe classification (Arora 2007). Only after 2004 was there a Gawda in the village to finish mandatory schooling and obtain degrees, which explains why before no members had sufficient educational capital to get involved in this political struggle. This data allows us to grasp the Gawda’s heterogenic nature, suggesting how different the Scheduled Tribes are from one another in Goa, as they are in the remaining Indian states. In fact, affirmation of their authenticity and recognition as a Scheduled Tribe was the only strategy within the Gawda’s reach to face the dominant classes. It was also one of the few means that the central government could employ to take on the present-day “silent revolution” in India, the rise of the considered lower castes towards social and economic mobility through education. 51 Through their touristic performances the Gawda have gained access to new, previously unknown spaces as well as to more publicly valued social and cultural agents. For instance, when they visit hotels, palaces, cities and other Indian states or countries, they make contact with other Indians in the arts or business with more cultural and economic capital. Another incentive has been the Gawda now possessing an additional form of income, albeit limited, according to one of the performers: “Only through the dances I could get to know hotels where I have never entered before, or visited Delhi and Russia, which I loved. We don’t earn much money, what we earn the most is to be able to travel and know new places and new people that we would not know if it were not the dances” [Maria, 52 years-old]. 52 Cultural agents such as members of government and local hotel owners that brought on the Catholic Gawda’s economic aspirations have since then also seen gains in their economic capital, revealing a mutually beneficial relationship in offering an alternative opportunity for heritage tourism to the general public that singles out Goa’s culture.

53 As Goan culture continues to divulge musical and performing competitions, which have since arisen at a regional, state and national level, there are two types of folk groups participating. First, the professional musicians who performed traditional songs and dance, and did not alter much of their performance for the stage – collecting songs sung by their ancestors and consolidating them by normalization through rehearsal, fixed costumes or adjusting the music in order to create a uniform product (cf. Sardo 2011). Differently, a second kind of group adapts religious dancing to the stage and only when called upon for a public performance do they leave their villages, as is the case of the Catholic Gawda, and a few selected members of these are known to be their official representatives. 54 The first of these events was in 1965, the Mandó Festival, in which culturally dominant music associated to the Catholic elite was represented (Sardo 2011); the Gawda have over the years participated in several folk festivals at the Kala Academy and, 43 years later, in 2008, the first Festival of the Dhalo took place. Danced by Gawda and Kunnbi, this last festival was organized by the Goan Directorate of Art and Culture, which since then promoted Dhalo and Fugdi competitions in several Hindu temples. For instance, in

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Chandreshwar temple in Quepem, close to the case-study village under examination here. Such musical competitions are now common all over India, often called festivals, like the dhalo festivals, and economic support given by governments (transport and preparatory expenses plus cash prizes for the winners) have also become an incentive to bring the so-called “folk” groups to perform. 55 Seeing as the dhalo is built on a Hindu matrix, the Catholic Gawda are one of the few Catholic groups currently performing Hindu folk dancing in public performances such as the dhalo and fugdi competitions. The majority of the “Goan folk” groups are Hindu, as one can see by browsing through the artists listed on the website of the Directorate of Art and Culture of the Government of Goa.24 56 The fact that they are Catholic and performing Hindu folk dancing sheds light on the effects of their Hindu ancestors’ conversion to Catholicism. Today this is shown by crossing religious borders in their public and private rituals as well as in economic capital, singling the Gawda out in Goa’s cultural landscape. In other words, their religious practices prohibited by the church for not being Catholic and restricted by Portuguese colonial authorities, continued and were secretly adapted with great resilience, and are today regarded as valuable assets (Pereira 2010).25 This cultural singularity is very closely related to difference, which is one of the more elemental traits of identity (for the identity concept, see Silva 1993 [1989]). Their identitary distinctiveness is due to their difference (relative to other Hindu and Catholic castes), based on exclusion. 57 By integrating the Gawda’s folk dancing as cultural heritage of the state the Government of Goa has recognized its value and has hence distinguished them from other castes. The Catholic Gawda, as occurred with other groups in other contexts such as Portugal, “fulfil on one side the criteria to become intangible cultural heritage […] and, on the other side, fulfil the criteria of a ‘cultural capital’ […] by being distinct from other […] dance groups, by belonging to a rural society and by being connected to the past through their ritual performance context” (Alge 2007: 367). 58 The initiative behind the Catholic Gawda’s dancing being institutionalized came from two educated individuals foreign to the group and the village. They mediated the rural population’s relations with the social, cultural and political hierarchy, and held the power to promote their performances. The people in question were a primary school teacher working in the village and an official of the Kala Academy and current folklorist, Vinayak Khedekar. Thanks to both these individuals’ contributions the group began their process of folklorization in 1972, upon their first performance in Goa’s capital, Panjim; given the educational capital and distancing from local social networking of both, the dance’s value as a cultural object worthy of preservation and promotion became obvious to them (cf. Wagner 1981). 59 One significant effect of the institutionalization of the Catholic Gawda’s dancing and their subsequent economic incentives has been the conservation and re-creation of the dances in religious ceremonies in the village by the younger generations, leading to an unintentional impact on the Catholic Gawda’s cohesion within the village (cf. Merton 1968 [1949]). Their traditional costumes, otherwise likely to have been discarded due to only being worn by older women in the village, are now continually used in the younger Gawda’s public performances. Amongst the neighboring Hindu Gawda, where dancing has not been folklorized, few young women practice forms of traditional

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dancing leading to a diminished cohesion in the group (Pereira 2010). Continuity is therefore a central key to the reproduction of identity. 60 The group’s director has decided to bar any recording of their music on either CD or DVD seeking to preserve what is perceived as authentic in their performance, though other groups with similar repertoires from other villages in Goa, like the Kunnbi, also perform in the same circuits as they do. It is hence understandable that the Gawda should wish to distance themselves from the Kunnbi category in order to keep being invited to perform and to assure that their cultural resources may continue to be economically gainful. What is unusual in this particular group is its reluctance towards transformation of orality into written or recorded words through modern media, in comparison to other, equally resource-deprived groups in India and other countries. Through this they seek to secure the exclusiveness of their identity in order to assure that their distinctiveness is maintained.

Conclusion: the Gawda as repository of genuine Goa, India

61 The reconfiguration of the dancing for the touristic public stage also occurs in other countries, giving way to the representation of the “authentic” culture of a geographic location (like Goa), as well as the modification of identity by inclusion of the touristic performance as a part of their local culture (such as Catholic Gawda’s), together with religious rituals (cf. Boissevain 1996). In the case of the Catholic Gawda this transformation had a broader impact since it affected not only cultural and touristic practice but also the group’s identity as tribal. Formerly perceived by other Goans as tribal and primitive in a pejorative manner, considered “original inhabitants” of Goa and therefore backward, in the 21st century their culture has been affirmed by tourists. The perception of the Gawda as the perpetuators of folk practices and a village lifestyle, imagined as properly vernacular and handed down over the course of generations, contrasts with the view of the urban and educated, symbolized in Goa by the mandó, associated with the elite.

62 Catholic Gawda, while recognizing their social marginalization vis-a-vis other Goans, also claim to integrate the upper social scale by, unlike other Catholics, abstaining from eating beef and pork, in accordance with the Hindu criteria of ritual purity. To maintain their purity, Gawda Catholics follow practices of endogamy and commensality. These norms are also found among other castes, but the latter among Catholic Gawda has the singularity that they only accept cooked food from the Hindu Gawda, which further maintains their distance from other Goans, because they consider other Catholic castes impure for consuming pork and beef – revealing once more both Catholic and Hindu references in their social relations (cf. Pereira 2009). The isolation the Gawda find themselves in is widened by their location very close to the geographic fringes of social space, the forest. However, this is today valued by other Goans, who appreciate their maintenance of the group’s cultural boundaries, which allowed them to preserve their traditions. 63 Only in the 21st century did the Gawda’s dancing (formalized in 1972) benefit from the group’s identitary promotion. Through the government, the Gawda and their dancing became an integral part of the display of the state of Goa’s identity and became an attractive touristic product that has been promoted in other Indian states as well as

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internationally, hence shifting the perception of their identity by other Goans. Within this time frame a correction of the asymmetrical balance of power they faced in relation to other castes took place and deeper interaction became possible (cf. Archer 1995). The credibility of the group in the present case study benefitted greatly from the communication skills of the group’s leader, who was responsible for mobilizing the performers over the course of 43 years with the support of the Government of Goa through its department of Art and Culture, which played a crucial role in divulging the group’s dance. 64 Today, their dancing and image is being creatively reinvented in light of the Goan Diaspora: a musical ensemble of elite Catholic Goans residing in Lisbon has taken interest in recent years in “Kunnbi Dances,” believing them to represent Goa’s identity. 26 They therefore included them in their repertoire, performing the dances in public and adorning the traditional Kunnbi and Gawda costume, the red and white checkered kapod.27 The same may be observed in the Goan Summer Festival that takes place in Swindon, United Kingdom, where the traditional costumes are adapted.28 Music, supported by tourism and globalization, has transformed the perception of the Gawda and Kunnbi both in Goa and Lisbon. The sounds of music bring forth in the present the traditions of a distant past, safeguarding their preservation for the future, hence they “[…] mobilize feelings of belonging and nostalgia, […] and they may fill a place with ideas about the past, the present and the future” (Pistrick and Isnart 2013). Because the Gawda are descendants of past servants and farm workers, the immense asymmetry of power between them and the upper classes impeded an exchange of cultural practices. Only upon the Gawda’s gain in cultural capital through the representation of Goa in state events and touristic performances, stimulated by globalization, has their heritage been defined as the and their music divulged as part of dominant Goan culture in Portugal. 65 There are several, equally remissive and ever shifting views on the Gawda’s dancing. The Catholic Gawda select the religious dance to perform live, which is then shortened and uniformized, revealing a transformation by adapting their practices to the taste of those who appreciate not only their performance but also their identity. Their Goan, Indian and foreign audiences react to their performances by perceiving the Catholic Gawda as authentic and as a repository of a genuine Goa. That externally granted identitary conscience has hence led to a transformation within the group itself, who now, unlike in the past, value their dancing. They have not created recently what is practiced in the ritual and performed to the tourists, although it is permanently reinvented, and in this sense “authentic” (cf. E. Cohen 1988). Moreover, there is a constant process of becoming “authentic” (cf. Zhu 2012). Such is the case of the transformation of their own feelings about their embodied practice and performative experience (cf. Bara 2013). I would also add that their identity awareness, assigned from the outside, has led to a transformation within the group, in which they themselves have started valuing their dances, which were previously undervalued. 66 As already mentioned, unlike other “Kunnbi dance” groups, the Gawda in this study do not want their music recorded, in order to protect their cultural assets and seek closure of the group’s borders as is done in their religious rituals by restricting knowledge of lyrics and choreography to the members of the group. However, in a globalization context, their performances have been recorded and published online on YouTube.29

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67 Once the Catholic Gawda, together with the other Gawda and Kunnbi gained visibility, they become paradoxically regarded as the continuers of ancestral practices. They are now a symbol of an authentic India under the assumption that they maintain traditions untouched by Portuguese colonial influence in Goa. Saïd (1996 [1978]) theorized that most of India’s colonial and post-colonial history is regarded as invention through biased Orientalist perspectives by the West. In this case, I suggest that there is today an Orientalist construction of the Gawda and Kunnbi’s identity that pays closer attention to their “timelessness,” being “exotified” by foreigners but also by other Goans and Indians. 68 Raghuraman Trichur (2007) has demonstrated how tourism has contributed to the inclusion of Goa in an idea of India by bringing together its Portuguese historical heritage with the British past prevalent in the subcontinent. I would add that tourism has also contributed to a greater visibility of the Gawda’s cultural heritage and their group, by integrating them in Goan society through the exogenous recognition of their identity. 69 The study of the Gawda shows us how Indian society is in fact dynamic and permeable to outside observers, who by perceiving the Gawda’s dancing as representations of an ancestral Goa have led to a slight elevation of the Gawda’s social status and a valuing of their tribal image. These outside observers, both Indian and foreigners, have also affected the Catholic Gawda’s self-representation by granting an awareness of their own group’s identitary value. 70 The Gawda’s status and dancing are negotiated within a historical temporality and have been targeted by multiple perceptions, depending on the context – for instance, for Goans, Indians and foreigners. The Gawda and Kunnbi, while tribal, now represent an idealized vernacular Goa symbolized by the village and traditional lifestyles by performing their dance. The meanings assigned to tribal and to their dances are therefore continuously reconfigured.

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ZHU, Yujie, 2012, “Performing heritage: rethinking authenticity in tourism”, Annals of Tourism Research, 39 (3): 1495-1513, available at http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.annals .2012.04.003 (last access in January 2017).

NOTES

1. The ethnographic research in Goa for my PhD, on which the paper is based, was funded by a fellowship of Fundação para a Ciência e a Tecnologia (SFRH/BD/19065/2004). Acknowledgements are due to Centro de Investigação e Estudos de Sociologia (CIES-IUL) for funding the proofreading. I am grateful to former PhD supervisor, Rosa Maria Perez, for the debate. No amount of gratitude is enough to thank the patience and time of the performers from Avedem, Goa, since I began fieldwork there in 2006. My attempt to discuss the topics approached in this article has been influenced most saliently by the ethnomusicologist Shubha Chaudhuri, who helped me in structuring the text and in extending the case study to the state of Goa. Transcriptions of song lyrics in Konkani and further translation were made possible with the invaluable help of folklorist Ullas Dessai. I thank Alito Siqueira, Vinayak Khedekar and Kala Academi for the information provided. Many thanks to the translators Eduardo Crespo and Nandini Chaturvedula for the revision and suggestions. I am indebted to the anonymous reviewer of Etnográfica for the insightful comments. I thank Inês Lourenço and Rita Cachado for their comments. To Marta Prista I direct my gratitude for the insights on the structure of the paper and the theory. I have particularly benefited from the detailed comments of Maria José Araújo in formulating the argument and in rethinking my perspectives. 2. This information was provided by the ethnomusicologist, Shubha Chaudhuri, to whom I thank. 3. This repertory can be found at http://www.folkways.si.edu/music-of-goa/india-world/music/ album/smithsonian (“Music of Goa. Various Artists ARCE00034,” audio, Smithsonian Folkways – Archives and Research Centre for Ethnomusicology – ARCE), online resource (last access in January 2017). The ARCE has one of the most extensive audiovisual repositories of the oral traditions and performing arts of India (see “Ethnomusicology: the Archives and Research Center for Ethnomusicology,” http://www.indiastudies.org/ethnomusicology). 4. The term “Hindu” is derived from “Hindustan,” the peninsular historic region in southern Asia where India is located, and has been gradually used to designate those who practice a local Indian religion (Fuller 1992). The denomination Hindu has come to include a large number of distinct practices, as well as groups diverse in their worships and internally varying (Babb 1975). In the case of the Hindu Gawda, contrary to other groups, their religious ceremonies are celebrated away from the large Hindu temples, belonging to the castes located higher in the social system, rather practicing these ceremonies in small temples adjacent to the forest. This segregation, which is also spatial, has reinforced within contemporary tourism the perception of the group as the original inhabitants of Goa under the assumption that they perpetuate original rituals. 5. The conversion of some Hindus to Catholicism under Portuguese rule resulted in the following Christian castes, with a certain attenuation in the ritual pollution: Brahman, Chardo (combining ex-Vaishya and ex-Kshatriya), Sudra, and Untouchables. 6. As stated in a booklet of Goa State Scheduled Tribes Finance and Development Corporation Ltd., Panjim, 2005, p. 1. 7. See 2011 Census for data on religion by states of India, in “Religion PCA” available at http:// www.censusindia.gov.in/2011census/Religion_PCA.html (last access in January 2017). 8. A taluka consists of several villages and a town. The state of Goa is divided into eleven talukas. 9. See 2011 Census data at http://www.censusindia.gov.in/pca/SearchDetails.aspx?Id=714163 (last access in January 2017).

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10. Tina is not the interviewee’s real name, and is used here and in later quotations within this text in order to protect the personal identity. 11. On the other hand, Goa’s elite’s songs such as mando had been throughout the 20th century subject to translation due to influence by the West and their performers being literate and close to the colonial establishment (cf. Sardo 2011). 12. Plagiarism is presently difficult to control, since recent technologies such as mobile phones equipped with video cameras may record the touristic performances. 13. See an excerpt of their performance in 2015 at https://www.youtube.com/watch? v=BVUQ38hyVA4 (last access in January 2017). 14. For the first case, see for instance “Parents should inculcate folk culture in their wards: Sardinha,” Gomantak Times, May 15th, 2006, p. A4; Couto (2005: 275); for the second, see “Amelbai: preserving Kunnbi Heritage,” The Navhind Times, July 16th, 2005, p. 3; “Lokotsav 2006, Folk Festival,” Gomantak Times, February 26 th, 2006, p. 13; “The Kushawati heritage trail,” by Prajal Sakhardande in the blog Everything Under the Sky (http://vishaalbhat.blogspot.com/ 2005_11_01_archive.html, last access in January 2017); “From Carnaval to Carnaval,” by Maureen Álvarez, The Navhind Times, February 24th, 2006, p. 7. 15. Which for Hindu women is one of a set of symbols that attest to the fact that they are married. 16. In day-to-day life these outfits are usually only worn by elderly women and adult men, young women only tend to wear them for these occasions. 17. Recently restored in the 21st century for tourism purposes, the palace has Indo-Portuguese traits and dates back to the 18th century, as can be seen at www.palaciododeao.com (last access in January 2017). 18. The Hindu calendar is lunar and therefore the celebration date of diwali changes from year to year. 19. Zatra is the annual pilgrimage to the temple to celebrate the anniversary of the tutelary deity, according to the Hindu lunar calendar. 20. The concept of dharma has been presented in the West as a conception of Hinduism to indicate divine and moral standards of ethical conduct, requiring certain duties according to the caste of birth that are to be observed as a consequence of acts done in a previous life (Madan 2004: 3). 21. For the relation between politics and culture in the construction of identity, see A. Cohen (2000). 22. See https://www.goa.gov.in/department/tourism (last access in January 2017). 23. See https://www.goa.gov.in/department/art-and-culture (last access in January 2017). 24. See http://www.artandculture.goa.gov.in/artist_search.php (last access in January 2017). 25. However, the relationship between the church and the individual varies greatly in the region, as certain priests forbid these same rituals amongst other Catholic Gawda, as is the case of a neighboring village to the one studied. 26. To know more about Goans in Lisbon, see Sardo (2011) and Rosales (2012). 27. See, for instance, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AVjlEWHaQO0 (last access in January 2017). 28. See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_iQzhF-PxDc (last access in January 2017). I express my gratitude to Alito Siqueira for this reference. 29. See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XalXy4JuLX8 (last access in January 2017).

