Gender, Sexualities and Reporting Male Rape 31 Aliraza Javaid

InterAlia, a peer-edited scholarly journal for queer theory, is open to submissions from a wide range of fields, written either in Polish or in English. InterAlia is an Open Access journal, which means that all content is freely available without charge to the user or his/her institution. Users are allowed to read, download, copy, distribute, print, search, or link to the full texts of the articles in this journal without asking prior permission from the publisher or the author, provided the original author and source are credited. Except where otherwise stated, all content on InterAlia's website is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License (images and other media may be under different licences). Copyright for the content of the texts published in InterAlia stays with the Authors, whereas copyright for the edited versions stays with InterAlia.

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InterAlia’s editorial board: Dominika Ferens, Tomasz Basiuk, Tomasz Sikora, Rafał Majka, Krystyna Mazur, Marzena (Marzen) Lizurej, Łukasz Smuga, Jarosław Milewski

Graphic design: Tomasz Sikora

Cover image: Tomasz Sikora

Contact: [email protected]

13 / 2018

O Od Redakcji

N InterAlia 1

E Editorial

N InterAlia 2

S Czym jest i po co jest krytyka?

O możliwościach i granicach krytyki

feministycznej dzisiaj 3 Sabine Hark

HEJKUM GEJKUM? Piotr Sobolczyk 17

Heterycki separatyzm: dziesięć tez o kłirowym archiwum 28 Stanimir Panayotov

Can’t Hear or Won’t Hear: Gender, Sexualities and Reporting Male Rape 31 Aliraza Javaid

Public against our will? The caring gaze of Leviathan, “pink files” from the 1980s Poland and the issue of privacy 54 Ewa Majewska

13 / 2018

O Westernization and The Transmogrification

N of Sailor Moon

T 78

Rhea Ashley Hoskin

N “Where Is My Tribe”? Queer Activism

T in the Occupy Movements

S 90

Pablo Pérez Navarro

Autorki i Autorzy / Contributors 102

Od redakcji

InterAlia

Autorzy niniejszego numeru InterAlia podejmują szeroki zakres problemów praktycznych i teoretycznych, od potrzeby stworzenia odpowiednich warunków, by mężczyźni padający ofiarami gwałtu mogli zgłaszać przestępstwa bez obawy, że ich męskość zostanie poddana w wątpliwość, po sposoby uprawiania krytyki feministycznej bez podporządkowywania się reżimom zrozumiałości, które dyktują, co w danym momencie jest „rozsądne” czy „możliwe”. W czasach licznych demonstracji ulicznych cieszymy się z możliwości opublikowania artykułu dotyczącego queerowych strategii oporu w ramach Ruchu Occupy. Archiwizacja odmieńczej historii to temat kolejnych dwóch tekstów w tym numerze. Choć podchodzą one to tej kwestii z bardzo różnych perspektyw, to wyrażają głęboką ambiwalencję – z jednej strony, z uwagi na normatywizację, towarzyszącą projektom archiwalnym dotyczącym seksualności, a z drugiej, z uwagi na etykę zbierania i publikowania dokumentów będących efektem milicyjnego nadzoru polskich homoseksualistów w latach 80. XX w., kosztem ujawniania ofiar tego procederu. Mniej ponura twarz lat 80. wyłania się z queerowego odczytania popularnej polskiej komedii Kingsajz (1987). Stworzone przez Juliusza Machulskiego równoległe światy były powszechnie odczytywane jako alegoria pogranicza socjalistycznego reżimu i Zachodu, co według autora artykułu przesłoniło liczne motywy homoerotyczne obecne w filmie. Problem przesłaniania czy wymazywania nienormatywnej seksualności jest też tematem artykułu dotyczącego angielskich tłumaczeń imion postaci i dialogów Sailor Moon, japońskiego serialu animowanego rozpowszechnianego na Zachodzie w latach 90. XX w. Podobnie jak w ubiegłych latach, z dużą satysfakcją publikujemy oryginalne badania międzynarodowego grona autorów, w tym pracę teoretyczną autorstwa renomowanej badaczki feministycznej, Sabine Hark, pionierki studiów queer w niemieckiej akademii. Nasz następny numer, zatytułowany Różowy język, koncentrujący się na najnowszej historii nienormatywnej seksualności w Polsce, będzie kontynuacją tematu wprowadzonego poniżej przez artykuł Ewy Majewskiej dotyczący etycznych problemów badania milicyjnej akcji ”Hiacynt”.

Editorial

InterAlia

The authors of this non-thematic issue of InterAlia take up a wide range of practical and theoretical concerns, from the need to create conditions in which male victims of rape will be able to report abuses – without fear that their masculinity will be called into question – to ways of practicing feminist critique without succumbing to regimes of intelligibility that dictate what is and what is not realizable. In this era of proliferating street demonstrations, we are pleased to bring out a paper on queer strategies of resistance within the Occupy Movement. Archiving queer history is the subject of two texts in this issue, written from very different perspectives, yet expressing a deep ambivalence – on the one hand, about the normativizing impulse behind archival projects organized around sexuality, and, on the other, about the ethics of collating and publicizing evidence of police surveillance of Polish homosexuals in the 1980s, at the cost of exposing the victims. A less somber face of 1980s Poland peeks out of the queer interpretation of Kingsajz (1987, dir. Juliusz Machulski), a popular comedy featuring dwarfs and parallel worlds, commonly understood to be an allegory of the socialist regime – an understanding that has obscured the presence of numerous homoerotic motifs in the film. The erasure of queerness is also problematized in the paper on English translations of characters’ names and dialogues in Sailor Moon, the Japanese animated series released in the West in the 1990s. As in previous years, we are proud to showcase highly original international scholarship, including a theoretical intervention by the renowned feminist scholar Sabine Hark, who was instrumental in establishing queer studies in German academia. Our next issue, on Poland’s recent queer history, will continue the exploration of problems raised in this issue by Eve Majewska’s article on the ethics of researching the 1980s police operation “Hyacinth.”

Czym jest i po co jest krytyka? O możliwościach i granicach krytyki feministycznej dzisiaj1

Sabine Hark Technische Universität Berlin

Artykuł oparty jest na filozoficznych rozważaniach na temat potencjału dzisiejszej krytycznej teorii feministycznej. Autorka traktuje krytykę feministyczną jako projekt służący wyjaśnianiu relacji między wiedzą, władzą i sposobami bycia, oraz jako praktykę sprawdzania reżimów zrozumiałości, które dyktują, co jest możliwe do zrealizowania, a co nie jest.

Słowa kluczowe: feminizm, krytyka, reżimy zrozumiałości, władza, wiedza, sposoby bycia, wykluczenie, uznanie

1. Śmierć przez oznajmienie2 – prolog

[…] pierwszy raz w historii naszego kraju córka wykształconego Anglika jest w stanie, w odpowiedzi na prośbę swego brata, ofiarować mu [...] własną, samodziel- nie zarobioną gwineę, nie domagając się niczego w zamian. Daje mu ją z wolnej i nieprzymuszonej woli – nie ze strachu ani z chęci przypodobania lub uzyskania czegoś dla siebie. Przyzna Pan chyba, iż tak przełomową chwilę w historii cywilizacji należałoby jakoś uczcić. […] Sytuację tak nową trzeba uczcić w nowy sposób. Naj- lepiej, niszcząc przestarzałe, fałszywe i zdeprawowane słowo, które w swoim czasie wyrządziło wiele złego, a dziś straciło rację bytu. Mam na myśli słowo „feministka”. Według słownika „feministka” to „osoba domagająca się przyznania kobietom równych praw”. Ale ponieważ jedyne prawdziwe prawo, prawo do zarabiania na życie, już posiadamy, więc tamto słowo straciło sens. A słowo, które straciło sens, staje się słowem martwym i zaczyna się rozkładać. Dla uczczenia naszego święta urządźmy mu całopalenie. Wypisujemy martwe słowo „feministka” wielkimi literami na arkuszu kancelaryjnego papieru i uroczyście przykładamy zapałkę. Popatrzcie, jak płonie! Jakie rzuca błyski! A potem rozcieramy popiół w moździerzu gęsim piórem i ogłaszamy wszem i wobec, iż każdy, kto ośmieli się to słowo jeszcze raz wymówić, zostanie uznany za tchórza, który po naciśnięciu dzwonka ucieka spod drzwi3 – za prowokatora, grzebiącego w zetlałych kościach, śmieciarza z wypisanym

1 Za cenne uwagi do tego przekładu tekstu dziękuję Agnieszce Kowaluk. Za krytyczną lekturę mojego przekładu również dziękuję Redakcji InterAlia oraz za jej zaangażowanie w umożliwieniu opublikowania tego tekstu. (Anna Kasten, tłumaczka) 2 Sabine Hark używa w swoim tekście angielskiego wyrażenia death by report. 3 W oryginale „a ring-the-bell-and-run-away-man” – zbitka słowa utworzona przez Virginię Woolf na określenie osoby, która celowo używa krzywdzących słów, udając, że nie robi nic złego.

Sabine Hark

na czole brudnym piętnem nikczemnika. Dym się rozwiał, słowo przestało istnieć. Zobaczymy, co z naszej uroczystości wynikło. Zniknięcie słowa „feministka” sprawi- ło, że powietrze stało się przejrzyste. I co w tej przejrzystości widzimy? Mężczyzn i kobiety zmierzających razem do wspólnego celu. Znad przeszłości też podniosła się mgła. O co bowiem walczyły w XIX wieku nieżyjące już kobiety4 w dziwacznych kapeluszach z podwiniętym rondem i długich szalach? O to samo, o co my dzisiaj walczymy. Oddaję głos Josephine Butler: „Walczyłyśmy nie tylko o równouprawnienie kobiet, lecz o sprawę o wiele szerszą i głębszą – o powszechne równouprawnienie wszystkich, zarówno kobiet, jak i mężczyzn, o poszanowanie, w ich osobach, wiel- 4 kich zasad Wolności, Równości i Sprawiedliwości”5. Josephine Butler walczyła o to samo, o co Pan dzisiaj walczy; mówiła tymi samymi, co Pan, słowami. […] A zatem nasza obecna walka jest jedynie przedłużeniem tej, którą toczyły nasze matki i nasze babki [...]. (Woolf 2002: 277n.)

Powyższy fragment pochodzi ze słynnego eseju Virginii Woolf Trzy gwinee (1936; pl. 2002), poświę- conemu kwestii, jaką różnicę stanowi w życiu kobiet i mężczyzn dysponowanie własnym dochodem. Nie jest to pierwsza, choć w swej ostrej a jednocześnie wyjątkowo subtelnej ironii zapewne jedna z najbardziej błyskotliwych i niedoścignionych wersji wysoce ambiwalentnego gatunku, jakim jest „nekrolog feminizmu”.

Woolf proponuje przede wszystkim rozwiązanie problemu, który i dzisiaj dręczy klienciary6, post-, pop- i alfa-feministki, oraz który pomimo różnorodności, a nawet sprzeczności stanowisk, łączy je częściowo z pozycjami antyfeministycznymi: w jaki sposób, w imię własnej wersji feminizmu, pozbyć się (starego) feminizmu i co zrobić ze słowem na „f”?