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ABSTRACTS

What changes occur in the identity of a group considered tribal in India through the performance of their dances? What is the influence of tourism on their religious cults? How are they perceived by other Indians? To answer these questions, first I analyze how the Goan government sought to institutionalize these tribal dances. Second, I examine the gains in the group’s political, economic and cultural capital through this transition to the tourism industry. The article is based on long ethnographic research in Goa and the topic of folk musical heritage is approached from the perspective of anthropology. Its goal is to shed light on the relatively unknown musical heritage of the Catholic Gawda, also known as Kunnbi. It proposes that through tourism the Gawda, while still tribal, have become appreciated as a repository of traditional Goa, rather than pejoratively considered primitive (associated with backwardness) as they were regarded before, for keeping their village lifestyle. However, once the Catholic Gawda gained visibility vis-a-vis tourists and Goans themselves, thus becoming modern and global, they became paradoxically regarded as the continuers of ancestral practices. There is therefore a process of “invention of tradition,” not so much as in the sense of creating what is revealed to tourists (although there is a standardization for the public), but rather in the interpretation of the Gawda who now represent an authentic Goan identity in their dancing.

Que mudanças ocorrem na identidade de um grupo considerado tribal na Índia através da performance das suas danças? Qual é a influência do turismo nos seus cultos religiosos? Qual é a perceção dos outros indianos sobre eles? Para responder a estas questões, analiso, em primeiro lugar, o modo como o governo de Goa estimulou a institucionalização das suas danças. Em segundo, examino o aumento de capital político, económico e cultural do grupo de estudo de caso através da transição para a indústria do turismo. A pesquisa baseia-se num trabalho de terreno prolongado em Goa. O património de música popular é analisado a partir da perspetiva da antropologia. O artigo procura aprofundar o legado musical dos Gawda católicos, também conhecidos como Kunnbi, ainda por explorar. Sugiro que foi através do turismo que os Gawda, enquanto tribais, passaram a ser valorizados como o repositório da Goa tradicional, deixando de ser representados pejorativamente como primitivos (associados a pouco desenvolvimento), por manterem o seu modo de vida rural. Todavia, é quando os Gawda católicos se tornam visíveis para os turistas e para os próprios goeses, e, simultaneamente, modernos e globais, que se dá o paradoxo de serem vistos como os que continuam práticas ancestrais. Observa-se, por isso, um processo de “invenção da tradição”, não no sentido de terem criado recentemente o que é mostrado (embora haja uma uniformização para turistas), mas na interpretação que é dada aos Gawda, os quais passaram a representar a autêntica identidade goesa, através das suas danças.

INDEX

Palavras-chave: folclorização, turismo, ritual, invenção da tradição, capital cultural e político, identidade tribal Keywords: folklorisation, tourism, ritual, invention of tradition, cultural and political capital, tribal identity

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AUTHOR

CLÁUDIA PEREIRA

Instituto Universitário de Lisboa (ISCTE-IUL), Centro de Investigação e Estudos de Sociologia (CIES-IUL), Portugal [email protected]

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“India has got it!”: lifestyle migrants constructing “Incredible Indias” in Varanasi and Goa “Na Índia é que é!”: a construção de “Índias Incríveis” em Varanasi e Goa por migrantes associados a estilos de vida

Mari Korpela

As the sitar wiped out the split-reed sax, and mantras began fouling the crystal clarity of rock and roll lyrics, millions of wild-eyed Americans turned their backs to all that amazing equipment and pointed at us [Indians] screaming: “You guys! You’ve got it!” (Mehta 1979: 6). 1 In the colonial era, India was already a popular travel destination, and in the late 1960s and early 1970s it became a popular backpacking destination among hippies (see e. g. Hall 1968; Wiles 1972; Odzer 1995; MacLean 2006). Today, thousands of backpackers continue to tour India every year (see e. g. Hutnyk 1996; Wilson 1997; Hottola 1999). After their trip – whether it lasts for a week or for several months – tourists return home. Some people, however, like India so much that they go back again and again. They are not tourists searching for a temporary break from everyday routines; they spend several months in India every year. They can be conceptualised as lifestyle migrants. Lifestyle migration refers to a phenomenon whereby citizens of affluent industrialised nations move abroad in order to find a more meaningful and relaxed life, usually in places with lower living costs and sunny climates (Benson and O’Reilly 2009a, 2009b). The lifestyle migrants in India come from various parts of the world: Israel, North America, Japan, Australia and a number of European countries. In India, they often return to specific places where they meet others leading the same lifestyle. They claim to have found a better life there, and spending a lot of time in India plays an important role in their identity construction.

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2 In the quotation at the beginning of this article, Gita Mehta, an Indian writer, describes the hippie era. She continues by asking what it actually was that the hippies thought India had. The same question guides this article: which is the India that attracts lifestyle migrants? In 2002, the Indian Ministry of Tourism launched an extensive international campaign entitled “Incredible India,”1 which aims to lure foreign tourists to the country. Lifestyle migrants are not tourists but they do have their own understandings of “Incredible India” and it is those notions that this article investigates. 3 The data in this article comes from two ethnographic studies among lifestyle migrants, one in the city of Varanasi and the other in the state of Goa.2 Both locations are common lifestyle migration destinations but, as I will describe, they are very different locations and, by comparing these two places, I am able to illustrate two very different discourses about India. It is notable that the lifestyle migrants tend to talk about living in India rather than referring only to the specific locations where they reside. Yet, it is important to note that Varanasi and Goa are just two places among many where lifestyle migrants like to gather in India. Consequently, the discourses of these two locations are two among many, yet they offer a fruitful base from which to elaborate on the existence of very different understandings of India. The lifestyle migrants in Varanasi appreciate “the authentic ancient India” whereas those in Goa celebrate a discourse of freedom. In this article, I discuss what authenticity and freedom mean to them. I argue that India provides a setting – a physical location – for the lifestyle migrants’ own performance of India. I also investigate the role given to the local Indian populations in these discourses. In the final part, I discuss how sections of the Indian population in Indian metropolises have recently started to participate in these same discourses, although at the same time there is a social distance between the lifestyle migrants and local populations.

The case studies in Varanasi and Goa

4 This article is based on two ethnographic studies in India. The first (Korpela 2009) focuses on the community of lifestyle migrants in Varanasi and the fieldwork, lasting for thirteen months, was conducted in two parts in 2002 and 2003. The material consists of interviews with the lifestyle migrants sojourning in Varanasi and with the locals working with them, as well as a detailed field diary of my participant observation. The second study (Korpela 2014a, 2016) focuses on lifestyle migrant families, and children in particular, in Goa. The material consists of interviews with children, young people, parents and people working with lifestyle migrant children in Goa, as well as drawing projects conducted with children and a detailed field diary of my participant observation. The fieldwork in Goa lasted for ten months and was conducted in three parts in 2011, 2012 and 2013.3

5 I refer to these lifestyle migrants as “Westerners” due to the fact that differences between Western nationalities often seem to disappear when seen in opposition to the “Indian other.” These people themselves often use the term “Westerners.” Therefore, in this article it is used as an emic term, in order to facilitate reading; it does not refer to any theoretical discussions about the distinctions between the East and the West. Nationalities are not entirely insignificant among the lifestyle migrants in India, but in the context of this article comparing the different nationalities is irrelevant and stating

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the research participants’ nationalities would also be a risk to their anonymity. Nevertheless, nationalities are significant in that their passports enable these people to easily get Indian visas. Most lifestyle migrants are in India on tourist visas; some have business or student visas. At the same time, Indian visa policies set the limits for their lifestyle; most lifestyle migrants need to leave India regularly in order to renew their visas. Yet, the relatively long tourist visas that India provides (often for six or twelve months) enable this lifestyle. 6 The lifestyle migrants in India whom I met during fieldwork were usually of middle- class origin. Their parents were, for example, teachers, lawyers and entrepreneurs. They were, therefore, typically not very well-off but nevertheless in relatively good financial standing. Most lifestyle migrants in India have completed secondary education, and many have also studied at further education levels. The majority are in their 20s, 30s and 40s but there are also older individuals. In Varanasi, men form the majority, whereas in some other locations there are more women. In Goa, both genders are equally represented. It is impossible to know the exact number of lifestyle migrants in Varanasi or Goa as most of them do not register officially but there are definitely hundreds of them. Finally, it is important to note that in spite of various differences (in terms of age, nationality etc.) among the lifestyle migrants in the two locations, they share the discourses presented in this article, and these discourses play a central role in how they explain and justify their long and repeated stays in India.

Lifestyle migrants in “authentic” Varanasi

7 Varanasi is considered one of the holiest cities of Hinduism. It is situated on the banks of the river Ganges in northern India 4 and is one of the oldest cities in the world, with a population of about 1.5 million. Hindu devotees believe Varanasi to be the permanent home of the supreme god Shiva. Moreover, according to Hindu beliefs, if one dies there, one attains liberation from the cycle of rebirth, as a consequence of which many Hindus come to Varanasi when death approaches and the city is home to much suffering. Varanasi is also an important pilgrimage centre. Diana Eck, an indologist, writes that “it is precisely because Banaras has become a symbol of traditional Hindu India that Western visitors have often found this city the most strikingly ‘foreign’ of India’s cities” (Eck 1983: 9). For many foreigners, Varanasi is the epitome of “Eastern” otherness (see Saïd 1978). The city also has a considerable Muslim population and it is a particular location for Muslims as well but foreigners tend to ignore the city’s Muslim heritage and concentrate on its Hindu aspects.

8 Varanasi is a very popular tourist destination among both foreign and domestic tourists. There are, however, also lifestyle migrants who return there year after year. The popular season for them starts in October and ends in May,5 and there are 200-300 lifestyle migrants in Varanasi at this time. Most of them are 20 to 35 years old but there are also many 40 to 50-year-olds. Typically, they work in their native countries for a few months in temporary jobs such as waitressing, harvesting and nursing or in selling Indian textiles and handicrafts and then spend the rest of the year in India, living on the money they have earned. Once in India, most of them play Indian instruments, and some do yoga, meditation or charity work. A lot of time is spent socialising with friends. The most common activities include cooking and eating, playing music and smoking hash together.6

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9 The “India” that the lifestyle migrants in Varanasi claim to have found is represented by them as, above all, an “ancient” and “spiritual” place. In a way, they agree with the “Incredible India” tourism campaign: “I like Varanasi because it’s something like the heart of India. So much going on also about Indian culture… […] Varanasi is real India, still happening, and the religion that they practice here, religion is big part of daily life of the people living here, the local people, and it’s a very old city, it’s oldest actually existing city in the world.” [Ivan, 45]7 10 In order to create national consciousness and pride, Indian nationalists in the colonial era adopted an orientalist discourse (see Assayag 2001), wherein India was characterised as an ancient and spiritual place in opposition to the materialistic West (see Edwardes 1967: 39; Fox 1992; Breckenridge and Van der Veer 1993; Ludden 1993; Van der Veer 1993). Also, since gaining independence India has been successful in promoting an image of the country as a home of ancient wisdom, and this image has been promoted in the West too (see Bandyopadhyay and Morais 2005), particularly as a result of nationalist politics. Many tourists and lifestyle migrants embrace this image whole-heartedly; thousands of people travel to India each year in search of spirituality (see e. g. Allsop 2000; Giguère 2009), and there are countless ashrams8 and gurus9 offering spiritual advice and all kinds of yoga and meditation courses. The spiritual India is what many visitors seek, and Varanasi is often represented as, and understood to be, the ultimate epitome of it.

11 Orientalist discourse utilises the idea of authenticity: the Orient is understood to be authentic – both in negative and positive terms. For the lifestyle migrants in Varanasi, the spiritual India is the “true,” “authentic” India. Authenticity is a concept that has been widely discussed in tourism literature (see e. g. MacCannell 1973; Pearce and Moscardo 1986; Cohen 1988; Urry 1990; Bruner 1991; Harkin 1995; Selwyn 1996; Wang 1999). MacCannell’s (1973) original claim was that tourism is a quest for authenticity: tourists feel alienated by their home societies and thus search for authenticity elsewhere. In this process, authenticity becomes to be seen as something genuine, true and original and it is usually seen in romantic terms, often referring to an “unspoilt” past in people’s imagination. Many scholars (see Wang 1999) have later argued that there are no originals, only endless reproductions and authenticity should actually be understood as a social construction. 12 Orientalist interest in India is not a recent phenomenon. By the 1780s, Western scholars were already paying attention to India (Edwardes 1967: 170), and Sanskrit texts especially were believed to reveal something fundamental about the human spirit (Edwardes 1967: 304). India was represented, particularly in the German critique of the Enlightenment, as a pure and innocent (authentic) lost paradise. The romantic interest in India was, therefore, inseparable from a critique of the European present. “The West” was characterised by rationality, progress, quantification and secularism whereas India came to represent a spiritual return to a superior past, characterised by unity and harmony (Halbfass 1988: 69-83). Obviously, orientalism in the Indian context is very much connected with the imperial project (see Saïd 1993) and it has been criticised also from a postcolonial perspective (Prakash 1990, 1994). 13 The lifestyle migrants in Varanasi often reproduce an orientalist representation of India. The following excerpt illustrates how among them India is sometimes represented as a place where cultural practices do not change over time.

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“When […] I tell my mother or the men, how the life is here, they are not so surprised because they had the same fifty years ago, before the war, the same… like milking the cows […] My mother [milked cows by hand] until marriage… mountain life. It is almost the same life, also here. I saw oil lamps and it was like that. […] It was the same when they were children.” [Anton, 32] “Superficially, there are a few changes but it really hasn’t changed much and certainly for local people, it’s still the same sort of thing, for centuries.” [Paul, 47] 14 These comments obviously present a romanticised view; the interlocutors ignore many current practices and romanticise the past. This admiration for the represented past is, however, like a game; the lifestyle migrants like to enjoy “the simple, traditional life” but at the same time they are not willing to give up contemporary conveniences and complain a lot about the backwardness of India. The “simple” life that the lifestyle migrants appreciate also means a “natural life.” Many of my interlocutors mentioned that they like the fact that in Varanasi they live in a closer relation with nature than in their native countries. “What I like the most here [in Varanasi] is maybe that you are not disconnected from nature. In a Western city, you never know how full the moon is, and it never has any effect on your life. […] [Here] it’s a huge difference: no moon, full moon, rainy season, hot season, people behave differently. […] You’re very connected to nature here, as much as you can be in a city. […] There are monkeys, and birds and cows. They are a living part of the city. Without these animals everything would rot, everything would be stinking. They also give milk, even the cow shit is used for burning, for fertilising… as a mosquito repellent. […] In a way, it’s men and nature living together in symbiosis. I like many things here, they eat from banana plates, and […] everything is recycled.” [Noel, 31] 15 In Varanasi, cows, water buffaloes, dogs, goats and rats are visibly present in the streets and one must be constantly aware of monkeys that might snatch one’s food. Thus, nature – in terms of fauna – is very close to everyday life. One also profoundly feels the extreme climatic changes, since most houses in Varanasi do not have air conditioning or heating. It is interesting that such a big city – a clearly urban environment – comes to be viewed in terms of natural life. In the framework within which the lifestyle migrants make such an interpretation, the naturalness is connected with the spiritual and ancient image of the city. They are using an orientalist discourse, essentialising the city with these types of representations.

16 The natural life is represented as “ancient”, and thus also as “authentic.” Moreover, as the first interview extract above suggests, the lifestyle migrants claim that this “Hindu religion” has a close connection with nature – for example in terms of the significance of sunrise and sunset and the cycle of the moon. At the same time, the lifestyle migrants criticise the modern, urban present, in particular the traffic and pollution; Varanasi thus becomes defined as an ancient natural city which is in danger of being destroyed by modernisation. When the lifestyle migrants define the city as a Hindu place, they essentialise both the city and the religion. For them, there seems to be a kind of “pure” Hinduism that can be experienced in Varanasi. This “pure” Hinduism has been promoted by the nationalistic Hindutva movement and by other nationalist movements since the Independence struggle (see e. g. Elst 2001), but this socio-political situation and the vast diversity within “Hinduism” seem to be ignored by the lifestyle migrants. 17 For the lifestyle migrants, Varanasi is thus an ancient and spiritual city where life is authentic and natural. What does it actually mean to be a lifestyle migrant in this

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context then? What is it that the Indians “have got” and the lifestyle migrants also want? First of all, it means appreciating spirituality. Not spirituality in terms of becoming a Hindu, however, but a sort of New Age spirituality wherein an individual can choose from the “supermarket of spirituality” (Aupers and Houtman 2006) whichever combination of beliefs and practices pleases them at any one time. Varanasi thus offers the lifestyle migrants a beautiful and “authentic” setting for personal spiritual growth. Many of them combine beliefs and practices from Hinduism, Buddhism, Christianity and Judaism, in addition to being interested in practices such as tarot card reading and healing crystals. Being a lifestyle migrant in Varanasi also often means working on oneself, trying to find one’s “true” self and discovering what one “really wants to do in life”; the lifestyle migrants engage in eternal discussions about future plans and self-elaboration. In addition, being a lifestyle migrant in Varanasi means leading a slow-paced, natural life. For example, many of my interlocutors mentioned that they like the fact that in Varanasi they cook with natural ingredients instead of eating processed food with preservatives. 18 In the context of Varanasi, for lifestyle migrants spirituality is also connected with Indian classical music, which is also traditionally loaded with spiritual meaning. In fact, most lifestyle migrants in Varanasi study Indian classical music. Yet, instead of studying in formal institutions they take private lessons from local musicians, claiming this to be the authentic way to learn Indian music. For most lifestyle migrants in Varanasi, their days revolve around music; they have lessons, they practise and they attend concerts. Just as they essentialise the Hindu religion, the lifestyle migrants in Varanasi essentialise and orientalise Indian classical music; they talk about the music being “spoiled” by modern institutions and modern influences. Instead of seeing the music as a developing tradition (Massey and Massey 1976: 90), they seem to want to freeze it in the form they believe it had for centuries in the maharajas’ palaces. 19 Many of my interlocutors in Varanasi talked about India as a school and emphasised the learning aspect as the main reason for their long stays. In addition to referring to their music studies and spiritual search, the lifestyle migrants consider the whole experience of being in India as educational; they have learned to survive in different circumstances from those they were used to in their native countries and have become used to seeing a great deal of poverty and suffering. This view of India as a school was also popular among the hippies in the 1960s and 1970s, as the quotation at the beginning of this article illustrates: India has “got something” that the hippies wanted to learn about. In the case of lifestyle migrants in Varanasi, this “something” means ancient spiritual culture. 20 The emphasis on learning leads to an important distinction: the lifestyle migrants of Varanasi, in the same way as travellers in many contexts, carefully distinguish themselves from tourists. When they meet new people in Varanasi, one of their first questions is always “What are you doing here?,” and in order to be accepted into the lifestyle migrants’ social scene, one has to have a legitimate reason for one’s long stay – in most cases, the reason presented is music studies. Being a mere tourist is not accepted and, in fact, the lifestyle migrants in Varanasi constantly differentiate themselves from short-term tourists via their activities, clothing and discourse. For example, the lifestyle migrants share a certain style; they all dress in a similar way. Their looks are quite shabby and many of them have dreadlocks. Women wear long loose dresses and men wear pants and long kurtas. 10 Most clothes are made of khadi 11

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cotton, and sometimes even of raw silk. This style is different from the one that is popular among tourists (Norris 2008) and it is definitely very different from how local Indian people dress (who in turn dress differently depending on their class, age, religion etc.). Therefore, the lifestyle migrants seem to have created their own distinctive style, and through this they express their belonging to the group of those who have acquired something of the simple, natural, authentic life that the Indians “have got.” 21 But there is an almost paradoxical discourse that is repeated by the same interlocutors. Although in the lifestyle migrants’ discourse living in Varanasi is authentic, spiritual and natural, it is definitely not pleasurable. My interlocutors often emphasised that Varanasi is not an easy place in which to live: “It’s very difficult, Banaras is tough life, they cheat you all the time. […] It’s the dirtiest city of all India and the people are the least educated from anywhere else that I’ve seen.” [Rafael, 40] 22 Living in Varanasi is particularly challenging for women, who need to be careful in dressing “appropriately” (in loose-fitting and concealing clothing) and not going out alone at night (see Korpela 2006). In addition, there are constant problems with water, electricity and rubbish, the roads are potholed and the bureaucracy is ineffective. In fact, the lifestyle migrants commonly claim that life is so hard and “heavy” in Varanasi that one cannot stay there permanently and it is necessary to leave the city regularly to preserve one’s mental and physical health. Mental health problems among foreigners are, in fact, a recognised phenomenon in India. This is sometimes referred to as “India syndrome” (Airault 2000: 53) and the explanation is that being exposed to a very different culture triggers mental problems. The lifestyle migrants in Varanasi do not, however, appear to lose their mental balance because of the cultural differences; they celebrate the differences but, at the same time, essentialise them in orientalistic terms. They aim to pursue an authentic life in the heart of India and claim to appreciate “the ancient Indian culture.” They thus appreciate a timeless, strikingly homogeneous India understood in orientalistic terms.