Propozycja Woolf wydaje się radykalna: słowo na „f” trzeba spalić. Ponieważ nigdy nie będzie ono w stanie uwolnić się od przyległych ośmieszających, uwłaczających znaczeń, ostatecznie zaszkodzi zarówno sprawie feministycznej w rozumieniu Woolf, jak i walce o „poszanowanie tych wielkich zasad Sprawiedliwości i Równości, i Wolności” każdej osoby. Jednak sposób, który sugeruje Woolf, tj. poz- bycie się zwłok feminizmu przez dosłowne i symboliczne spalenie słowa na „f”, to coś innego, coś więcej niż tylko propozycja ceremonii pogrzebowej. Woolf korzysta tu z określonego toposu, aby podkreślić jego wieloznaczność w takim stopniu, by zaczął przeczyć sam sobie, z toposu prawdopo- dobnie tak starego jak sam feminizm, z toposu towarzyszącemu mu, w bardzo różnych intencjach, od samego początku. Jest to topos śmierci przez oznajmienie, czyli usunięcie feminizmu przez oznajmienie jego śmierci.

4 W oryginale angielskim kobiety są określone jako „queer” (A.K.). 5 Josephine Butler (1828-1906). 6 Sabine Hark używa pojęcia „Spartenfeministinnen”, co oznacza, że tylko pewna klientela jest adresowana. W tym sensie można używać zwrotu „feminizm klientelistyczny” (A.K.). Sabine Hark

Woolf wyraźnie podkreśla aktualną do dnia dzisiejszego funkcję tego toposu: aby następne poko- lenia mogły korzystać z owoców walk feministycznych poprzednich pokoleń (lecz tak, aby nie było jasne, że chodzi o walki feministyczne), aby mógł powstać nowy feminizm (za każdym razem ogła- szany jako mniej sekciarski, mniej separatystyczny niż jego poprzednik i w żadnym razie niewyklu- czający mężczyzn), ale też, aby feminizm można było określić jako nieistotny, niepotrzebny, zbędny lub wręcz groźny i niebezpieczny, aby usunąć go poza granice aktywnej recepcji współczesnych, trzeba go nieustannie rytualnie poświęcać, a jego przedwczesny zgon – zazwyczaj rzekomo z własnej winy lub z powodu nieuleczalnych chorób, takich jak dogmatyzm, wrogość wobec pożądania bądź separatyzm – regularnie oznajmiać. 5

Uznać feminizm za zmarły oznacza scharakteryzować niezależny feministyczny aktywizm jako ogólnie obcy dla żyjących [...] jako sposób istnienia, który jest tak odmienny, że w obrębie „naszej” wspólnoty nie może być tolerowany [...] Ogłosze- nie, że feminizm nie żyje, przekreśla walki kobiet o sprawiedliwość na całym świecie, podczas gdy ślady tego wymazywania są równocześnie zacierane.

- tak dynamikę śmierci przez oznajmienie komentuje amerykańska teoretyczka feminizmu Mary Hawkesworth. Podobny komentarz znajdziemy u brytyjskiej kulturoznawczyni feministycznej, Angeli McRobbie: „żeby feminizm mógł być traktowany poważnie, trzeba go uznać za zmarły” (2003: 657). Woolf używa toposu śmierci przez oznajmienie najpierw mimetycznie, a wręcz afirmatywnie:

Najlepiej, niszcząc przestarzałe, fałszywe i zdeprawowane słowo, które w swoim czasie wyrządziło wiele złego, a dziś straciło rację bytu. Mam na myśli słowo „feministka”. Według słownika „feministka” to „osoba domagająca się przyznania kobietom równych praw”. Ale ponieważ jedyne prawdziwe prawo, prawo do zarabiania na życie, już posiadamy, więc tamto słowo straciło sens. A słowo, które straciło sens, staje się słowem martwym i zaczyna się rozkładać. Dla uczczenia naszego święta urządźmy mu całopalenie. (Woolf 2002: 277)

Może się zdawać, że Woolf podziela pogląd, iż równe prawa dla kobiet są już zagwarantowane: najważniejsze prawo – do zarabiania na własne utrzymanie – zostało osiągnięte. Tym samym feminizm stał się zbędny. Jednak Woolf idzie jeszcze dalej: jej zdaniem feminizm jest słowem niebez- piecznym, słowem, które przyniosło wiele cierpienia. Co więcej, dziś (w 1938 r., S. H.) jest to słowo zepsute, wręcz zdegenerowane i skorumpowane, ponieważ sam feminizm nie dostrzega własnego braku znaczenia. Ale kiedy jesteśmy już niemal skłonni uwierzyć, że Woolf naprawdę myśli to, co pisze, robi ona nagły zwrot. Kiedy tylko dym się rozejdzie, pisze dalej Woolf, widzimy lepiej sens rzeczy: słowo „feminizm” może i zniszczono, ale dzięki temu uzyskano wyraźny, przejrzysty widok sytuacji obecnej i przeszłej. Widać, że nie tylko teraz kobiety i mężczyźni działają na rzecz Sprawie- dliwości, Równości i Wolności; widać także, że te „kobiety w dziwnych kapeluszach”, owe „queer dead

Sabine Hark

women in their poke bonnets and shawls” wcale nie są tak dziwaczne i niepoważne, jak się je przedstawia, ponieważ walczyły w tej samej sprawie, w którą do dzisiaj, a więc do czasów Woolf, angażują się kobiety i mężczyźni.

2. Polityka i etos opowiadania

Być może nie od razu widać, co użycie toposu śmierci przez oznajmienie może dzisiaj wnieść do dyskusji o możliwościach krytyki feministycznej i jej granicach – a krytyka feministyczna ma być tu rozumiana jako projekt krytyki związku między władzą, wiedzą i sposobami istnienia. Moim zdaniem 6 zrozumienie dynamiki tego toposu stanowi zarówno jeden z warunków wstępnych krytyki feministycznej, jak i jeden z jej głównych przedmiotów. Stopień, w jakim topos ten reguluje akceptację poglądów i postaw feministycznych jako „rozsądnych” czy „odpowiednich” w opinii publicznej, jest istotnym czynnikiem decydującym o strukturze przestrzeni dla możliwości krytyki feministycznej. Co więcej, wpływa on na określenie, która forma feminizmu jest dopuszczalna w granicach „naszych” społeczności, jak wyobrażamy sobie przyszłość feminizmu i jak mówimy (możemy mówić) o jego przeszłości. A szczególnie istotne jest to w obecnej sytuacji, w której z jednej strony siły post-2nd- wave i siły antyfeministyczne pracują nad przeformułowaniem feminizmu w elitarny, „odgórny”, solipsystyczny, heteronormatywnie ugruntowany projekt; zaś z drugiej strony te same siły aktywnie obracają jego dezartykulację w wielowymiarową, glokalną, polifoniczną, a często także niespójną, wewnętrznie sprzeczną kolektywną, „oddolną” praktykę polityczną.

Spójrzmy na obecny kontekst: z jednej strony mamy historyczne zacieranie feminizmu i mniej lub bardziej subtelne przepisywanie jego historii7, jak również aktywne spychanie w niebyt globalnego, antyimperialistycznego aktywizmu feministycznego, z drugiej zaś konkurujące ze sobą kolonizacje na terytorium feministycznej wiedzy, wyposażone w nierówny kapitał negocjacyjny, a działające w sojuszu z aktualnymi zinstytucjonalizowanymi praktykami politycznymi, takimi jak gender mainstreaming i managing diversity. Stąd obecny moment ma szczególne znaczenie dla przedsięwzięcia, o które mi tutaj chodzi, to jest dla stworzenia krytycznej feministycznej wiedzy w świecie akademickim. Feminizm po raz pierwszy w swojej historii występuje jako część nauki, instytucji o dużym wpływie na społe- czeństwo, przez co staje się, przynajmniej pod pewną postacią, stałą częścią tej instytucji, której spo- łeczeństwo (jeszcze) przypisuje niemal autorytatywną władzę definiowania i która tworzy najbardziej wpływową dla naszych społeczeństw wiedzę, mianowicie wiedzę naukową.8 Jednak tym samym feminizm staje wobec konieczności znalezienia odpowiedzi na pytanie, w jaki sposób połączyć w

7 Angela McRobbie w The Aftermath of Feminism (2008) rekonstruuje proces zapisu w następujący sposób: „Pewne elementy feminizmu są uchwycane i wyraźnie integrowane do życia politycznego i w szereg instytucji społecznych. Przy zastosowaniu słów jak »społeczno-kulturowe upodmiotowienie« (empowerment) i »wolność wyboru« (choice) zostały te elementy przekształcone w znacząco bardziej indywidualistyczny dyskurs. W nowym przebraniu zostają one używane jako forma feminizmu-zastępczego, przede wszystkim w mediach i kulturze popularnej, ale także w instytucjach państwowych. Związane z tym nowe i rzekomo „współczesne” wyobrażenia na temat kobiet, zwłaszcza młodych kobiet, zostają w agresywny sposób w ich celu rozprzestrzeniane, aby zapobiec powstaniu nowego ruchu kobiecego.” (McRobbie 2009, 1; tłumaczenie na niemiecki S.H.) 8 Sabine Hark szczegółowo zajęła się tą kwestią w Dissidente Partizipation. Eine Diskursgeschichte des Feminismus (2005). Sabine Hark

sobie intelektualną i społeczną krytykę feministyczną, jeśli prawdą jest, że krytyka występuje tylko tam, „gdzie społeczne machiny oporu są nierozerwalnie związane z machinami tekstu” (Raunig 2008: 9).

Feminizm akademicki, jako część instytucji akademickiej, jest potencjalnie silnym graczem w ważnej grze o ustanowienie własnej wizji każdego z uzasadnionych podziałów świata, a zatem spoczywa na nim szczególna społeczna odpowiedzialność. Przede wszystkim ma on szansę przeciwdziałać owemu historycznemu wymazywaniu feminizmu, jego dezartykulacji, ponieważ – jako część instytucji, której funkcją jest tworzenie i rozpowszechnianie wiedzy – może w naszych budowanych na wiedzy społe- 7 czeństwach brać udział w tworzeniu zbiorowej pamięci. Oznacza to, że instytucje rozstrzygają, co będzie zapamiętane, a co zapomniane. Jak argumentuje Mary Douglas w Jak myślą instytucje (2011), „style myślowe” nadają – w zależności od swoich własnych instytucji – „kształt światu myśli, sterując jego pamięcią” (Douglas 2011: 82). „Styl myślowy”, twierdzi Douglas, „stanowi warunek konieczny wszelkiego poznania i to on decyduje, co można uznać za rozsądne pytanie albo prawdziwą lub fałszywą odpowiedź” (5). Oznacza to, że feminizm akademicki wytwarza nie tylko po prostu „femini- styczną pamięć”, jak argumentuje Heike Kahlert (2001: 91), ale pamięć feministyczną rządzoną przez instytucję i jej styl myślowy, co z kolei ustala możliwości krytyki feministycznej, określając, co uchodzi za „rozsądną” wypowiedź feministyczną i czyjego głosu warto słuchać.