Lifestyle migrants in the “freakland of Goa”

23 The state of Goa on the west coast of India was a Portuguese colony until 1961. While 66% of the population is Hindu, 26% are Christian, and Christianity is a significant part of the Goan culture. Goa is one of the wealthiest states (per capita) in India, and there is a lot less visible poverty there than in Varanasi. The population of Goa is more than a million. The economy is heavily dependent on international, and domestic, tourism (on tourism in Goa, see Noronha et al. 2002). Goa is also a popular lifestyle migration destination; since the hippie era there have been foreigners who return every winter, for years and even decades. Most lifestyle migrants stay in Goa from November until April. Nowadays, there are hundreds of lifestyle migrants in the state, with all ages represented, from those in their early 20s to those in their 70s. The older ones have usually been visiting India since their youth, and hence are different from the pensioners who migrate to warm countries on retirement (see e. g. Williams et al. 2000; King, Warnes and Williams 2000; Gustafson 2002; Casado-Diaz, Kaiser and Warnes 2004; Oliver 2007).

24 Goa was one of the most popular hippie destinations in the 1960s and 1970s. Hippies were attracted by the cheap living costs, the beautiful beaches and, as they understood

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it, the relaxed attitudes of the local population. In addition, as few of the hippies stayed during the monsoon months, they saw the weather there as being nice and warm. The hippies felt that life could be enjoyed to the fullest in Goa; swimming naked, partying with friends and consuming various drugs (see e. g. Odzer 1995). In the 1980s, this party life gave birth to the trance music scene. The 1990s were the golden years of Goa trance; huge parties lasted for days. The Goan beaches were crowded with trance enthusiasts rather than hippies, and drugs were available in abundance. In the new millennium, however, naked hippies12 are a distant memory and even the trance scene has faded: the Goan authorities want to promote package tourism and have banned the wild trance parties hoping that this will lead to the disappearance of the drug scene (see e. g. Saldanha 2007). There are still trance parties, but they are under tight controls: music played outdoors must stop at 10 p. m. 25 Nowadays, Goa is an increasingly common destination for lifestyle migrant families. Hundreds of families with young children repeatedly spend the winter months there. Most lifestyle migrants earn their living in Goa; they work in the tourism industry, very often informally. They design and sell clothes and jewellery, run restaurants and cafes, teach yoga and Pilates, work as homeopaths, give massages, and so on. Goa is thus additionally attractive because lifestyle migrants find opportunities to earn money there. Therefore, being a lifestyle migrant in Goa is more related to obtaining an income than it is in Varanasi. Yet, despite working, the life of the lifestyle migrants in Goa is relaxed; they typically work only part-time hours or only a few days a week. 26 The life of the lifestyle migrants in Goa is to a great extent a life of leisure; life revolves around beaches, pools and parties and often also recreational drug use. A lot of time is spent socialising with friends. The lifestyle migrants in Goa have found there a relaxed life, nice weather, beautiful beaches and great parties: “Here it is quite nice because by idea it is a city, but by location it is still a village… It is a paradise on earth.” [Ines, 45] 27 As the comment above suggests, the lifestyle migrants in Goa seem to feel that they live in a relaxed and beautiful rural environment which, due to the many activities available, is not an isolated or boring area. The lifestyle migrants live in coastal villages and seldom visit the state’s urban centres. For my interlocutors in Goa, living in Goa as an epitome of India means living in a natural environment, surrounded by sea, beaches and jungle: “There is nature, there is jungle, there is beach. So the children are much more connected to the elements than being in a city somewhere in the West […] So for the children, it is beautiful, and it’s warm, it can open them. […] My son is now ten years old and I am sure that eight of these ten years he has been walking barefoot. I think this is an advantage. Because it is really connected to the earth. There is no cement under his feet.” [Nina, 39] 28 Among the parents, it is very common to say that in Goa children live close to nature whereas in the “West” they are distanced from it. Here, rural Goa is contrasted with the urban West. Many parents seem to hold nostalgic views of their own childhoods in the 1970s, “when children played freely in nature.” Now, they want to provide their own children with a similar environment, and claim that it can be found (at affordable prices) only in Goa. Therefore, in some respects living in Goa means returning to the past, yet this past is defined differently from how the lifestyle migrants in Varanasi define the “authentic past” they have found there; in Goa, it is not a cultural past but a quest for a “natural state.”

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29 Low living costs are an important factor in the lifestyle migrants’ life in Goa. Labour, in particular, is cheap there. “I visited Olga, a lifestyle migrant mother of two children. She complained to me how her servant had just quit her job. Consequently, Olga had to do laundry, cook and clean herself. She was very upset and she burst out: ‘I feel as if I was in Europe again.’ ” [Field diary, March 2012] 30 In Goa, lifestyle migrants can afford a lifestyle they could not have in their countries of origin. First, the majority live in spacious villas. Secondly, and most importantly, all of them hire domestic help. Many parents say that an important reason for having chosen to live in Goa is that they have more time to spend with their children than they would have in their native countries, which is possible because they do not need to work every day or do many household tasks themselves.

31 The lifestyle migrants I knew in Goa emphasised that they had managed to escape from the pressures of hectic lifestyles in their countries of origin to the relaxed and enjoyable Goa life. It is a rather hedonistic lifestyle and the lifestyle migrants seem to celebrate a discourse of freedom (see Korpela 2014b). They do not want to follow the norms of “ordinary society” and the path of “ordinary living.” In Goa, they feel free to pursue the kind of life they value. “India is a very corrupted country. If you want something, you have to pay. The same in Italy: you have to pay in order to get what you want. In the north – in Sweden, Finland and Norway – everything is well organised and you do not need to pay. But there you are not free, they chain you.” [Lino, 48] 32 The ethos of the lifestyle migrants in Goa is epitomised by Lino’s comment above; they represent Goa as a land of freedom where they can live as they want. Even if they work in Goa, they are their own bosses and can decide when to work and when not to. Being a lifestyle migrant in Goa thus means, above all, being free and independent. Arun Saldanha, who has studied the racial aspects of the trance scene in Goa, writes that being in Goa is a question of searching for freedom from the oppression of modern Western lifestyles; one can reinvent one’s free self among the expatriates in Goa (Saldanha 2007: 31, 207).

33 This reinvention of the self leads to the significance of self-expression among the lifestyle migrants in Goa. This, in turn, becomes particularly manifest in their looks. Unlike in Varanasi, the lifestyle migrants in Goa are not searching for themselves but expressing the self that they (claim to) have already found. There is a particular Goan fashion, especially in women’s clothing. As with the lifestyle migrants in Varanasi, their styles are very different from those of locals (who in turn have many different styles too) but also from those of “ordinary” people in their native countries. Women wear tight and revealing clothes; very often the garments are torn so that they expose a lot of skin. Anthony D’Andrea has called the Western women in Goa “techno Amazons” (D’Andrea 2007: 207), referring to their bold and masculine styles. The lifestyle migrant men also have distinctive styles, for example pants with many zips. Both women and men wear large sunglasses, many have big tattoos and dreadlocks, and all of them are tanned. Those lifestyle migrants who are fashion designers usually wear the clothes they sell. Many have their own distinctive styles, and D’Andrea (2007) has, in fact, called such people expressive expatriates. At the same time, the Goan fashion is a highly marketable asset, and many lifestyle migrants sell fashion garments to tourists and other lifestyle migrants in the markets.

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34 For the lifestyle migrants in Goa, India is represented as a place where one can enjoy life and freely express oneself. Life in Goa thus becomes a sort of celebration of individualism (see Korpela 2014b). The emphasis is on enjoyment, individual freedom and self-expression. Goa is considered a “paradise” where one can put into practice one’s alternative self in a beautiful, natural, relaxed environment. Unlike the lifestyle migrants in Varanasi, those in Goa do not need to differentiate themselves from tourists, as everyone is celebrating a life of leisure; it does not matter what one does in Goa, it is enough that one has been “smart” enough to leave one’s stressful native country. 35 Being in Goa is not a search for authenticity but a search for freedom. Above all, it is a question of sharing a relaxed, alternative scene with other like-minded people. A European journalist in Goa jokingly told me that the lifestyle migrants live in the “freakland of Goa,” by which she meant the alternative social scene of the lifestyle migrants which is separate from the local social scenes. Living in Goa is thus not about searching for an authentic Indian culture and learning aspects of it, as living in Varanasi is, but about experiencing a hedonistic lifestyle of freedom and self- expression. Another important factor is that, in the lifestyle migrants’ experience, local people seem to be permissive and laid-back. It is, however, important to point out that the lifestyle migrants are outsiders in Goa; local residents do not live in such a “freakland of freedom.” Goa, and also Varanasi, thus offer settings for the lifestyle migrants’ specific scenes and imaginaries concerning India, but engaging with the local populations does not seem to be important when the lifestyle migrants are enjoying India.

The (in)significance of local residents

“It is almost midnight in Varanasi. I sit on a ghat13 by the Ganges River where I am watching a jamming session of European music students. Several Indian instruments are played but there are no Indians present.” [Field diary, March 2003] 36 The diary excerpt above reflects the fact that the lifestyle migrants create their own social spaces within the public space in Varanasi. It is rather ironic that the lifestyle migrants were playing classical Indian music by the holy river of Hinduism, yet there were no Indians attending the event. On that particular occasion, some Indians walked by but did not try to join in the activities; there was an invisible boundary. In Goa, keeping a distance from local residents is also noticeable. “On a hot afternoon in Goa, I attend a lifestyle migrant children’s party where about forty 2 to 12-year-olds are dressed up in various costumes. The party is finishing and all the children gather together in order to get a small gift bag. From behind the fence surrounding the party area, an Indian couple lifts their young child to see the party. The owner of the location, who is a lifestyle migrant, greets the family but there is clearly no intention to invite the child to join the fun; no costume or gift bag for him.” [Field diary, March 2012] 37 As in Varanasi, the lifestyle migrants’ social space in Goa is separate from that of the local residents. Therefore, the lifestyle migrants in these two locations seem to have found a better life in India but not with Indians; they create their own social spaces in the locations they choose to live in during part of the year. They are not “going native” in the sense of becoming similar to the local population, instead “going native” means becoming similar to the other lifestyle migrants in the respective locations. Therefore,

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the lifestyle migrants in Varanasi and in Goa can be understood to be performing or acting out their India, which does not require “authentic” Indian people (see Korpela 2010).

38 Distance from local people is more striking in Goa than in Varanasi. In the dense city of Varanasi, one is bound to interact with local Indian people on a daily basis but in the semi-rural environment of Goa, the lifestyle migrants do not need to interact much with local residents at all. In general though, having local friends turned out to be a problematic issue for almost all of my interlocutors, in both Varanasi and Goa. “Q: Do you have Indian friends? A: Good question! [laughs] Very good question, yeah. It depends on the definition of a friend. […] not really, no. And this is funny because the first time I went [back to Europe], a lot of my friends asked me ‘but you are still in contact with Indian friends there. You continue to write or phone or whatever’ and I was thinking suddenly that I don’t have Indian friends really.” [Donna, 28] 39 The lifestyle migrants’ relationships with local residents in Varanasi and Goa are usually instrumental; their Indian acquaintances are landlords, shopkeepers, babysitters, cleaning ladies or music teachers. In other words, there is a service connection. Most lifestyle migrants I have met in India claim not to have any Indian friends. Many of my interlocutors in Varanasi mentioned that the “Indian” conception of friendship is very different from the “Western” one. They were thus suggesting that cross-cultural friendships are a contradiction in terms. “Q: Do you feel different from Indian people? A: […] We [Westerners] want to make friendship and they [Indians] want money [laughs]. Maybe it’s the main difference.” [Sara, 32] 40 The lifestyle migrants in Varanasi thus justify not having Indian friends by referring to essential cultural differences. They define local residents as positively “authentic” in one respect, but when asked about possible friendship construction they represent them negatively, defining them as backward or greedy. The lifestyle migrants in Goa did not have this notion of local residents being “authentic” but they did share the view of backwardness. For example, when there were problems with a teacher in the school that most lifestyle migrant children I knew attended, some parents simply stated that the solution would be to bring in a Western teacher because “Indians cannot teach properly.” In fact, even when they need local information, for example when they are looking for local services, the lifestyle migrants in Varanasi and in Goa usually rely on advice given by other lifestyle migrants rather than asking local people, because they do not believe that local residents would understand what it is they are looking for. Here, however, it is important to note that local residents are not necessarily interested in becoming friends with the lifestyle migrants either; the wish to keep a distance might be mutual. This is, however, only my impression and it is a theme that needs to be investigated further. It is nevertheless noteworthy that the lifestyle migrants are able to live in India in spite of this social distance from local residents. This clearly resembles colonial relations and it thus seems that the privileged lifestyles of lifestyle migrants reproduce colonial and racial hierarchies. Indians are, however, not merely passive viewers of the various understandings of India that the lifestyle migrants celebrate.

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Indians participating in the discourses of “Incredible Indias”

41 Being a lifestyle migrant in Varanasi means being interested in the “authentic” India and studying some aspect of it – usually music. It also often involves serious contemplation of one’s own beliefs and aspirations. In Goa, being a lifestyle migrant means living a life of leisure and freedom. The emphasis is on fun, enjoyment and self- expression, and Indian cultures are strikingly absent from this discourse. The view of lifestyle migrants in Varanasi, of India in terms of authenticity, is obviously an orientalist and thus originally a Western construction, but the freedom that the lifestyle migrants in Goa celebrate is also a Western construction (see Korpela 2014b). This, however, does not mean that these discourses would not circulate among sections of the Indian population too.

42 Indian people also participate in the very same discourses as those of the lifestyle migrants in Varanasi and Goa. Paolo Favero has argued that young middle-class14 men in Delhi celebrate an image of “an essentialised and idealised ‘India,’ symbolised by the village, traditional life-styles and spiritual heritage” (Favero 2005: 71). They thus share a discourse of the magnificence of Indian spirituality and the simplicity of its culture (Favero 2005: 87). Favero also points out that contemporary Indian companies use this image in their marketing strategies for domestic consumers (Favero 2005: 90). According to Favero, the Western representations of India have thus become useful instruments in India’s self-representation (Favero 2005: 76). However, the urban middle classes do not aim to “freeze” India in its authentic past like the lifestyle migrants in Varanasi do. Rather, the past is used in a flexible way within modernity and with a view towards the future (Favero 2005: 89). Favero’s Indian research subjects, for example, held the view that tradition makes India strong in the globalising world (Favero 2005: 241), whereas the lifestyle migrants in Varanasi did not share such a global approach. The fact that sections of the Indian urban middle class share the discourse of authentic and spiritual India with the lifestyle migrants in Varanasi shows how discourses about India circulate. It is, however, worthy of note that the celebration of particular discourses is not merely the result of the efforts of individuals. One should not ignore the fact that the right-wing nationalistic Hindu movement has become powerful in India and is actively promoting its own view of the “authentic” Hindu India. Moreover, in addition to its “Incredible India” campaign, which is targeted at international tourists, the Indian Ministry of Tourism has a campaign entitled “Discover Yourself,” which is targeted at domestic tourists. In fact, Bandyopadhyay, Morais and Chick (2008) argue that heritage tourism is an integral part of national identity building in India and that a significant part of this is the celebration of India’s glorious past, often with reference to the Hindu understanding of it. In other words, there are many actors in the game. 43 The discourse of the “authentic” and “spiritual” India has its origins in the colonial era and the anti-colonial struggle. The discourse of freedom and hedonism that the lifestyle migrants in Goa celebrate emerged much later, as part of the hippie movement. It is, however, currently shared by sections of the Indian population as well. Goa has become a popular holiday destination for relatively well-off young people from metropolitan Indian cities, and the Bollywood elite likes to go to Goa to party. Tourism in Goa has a long history, partly related to the fact that, unlike other Indian states, it

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was a Portuguese colony, and therefore has not only different kinds of architectural heritage (because of the Catholic influence) but also a different kind of lifestyle (the most recognised sign of which is permission to consume alcohol) (Trichur 2007; Gupta 2009). 44 Saldanha, writing on the trance scene in Goa, claims that the “domestic tourists didn’t have the cultural or economic resources to join in” the trance parties (Saldanha 2007: 6). However, he conducted his fieldwork more than ten years ago and it seems to me that an increasing number of Indian young people do now possess the cultural and economic capital to join the trance scene. Sometimes they attend the same parties as the Westerners, and at other times they have their own parties, but in both situations these young Indian tourists celebrate a similar discourse of freedom, leisure and enjoyment as the lifestyle migrants in Goa do. In fact, many of the lifestyle migrants working in the Goan markets sell their products also to Indian tourists who eagerly participate in the culture of expressive outfits, trance parties and drugs. For them too, Goa is a “freakland of freedom” where one can escape the pressures of life in one’s place of origin. Therefore, although the lifestyle migrants keep a social distance from Indian people, some Indians share their discourse about Goa (and Varanasi).

Conclusion

45 This article has shown that there are a number of discourses that describe “Incredible India” and that when lifestyle migrants search for that something that Indians “have got,” they can be referring to very different things; in Varanasi they mean authenticity and spirituality, whereas in Goa they mean freedom and pleasure. In these discourses, orientalism and postmodern individualism become entangled and the discourses circulate and intersect in various ways. Being a lifestyle migrant in “Incredible India” means different things in different locations, but the people nevertheless share a love for “India” and a willingness to repeatedly return.

46 In this article, I have also shown that the discourses about India celebrated by the lifestyle migrants are shared by sections of the Indian population. First, the discourse of an exotic authenticity is persistent but has different manifestations and meanings in different contexts. Secondly, I have argued that the discourse of freedom that lifestyle migrants in Goa celebrate is shared by sections of the urban Indian youth. Goa has often been presented and represented as a place of the celebration of a global trance culture (D’Andrea 2007; Saldanha 2007; St. John 2011) but it is important to keep in mind that the trance culture has Indian participants too, and for them Goa is a “freakland of freedom” in a similar way as it is for lifestyle migrants. Therefore, although lifestyle migrants keep a social distance from local populations and seem to create their own understandings of Incredible India, Indians are not necessarily passive viewers but active participants in the same discourses with their own interpretations. Incredible India is not only a state tourism policy; it has many faces, of which the cases of Varanasi and Goa are two important ones.