Stawką jest zatem tylko i aż przeszłość i przyszłość projektu feministycznego. Przeszłość nie jest bowiem dana raz na zawsze, ale jest tworzona wciąż na nowo zgodnie z regułami hegemonicznego stylu myślowego. A przyszłość jest zawsze już ukształtowana przez metody opowiadania o przesz- łości. W jakiej zatem postaci zachowa się feminizm w zbiorowym postrzeganiu i zbiorowej pamięci: jako ta część projektu modernistycznego, która zakorzeniona jest w kantowskiej tradycji Oświecenia, która nie tylko pyta „co teraz?”, ale pojmuje siebie także jako opór wobec (nieuprawnionego) autorytetu, jako opór wobec niebycia tak rządzonym, jako praktykę wolności oraz jako oddolny ruch społeczny? Czy jako projekt politycznego uprzywilejowania określonej klasy kobiet kosztem wszystkich innych – także kosztem niektórych mężczyzn? I w jakiej postaci zapamiętamy feminizm akademicki?

Czy jako zwyczajną dyscyplinę naukową, która ma swoje korzenie w dziewiętnastowiecznym Prag- nieniu unormowania natury, świata i społeczeństwa oraz tworzenia „porządku rzeczy” (Foucault 1971) przez naukę porządku istnienia? Czy jako praktykę intelektualną, która o tyle wiąże się z krytyką społeczną, że poszukuje nowych sposobów opisania życia? Która więc, cytując Judith Butler, ma odwagę wzniecić „bunt na poziomie ontologii” i stawia pytanie, czyje życie jest prawdziwe i jak można na nowo tworzyć rzeczywistość (Butler 2005: 50)? A jeśli nasza strategia opowiadania o przeszłości zawiera przede wszystkim to, jak chciałybyśmy i chcielibyśmy być zapamiętani, czyli jeśli koncen- trujemy się na tym, jak powinna wyglądać wyimaginowana przyszłość, a nie na „dokładności” opisu tego, co minione – to jakie możliwości otwieramy, a jakie wykluczamy? Jaką więc przyszłość damy „temu” feminizmowi? Sabine Hark

Obecnie dyskusja o możliwościach i ograniczeniach krytyki feministycznej w kontekście akademickiego tworzenia wiedzy musi rozpocząć się od refleksji na temat polityki i etosu własnych opowiadań: jak oddać sprawiedliwość politycznej, teoretycznej i naukowej historii feminizmu nie rezygnując z własnej/ych historii w ciągłym przerzucaniu się indywidualnymi opowieściami? Nie sytuując feminizmu w pozycji trupa, a przynajmniej ciała anachronicznego, przestarzałego, którego czas dawno minął? Nie trzymając się kurczowo jego bohaterskich momentów, a tym samym nie zmuszając go do wiecznego powtarzania samego siebie? Jak możemy sprostać historyczności własnego myślenia, wy- bronić się przed nostalgią czy konserwatyzmem „w oparciu o fundamentalną wieloznaczność tego, co społeczne” (Laclau i Mouffe 2007: 179), kiedy ze względu na „niemożność ostatecznego ustalenia 8 znaczenia każdej walki” (179) nic nie chroni myśli przed jej dyskursywnym – i instytucjonalnym – kontekstem zewnętrznym, który ją przekształca?

Zadawanie tych pytań jest konieczne dlatego, że topos śmierci przez oznajmienie może pojawić się w nieskończonej liczbie postaci, także w formie owego rzekomego starzenia się lub nieadekwatności stanowisk teoretycznych feminizmu, bądź w formie ośmieszających lub umniejszających przedsta- wień „wcześniejszych” pozycji feministycznych. W każdym razie dość często na pierwszy plan wysuwa się chęć ugruntowania własnej pozycji zamiast prób krytycznych dyskusji na temat zakresu i ograni- czeń stanowisk teoretycznych, zamiast krytycznej rekonstrukcji rozgałęzień i wzajemnych połączeń dyskursu, zamiast odtworzenia historii teorii feministycznej jako historii zawsze złożonego pola sprzecznych i nieporównywalnych pozycji teoretycznych, jako „produktywnego pola napięcia kon- cepcyjnie różnych ruchów myślowych” (Genschel 2002: 166).

3. Nie być tak rządzonym! Etos tworzenia wiedzy

Stawka jest jednak znacznie większa niż polityka i etos opowiadań. Stawką jest przede wszystkim to, co możemy nazwać etosem tworzenia wiedzy feministycznej, czyli to, jak feministyczne tworzenie wiedzy chce być rządzone i jak chce się rządzić samo. Pytanie o etos tworzenia wiedzy jest szczególnie ważne, jeśli krytykę feministyczną rozumiemy jako praktykę teoretyczną skupiającą się na związku pomiędzy władzą, wiedzą i (możliwymi) sposobami istnienia, i mającą odwagę wzniecić owy „bunt na poziomie ontologii”; jeśli rozumiemy ją jako praktykę przepytywania reżimów zrozumiałości, czyje i które (płciowe i seksualne) istnienie i głos dominujący porządek postrzegania (także wiedzy feministycznej) dopuszcza, a czyj i który odrzuca. Pytanie brzmi więc: jakiemu stylowi myślowemu, jakiemu dominującemu porządkowi postrzegania pozwoli w przyszłości rządzić się feminizm (akademicki), a jaki porządek sam się wygeneruje. Innymi słowy, ważne jest pytanie w ramach jakiego porządku racjonalności – rozumianego jako zgodność zasad, procedur, sposobów zachowania i myślenia, przy uwzględnieniu wszystkich warunków koniecznych w danym momencie do rozwiązania określonych zadań – chce działać feminizm? Które fikcje racjonalności – wzory decyzji uchodzące w społeczeń- stwie za racjonalne9 – mają organizować myślenie feministyczne? Które pytania zostaną uznane za rozsądne, a które odpowiedzi za prawidłowe? Jaką wiedzę, jakie praktyki i jakie horyzonty odnaj-

9 A ci, którzy orientują się na tych wzorach, z punktu widzenia wszystkich nie robią nic niewłaściwego. Sabine Hark

dziemy pod nazwą feminizmu w przyszłości? Jakimi wartościami będzie się kierować feministyczne tworzenie wiedzy? Na jakich epistemicznych granicach zatrzymywać? Z jakich pozycji10 pisać? I wreszcie: komu i na jakie pytania odpowiada wiedza feministyczna? Przed kim ponosimy odpowie- dzialność i jaki jej zakres uznajemy? Innymi słowy, kogo uwzględniamy w wiedzy feministycznej i przy jej pomocy?