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MASSEY, Reginald, and Jamila MASSEY, 1976, The Music of India. London, Kahn & Averill.

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WILLIAMS, Allan, et al., 2000, “Tourism and international retirement migration: new forms of an old relationship in Southern Europe”, Tourism Geographies, 2 (1): 28-49.

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NOTES

1. See http://www.incredibleindia.org (last access in January 2017). 2. The research in Goa was funded by the Academy of Finland (Grant 2501138405) and the proofreading of this article was funded by the School of Education, University of Tampere. 3. Although my research focused mainly on children, this article does not discuss the children’s perspective but the phenomenon as such. 4. Varanasi is also known as Banaras or Kashi. On the process of how Varanasi gained the status of a holy Hindu city, see Bayly (2001). 5. The period between May and August is extremely hot and wet. 6. Varanasi is the city of the god Shiva who is associated with using intoxicants, including hash (see Abel 2006: 148). Therefore, many Westerners there justify their smoking by claiming that it is part of the Varanasi way of life. 7. After each interview extract, there is a pseudonym for the interviewee and his / her correct age at the time of the interview. 8. Ashram: a spiritual hermitage. 9. Guru: a (spiritual) teacher or guide. 10. Kurta: a traditional long loose shirt. 11. Khadi: a homespun cotton that was promoted by Gandhi in order to encourage the production of Indian products and boycott Western ones during the anti-colonial movement. 12. I have observed that even today Indian people sometimes call “Western” tourists “hippies.” When using the term, they are defining the tourists as “white,” “lazy” and “dirty.” 13. Ghat: stone stairs leading to the Ganges river. 14. The concept of middle class is problematic in the Indian context but it is usually used to refer to the relatively well-off urban population that has a university education and sufficient financial means to participate in the current consumer culture (see Brosius 2010).

ABSTRACTS

Hundreds of lifestyle migrants repeatedly spend long periods of time in India; they return to specific places where they meet others leading the same lifestyle. Some appreciate the spiritual aspects and some learn Indian music, whereas others are simply searching for a relaxed life. This article is based on ethnographic fieldwork among lifestyle migrants in Varanasi and Goa. The lifestyle migrants in Varanasi appreciate “authentic ancient India” whereas those in Goa celebrate a discourse of freedom. In this article, I discuss what that authenticity and freedom mean. I argue that India provides a setting – a physical location – for these lifestyle migrants’ own performance of India. Interestingly, sections of the Indian population participate in these same discourses, although there is a social distance between the lifestyle migrants and local populations.

As migrações conotadas com um determinado estilo de vida levam centenas de pessoas a deslocarem-se para a Índia repetidamente por longos períodos e a regressar a locais específicos onde encontram outras que optaram pelo mesmo estilo de vida. Alguns vão numa busca espiritual, outros aprendem música indiana, enquanto outros simplesmente procuram uma vida descontraída. Este artigo tem por base um trabalho etnográfico realizado entre migrantes deste

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tipo em Varanasi e em Goa. Em Varanasi concentram-se aqueles que apreciam a “Índia antiga autêntica”, ao passo que os que optaram por Goa celebram antes um discurso de liberdade. Neste artigo analiso o significado de autenticidade e de liberdade nestes contextos. Argumento que a Índia fornece um cenário, um local físico, para a representação da Índia por parte destes migrantes. Mais ainda, alguns setores de indianos participam nestes discursos, apesar de haver distância social entre os migrantes e as populações locais.

INDEX

Palavras-chave: Goa, Varanasi, migração conotada com um estilo de vida, orientalismo, autenticidade, discurso de liberdade Keywords: Goa, Varanasi, lifestyle migration, orientalism, authenticity, discourse of freedom

AUTHOR

MARI KORPELA

Faculty of Social Sciences, University of Tampere, Finland [email protected]

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Bollywood in Portugal: watching and dancing practices in the construction of alternative cultural identities Bollywood em Portugal: a construção de identidades culturais alternativas entre audiências e praticantes de dança

Inês Lourenço

Introduction

1 A new Orientalism, apparently invigorated by globalization, is currently associated with consumption practices that first emerged in the 1990s in correspondence with the emergence of “Indo-chic” (Maira 2007: 221). In this context, Bollywood film industry can be perceived as transmitting images of India with potential for the reification of Indian culture and traditions.1 Edward Saïd’s Orientalism (1995 [1978]) applies the concept of Western cultural hegemony to the Middle East in particular, but may also extend to other regions of Asia, such as India. Similarly, New Orientalism2 suggests a renewed search for the exotic that awakes in the Western world ambiguous feelings of desire and fear relating to the East, in this case synonymous with a representation of the “other.”

2 This paper intends to explore Bollywood consumption in Portugal – specifically, its film and dance versions –, processes of cultural borrowings that result in new and innovative forms of identity construction, and to understand how far Orientalism influences them.3 With regard to cultural representations of India, New Orientalism emerges deeply associated with consumption, as demonstrated by Graham Huggan’s expression “consuming India” to designate the phenomenon under which India became a capital producer of export goods (Huggan 2001: 67). In fact, most of the goods that originate in India are currently tradable, albeit the fact that in essence many are

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transformed or even custom-made for Western buyers, using designs very distant from their original form or utility. In brief, these goods have been reinvented for Orientalist consumption, which is based on essentialist constructions and on a fictional India. 3 Portuguese consumption of goods originated in India shares the global trend in which India has a strong cultural presence (seen in the proliferation of Indian restaurants, clothing styles and decor as well as wellness therapies and yoga), but yet India continues to be daily stereotyped, its real cultural identity mystified and exoticized. The Portuguese colonial past propelled the Indian immigration but the visibility of Indian-origin people in Portugal is recent, particularly in the Lisbon Metropolitan Area and also in Porto, although many Indian communities have been established in this country for more than three decades. Cultural activities that juxtapose people of Indian origin with other sectors of the Portuguese population generate mutual intersections, which currently unleashes the growing impact of Indian cultural references in Portuguese urban and cosmopolitan society. 4 As in other contexts of the Indian Diaspora, Portuguese Indian origin communities contributed to the “consuming India” phenomenon. With regard to Indian cinema, and particularly Bollywood, its consumption in Portugal occurs in a subtler level, but it is nevertheless a growing phenomenon, coupled with the consumption of other cultural products that are directly or indirectly associated with it – for example: dance, food, clothing, and the increasingly famous Bollywood parties. 5 This paper focuses on the cultural practices associated with the consumption of Bollywood in Portugal. This phenomenon will be analyzed based on two empirical studies focusing on Bollywood film audiences and Bollywood dance practice. This anthropological approaches aim to explore the processes of cultural cosmopolitan construction of global media consumption, particularly in application to Bollywood cinema and its cultural appropriations. There is admittedly a proliferation of literature on the impact of Bollywood abroad, which is circumscribed to its impact on diasporas, particularly young people of South Asian descent (cf. Acharya 2004; Bandyopadhyay 2008; Battacharya 2004; Ciecko 2001; Datta 2008; Dudrah 2006; Ebrahim 2008; Kao and Do Rozario 2008; Shresthova 2008; Tirumala 2009). In contrast, this paper aims to reflect on the impact of Bollywood on non-Indian origin audiences. In fact, Bollywood audiences are increasingly global, and Bollywood has long transcended the context of South Asian diasporas. David Novak showed how the reception of Bollywood by these diverse audiences is not always based on the movies themselves but rather on some particular elements, such as music, clothing, and performances (Novak 2010: 40). According to Novak, relevance should be given to the role of the subjects in these circulation and globalization processes and their consequent cultural appropriation (Novak 2010: 41). 6 Rajinder Dudrah (2006) proposed an interdisciplinary approach to the popular Hindi cinema, combining sociology, film and media studies, and cultural studies. According to Dudrah, Denzin’s cinematic culture approach (1991, 1995), based on Mills’ sociological imagination (2000 [1959]), is crucial to understand these dynamics. This is only possible through engagement with current social subjects (Dudrah 2006: 26). The fascination held by Western industries for Bollywood, as well as Bollywood’s unprecedented relationship with its audiences (Dudrah 2006: 36) confirm the status of global entertainment that Bollywood has acquired in recent years. In Portugal the audiences of Indian cinema are increasing, coupled with the growing visibility of India and its

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diasporas, and also contemporary cosmopolitan fashion, which drives consumption of India in different areas. In the context of the great variety of Indian cinemas (Telugu, Bengali, among many others), Inda’s most popular cinema, Bollywood, offers its audiences fantasy, wellbeing, and pleasure. These are consumed in tandem with film narratives often received as stereotypical and romantic representations of India. 7 Similarly, recent years have witnessed a growing public visibility of Indian cultural expressions in Portugal, in the field of classic dance styles such as Bharatnatyam, Kathak or Odissi, as well as in the most popular and global form, Bollywood dance. Bollywood films’ song and dance components are its brand image for Western audiences. Although unaware of the plot, actors and actresses’ names, or even the names of the films themselves, Western audiences have had contact with the musical sequences, which are deliberately created to be detached from the movies. Moreover, just as classical dances, whose function is to narrate mythological stories, musical sequences of Bollywood maintain a narrative purpose. 8 This attraction for kitsch influenced contemporary Western fashion, and many Indian cultural references have become commodities, in a context where “aesthetic of excess enters mainstream culture as a trend that does not in any way disturb or challenge dominant norms but merely supplements it with some exotic color” (Gopal and Moorti 2008: 44). Kitsch, colorful, and exotic elements are found in the practice of Bollywood dance. The demand for this dance by non-South Asian-origin people is a recent phenomenon of Western cities (Shresthova 2011: 141), coupled with an increasing visibility of Hindi cinema and, as a consequence of globalization, the most recent media technologies. Inspired by Hindi cinema, Bollywood dance is nevertheless a unique field of artistic creativity and cultural alternatives: “Bollywood song and dance create a contact zone, but the body itself becomes a borderland where improvisational and interactive elements help reconstitute subjectivities” (Gopal and Moorti 2008: 47). 9 The practices of cultural appropriation (Novak 2010: 41) lead to the creation of new social subjects through the construction of new cultural identities. This paper analyzes the consumption of Bollywood as a phenomenon of cultural appropriation and recreation, and aims to understand both the reasons why individuals consume cultural goods, and the impact that these have – or do not have – in their lives. In this context, it aims to answer the following questions: Who are the audiences of Bollywood cinema in Portuguese urban society? What are their perceptions of India and what do they search for in this kind of cinema? What is Bollywood dance, and who are its practitioners? How is it received and appropriated by its practitioners? Finally, are these practices of cultural consumption a New-Orientalist phenomenon? 10 Several authors reported that the appropriation of “other” cultural references takes place through processes that recover the old Orientalism ideas. Called Neo- or New- Orientalism, these processes were also considered forms of Orientalist hybridity (McGee 2012: 232) that do not involve a complete immersion in the Eastern cultural practices but rather develop in conjunction with other cultural elements and lifestyles. Considered by some authors universalist humanism (Maira 2003) or mediated representations of the orient (McGee 2012: 233), this phenomenon will be discussed in view of the Portuguese context, aiming to contribute to the debate on cultural appropriations resulting from the globalization of consumer culture.

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Methodology

11 Gray showed how participant observation with real audiences – distinct from those of quantitative studies – creates a personal connection with viewers that is reflected in the information collected and, in a deeper and more accurate view, different from the voiceless masses of the Frankfurt School (Gray 2010: 116). Thus, anthropology is very useful in understanding audiences, allowing for the articulation of what a certain audience makes of a movie or television show in the surrounding social and cultural context (Gray 2010: 122). In this case, we cannot neglect the contribution of cultural studies in establishing a relationship between forms of popular culture and the broader topics of political ideology, gender, and the relationship between culture and power, in which Stuart Hall had a decisive role (see Hall 1980).

12 To better understand the process of consumption of Hindi cinema in Portugal, as well as the social uses associated with it, I began a search for potential followers of this film genre, a majority of whom were found via Internet, through specialized blogs on this theme; the Internet played a key role in this process, given the absence of a dissemination circuit of Indian cinema in Portugal. Finding the participants of this project spread over different parts of the country, I resorted to a multi-situated ethnography, and geographically extended this research work that initially should focus only on the city of Lisbon. 13 Several methodological tools were used in this research: online contacts, as many members of this audience were found via Internet, i. e., through blogs, email exchange, and Facebook chat. The difficulty in contacting these audiences led me to turn to the Internet. Initially I contacted one of the authors of the blog Grand Masala, which is dedicated to the dissemination of Indian cinema, as well as cultural activities related to it.4 The contribution of this blog for this research was central. Through it my project as well as the request for participants was publicized, giving me access to the interlocutors of this research. The Internet was thus a privileged means to access Portuguese Indian popular cinema audiences, since this is a resource used by many of these individuals, in particular for downloading films.5 14 The fact that I only was able to find them through this strategy corroborated that Bollywood is a predominantly private consumption, as it will be further demonstrated. Informal interviews and participant observation were the techniques of the ethnographic methodology used. The empirical data, collected mainly through ethnographic research and interviews, also included visits to stores selling Indian films, collecting information from vendors, and attempted contact with potential fans of Indian cinema. 15 The interactions with these interlocutors were conducted in different ways. Where personal and frequent contact was possible, I resorted to semi-structured and informal interviews. In some cases, the interviews were complemented by Internet searches and viewing of film clips. For participants located over large geographical distances, as well as for those who lacked the time to meet in person, contact was maintained through the exchange of emails or conversations via Internet chat. The interest my interlocutors showed in participating in this project, even those located in distant places, thus influenced me to make use of these resources.

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16 In the case of Bollywood dance, I approached participants through attending the dance classes myself. Participant observation, supplemented by interviews, was the method used. In Lisbon I was invited to participate in a trial lesson and to assist a dance company rehearsal directed by the teacher and choreographer Diana Rego. I followed up the invitation to participate in classes as an approximation to the students and also as a means of – in this case literally – participant observation. Thus, in addition to participating in the classes, I also resorted to “changing room ethnography,” taking advantage of the gathering space before and after classes to establish contact with the dance students. These moments were a complement to informal interviews, accomplished outside of the dance school and gym areas. Again, online communication methods – especially email and Facebook – had a determining role in maintaining contact with the interlocutors.

Watching Hindi cinema and the consumption of alternative cultural identities

17 In April 2013 the Indian film producer PVP Cinema, alongside AA Globe Services (an international logistics company responsible for Indian productions), chose Portugal as a destination for filming the telugu6 movie Balupu; two song-and-dance sequences were shot in Lisbon and in Algarve. The last time a film had previously been shot in Portugal was in 1979, when Amitabh Bhachan and Neetu Singh danced in iconic areas of Lisbon (Sabse Bada Zuari, The Great Gambler). Following Spain’s lead, where the shooting of the film Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara, You Won’t Get This Life Again (2011) resulted in significant growth of Indian tourism, Portugal currently intends to position itself as a destination for the Indian film industry.

18 Resulting from a partnership between the Tourism of Portugal and the AA Globe Services the crew’s visit to Portugal for ten days resulted in a private investment of 150 thousand Euros, according to a national newspaper.7 Consequently, Real Image, a leading Indian digital cinema company, decided to relocate to Portugal, where they intend to invest around 5.5 million Euros and create about 60 jobs, according to another national newspaper.8 19 While Portuguese scenarios feature on-screen into the biggest productions of Indian cinema, Bollywood is increasingly attracting Portuguese viewers. Although they constitute a semi-hidden minority of the population, these viewers are connoisseurs of this cinematic universe, and they have in common the factor of viewing films individually, in a domestic space (i. e., in a logic of private consumption). The next paragraphs will reflect on Bollywood cinema consumption, facing the lack of distribution of this kind of cinema in Portugal. 20 In the 1990s and 2000s, apart from sporadic exhibition of some Hindi films – and crossover hits such as Monsoon Wedding (Mira Nair 2001) and Water (Deepa Mehta 2005) – in Portuguese theaters, Bollywood releases were displayed only at the theater Cinestúdio 222, located in central Lisbon. Currently the place is vacant. Ricardo Oliveira Silva (2012) reported its history. The existing theater room within this commercial space opened to the public but the showing of Bollywood movies only emerged in the late 1990s, orchestrated by one of the managers, Dhimante Cundanlal. Thus, it allowed the Cinestúdio 222 to become “a venue for the dissemination of Indian culture” during

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the weekends (Silva 2012: 44). However, the acquisition, subtitling and final projection proved too costly. The public screening of Bollywood could not cope with the consumption of DVD – sold in Indian stores – and the access to satellite channels and the Internet for Indian-origin viewers. Thus, in mid-2000 the projection of Hindi films on the big screen ceased to exist, whilst leaving access to Indian cinema even more difficult for the Portuguese public in general. 21 Indian owners’ shops are one of the access channels to Hindi cinema DVD, not only for Indian origin people but also for the remainder of the Portuguese public.9 Portuguese subtitles have poor quality, forcing the viewers to watch the films with English subtitles. A visit to a mainstream video store in the Great Lisbon area leaves one always perplexed by the section of Asian films: Indian films among Japanese ones, with the available titles oddly unknown. Only the popular crossover films or even diasporic hybrid films are available. 22 Thus the privileged channel for this cinema’s audiences is the Internet. In this sense, both the Indian-origin people and the remaining Portuguese public are progressively moving towards the private consumption sector of Bollywood. Although it is rather difficult to access a formal Indian cinema circuit in Portugal, the Bollywood fans overcome these barriers, and many of them are experts on this genre. 23 The Indian-origin population in Portugal is divided into several groups (Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, and Catholics), whose migratory history goes back to the late 1970s and early 1980s. Coming mostly from Mozambique, after establishing themselves in Portugal these people developed strong community structures, processes in which Indian cinema has played a key role.10 Although established in Portugal for more than three decades, the Portuguese Indian-origin communities still almost invisible in Portuguese society. However, they have a central role on Indian popular cinema dissemination within Portugal. We saw previously that it was Dhimante Cundanlal, who came from Mozambique and originally from India, who encouraged public exhibition of Bollywood movies in Lisbon. And despite the success of the Internet, Indian stores continue to be an important means of acquiring films. In this sense the Indian presence in Portugal has influenced, although not directly, Bollywood mainstream consumption. 11

The audience: dynamics of private consumption

24 We already noted that Bollywood consumption by Portuguese audiences has particularities distinct from other Indian cinema audiences outside India. Unlike other countries, where the Bollywood craze is displayed publicly, in Portugal its consumption is eminently private. Compared to the British context analyzed by David (2010), for example, the Portuguese audience of Hindi cinema has no access to public exhibition of the films. We will analyze these factors using the notions of private consumption and wellbeing.

25 In addition to the Indian-origin population, which mostly has direct access to Bollywood either through the DVD, or by cable television (i. e., television channels such as ZTV and B4U), the popularity of Bollywood also extends to groups of immigrants from former Portuguese colonies in Africa such as Mozambique or Angola, who show

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preference for this type of films as they were used to watching them in Africa, where Indian communities were well-established. 26 The group covered by the scope of this research is a group of people who have no connection either to India (only two of my interlocutors have ever travelled to India) or to the diasporic communities in Portugal. The audience of this case study is a group of 40 people aged between 19 and 46, mostly in their 30s. Composed of a majority of women, this group includes only 6 male members. The socio-cultural level of these individuals is medium-high. Although centered in the city of Lisbon, this study extended to other areas of Portugal: Porto, Leiria and Madeira. 27 After the participants were identified in this investigation, I conducted informal interviews to learn my interlocutors’ film preferences, and to understand, in the foreground, the reasons that led them to obtain a deeper knowledge of this kind of cinema. From this I could analyze the social and cultural impacts of Hindi cinema in their lives. The methodological tools of anthropology allowed me to spend time with people to watch cinema, to talk to them about movies, and finally to articulate this information within the audience’s social and cultural context: that is, how this audience responds to a certain movie, and how this reflects socially and culturally. In this sense, film should be considered as an integral part of society and not a mere reflection of it: “Cinema is embedded in society just as cultural values and social knowledge is embedded in the cinema” (Gray 2010: 133). Therefore, analyzing the consumption of cinema allows us to understand the social uses of culture. 28 According to Bollywood movie sellers in the city of Lisbon, Caminho das Índias (The Pathway to India), the Brazilian produced by Globo television network that had everyone searching for tinkling jewelry and colorful robes in 2009, and also the eight Oscars awarded to Slumdog Millionaire, the film by Danny Boyle and Loveleen Tandan from 2008, with a soundtrack which featured Jai Ho, A. R. Rahman, and the Pussycat Dolls, both have infused in some Portuguese people the desire to watch Indian movies. This is the angle that Indian vendors privilege in their sales strategies (via Internet websites, blogs, etc.). In contrast, my interlocutors refer to personal and independent events that sparked their interest in Indian cinema. 29 In most cases it is a personal quest, inspired by contact with soundtracks from Bollywood movies, the personal interest in an actor or actress, or documentaries related to India. It should also be noted that some people mention the influence of their parents’ generation, which relates to the 1970s’ exhibitions of Indian films in the theaters of the main Portuguese cities, such as Lisbon and Porto. Some of the interlocutors report having watched with their parents an Indian film that resonated with them and subsequently resulted in a deeper search for Indian popular cinema. In summary, the collected data suggest that participants’ interest in Bollywood derives from personal and private searches, in addition to the influence of the global cultural flows of exotic consumption of India. 30 After analyzing the impetus for the consumption of Bollywood, we need to examine the key elements that Hindi cinema fans highlighted about their favorite films. Firstly, they stressed the visual appeal of Bollywood, particularly associated with the song and dance sequences, composed of elaborate choreographies and lush clothes, and always featuring stunning scenery. In this context, Bollywood aesthetics and kitsch elements exert the initial attraction, as illustrated by the following words of a 31-year-old female

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interlocutor: “… it all started in 2001, when a friend lent me a CD with songs from Indian films of the 70s and 80s. At the time I found it very kitsch and fun.” 31 The wellbeing these films generate is corroborated by the large majority of Bollywood fans, and can be thought as the central appeal of this consumption. A 35-year-old male viewer says of Bollywood movies: “It is good for [one’s] health and [those] who watch it feel good. Besides, it is completely addicting!” The focus on the wellbeing emanating from these films is common among all interlocutors. In some cases, watching Bollywood movies becomes an addictive hobby. A 46-year-old male interlocutor states: “I spend a lot of time with my Indian films. When I get home I eat something and I go to the Internet to check for more Indian films and then entertain [myself by adding] subtitles. Everyday. Some days I don’t even watch television […] I now have about 500 movies on DVD and all subtitled in Portuguese. Sometimes I need a couple of weeks to get a movie. For example, when the subtitles are in English or Spanish, then I have to translate it and watch the film in stop-start to make the subtitles.” 32 Besides being a personal addiction, Bollywood consumption is essentially private. The participant quoted above refers to this trend: “When I watch a Hindi movie I like doing it alone because I like living [in the world of] the movie and I’m more comfortable.” If, on the one hand, the question of personal and private pleasure is very relevant here, we should add that this private consumption can also be affected by the stigma that Bollywood carries for many Portuguese. This is indicated by a 38-year-old female interlocutor: “Only my mom and I like Hindi movies. I cannot convince my sisters. I never [could]. My friends always mocked me because I like Indian films, since I [first] began to [watch them]. Now only my sisters still know that I watch and love Bollywood. I do not share this passion with anyone, [as they would] continue [to] mock me!” 33 Bollywood cinema works as an alternative to Western mainstream cinema. The fact that it does not contain “sex scenes” or “bad language” is mentioned by several participants in this research as a more palatable alternative to Hollywood cinema. Considered “good for all ages” [female participant, 38 years old] they have a moral concern, as the actors “show an intensity of feelings without resorting to scenes of intimate physical involvement” [female participant, 31 years old].

34 Overall, despite a subsequent interest in India due to the attraction by the Hindi cinema, the majority of these Bollywood fans are not enthusiast consumers of other commodities of Indian origin. Only two interlocutors in this study admitted a fascination with “all that is Indian.” The author of this sentence, a 31-year-old female, continues: “I love Indian films and I am sorry that there are no more places [to buy them from]. I love Indian music. At the moment, I have about 50 CD that I hear almost daily. They are almost movie soundtracks. I also love Indian classical dance.” This Bollywood fan proceeds to list Indian clothing, mythology, and food as other passions. Likewise, another interlocutor, a 33-year-old female, claims to like a bit of everything that is Indian. Besides cinema, clothing, food and dance, she adds: “I practice yoga and vedic lessons. I also love henna tattoos that I practice on myself… In addition, I study Hindi [language]. Maybe one day I will be able to watch a movie without subtitles!” 35 Only these two testimonies suggest an overall fascination with India, evident in the consumption practices of both these interlocutors, as well as in their daily lives and lifestyles. The remaining study participants direct their interests primarily to the

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cinema. For these people, India as a cultural reference does not dominate their consumption practices; neither does it occupy their daily lives. Here’s an example of a 31-year-old female: “… I used to listen to soundtracks [from Hindi films] before I started to watch them. That’s why Indian music is very present in my life, as well as the cuisine and decor. As for the latter two, they did not arise because of the films, I think. […] As for clothing, I confess I do not use anything traditionally Indian, [it] does not [fit in with] my personal style. And the same [goes for] Bollywood dance. I have no interest. […] The same applies to yoga. I have no interest or curiosity […] The [Bollywood] films allowed me to get to know a little about the religious and spiritual side of India but that’s it. I like to know and learn but not to the point of adopting some kind of religious or philosophical practice.” 36 As we can see from the excerpts reproduced above, this scope of analysis is heterogeneous. The fact that the majority of individuals do not know each other contributes to this diversity. I’ll try, however, to summarize the impact of India in the social and cultural practices of these individuals. Some stereotypes about India were found in the discourses of these participants, particularly those of a spiritual and tolerant India. Fantasy is one of the elements most appreciated by Bollywood fans, and in general they are aware that Bollywood is not a reproduction of the real India. Thus it is not the real India they want to consume, but an imagined, exotic and Orientalist India. They seek fantasy, above all else: “The Indian popular cinema is very fanciful and while it may seem unrealistic or old fashioned, I believe the filmmakers strive to make beautiful, more than deep, works” [female participant, 31 years old]. This fantasy, coupled with pleasure, results in wellbeing, as summed up in the following sentence of a male 35-year-old spectator: “Quite frankly, I find it impossible not to like those two- and-a-half-hour – at least – movies that can make us dream, laugh, cry, dance and sing like no Hollywood movie could!”

37 India has always seduced the European imagination. Portuguese held an early fascination over this country, associated with the Portuguese Discoveries and the colonial process.12 The old Orientalism, in which representations of otherness were grounded, seems now to arise in other areas reissued as a New Orientalism in a context of globalization and new forms of identity within the cosmopolitan Portuguese society. India is a central reference in contemporary cosmopolitan European fashion. The consumption of Indian cultural references has become common in Portuguese society, as in other European contexts, which is expressed in the growing demand for products such as film, literature, cuisine, and clothing. The public finds these cultural products increasingly available in a market that some authors refer to as Indo-chic (Maira 2007). Focusing on the phenomenon of consumption of Indian popular cinema and other associated elements, this approach seeks to analyze the social uses of culture and the creative process of these cultural borrowings. 38 By the same token, we could say a priori that for most Portuguese viewers, Indian popular cinema represents, to some extent, India itself, even with images and cultural constructions often remade as more essentialized and exotic. This paper will discuss how these images are perceived by my interlocutors, and whether or not this phenomenon can be framed within a process of New Orientalist fascination. 39 This study’s empirical work deserves to be analyzed in detail to evidence the complexity of this issue. Although for some India has a very relevant role in the various dimensions of their everyday lives, the majority of interlocutors show a particular

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fascination for Indian popular cinema. Despite the obvious interest associated with India, Bollywood works for these audiences as a vehicle of wellbeing. The idea of obtaining pleasure from these films is common to all members of this audience. This results not only from the typical Bollywood themes but also from the spectacle provided particularly by song and dance sequences. Considering the music as “the central axis along which desire and identification are calibrated” (Gopal and Moorti 2008: 5) and the dance as a “temporary permission” (Prasad 1998), these are core elements in the creation of feelings of pleasure. 40 Consumption is a means of constructing identities and generating communication of social and cultural affiliations. Thus, one would expect the consumption of Bollywood to develop in some way through groups of individuals who share this taste. Providing meanings to the goods consumed allows us to think of them as a means of communication between people (Douglas and Isherwood 1996 [1979]). However, the presented data suggest that, on the contrary, Bollywood proved to be an eminently private – if not hidden – consumption. 41 Two factors contribute to this isolation. The first was the fact that Bollywood in Portugal is an individual consumption, which does not extend to all levels of individuals’ lives, and which does not include them in specific social or cultural movements. Additionally, this audience is confronted with stereotypes about Bollywood cinema in their social, cultural and family surroundings – in general, Indian cinema is seen as kitsch and of poor quality. These factors lead to a private consumption or pleasure, where desire and fantasy play a decisive role. 42 Instead of uniting people with common tastes, this phenomenon proved rather to be a practice that gives access to individual viewing and solitary pleasure. Accordingly, the films can be thought of as a form of “exutory.” The term, of medical origin, is used by João de Pina Cabral (2003a, 2003b) to describe a mechanism allowing the release or eradication of a need or desire (Cabral 2003a: 75). Likewise, Hindi films work for their audiences as a way to release their fantasies and desires into a personal and secret pleasure channel. 43 However, hidden Bollywood consumption does not inhibit this audience from monitoring the glamorous universe of Bollywood: there are fans of actors such as Shahrukh Khan or Aamir Khan fans, for instance (Shahrukh Khan is an example of global popularity, with his body being an object of global consumption, the consumption hero). But what could potentially be a shared worship, creating a community of fans, is instead a lifestyle overshadowed by the fear of ridicule. Only one of my interlocutors, a 21-year-old Bollywood fan, also practiced Bollywood dance, nourishing her wish to take part in this dream world by investing in a professional career as a Bollywood dancer. 44 Cinema gives access to a world of fantasy that conveys pleasure and provides wellbeing. The act of buying, according to Miller (1998) should be perceived as a way of disclosing the processes that create universes of affective and personal development. The consumption of Bollywood fits within this logic, in the sense that it offers to its consumers a universe that generates pleasure, and which results in personal wellbeing. 45 This fantasy is often associated with an exotic and traditional India. The fascination of India varies from person to person, but in general, they all show interest in the country of origin of these films and their cultural heritage. The analysis of the participants’ discourse reveals some stereotypes about India, as well as some Orientalist notions of

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India and its inhabitants, related to religion and spirituality. They often refer to Indians as a very spiritual and tolerant people, and to their cultural traditions as ancient. However, this interest in India and its most popular cinema should not be reduced to a form of old Orientalism, but rather be thought of as a form of contemporary access to ethnic difference which results from the global circulation of Asian popular media through processes of remediation, i. e. a New Orientalism. To state that these individuals are in search of cultural alternatives to Hollywood-dominated Western cinema is not an adequate explanation as to why they resort to these media forms of recreation. As this research has allowed us to perceive, though some interests related to India are part of the social and cultural activities of these people – such as yoga or Indian cuisine –, such interests do not dominate their personalities or their personal relationships. Likewise, they are not visible in their clothing styles nor in other elements of body encoding. 46 To focus on the relationship between (Orientalist) desire, pleasure and fantasy is also useful for this discussion. Bollywood cinema is characterized by musical sequences that interrupt the narrative, making actors and also the audience travel for fantastic displacement. The cinema of interruptions (Gopalan 2002) allows the blending of seemingly contradictory musical moments whose set is actually essential to the film’s narrative elements. The musical interruptions are the moments most appreciated by the Portuguese audiences, integrating Bollywood aesthetics. In the same way that these social fantasy narratives allow Indian-origin audiences to re-imagine their everyday lives (Dickey 1993), so too they allow the Portuguese fans to access a fantasy world, as an alternative of escapist pleasure. 47 If we consider that the most recent song-and-dance sequences depict cosmopolitan contexts and are full of Western influences – often filmed outside India, using non- Indian dancers – we can easily realize that what attracts these audiences to Bollywood films are not only the exotic elements and traditional stereotypes of India, but also the prospect of an alternative form of entertainment, which generates pleasure through fanciful escape, working in the background as “exutory.” 48 Thus, consumption of Bollywood does not aim at membership of a particular social group, nor does it greatly influence lifestyles. It is for these reasons that Novak’s approach is relevant, that is, to analyze this consumption as a practice of cultural appropriation that generates “new cosmopolitan subjects” (Novak 2010: 40). Novak’s approach departs from the analysis of remediation processes and how these are creative acts “[that feed] circulating media into new expressions and performances” (Novak 2010: 42). Although particularly useful for analyzing the practice of Bollywood dance, which will be discussed later, this approach helps us to understand the consumption of Bollywood film not as a pure form of Orientalism that offers an escape to another culture, but rather as a phenomenon of cultural borrowing that challenges the idea of singular politics of cultural identity (Novak 2010: 42). The new cosmopolitan subjects are those who appropriate the “other” media without feeling the need to emerge cloaked in their cultural references, and without having to alienate from their own cultural representations. The concept of cosmopolitanism, however, always implies the existence of – economic and social – capital and therefore should not be used simplistically to refer to the capacity of “openness” to the new contemporary cultural geographies.

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49 The act of consuming contributes directly to the construction of both individual and group identities, if we consider that culture consists of a system of production and consumption of signs in which individual consumption is a social activity, consumers being involved in a system of exchange and coded values production (Baudrillard 1988). Processes of cultural appropriation and their consequent decontextualization reveal that the construction of “other” cultural references is often based on stereotypes associated with their societies of origin. The passion for Bollywood is integrated in the urban culture of ethnic consumption, together with a general interest in India. The idea of remediation, however, suggests the processes of cultural circulation and globalization as generators of people able to make cultural appropriations in accordance with their personal goals, thereby creating mediated cultural references. In this context, the media have a key role. The idea of remediation will be explored further below. For now, it is important to recognize that Portuguese Bollywood audiences do not seek this cinema merely as a pure form of consuming India itself, but rather as an escape, generator of wellbeing and pleasure, whose cultural representations are clearly distinct from theirs, but incorporated in a mediated form.

“I do not make it a lifestyle”: Bollywood dance and urban cosmopolitan identities

50 In 2002, the journalist Ruth la Ferla published in the New York Times a text called “Kitsch with a niche: Bollywood chic finds a home,” where she described the phenomenon of the arrival of Bollywood in New York and the influence of its aesthetics in several areas beyond the films.13 Fashion, music, food travel, and cosmetics were strongly influenced by “Bollywood chic” and entered the mainstream in Europe also, and Portugal was no exception. Portuguese consumption of Bollywood does not fit in a context in which Bollywood style is crossover. Generally, beyond cinema, these audiences did not extend the Bollywood spirit to other social and cultural spheres of their lives, beyond the interest in India that films may have originated.

51 While previous works produced on the practice of Bollywood dance pore over the diaspora and identity issues of the descendants of South Asian youths, this article seeks to observe Bollywood dance in Portugal through its non-Indian-origin practitioners. This empirical collection aims to shed some light on this “hybrid and evolving art form” (Gopal and Moorti 2008: 46) and on its impacts on new cosmopolitan subjects as alternative cultural and artistic ways. 52 This case study focuses on the practice of Bollywood dance in the Greater Lisbon area. This research concentrates on two Bollywood dance classes from different schools, and on the interconnected work of a dance company. All are guided by a professional dancer in traditional Indian dance. The study was conducted at the school Dance Factory Studios (Lisbon), and in the sports club Complexo Desportivo de Alcabideche (Cascais). At both locations classes are taught by teacher and choreographer Diana Rego, who has training in classical ballet and ethnic dance.14 Today she’s a dancer and choreographer of the Anaidcram group of world music and dance, dancer of the Gadjé gypsy music and dance group, dancer of the Kelana Asian dance group, and in 2010 she founded her own dance company, Companhia de Dança Diana Rego. In 2013 the company increased the public visibility of its work, with particular emphasis on the Bollywood performances, through successive participation in TV shows on several

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different channels. This reflects the growing interest in Bollywood within the Portuguese society.15 The company often presents shows that combine classical, traditional and Bollywood performances, as well as performances inspired by Southeast Asian styles. 53 Bollywood dance classes are conducted weekly as a form of recreation and physical activity, but some of the students also participate in stage performances choreographed by Diana Rego. These dance classes were the means by which I was able to meet the participants, all women, between 16 and 40 years old. I had conversations with them before and after classes, and besides these moments I conducted informal interviews with them. The process of approaching these participants required my own participation in these classes, as it was the only way to have access to the practitioners of this type of dance. 54 Classes begin with warm-up exercises, mostly inspired by yoga exercises. The students initially practice various movements of hip rotations and wrist whirls and then begin the steps of the choreography. Choreography is arranged to songs from Hindi films and is then practiced consistently. This choreography, however, in no way resembles the original; it is a fully new creation of the teacher and choreographer, solely with the music in mind. In this sense, the narrative of the film and the original choreography have no influence on the new routine. 55 Although inspired by the movies, Bollywood dance often consists not only of the reproduction but also of the transformation of song and dance sequences from the films. As we have seen, a key feature of these dance sequences is that they can be removed from the structure of the film. Indeed, the migration of Hindi film dance to the stage often involves the transformation and adaptation of movements from the original narrative dance. Originally designed for this purpose, these sequences can thus be appreciated separately from the films, giving meaning to the expression masala, normally used to mean a mix of contents, from which song and dance sequences can be separated. However, despite their ability to detach, these sequences have an “extra- narrative role of linking a film to Indian tradition” (Dudrah 2006: 48), and enrich the movie through their use of metaphor. 56 Focusing on practitioners belonging to the South Asian diaspora, the literature on Bollywood dance leans heavily on notions of nostalgia related to cultural belonging within India. The feelings of desire and fantasy are linked to a deep relationship with the world of Hindi cinema. According to David (2010: 217), practicing Bollywood dance is fueled by the act of film-watching itself. Likewise, Shresthova stated that Bollywood dance “allows audiences to not only watch, but also experience firsthand, their favorite song-and-dance sequences” (Shresthova 2011: 3). The spectrum of analysis discussed here has different features and also a distinct relationship with the world of Bollywood cinema. 57 The discourses of Bollywood dance practitioners – all female – will shed light on this. As a 27-year-old amateur dancer says: “I arrived in Bollywood [dance] through belly dance. The teacher was the same and I decided to try. These dances brought back my femininity. I watched some Indian films but I do not watch them very often. I prefer to watch only the choreography. I like Indian culture but I do not do it [as] a lifestyle.” 58 Another amateur practitioner, a 15-year-old girl, says:

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“This dance is very funny, relaxed and more flexible than the classical practice (contemporary, traditional Indian). It’s liberating and gives you wellbeing. Occasionally I watch Indian films but I don’t retain the titles or actors’ names, it is more out of curiosity…” 59 These two excerpts reflect the majority of the students’ opinions. Their relationship with Indian cinema is very superficial and in many cases the first contact came after contact with Bollywood dance. However, this phenomenon presents an opposite claim to that presented by the students in David’s study. The practice of this dance is not fueled by Bollywood film, but rather fuels the interest in the latter. The amateur dancers came to Bollywood dance through different paths and their contact with Indian traditional references starts from there. Some interests related to India, such as food, are referred to by the students but none have adopted a particular lifestyle connected to India. Beneath is another excerpt from an interview with a member of Diana Rego’s dance company: “I started to practice traditional Odissi dance and Bollywood five years ago, and one year ago I joined Diana Rego’s dance company. I have a strong connection with India but cannot explain why. Especially because that does not dominate my life. I find [ridiculous the] people that convert completely and use a bindi on the forehead.” 60 It is interesting to note the various representations that can be made around the bindi.16 If to the young woman interviewed the use of bindi is associated with the excessive appropriation of Indian cultural elements, Maira notes, supported by Misir (1996), that the fetishization of bindi in the United States was preceded by the negative connotation of the Indian immigrant’s stereotypes. In the USA of the 80’s they were seen as “cultural unassimilable ‘dothead’s” (Maira 2007: 238).