Jak więc tworzyć krytyczną wiedzę w kontekście i w granicach porządku racjonalności instytucji, której sądy obecnie należą do ludzi najbardziej wpływowych w społeczeństwie? Instytucji, której celem może być nie zmiana, ale raczej utrzymanie w stanie nienaruszonym istniejących kultur, seksualności 9 i relacji władzy, upłciowionych i rasizowanych, odwołujących się do narodu, klasy i umiejscowienia geopolitycznego, a także do kultury i seksualności. Jeśli ten opis choćby tylko w części odpowiada prawdzie, to trzeba dokładnie zrozumieć procesy, które ukonstytuowały akademicko uprzywile- jowany a równocześnie marginalizowany podmiot – marginalizowany w formie okresowo nieciągłych, ale powiązanych rejestrów (między innymi) seksualności i płci oraz poprzez nie; jednocześnie trzeba stawić opór tym procesom. To pomoże wyjaśnić, jak można w kontekście transformatorskiej praktyki (wiedzy) wykorzystać fakt, że jesteśmy osadzeni w świecie akademickim jako dość zmarginalizowane – transgresywne? – podmioty, zajmujące równocześnie stosunkowo uprzywilejowaną pozycję spo- łeczną. Bowiem zadanie opozycyjnych akademiczek/akademików nie może polegać, jak to ujmuje amerykańska kulturoznawczyni Rey Chow, na zajmowaniu się własną wiktymizacją w społeczeństwie; ważniejsze jest, by zająć stanowisko wobec „władzy, dobrobytu i przywilejów, które jak na ironię wynikają z „pozycji opozycji’” (Chow 1993, 17; tłumaczenie na niemiecki S.H.). Czy możemy zatem być w instytucji nie będąc jej częścią, „członkiem/członkinią, który/która podważa wszystkie zasady członkostwa”, jak to określiły Diane Elam i Robyn Wiegman (Elam i Wiegman 1995: 5)?

Obecnie jesteśmy świadkami wielopłaszczyznowych zmian społecznego znaczenia, funkcji, stanowiska i zadań szkolnictwa wyższego i nauki – fundamentalnych zmian materialnych, politycznych i kulturowych w życiu akademickim, które wywierają wpływ na znaczenie wiedzy naukowej, jej tworzenie, rozpowszechnianie i pożytkowanie, a także formują nas na nowo jako podmioty akademickie. Widzimy też, że wiedza feministyczna stała się towarem intelektualnym, stąd rozważanie powyższych pytań staje się coraz bardziej naglące niż kiedykolwiek dotąd. Wciąż jednak brak intelektualnych i instytucjonalnych feministycznych odpowiedzi na transformacje uniwersytetu, które dokładnie opisują Richard Sennet (2010) jako reżimy elastyczności (czyli nieciągłą przebudowę instytucji, elastyczną specjalizację tworzenia i koncentracji władzy bez centralizacji) i Burton Clark (1998) jako „entrepreneurial university” (czyli inkorporację interesów ekonomiczno-technicznych do uniwersytetu, restrukturyzację według menadżerskich modeli regulacyjnych, ustanowienie nowego porządku racjo- nalności zorientowanego na parametry ekonomiczne).

10 Sabine Hark używa angielskiego słowa „sites”. Sabine Hark

W kontekście tych zmian należałoby, moim zdaniem, pilnie zbadać w jakim stopniu rosnący nacisk na uczelnie wyższe, aby dostosowały przekazywane przez siebie kwalifikacje do potrzeb rynku pracy, zmusza także feminizm akademicki do definiowania się w ramach tego porządku. Na przykład: na jakim etapie profesjonalizacji pozostają obecnie badania nad gender i w jakim stopniu są (jeszcze) „buntem na poziomie ontologii”? Jeśli profesjonalizacja jest zanurzeniem się w określonej dziedzinie, jednostkowym i zbiorowym „procesem socjalizacji ku wyłączności” (Roloff 1993: 222) – jeśli mamy zatem do czynienia z procesami inicjującymi wszelkie zdyscyplinowane sposoby odczuwania, widzenia i rozumienia, z procesami, w których toku nabywa się „nieokreślonych umiejętności i metod postępowania, na przykład technik publicznych wystąpień, które przynależność do danej profesji 10 czynią kompletną” (222), z procesami, które „dzięki powolnemu procesowi dobierania i inicjacji, równoważnej z powtórnymi narodzinami” (Bourdieu 2008: 93) tworzą zgodność, spójność, poczucie przynależności i akceptację ze strony instytucji – to czy profesjonalizacja nie jest tym samym procesem, który za Foucaultem (1993) można rozumieć jako tworzenie „jednostek zdyscyplinowanych”?

Innymi słowy, w procesie socjalizacji akademickiej mamy do czynienia nie tylko z nabywaniem konkretnych umiejętności, które dostarczają narzędzi pracy naukowej. Mamy też do czynienia z formo- waniem ich jako specyficzne podmioty habitualizowane związane z instytucją, z inkorporacją „istnie- jących w głowach” (Bourdieu 1998: 217) społecznych przymusów. Czy nie należałoby zatem zapytać, w ramach dyskusji o profesjonalizacji, która jest obecnie częścią dyskursu feminizmu akademickiego, jakimi podmiotami stajemy się w ramach akademii? Czy nie należałoby koniecznie zapytać, do jakiego stopnia niewątpliwie uzasadniona sprawczość działania – wynikająca z formowania podmio- tów jako specyficznych podmiotów habitualizowanych, a dająca szansę na interwencję w danej dziedzinie w celu uzyskania w niej trwałej zmiany, tworzenia własnej wiedzy – oznacza rodzaj uprzed- miotowienia, podporządkowania wobec nieistniejących może, ale na polu gender studies skutecznie oddziałujących warunków i racjonalności? A to prowadzi do kolejnego niezbędnego pytania: jak chcemy być rządzeni?

4. Postawy graniczne. Czym jest i po co jest krytyka?

Ale czym właściwie jest krytyka? Jakie jest jej zadanie? Odpowiedzi na to pytanie – w obrębie „»krytycznej« tradycji Zachodu” (Foucault 1996: 178), zajmującej się warunkami „mówienia prawdy”, to znaczy tą tradycją myślenia, która, według Michela Foucaulta, zadaje podstawowe pytanie: „kto jest w stanie mówić prawdę” (178) – są, jak wiadomo, rozmaite. W tym sensie należy rozumieć poniższy wywód jako politykę przypomnienia tych odpowiedzi, nie jako próbę udzielania odpowiedzi zupełnie nowych lub podających się za nowe. Pragmatycznym podejściem w tej tradycji krytycznej jest przede wszystkim pogląd Karola Marksa, dla którego krytyka jest zawsze immanentna. Innymi słowy, nie ma żadnego innego stanowiska „poza”: jak mówi Theodor W. Adorno, żyje się „kulturą, którą się krytykuje”, jednakże trzeba ją krytykować „bezwzględnie”. 11

11 Cytowane za Demirovic 1999: 672. Sabine Hark

Z tym wstępem, chcę wysunąć na pierwszy plan konkretny motyw w refleksji o krytyce jako praktyce, mianowicie motyw postawy granicznej. Określiłam ogólnie krytykę feministyczną jako projekt wyjaś- niania relacji między wiedzą, władzą i sposobami istnienia, jako praktykę sprawdzania reżimów zrozumiałości – także własnych – które określają, co można a czego nie można zrealizować. Projekt feministyczny na tym z pewnością się nie kończy, jednak o to właśnie powinno chodzić w krytycznej teorii feministycznej, przy założeniu, że wytyczone przez władzę granice wiedzy są też granicami istnienia, że to wiedza wyznacza granice, w obrębie których potrafiłyśmy i pozwoliliśmy zrozumieć siebie samych, i określa, co można zrealizować, i w jaki sposób rozumieć nasze ciała, doświadczenia, tożsamości – nasze „bycie w świecie” – nawet jeśli celem krytyki feministycznej jest badanie tych 11 granic pod kątem historyczno-praktycznym po to tylko, żeby je przekraczać.

Etos takiego projektu krytyki, umiejscowionego na rozziewie pomiędzy tym, co rzeczywiste, a tym, co możliwe, na styku epistemologii i ontologii, można określić za Foucaultem następująco: „etos filozoficzny” pisze Foucault w Co to jest Oświecenie (2000), polega na krytyce tego, „co [sami] mówimy, myślimy i czynimy, poprzez historyczną ontologię nas samych” (Foucault 2000: 57). Tę właśnie postawę Foucault definiuje jako postawę graniczną, będącą równocześnie trwaniem na granicy i prze- kraczaniem jej. Zdaniem filozofa nie chodzi tu o odmowę, ale o wyjście poza alternatywę wnętrze- zewnętrze i poszukiwanie samych granic. „Krytycyzm”, pisze Foucault, „polega na analizowaniu i namyśle nad ograniczeniami” (57). Krytyka „będzie wydzielała z przygodności, która uczyniła nas tym, czym jesteśmy, możliwość, że nie będziemy już tym, czym jesteśmy, nie będziemy już robić tego, co robimy, myśleć tego, co myślimy” (57).

Foucault nawiązuje tu bezpośrednio do Kanta, który na pytanie, czym jest krytyka, odpowiedział w następujący sposób: krytyka zaczyna się od zakwestionowania absolutnego posłuszeństwa oraz od racjonalnej i refleksyjnej oceny wszystkich obowiązków, nakładanych podmiotom przez państwo – foucaultowskie określenie krytyki jako oporu wobec pewnych form urządowienia daje się tu zauważyć równie wyraźnie, jak i butlerowski motyw „buntu na poziomie ontologii”.

Zarówno Foucaultowi, jak i Butler chodzi o sprzeciw wobec epistemologicznych norm, decydujących kto może mówić prawdę; o to – żeby posłużyć się najbardziej znanym sformułowaniem Foucaulta – by ustalić cenę, za którą podmiot będzie mógł powiedzieć prawdę o sobie samym. Taki sprzeciw wobec norm epistemologicznych jest konieczny, ponieważ, jak często powtarza Butler, nasze epistemologiczne pewniki wspierają określone sposoby organizacji świata, odrzucając alternatywne porządki. W eseju Czym jest krytyka? Esej o cnocie Foucaulta (2002), Butler twierdzi, że pytamy o „granice sposobów poznania, ponieważ żyjąc w obrębie pola epistemologicznego popadamy w jego kryzys”. Dzieje się tak dlatego, że „kategorie, którymi jest regulowane życie społeczne, niosą ze sobą pewną niespójność lub całe obszary niewyrażalności” (Butler 2002: 251).