61 For these practitioners Bollywood dance is integrated in an urban culture, similarly to what David finds regarding not only those of Asian origin, but also non-Asian participants for whom this urban culture combines an “interest in multiculturalism in the host community, and perhaps also links to issues of the ‘exotic other’ ” (David 2010: 217). In fact, this idea proposed by David can be applied to the case under study. For Portuguese practitioners, Bollywood dance gives them access to an alternative and exotic cultural universe that they then integrate with their own urban and cosmopolitan culture, for which multiple influences compete without necessarily imposing on Indian culture. The complexity and flexibility of this practice also allows greater freedom with regard to creativity and re-interpretation. In the passage from the screen to live performances, this phenomenon leads to “competing definitions of Bollywood dance, both as set and fluid; codified and changing; created and interpreted” (Shresthova 2011: 9). 62 It is time to return now to Novak’s approach that I used as a fundamental method: the process of remediation. Using the concept introduced by Bolter and Grusin (1996), according to which the remediation process allows “[the transferring of] content from one format to another, making media new, making new media,” Novak adds that this concept allows one to reconsider the role of the subject in the study of movement and cultural globalization, through the practices of cultural appropriation, which leads to the creation of contemporary cosmopolitan subjects (Novak 2010: 41). 63 The potential for separation of song and dance sequences from the films to which they belong makes these sequences particularly easy to be remediated. Novak demonstrates how the song and dance sequence “Jaan Pehechan Ho” from the film Gumnan (1965)

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circulated in non-diasporic North American media. This dynamic clearly illustrates the remediation process. With regard to Bollywood, this phenomenon applies to the circulation of film clips – not the full movie – and its appropriation as creative acts, “which feeds circulating media into new expressions and performances” (Novak 2010: 42), thereby composing alternative modernities (Gaonkar 2001), without these necessarily implying an immersion in “other” cultures. It is in this context that the practice of Bollywood dance can be discussed. 64 The ethnographic case examined in this study corroborates this idea. As we have seen, contrary to what is shown in the UK by Ann David (2010), Bollywood dance classes in Portugal have few students of Indian origin. In Portugal, Indian origin youth meet informally to rehearse performances that will then be displayed in cultural festivals, at weddings, or in activities taking place within their communities; these public performances consist of mimicking the choreography of the movies in from which the sequences presented originated. In contrast, the Bollywood dance classes that were the target of my ethnographic observation transpired to be much more creative from the performative point of view. Both classes and public performances include choreography to the music of famous sequences of Hindi films, recreated in a form separate from both the film and the original choreography. The teacher and choreographer creates a new structure, intensifying the use of classical dance postures such as mudras.17 65 Here’s an excerpt from my field journal: “During one of the academy’s classes that I attended, the dancers were rehearsing for a private party of Portuguese public figures. In the end the teacher invited the audience to comment. I mentioned that I found very interesting the adaptation of ‘Dola Re Dola’, originally from the movie Devdas, a Rajasthani martial choreography in which two women faced each other with knives. One of the dancers was surprised by my comment and said that she had no idea that this performance was linked to a narrative in which two women confronted each other over the same man’s love. The choreographer answered: ‘Oh, yes, that was in the movie…’ ” [field journal, December 12, 2012] 66 This example confirms the distinction between the original media, in this case the Hindi film Devdas (2002), its narrative and performances, and the remediated media, resulting from an appropriation of a film’s excerpt and its use as inspiration for a new performance. These creative acts result from cultural borrowing processes driven by global media, demonstrating why transnational consumption of Bollywood should not be thought of as a simple Orientalist act, i. e., that of completely “consuming India.” These dynamics may rather consist of a cultural alternative in which cultural exchange and negotiation, along with artistic creativity, and some Orientalist constructions are present.

67 Another factor helps to qualify this phenomenon as an act of remediation. Unlike David’s practitioners of Bollywood dance, my interlocutors did not first encounter this practice through Hindi films. In fact, among Bollywood film fans analyzed in the previous ethnographic case, only one practiced Bollywood dance. The interviews with Bollywood dance practitioners revealed that most of them discovered Indian cinema only after their contact with these classes. In a more or less enthusiastic way, Bollywood movies work more as an inspiration to dance than as a frequent entertainment form.

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68 Hampering Bollywood dance definitions for being “both set and fluid; codified and changing; created and interpreted” (Shresthova 2011: 9), this practice allows the creative appropriation of these dances, characterized in this case by the intensification of movements and postures from Indian classical dances, allowing choreographic freedom according to both the dancers’ and the public’s tastes. In addition to the aesthetic character, this intensification of traditional elements from Indian classical dances, such as mudras, reveals a concern in exacerbating a culturally distant form of dance. 69 Therefore, following this idea, rather than focusing on the differences that a performance suffers in the translation from film to stage or to classes, it is important to understand how cultural reappropriation of these materials through creative processes leads to Gaonkar’s “alternative modernities” (Gaonkar 2001) and the construction of social relations through mediated references. The complexity of the analyzed phenomenon prevents us from reaching simple conclusions. Global and multiple identities of these individuals combine various cultural elements without implying an exclusive attraction to India, but evidencing a New-Orientalist influence. 70 This research intended to show that, contrary to findings from the previous case study, practitioners of Bollywood dance in Portugal are not concerned with a deep knowledge of Bollywood cinema. Despite occasional movie watching, they do not know the names of movies or actors, focusing more on the choreographies. While exhibiting some interest in India’s cultural references and differences, they do not exhibit the degree of fascination on Bollywood cinema as the first group. 71 Although different, both cases illustrated how the concept of remediation is useful to understand the appropriation of Bollywood song and dance sequences, by Bollywood audiences of Hindi popular cinema as well as by Bollywood dancers in Portugal: it does not necessarily imply a detachment from an authentic culture, but neither does it end in a process of purely exotic essentialization (Novak 2010: 63). However, the idea of cosmopolitanism that complements Novak’s argument is problematic. Cosmopolitanism should not be simplistically understood as the capacity for openness to “other” cultural references. Cosmopolitanism implicitly implies a relationship of power, in which the “other” is always in a disadvantage position. 72 Maira’s approach on the rave culture, despite suggesting a classic performance of Orientalism by the appropriation of exotic elements, such as the Hindu or Buddhist symbols, and India – particularly Goa – seen as the genesis of electronic music featuring these parties, does not necessarily mean an Orientalist consumption (Maira 2003: 15). By analyzing the speeches of the participants in this kind of events the author chooses to frame them in a perspective of “discourse of universalist humanism” (2003: 19), as an alternative to the notion of cosmopolitanism. 73 The conflicting views of young female Bollywood practitioners show on the one hand the concern to demonstrate their ability of openness to “others” and, on the other, to demarcate from those who emerge completely in “other” cultural references. Similarly, Maira’s young ravers negotiate their cultural anxieties through narratives about “other” cultural geographies, which allow us to understand how Orientalism and cosmopolitanism can go hand in hand (Maira 2003: 21). 74 The contradictory discourses of Portuguese interlocutors also reveal Orientalist representations associated with femininity, the potential of this practice to rescue the

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lost femininity found through the East as the feminized and eroticized “other” (Saïd 1995 [1978]: 103-104). The presence of an Orientalist imagery associated with belly dancers is revealed by the fact that several Bollywood dance students simultaneously practice belly dancing. 75 Summarizing, Bollywood consumption in Portugal features an orientalist hybridity that is present in the “transnational culture performances” through “mediated representations of the Orient as the erotic exotic feminine Others” (McGee 2012: 233).

Concluding remarks

76 The global fascination with Asian cinema entails a concern for aesthetics, forms and narratives it provides, which seem to have revitalized Hollywood – see for instance Chicago (2002), Moulin Rouge! (2001) or hybrid films like Monsoon Wedding, which increased the visibility of South Asians in Western popular imagination. According to Desai (2006), these influences made Bollywood movies and music “family exotic” for non-Indian audiences, keeping a clear separation of Orientalist conceptions and South Asia’s complex reality: “It is not clear, however, that Eurocentric viewers know quite what to expect from these passing allusions to Bollywood in dominant media; armed with their long- standing Orientalism and their contemporary benevolent compassion, many may be quite surprised by their experiences at the theaters. With many Indian films thematically battling over the binary of tradition and modernity, mini-skirted and designer-clad characters, and palatial homes with their colonial and Orientalist images of dust and poverty or chaos and terror. Expecting images of Indiana Jones, the British Raj, or the Kama Sutra, these viewers may not welcome more recent films such as the four-hour nationalist LoC (Line of Control), or the romantic comedy set in New York, Kal Ho Naa Ho, with homophobic comic relief” (Desai 2006: 121). 77 On the other hand, the success of Bollywood epics such as Lagaan (2001), and hybrid films such as Monsoon Wedding (2001) and Bend it Like Beckham (2002), suggests that Western audiences may be interested in films that confirm their own nostalgia for traditional imagery, where cultural differences are valued in a Eurocentric frame.

78 With the liberalization and reintegration into the global economy from the years 1991-92, India became part of “the global culture industry as a ‘producer / exporter’ of cultural commodities – or the raw material for what became cultural commodities in the West” (Toor 2000: 1). This process triggered a comprehensive exposure of India and its people’s representations, with vestiges of the past in the New Orientalism and in the New Indo-chic (Toor 2000: 1). 79 We saw, through the above analyzed empirical data, how Bollywood cinema consumption in Portugal has certain particularities not found in other non-Asian contexts. This relates to small-scale consumption, hampered by the lack of public watching. The stereotypes associated with this kind of cinema, which are very rooted in Portuguese society, have also contributed to individual and private consumption, where fantasy and pleasure come together as forms of wellbeing. 80 Consumption of Bollywood as remediated cultural dynamics originates a universe of alternative cultural practices by new social subjects who through cultural borrowings accede to “pleasure and desire that are interwoven with identification and

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reproduction – all elements embedded in both the viewing of the films and the reproduction in the dancing bodies” (David 2010: 223). 81 India has become a commodity in the alterity industry (Huggan 1998: 246) directed largely to the West. Example of this phenomenon was the proliferation of contemporary postcolonial writing and its transformation into a “cultural commodification” (Wachinger 2003: 71). These phenomena are products of the globalization of Western capitalist consumer culture that propelled the massification of exotic merchandise (Huggan 1998: 254). 82 In the case of Bollywood dance in Portugal, the explosive growth of this practice is developed through New Orientalist rhetoric, as shown by some examples of Bollywood dance classes advertising slogans: “Come to know the way and the flavors of India through dance!” (Bollywood dance workshop, Brahma House, Porto); or “Come and meet the exotic flavors of India with a lot of rhythm and color!” (open class by Kajal Ratanji, Dance4you, Matosinhos). 83 The case of Bollywood dance, however, demonstrated how this practice is not an exclusive universe of Orientalist fascination but rather entails identity construction processes of various cultural appropriations in which Orientalism is also present. This study’s interlocutors have clearly defined themselves as people with some interest in Indian culture (without that implying a cultural immersion, i.e., without making a lifestyle of it), as well as in other cultural references, which makes them cosmopolitan citizens, that is, people with the capacity – the social and economic capital – to accumulate different cultural references in their identity construction processes. 84 Finally, both cases illustrated how the cultural appropriation of Bollywood can originate alternative cultural forms through which multiple cultural references intersect without one undoing the other. The exotic elements present in the analyzed cultural practices should not be reduced to a purist form of Orientalism in which individuals yearn to escape reality for a distant culture. Rather, it should be understood as “mediated representations of the Orient,” as McGee (2012) defines the “Orientalist hybridity” of the Pussycat Dolls video “Buttons,” constitutive of the New Orientalism. As Novak’s research suggests, these processes imply “multidirectional overflows of media resources shaped by cultural differences, globalist desires, and cross-cutting aesthetic affinities” (2010: 63). 85 However, cosmopolitanism cannot be thought of only as “the willingness to engage with the other” (Hannerz 1996: 103). Analyses of Western consumer habits on “exotic merchandise” allow us to understand that this phenomenon implies the existence of a “cosmopolitan capital,” often intertwined with social distinction strategies (see Bennett et al. 2009; Weenink 2008). Skey’s study (2013) shows how cosmopolitanism should be theorized according to its variability, frequency and inconsistency instead of being thought of as a characteristic of certain individuals or social groups. In addition, voluntary cosmopolitanism – since there are other forms of cosmopolitanism that may be involuntary, as in the case of immigrants – always implies the existence of capital and a privileged situation towards the “other,” usually excluded from this process: “Lumping together such varied activities under the banner of ‘cosmopolitanism’ risks closing down our understanding of these complex social processes where it should begin. Put bluntly, they involve different processes of imagination and identification, are shaped by particular historical and social trajectories, and engage (and exclude) notable ‘others’ ” (Skey 2013: 250).

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86 We have seen, with Dudrah (2006), how movies make room for wishes and fantasy and how the song and dance sequences are what Prasad called “permissiveness temporary sites” (1998). The empirical data presented here support these ideas. These cultural forms lead to the consumption of fantasy, to pleasure and wellbeing. They are cultural alternatives constructed through the appropriation of Bollywood, together with New Orientalist rhetoric, and with the ambiguous notion of cosmopolitanism.

87 The Orient as “exhibition,” to use Mitchell’s idea (1989) is displayed in contemporary global commodification of Indian cultural references and practices, while Indian-origin communities established in the Portuguese society remain invisible for over 30 years. The perceptions of these groups on such consumption processes, as well as their role in its dynamics, certainly deserve further investigation, which will be a relevant future contribution to understanding this phenomenon. We perceived how exotic representations of India remain in the analyzed cultural practices and how they coexist with unknown and stereotyped Indian origin communies’ cultural practices in Portugal. These continue escaping the selection of what is “Asian cool” in Lisbon and in major European capitals. Thus, the invisibility of India and Indian-origin people in the Portuguese public sphere reveals that cultural appropriations are made within a framework where New Orientalism continues to account for what is and what is not likely to be consumed.

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NOTES

1. Bollywood is the informal name used to refer to the Hindi film industry, based in Mumbai, resulting in the fusion between Bombay, the city of Mumbai’s old name, and Hollywood, the center of American film industry. 2. Several ideas emerged to characterize the contemporary resurgence of new forms of Orientalism. This is the case of the concepts of Neo-Orientalism (Bohemer 1998), New Orientalism (Toor 2000), and Re-Orientalism (Lau and Mendes 2011). 3. I would like to thank Diana Rego for her reading and comments on this text, for her generosity and inspiration. 4. See http://grandmasala.blogspot.pt (last access in January 2017). 5. Some issues related to qualitative research through the Internet have already been discussed. Bedows shows how the Internet provides “its own and unique set of methodological issues” (2008: 135) but simultaneously new constraints, leading to the need for developing new techniques to address these new issues. 6. Telugu language film industry, also known as Tollywood, is based in Hyderabad, South India. 7. See “Isto é Bollywo… perdão, Tollywood a filmar em Lisboa, Algarve e Cascais”, by Joana Amaral Cardoso, Público, April 16, 2013, available at http://www.publico.pt/culturaipsilon/ jornal/isto-e-bollywo-perdao-tollywood-a-filmar-em-lisboa-algarve-e-cascais-26387152 (last access in January 2017). 8. See “Bollywood vem filmar a Portugal”, Diário de Notícias, November 23, 2013, available at http://www.dn.pt/artes/cinema/interior/bollywood-vem-filmar-a-portugal-3549485.html (last access in January 2017). 9. Some stores sell exclusively DVD and CD soundtracks, others are grocery stores or stationery stores that sell Indian films among other items. 10. Several authors have demonstrated the centrality of Bollywood in identity processes of diasporas (Dudrah 2002; Desai 2004; Punathambekar 2005; Bandyopadhyay 2008). The Portuguese colonial past is also linked to Indian cinema as an identity vehicle. A report from a mission to study ethnic minorities of Portuguese Overseas (Angola and Mozambique) reports the public displays of Indian cinema in the Gujarati language in Mozambique among the communities of Indian origin (Dias 1958). One of the reports’ authors, Manuel Viegas Guerreiro, first assistant of the Mission, criticizes this cinema as subversive, exalting the superiority of India over the West and, as such, a threat to the Portuguese colonial enterprise. I thank João de Pina Cabral for making me aware of the existence of this document. 11. The current visibility of the Indian presence in Portugal is due largely to the arts, particularly dance; see the case of the work developed by kathak dancer Lajja Sambhavnath (from the Hindu Community of Portugal) together with Portuguese artists, such as the Bharatanatyam dancer Tarikavalli or the sitar player Paulo Sousa. 12. For a critical analysis of the symbolic and political construction of Portuguese colonial empire, see Perez (2006). 13. See http://www.nytimes.com/2002/05/05/style/kitsch-with-a-niche-bollywood-chic-finds-a- ho me.html (last access in January 2017). 14. Diana Rego trained with various ethnic dance masters: Prisca Diedrish from , Myriam Szabo from France, N’ganou Annie from Cameron, and Shokry from Egypt, among others. Her training spans capoeira, African dance, new circus, contemporary dance and yoga. She also made several study trips to Spain, Greece, Turkey, Israel, Africa, China, Indonesia and India, having deepened her research particularly to the study of Indian classical dance, Bollywood and belly dance (Raqs Sharqi).

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15. In the year it was created, 2010, the company participated in the Portuguese version of the show So You Think You Can Dance?, where Diana Rego was invited to choreograph a Bollywood performance. Since then, the company has been invited to perform at various TV shows. 16. The red dot used by Hindu women on the center of the forehead. 17. Symbolic ritual gesture performed with the hands and fingers.

ABSTRACTS

The impact of Bollywood cinema among Portuguese viewers is an unknown reality in the surrounding society. Usually associated to the communities of Indian origin, the consumption of this kind of cinema also occurs among people from various sectors of the Portuguese population that although not related to each other, have in common the habit of watching Indian films in private, away from the suspicious and stereotyped looks from their relatives and friends. In the meantime, Bollywood dance, the performance inspired by the Hindi cinema choreographies, is growing. The increase of its practitioners reveals an interest in cultural references associated with India and its popular culture, functioning Bollywood dance as an alternative dance practice, generating wellbeing. This paper focuses on the anthropological analysis of both popular Indian cinema audiences and the increasing practice of Bollywood dance in Portugal, exploring the processes of demand for wellbeing based on cultural references from Indian popular culture. Although with different features, these two ethnographic examples represent creative and alternative cultural processes, through which new identities arise, framed in old orientalist ideas.

O impacto do cinema de Bollywood entre os espetadores portugueses é uma realidade desconhecida da sociedade envolvente. Geralmente associado às comunidades de origem indiana, o consumo deste tipo de cinema também ocorre entre pessoas pertencentes a diferentes setores da sociedade portuguesa, sem qualquer ligação direta com a Índia e que, apesar de não se relacionarem entre si, têm em comum o hábito de ver cinema indiano em privado, longe dos olhares suspeitos dos seus amigos e familiares. Ao mesmo tempo, a dança Bollywood, a performance inspirada nas coreografias do cinema de língua hindi, está a atrair cada vez mais praticantes portugueses. Este fenómeno revela um progressivo interesse pelas referências culturais associadas à Índia e à sua cultura popular, funcionando a dança Bollywood como uma prática de dança alternativa, geradora de bem-estar. Este artigo baseia-se na análise antropológica das audiências de cinema popular indiano e da prática de dança Bollywood em Portugal, explorando os processos de procura de bem-estar com base nas referências da cultura popular indiana. Apesar de apresentarem diferentes caraterísticas, estes dois casos etnográficos representam processos culturais criativos e alternativos, através dos quais surgem novas identidades, enquadradas em ideias do velho orientalismo.

INDEX

Keywords: India, Portugal, Bollywood, cinema, dance, consumption, neo-Orientalism Palavras-chave: Índia, Portugal, Bollywood, cinema, dança, consumo, neo-orientalismo

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AUTHOR

INÊS LOURENÇO

Instituto Universitário de Lisboa (ISCTE-IUL), Centro em Rede de Investigação em Antropologia (CRIA-IUL), Portugal [email protected]

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Beyond Martim Moniz: Portuguese Hindu Gujarati merchants in Lisbon Para lá do Martim Moniz: comerciantes portugueses hindus-gujaratis em Lisboa

Rita Cachado

Introduction

1 When one walks through downtown Lisbon one easily comes across a number of souvenir shops with South Asian employees.1 The South Asian presence in Portugal is not new; populations from the Indian sub-continent, though working in diverse businesses, have been seen in the commerce area for the last 30 years. Until recently their visibility in Lisbon was centred on the Martim Moniz area, which has been focus of debate by Jorge Malheiros (1996) and José Mapril (2013). Mapril explains the insertion of South Asians in Martim Moniz as related to three fundamental factors: the diversity of urban policies implemented there; Lisbon’s economic transformations; and migrant flows since the 1970s (Mapril 2013: 511). Nowadays we see “Asian” shops throughout the downtown area, many along its main arteries. Mikel Aramburu Otazu (2002) noted a similar process in Barcelona, where some groups of recent immigrants exploit a thriving tourism market in the centre of the Catalonian capital. Formerly, this type of settlement in the city configured what has been known as agglomeration economies (Waldinger, Mc. Evoy and Aldrich 1990, apud Kaplan 1998). This blooming market might be addressed as a branch of what Sharon Zukin (2009) called the urban homogenization process.

2 Less visible than the ones located downtown are the old “Asian” shops spread all over the Portuguese capital and suburban areas. Lisbon residents and workers know them. There’s the Indian stationery, the Indian shoemaker, the Indian goldsmith, the Indian haberdashery, the Indian kiosk, the Indian hairdresser. But although the literature about Portuguese South Asians is becoming more profuse, few works address the “Indian” businesses in Lisbon.

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3 Until recently, literature on ethnic minorities lacked work about the economic contexts and at the same time social scientists approached these groups without debate on why they were named ethnic in the first place (Rath and Kloosterman 2000). Nowadays, while studying ethnic entrepreneurs and other available categories, the researcher may feel a lack of ethnographies that could explain the practices of these groups. Most papers are dedicated to the discussion of terminology and they do propose insights considering economic conditions: whether the groups correspond to active entrepreneurship strategies based on different types of ethnic networks (e. g. Min and Bozorgmehr 2000); whether groups concentrate in an urban area and therefore in what ways they can be inscribed in the enclave concept (Ram et al. 2002); whether groups with old family networks are better equipped to face economic difficulties (e. g. Rath and Kloosterman 2000). These are important accounts that help to avoid a priori assumptions when writing about ethnic businesses. However, there is practically no work about business diversity among these same groups, and about their urban space embeddedness. 4 Moreover, the urban insight is a useful tool to avoid essentialization while approaching what has been abusively accounted for as “ethnic economies,” as Rath and Kloosterman (2000: 12) warn. Analysing the urban context is looking at specific locations of insertion, and at the relationship between these businesses’ locations and their surroundings. An outlook of the urban dispersion of Portuguese Hindu Gujarati entrepreneurs on the one hand, and their different insertions, on the other, will contribute, as I hope, to transcend the danger of essentialization. 5 South Asian communities throughout the world have been studied under a great diversity of perspectives, and one of them is the ethnic entrepreneurship approach. Academic literature dedicated to this topic is due to two major factors. The first relates to a very visible diaspora, to the presence of “little Indias” in global cities; the second is related to the historic bias regarding South Asian propensity to engage in business activities. 6 Considering the Portuguese dimension, there is an interesting literature about South Asians entrepreneurship. Authors do not only make historical insights, but also go deep into debates on postcolonial relationships (Bastos 2005; Trovão 2012; Mapril 2013; Dias 2016), and on socio-political chances for these groups. Ávila and Alves (1993) wrote one of the first papers about Indian businesses in Portugal. They distinguish among religious categories and note the economic advantages of the Ismaili group concerning social embeddedness (Ávila and Alves 1993: 131). These authors also point out the activation of cultural networks developed in Mozambique, the country of origin they migrated from in the early 1980s. This last point has been recently discussed by other authors who pursue research on the economic aspects of the South Asian communities in Portugal. Nuno Dias (2016) goes deeply into the business bias pending over “Indians” in the diaspora. He makes an account of its origins and relates it to the growing Indian populations in East Africa in the nineteenth century (Dias 2016: 50). Nevertheless, the Indian alleged proclivity to businesses was (and still is) characterized by ambiguity – they were seen as reliable partners for their resilient qualities as businessmen, but at the same time they were under surveillance for their fast economic ascendance in host countries (Dias 2016: 51). 7 In the international literature there is a noteworthy reproduction of Cohen’s idea of trade diasporas (Cohen 1997) and sometimes the suggestion of replacing diaspora for

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emporium (Leontis 1997) to nominate specific trade diasporas as is the “Indian” case (Dwyer 2010: 87). Moreover, there is also the notion of “transnational commodity cultures” (Jackson, Crang and Dwyer 2004), or the remarkable “suitcase economies” phrasing from Rabine (2002). Although these terms and formulations can be useful to approach the limits and potentialities of diaspora and transnationality concepts when considering Hindu Gujarati migrants (among other groups with similar types of settlement in host societies), they actually highlight the business bias towards South Asians. 8 This article does not intend to offer new theoretical perspectives about ethnic entrepreneurship. My goal is primarily ethnographic, and it aims firstly to contribute to make further comparisons with other similar groups in globalized cities, whether they are called ethnic enclaves or ethnic entrepreneurs with more or less economic success. Secondly, with this article I intend to bring forward the fact that South Asian merchants 2 in Lisbon are dispersed in the city, though mainly in delimited areas, which does not correspond to what has been designated as an ethnic enclave. However, as we will see, they match some situations that several authors with work in other cities have already recounted. So, in order to strengthen these arguments, the stories of four shopkeepers with concurrent yet diverse narratives will facilitate a debate about the ambiguity of the theoretical drawers in which they have been classified. 9 Besides this introduction, the article presents a historical outline, and then an overview on South Asian businessmen’s current situation and their locations in Lisbon. After, the article will introduce more precisely a group of merchants, their shops and their discourses about the recent economic crisis.

Portuguese Hindu Gujaratis in Lisbon

10 The history of the South Asian presence in Lisbon should be taken into account in order to better identify the group of people about whom I develop my approach. Many authors have done this before, so I will only point to the literature concerning the population I have been working with and summarize their history.

11 Hindu Gujaratis in Portugal migrated from India to Mozambique mainly over the last hundred years.3 This movement follows two historical trends in the Indian Ocean: general migration from the Indian subcontinent to East Africa corresponding to work demands, and specific migration from and to both the British and the Portuguese colonial domains. Though thousands of Hindus in Mozambique came from Diu and Goa (former Portuguese colonies in India), other thousands came from several Gujarati cities, which were under British rule, either to Mozambique or to other East African countries. 12 After Mozambique’s independence in 1975, Hindu Gujaratis started to migrate again, this time towards Portugal. The great majority came in the early 1980s in the context of the civil war aggravation (Bastos and Bastos 2001), but this migration started as early as the date of independence, and merchants opened their shops in Lisbon since the late 1970s. One of the first authors to make a portrait of the first great migration in the 1980s from Mozambique to Portugal, describing its insertion in the Lisbon Metropolitan Area, was Jorge Malheiros (1996), but before him, Susana Bastos started the literature on Portuguese Gujaratis with a work on housing problems and Hindu households (Bastos 1990). During the 21st century, Hindu Gujaratis in Portugal were approached

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under a variety of themes, from identity (Bastos and Bastos 2001), to education (Seabra 2010) and gender (Lourenço 2010), housing (Cachado 2013) and, central to this paper, entrepreneurship (Marques, Oliveira and Dias 2002; Machado and Abranches 2005). All of them contributed to knowing these communities better, and to generate a specific Portuguese socio-anthropological literature on the subject.4 13 Although many families migrated once more during the 1990s and early 2000s, this time mainly to the United Kingdom, others preferred to stay in Portugal. It is important to note that professionally speaking, Hindus are not only merchants and shopkeepers, but also, among many other occupations in the services, domestic servants, masons or workers in other construction jobs, though these last have been in decline throughout the years of settlement (Machado and Abranches 2005: 82). 14 Up to this moment I have not mentioned any population numbers. This is due not only to the fact that exact numbers are not available through official censuses, but also because part of this transnational population, namely retired people, are actually living both in Portugal and in the United Kingdom or India, which leads to an impossible agreement concerning the total number of Portuguese Hindu Gujaratis. That is to say that their transnationality, regarding the fact that they sustain “multi-stranded social relations that link together their societies of origin and settlement” (Basch, Schiller and Blanc 1994: 7), is rather objective, since they actually live in two or more countries, and for that reason there are no accurate numbers on their presence in Portugal. Nevertheless, some authors, while acknowledging these data issues, point to around 33,000 Hindus in Portugal (Lourenço e Cachado 2012; Dias 2016), which is an indicative number whose weaknesses should always be underlined. 15 In the late 1990s, it was agreed in the literature that most South Asians living in Portugal were employed in commerce, hotel and tourism businesses, and in construction (Baganha, Ferrão and Malheiros 1999). While studying immigrant entrepreneurs in Portugal, Marques, Oliveira and Dias (2002: 138-139) state that the length of residence in Portugal is crucial to understand immigrant insertion in the labour market. Following their thought, it is important to make clear that in this article I am addressing a group that has been living in Portugal for a long time, about 30 years. Similarly, the reflection of Machado and Abranches (2005) is significant for the scope of this article. They refer that besides their own work, there is almost no published research about immigrant professional trajectories in Portugal, which is due to the fact that until recently there was no temporal depth (Machado and Abranches 2005: 70). Portuguese literature on immigration concentrates on integration issues, but beyond recent migration groups there are populations that have been living in Portugal for more than 20 years, which provides a great opportunity to study professional trajectories. Machado and Abranches (2005) address Cape Verdeans and Hindus, concluding for the latter with a query for future research: will the logic of expansion of independent work maintain its ability to function as it did up to now? Therefore, in my interview guide the need to answer that question was implicit. Their methodology is also useful for my approach, since they concentrated on four periods to address life courses: the two years before migrating, one year after arrival, the midterm year, and the present moment. I generally followed that line in my own research, though with no statistical scope. 16 The merchants among whom I conducted fieldwork in 2013-2014 are Hindu Gujaratis who came to Portugal in the late 70s and early 80s. I selected four stories among a

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group of 13 interviews conducted in different shops in central Lisbon. Acknowledging that most work about South Asian merchants has been carried out around the Martim Moniz area (Malheiros 2008; Menezes 2009; Mapril 2010), I decided to move beyond this area, although only in a radius of two kilometres. Another reason for doing so was that nowadays Lisboners know that South Asian commerce is not only concentrated in Martim Moniz, it is also south and northwards. Martim Moniz is known as the first and principal area where South Asian merchants installed their shops, but more careful observation, as Malheiros showed before (Malheiros 1996), reveals that actually even very old “Indian” shops are outside Martim Moniz, and this is what I will corroborate below, enlarging the field. But we also should note that shops held by Hindu Gujaratis in Lisbon can be found in every neighbourhood of Lisbon.

Hindu Gujarati shopkeepers in Lisbon: four perspectives

17 This section will provide the reader with four stories of Hindu Gujaratis shopkeepers in Lisbon. The intention here is to briefly recount their professional trajectories in Portugal; to present their thoughts about the economic crisis; and to illustrate how it affects their life-course decisions. But before getting to this, I will give a brief overview of the current situation of South Asian merchants in Lisbon to situate my informants.

18 Lisbon citizens (residents and/or workers) easily notice the recent growth of souvenir shops owned by South Asian shopkeepers. There are both Punjabi and Bengali shopkeepers, although the former have recently been less present than the latter.5 Dozens of souvenir shops, which sometimes are also grocery stores, are spread throughout downtown Lisbon. There are also a growing number of grocery stores run by South Asians in every Lisbon neighbourhood. These minimarkets are replacing former minimarkets and grocery stores whose role is to provide the elderly with daily goods close to home and therefore prevent their need to go to big supermarkets.6 This situation matches the case observed by Cébrian de Miguel and Bodega Fernández (2002: 577) in Lavapiés, Madrid, where South Asian migrants have replaced old Spanish stores maintaining the pre-existent businesses. 19 To make an overview of this recent situation, I took Rua da Prata as emblematic of a typical shopping street in central Lisbon at the present time.7 Rua da Prata is a good example as, apart from the presence of these shops, it has a lot of Portuguese traditional clothes and accessories stores that did not close after the arrival of major international brands, nor following the economic crisis. In Portugal, as similarly in Ireland and in Greece to a certain extent, the economic crisis grew with an austerity policy instituted by the XIX Government (2011-2015).8 The street also lodges shops specialized in selling Portuguese old brands and Portuguese old representations.9 Considering non-Portuguese stores, there are 20 shops run by South Asians in Rua da Prata, and three Chinese clothes and accessories stores. South Asian stores include three shops selling clothes, accessories and souvenirs, run by Indians who came in the early 1990s to Lisbon, and 17 souvenir shops that my fieldwork didn’t embrace, whose shopkeepers are chiefly Bangladeshis. 20 Two hundred metres north we find Praça Martim Moniz. This square has been subject to a series of urban pro-multicultural projects (see Menezes 2009; Mendes 2012). Situated between two shopping centres whose shops are mainly managed by so-called

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ethnic minorities, namely South Asian, Chinese and from several African origins, Martim Moniz is also the joining point of a number of streets that in the early 80s were filled with Indian stores: little streets such as Rua de Benformoso and Rua dos Cavaleiros (well known in the literature) with gift stores; and Rua da Palma along with the following Avenida Almirante Reis with Ismaili furniture stores. In recent years, after 2008, the latter were affected by the economic crisis; Avenida Almirante Reis has a large number of old furniture stores that have been closed or replaced by Chinese stores or, though open, have signboards indicating that they are for sale or lease transfer. During the austerity period but chiefly in its wake, an enormous housing trend has been notable: old buildings become hostels to fulfil tourism demands (see Pavel 2015). 21 Avenida Almirante Reis, 2 kilometres long,10 is visibly dotted with South Asian and Chinese stores, and is frequented and dwelt in by people of many nationalities. The historic Mouraria neighbourhood, which lies northeast between the Martim Moniz and the Intendente area up to the Graça neighbourhood,11 is inhabited by both elderly Portuguese dwellers and immigrants from dozens of nationalities that, since the late 1970s, have been arriving in Lisbon. Both old and recent immigrants from either different African origins or diverse South Asian countries and China are noticed by visitors. The short narratives that will be presented below are from shops located around the middle of Avenida Almirante Reis, comprising the Anjos and Arroios areas. Anjos and Arroios are subway stations and epitomise their enlarged areas. As Simone Frangella puts it, Arroios “seems to work mainly as a point of concentration and information for migrants, and moreover it is a place of both residence and work” (free translation from Frangella 2013: 464).

Mr. Inesh

22 This first case portrays a Portuguese Hindu Gujarati shoemaker whose shop is in Rua de Angola. Mr. Inesh 12 has a life course with little changes, despite migration. He was born in Maputo. Aged seven, he learnt the shoemaker trade with his father and worked from then on as a shoemaker in Maputo. He first visited Portugal in 1976 for 15 days to “have a look” and he liked Lisbon right away. He only came back to stay in 1981 and has worked in his shop located in Rua de Angola, near Anjos, since then. He lives in Santo António dos Cavaleiros, a suburban area where Hindu Gujaratis tended to cluster in the early 1980s. He has two daughters and in his family he is the only one who remains in the shoemaker trade, since shoemaking is traditionally only for men. One of his daughters migrated to the United Kingdom, the other lives in Portugal. Mr. Inesh is presently 68 years old and continues to work as shoemaker.

23 The economic crisis has affected him to a certain extent: customers no longer buy handmade shoes from him, but many people are now requiring his repairing services. Nowadays people only ask for minimum services, instead of a full repair. He reckons that old shops from Portuguese Hindu Gujarati are spread throughout the city and not limited to the Martim Moniz area, and points to the fact that there is a great variety of shops. He exemplified with a jeweller nearby that installed his shop in 1977, and in Rua Morais Soares there are stationeries and haberdasheries that date back to the late 1970s, whose shopkeepers I visited and interviewed as well.13

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Mr. Rajesh

24 The second example comes from Rua Morais Soares, where commerce is plural considering ethnic origins and diversified in terms of offer. Actually, this street has been a subject of debate by Simone Frangella (2013), who analyses the Brazilian migrant insertion. The author notes the lack of academic attention given to this area (Frangella 2013: 469) considering not only migration plurality but also urban change, to which I also subscribe. In Rua Morais Soares, we find old and recent stores, from old and recent shopkeepers and owners, and we find old Portuguese stores as well, that seem to resist despite the price pressure from neighbouring stores. The shopkeeper Mr. Rajesh of the store in question is a Portuguese Hindu Gujarati who arrived in Portugal in 1983 and, like Mr. Inesh, lives in Santo António dos Cavaleiros. He has owned the shop for the last 13 years and his wife works there with him. Before this business, shortly after arriving in Portugal, he had a grocery store in Odivelas (north Lisbon) which lasted three years but the business was not successful. Then he worked as an employee in a clothes store for six years in Rua dos Fanqueiros, in downtown Lisbon, which was a situation of economic dependence. After that he opened a store in Queluz (west Lisbon suburban area), which does not fit with the representative Hindu stores’ areas in Lisbon, and finally got to Rua Morais Soares in 1999. Thus his trajectory matches the type of trajectories Machado and Abranches noticed in their work, where the authors highlighted the fact that there was a trend among Hindus to perform a trajectory of becoming independent workers after some years of settlement in Portugal (Machado and Abranches 2005: 72).

25 Mr. Rajesh notes that until the late 1990s the suppliers were mostly Portuguese from Northern Portugal, and from then on products began to be distributed chiefly by Chinese suppliers. He states that this situation marked the beginning of the economic crisis, not due to a supposed Chinese responsibility, but because of the open market as a whole. 26 Concerning the European economic crisis and the economic development in India, Mr. Rajesh states that the maintenance of social inequality weights more than the fact that India is growing economically. In other words, despite the economic development, inequalities among people unbalance the trend of supposed growth. Notwithstanding that “we’re being robbed,” as he said concerning higher taxes in Portugal, he doesn’t foresee the possibility of going to India to make a living, or returning to Mozambique, which is also growing, though not in the same way as India. Even though “Portugal has no future,” he states.

Mr. Anand

27 Mr. Anand has owned a shop in Rua Angelina Vidal (near Anjos, in the middle area of Avenida Almirante Reis) since 1987. The shop is a small drugstore, with a storefront of about 12 m2, but it seems to contain virtually everything one might need for toiletries and home cleaning. Whenever I visited the store I heard the customers call him by his nickname. Before owning this shop, Mr. Anand had worked as a warehouseman near Martim Moniz from the year of his arrival in Portugal, 1975, to 1985. His boss was his previous boss in Maputo, so he kept his previous employment relationships, which is a common situation among Hindu Gujaratis in Portugal, previously noted by other

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authors (Ávila and Alves 1993; Machado and Abranches 2005). Therefore, as in the case of Mr. Rajesh, Mr. Anand showed an ascending social mobility towards independent work. In his early years in Portugal, he lived in Quinta da Holandesa, an informal settlement, and was resettled in the mid-1990s to Bairro do Armador, which is dwelt in by hundreds of Hindu Gujarati families who were formerly also residents of Quinta da Holandesa.14 This is a common situation for many Hindu Gujaratis living in Greater Lisbon. When they arrived in Portugal in the early 1980s, low income families felt the need to buy or rent a small space in so-called shanty towns where they built their own houses. Quinta da Holandesa and Quinta da Vitória were at that time the biggest Hindu Gujarati housing clusters. Most of the families were resettled under a huge social housing policy.15

28 Now, taking the economic crisis into account, Mr. Anand said that the economic crisis has been felt mostly in the last five years, despite the fact that he feels that in his particular case it does not affect the store that much, since he is able to maintain his fixed costumers. But around his shop, he can see great changes that may be a result of the austerity policies, namely the constant opening and closing of grocery and Internet-access stores managed by Pakistanis and Bangladeshis. Although the stores providing access to the Internet tend to close, grocery stores seem to replace old minimarkets throughout Lisbon. He notices the closing of old Portuguese small businesses and is grateful for the fact that his business is kept open. Part of Mr. Anand’s family is employed in other stores, and the rest have other types of jobs and occupations. 29 These three stories portray different business situations with a similar perspective on the economic crisis: they do not feel the crisis as much as we could imagine, since in Portugal small businesses have been affected by the economic crisis and austerity policies to a great extent. Accordingly, they do not envision a backwards migration movement (either to Mozambique or India), nor forward (to the United Kingdom), for them and their nuclear families. Furthermore, these three stories also answer Machado and Abranches’ doubt about whether Hindus could maintain the conditions for independent work. Despite the difficulties that arouse during the economic crisis, they do.

Mr. Jaiantilal

30 The last case presented here is slightly different from the others. Mr. Jaiantilal owns a stationery shop in Rua dos Correeiros, in downtown Lisbon. It is a big store, with virtually everything one can find in stationeries. He was born in Fudam, near Diu (former Portuguese colony in South Gujarat) and lived there until the age of four, when he migrated with his mother to Maputo (1964). Later, he migrated from Maputo to Lisbon in 1981. In Mozambique, Mr. Jaiantilal had worked in a clothes shop for a Muslim Indian boss, who also came to Portugal in the early 1980s and who owns a big stationery himself on Rua Morais Soares (see above), and for whom Mr. Jaiantilal worked for several years in Lisbon as well. In 1992 he bought his own stationery and has been working there for the last 20 years. As in the above cases, Mr. Jaiantilal holds an independent job.

31 His family works in commerce as well, though not in stationeries, they work mostly in souvenir shops. Presently he lives in the same building where the stationery is located,

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but he used to live in Santo António dos Cavaleiros where hundreds of Hindu Gujarati families can be found. His parents live in Maputo and he currently considers opening a store there, though he has not yet decided in what business area. He has already placed an advertisement for renting his stationery and is waiting for a reply. His situation is thus different from the cases presented above. Mr. Jaiantilal is really worried about the Portuguese economic crisis, and he attentively follows the economic development in Mozambique. He notes that “Mozambique is not Angola” as he put it, pointing to the fact that Angola is much more prosperous than Mozambique, but he knows that in Mozambique the number of Chinese and Brazilian investors is growing, and that condition indicates significant economic development. Therefore, he is eager to take the chance and see what happens in the country where he lived before.

Avoiding pigeonholes

32 After all, what do these narratives have in common and what differentiates them? Do they reflect other authors’ work on “ethnic economies”? As pointed before, the first three narratives have in common the fact that in those cases the need to migrate again is not felt. The last story differs from the others concerning attitudes towards the economic crisis, however all four situations of the “Indian” shops presented above mirror other situations conveyed in the international literature on ethnic economies. For instance, having the same boss they formerly had in Mozambique, as in the cases of Mr. Anand and of Mr. Jaiantilal, is related to the importance of ethnic strategies, as Waldinger, Mc. Evoy and Aldrich (1990) put it. Or, as Beltrán suggests, commercial traditions in the country of origin are central to understand embeddedness patterns (Beltrán 2000).

33 Another example is the fact that shopkeepers’ relatives tend to work in commerce but not always, especially in the case of youngsters, that is, children get education and engage in other jobs (Baycan, Sahin and Nijkamp 2011: 971). That is the case of Mr. Inesh’s daughters, and also of Mr. Anand’s children, whose boy studied Management and intends to migrate, while the girl followed her father and is a shopkeeper, in a shop not far from her fathers’. It is important to highlight the fact that these trajectories are not only marked by independence in work but also by children’s education and their different choices concerning work. Considering children’s education, both parents and children portray the university as a good means to achieve economic independence in the future. Portuguese universities are presently good choices as they put it, but the United Kingdom keeps its symbolic power among Portuguese Hindu Gujarati families. 34 The most common situation found in the field has already been noted in this article: the desire of owning their own shop a few years after arrival in the host society, which is consistent with the findings of Machado and Abranches (2005), and has been accomplished by all the informants interviewed. Ultimately, that achievement is a “ticket to middle class,” as David Kaplan stated (1998: 491). The gain of independence with the opening of a shop, and maintaining it over the years, is also related to the success of their location choice. The concentration of South Asian shops is not huge (as is in Martim Moniz and presently in part of downtown Lisbon); therefore, they achieved urban embeddedness and maintained it. On the one hand, they have contributed to diversify commerce in Lisbon; on the other hand, they have brought

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dynamism to a district (Anjos and Arroios) that has not been a target in Lisbon urban policies. However, the results of this study also show that despite the location of the shops, the interlocutors inhabit other areas in Greater Lisbon. Let’s try to problematize this. 35 When speaking about the success of ethnic economies, there are authors who highlighted the importance of spatial clustering, whether of residence or business (see Kaplan 1998: 489). But literature about ethnic economies and clusters, more than drawing attention to residential clustering when addressing ethnic enclaves and ethnic economies, has emphasized shop clustering in a specific urban area (see also Kaplan 1998: 494), much more than housing clustering. Sometimes residential and business clustering match, as is the case of Hindus in Devon Avenue, Chicago, described by Ashutosh (2008). However, in Lisbon, I would call on residential clustering more than on shop clustering in the city. Hindu Gujarati merchants should not be labelled in the category of an ethnic enclave, because Hindu Gujarati stores and Hindu Gujarati residents don’t concentrate only in specific areas. In simple terms, but underlining the fact that this is not a generalized situation, what I found was commercial spatial dispersion and housing clustering. But again, there are also situations of a high level of business spatial concentration and a low level of residential sprawl. 36 That said, the fact that Hindu commerce is spread throughout the city does not imply that we cannot use the word cluster to characterize them (Werbner 2001: 673). Werbner’s argument rejects the notion of ethnic enclave economy as a territorially circumscribed place, but agrees with the importance of clustering for the success of ethnic enclave economies (2001: 677). Shop clustering is important among recent South Asian migrants in Lisbon, who have recently opened stores in downtown Lisbon, just as shop clustering in Martim Moniz was important for Hindu Gujarati who arrived in Lisbon in the early 1980s and is still important for South Asians nowadays (Mapril 2013). Now in what concerns residential clustering, it is significant that all the shopkeepers and shop owners who were interviewed (and I mean not only the four illustrative narratives but the whole 13), though living in different neighbourhoods, actually inhabit areas where other Hindus also live (Santo António dos Cavaleiros and Bairro do Armador). It is true that their shops are located in neighbourhoods where one can find other South Asian stores as well, but that kind of concentration is not as accentuated as is the fact that they live in the same neighbourhoods. And, again, diversity among South Asians (including a group of nationalities and religions) is stronger than what is “common” among them. In sum, what I wish to underline is that, as in many other cultural specific populations, norms are less important than differences among the same group.

Final remarks

37 While analysing Portuguese Gujarati entrepreneurs, it is important to maintain categories out of conceptual drawers. To begin with, the study of ethnic economies in urban contexts can contribute to a new perspective, aware and less shelved, of immigrants (see also Aramburu Otazu 2002; Rocha-Trindade 2007). In other words, there are new theoretical and methodological questions we can ask when we observe this kind of diversity in a certain field, such as: why are we calling these populations “migrants” if they have been settled for the last 30 years or more? The ethnographic

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account proves that the diversity of situations is in fact abundant. This article presented four heterogeneous cases. They (i) demonstrate an effective insertion (or embeddedness, following the ethnic economies jargon) in society; (ii) indicate the relevant role of ethnic networks; (iii) show diversity considering the ways families face the economic crisis: remigrating (Dias 2016), or waiting to see the development of affairs or youngsters’ choice of jobs other than in commerce; and (iv) show the relative significance of clustering.

38 In this article, as in other works cited above, we can easily find examples that fit in culturalist, ecologic or integrationist model proposals. That is why it is paradoxically so difficult to decide if we should examine our population in the light of the concept of “ethnic economy,” thus opting by a migration approach intersected by an approach of the type of economy chosen, or if we should rather speak about the significance of opportunity structure and about the host society conditions. These are different perspectives for the study of the same population which are suitable to various degrees. Therefore, perspectives that agree with the idea of mixed embeddedness (Kloosterman, van der Leun and Rath 1999) deserve, in my view, more attention, because it seems to merge the former varieties, despite the fact that the term itself is manifestly encrypted and sparingly useful to an anthropologic literature that is beyond ethnic economy studies. Mixed embeddedness actually combines the economic opportunities’ structure with both the positive state policies regarding “ethnic economies” and the demand approach (Garcés 2011: 12). 39 There is no intention here to present an alternative to the plural and available concepts. I rather emphasize that the goal was to contribute to furthering our knowledge on the actual situation of South Asian commerce in Lisbon, specifically in old Hindu Gujarati shops that are not concentrated in one specific area. Indeed, the shops where I conducted fieldwork (including the ones that I did not bring to the paper as specific cases) are located in the larger area of Avenida Almirante Reis and adjacent neighbourhoods. Moreover, Hindu Gujarati shops can in fact be found all over the city. What I wish to underline is that the overused idea of ethnic enclave fades away in this article not only because these shops are spread in the city; it disappears also because while portraying a group of shopkeepers I do this looking at their history, and therefore naming them for their own distinctiveness, being Portuguese Hindu Gujarati entrepreneurs, and not for the reasons economic discourses usually name them. 40 They are actually beyond Martim Moniz, as the article title suggests, in twofold ways: geographically, and in their life trajectories, since some of them began their work life in Portugal actually in the Martim Moniz area, or began their lives in Portugal depending on what Martim Moniz represents – clustering and networking. As Ram et al. (2002) recall, for a long time studies on ethnic entrepreneurs ignored the urban context, focusing only on businesses and ethnicity (Ram et al. 2002: 24). The phrase “beyond Martim Moniz” is thus a way of illustrating not only the urban dispersal of “Indian” shops, but also of pointing to the multiple trajectories of a single population.

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NOTES

1. This paper is a result of a research conducted under a post-doctoral fellowship conceded by FCT (SFRH/BPD/47813/2008). I wish to acknowledge José Mapril for his attentive reading and suggestions. 2. It is important to note that the word “merchant” used here is a general job specification and not only related with merchants’ castes. 3. In this article I concentrate on Hindu Gujaratis. Nevertheless, considering religion, in Portugal we find Goan Catholics, Gujarati Muslims and Ismailis, and Muslims and Hindus from other parts of South Asia. Considering nationality, South Asian families have their origin in India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal, Sri Lanka. Most Gujaratis came in the early 1980s from East African countries, mostly from Mozambique, but also from Tanzania and Kenia. From other parts of South Asia, the migration is more diluted in the middle 1990s, the early 2000s and the early 2010s. 4. Most of these papers were published in Portuguese and unfortunately the Anglo-Saxon literature on South Asians rarely acknowledges this plural and interesting context. 5. The reference here is to the sub-continent region, though most Bengalis in Portugal are Bangladeshis. Sikhs, which form the overall Punjabi population in Portugal, were approached by Bastos and Correia (2006) and by Rajput (2012). The latter remarks that many Punjabis migrated recently to the United Kingdom. No conclusive data is available concerning total populations. Bangladeshi Muslims were profusely addressed by Mapril (e. g. 2009, 2012), though many Bangladeshis arrived in Lisbon after his main work about this population. 6. Furthermore, these stores offer the service of home delivery, hypothetically competing with large supermarkets that do the same for online orders. 7. Actually, I could also have chosen other streets downtown, such as Rua do Arsenal or Rua Augusta, but Rua da Prata seems to provide a wider range of situations than the other two. Nevertheless, each of these examples should be further ethnographed. Note that this situation was recorded in early 2014. See Brody (2005), and Cordeiro and Vidal (2008) for works about “the street” with a socio-anthropological focus. 8. Few academic accounts have been published so far about this traumatic situation for the Portuguese economy as a whole and for Portuguese families in general. Migration was particularly affected by the growth of emigration rates and decrease of immigration. 9. Such as Portuguese old tiles printed on t-shirts and fridge magnets, among other items more related to specific brands. The concept of selling old Portuguese brands was mainly developed by Catarina Portas and her Vida Portuguesa stores in the early 2000s, which was rapidly spread and copied by tourism promoters, conforming to a vintage style trend. 10. And if we add Rua da Palma, the total length adds up to 2,5 kilometres. 11. Mouraria’s limits, as is usual for historical neighbourhoods in Lisbon, are difficult to specify (Menezes 2004). 12. Though the shopkeepers I interviewed were informed about my work and agreed to make their statements public, I prefer to maintain their anonymity and replace their real names with pseudonyms. 13. Though interesting, I decided not to include these interviewees’ among the selected stories because the ethnographic encounters were shorter than the average of the whole interviews. 14. I prefer to use informal settlement but it is important to remark that shanty town would be the English closest term to the Portuguese bairros de barracas, which was the usual term used to describe Quinta da Holandesa and dozens of neighborhoods in the same housing situation (see Cachado 2012: 34-41). 15. The Programa Especial de Realojamento (PER) was legislated in 1993 and resettled tens of thousands families in Lisbon and Porto. For more on Hindu families rehousing, see Cachado (2012).

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ABSTRACTS

Portuguese Hindus living in Greater Lisbon are globally considered as virtuous merchants and they hardly escape this stereotype, which is also appended to other South Asian populations living in Lisbon, regardless of its accuracy. Moreover, common sense features the location of these merchants’ shops circumscribed to Martim Moniz (near the downtown area). Nevertheless, Portuguese Hindu merchants, as well as other South Asian shopkeepers in Lisbon, have shops spread all over the city. In this article, I give a portrait of Portuguese Hindu merchants in Lisbon in a threefold way. One that unravels the different locations of their stores; another that approaches the diversity of their markets; and finally one that will draw on their view about the Portuguese economic crisis and its implications for their businesses. Until recently, Portuguese Hindus’ professional trajectories were associated with an upward social mobility. Presently, what are their perspectives made of? How does the economic crisis affect their businesses? Do they prefer to migrate again as their families did two or three times before?

Os hindus portugueses que vivem na Grande Lisboa são geralmente vistos como comerciantes esmerados e raramente escapam a este estereótipo, que também recai sobre outras populações sul-asiáticas residentes em Lisboa. Além disso, o senso comum sobre estas populações diz que o seu comércio está centrado no Martim Moniz. No entanto, as lojas de comerciantes hindus portugueses, assim como as de outros comerciantes sul-asiáticos em Lisboa, estão por toda a cidade. Neste artigo retrato os comerciantes hindus em Lisboa de três maneiras: uma que dá conta das suas diferentes localizações; outra que aborda a diversidade da oferta; e, finalmente, uma que dá conta da sua visão sobre a crise económica em Portugal e as implicações desta na sua vida e negócios. Até recentemente, as trajetórias profissionais dos hindus portugueses estavam associadas a uma mobilidade social ascendente. Atualmente, quais são as suas perspetivas? Como a crise económica afeta os seus negócios? Preferem emigrar de novo como as suas famílias fizeram já duas ou três vezes?

INDEX

Funder http://dx.doi.org/10.13039/501100001871 Keywords: ethnic economy, Portuguese Hindu merchants, transnationality, mixed embeddedness Palavras-chave: economia étnica, comerciantes portugueses hindus, localidade, transnacionalidade

AUTHOR

RITA CACHADO

Instituto Universitário de Lisboa (ISCTE-IUL), Centro de Investigação e Estudos de Sociologia (CIES-IUL), Lisboa, Portugal [email protected]

Etnográfica, vol. 21 (1) | 2017