Sabine Hark

Tej niespójności kategorii nie można jednak po prostu wykorzystać; stanowisk umożliwiające arty- kulację nie można, jak wiemy, dowolnie pomnażać, ponieważ władza działa właśnie poprzez ogra- niczenie ich liczby. Ponadto emancypacyjne projekty wiedzy, żądające tworzenia innej wiedzy, również muszą udowodnić, że przeciwstawiają się mechanizmom samo-zamknięcia się w kategoriach i praktykach rozumienia przez współczesną władzę. Jak można myśleć w sposób dysydencki, skoro władza tworząca porządek obecna jest także w myśleniu krytycznym, skoro dyskursy są zasadniczo organizowane przez praktyki wykluczenia, a wyrażenie możliwości postrzegania zawsze wyklucza inne możliwości postrzegania; w skrócie: skoro to, co jest faktycznie pomyślane i wypowiedziane, zawsze kształtowane jest przez to, czego nie da się (już) pomyśleć i wypowiedzieć? Które praktyki 12 refleksji nad społecznymi i dyskursywnymi warunkami artykulacji, jak też nad zakresem obowią- zywania wypowiedzi, są potrzebne, aby zrozumieć, że – jak argumentuje Michel de Certeau – zawsze dokonuje się wyboru pomiędzy tym, „co może być »zrozumiane« [...] [a tym], co winno zostać zapomniane, aby uzyskać przedstawienie teraźniejszej intelligibilności” (de Certeau 2010: 112)?

W kontekście tych powiązań, krytyka jest przede wszystkim zadaniem epistemicznym: jest to krytyka intelektualna, lokalizująca granice wiedzy. Chodzi tu o analizę historii konceptów, o logiczną analizę pojęć, tez i problemów, o genealogię dyskursów i archeologię ich kulturowych podstaw. Innymi słowy chodzi o to, żeby kategorie postrzegania i myślenia – a płeć jest jedną z takich kategorii – które stosujemy z konieczności jako środki poznania, a które są tworzone przez władzę, traktować rygo- rystycznie jako obiekty poznania. A wszystko po to, aby przejrzeć zamiary „bezkrytycznych przyz- wyczajeń umysłu” (Williams 1976: 75) i określić ukryte powiązania władzy, wiedzy i sposobów istnienia, aby wyjaśnić, w jakim stopniu nasze pewniki epistemologiczne wspierają ten sposób organizacji świata, który odrzuca alternatywne porządki istnienia, wiedzy i myślenia.

Aby umożliwić istnienie wiedzy feministycznej w obrębie stworzonych i regulowanych przez władzę instytucji nauki, potrzeba obok krytyki intelektualnej także krytyki społecznej lub instytucjonalnej. Jeśli instytucje nauki równocześnie umożliwiają i ograniczają tworzenie wiedzy feministycznej podpo- rządkowując ją określonemu rygorowi zrozumiałości, który jednocześnie te procesy umożliwia; jeśli feministyczne naukowczynie i feministyczni naukowcy zadomowili się w instytucjach nauki, nawet za cenę dyskomfortu uwikłania się w sprzeczności, i zasadniczo przemieścili się z obrzeży do centrum, to nie można (dłużej) twierdzić, że w stosunku do instytucji nauki są absolutnie „obcy”, zmargi- nalizowani – że są outsiderami „[korzystającymi] z tego (całkiem negatywnego) przywileju, że nie są zmyleni przez gierki o przywileje, a przynajmniej nie są w nie bezpośrednio uwikłani” (Bourdieu 1997: 169n.). Poza tym nie możemy przyjąć, że „relatywna” obcość w instytucjonalnym, historycznie zdominowanym przez mężczyzn świecie nauki jest wystarczającym źródłem krytycznego dystansu do rzekomych oczywistości środowiska akademickiego.

Świat nauki jest nie tylko zdominowany przez mężczyzn, przez co naukowczynie mogłyby dyspo- nować historycznie uwarunkowaną „naturalną” korzyścią w formułowaniu poglądów – owym słynnym „ostrym spojrzeniem wykluczonych”, o którym mówi Bourdieu. Co więcej, świat nauki jest zakon- Sabine Hark

serwowany zaszyfrowanymi relacjami nacechowanymi heteronormatywnością i rasizmem, decy- dującymi o udziale, uznaniu i autoryzacji.

Aby więc krytyka była skuteczna na poziomie epistemologii tak, żeby wynikł z niej bunt na poziomie ontologii, potrzebna jest krytyka na poziomie władzy, krytyka pytająca o sposoby, jakie instytucje naukowe umożliwiły produkcję wiedzy feministycznej, jednocześnie wytyczając jej granice i pow- ściągając ją; krytyka pytająca zatem, jakie powiązania istnieją pomiędzy określonymi miejscami, obowiązującymi w nich regułami i procedurami, dostępnymi w danym momencie historycznym stanowiskami a produkowaną tam wiedzą. Z grubsza rzecz biorąc, chodzi o przeanalizowanie relacji 13 pomiędzy upozycjonowaniem w przestrzeni społecznej, jej klasyfikacją kulturową i zajęciem stanowisk indywidualno-habitualnych. W tym celu konieczne jest, po pierwsze, usytuowanie podmiotu poznającego w określonym punkcie czasoprzestrzeni; po drugie, wyjaśnienie społecznego uwarun- kowania myślenia; i po trzecie, przeanalizowanie społecznej podświadomości, która stała się jednym z narzędzi poznawczych.

W rozmowie zatytułowanej „Krytyczne myślenie jako rozkład doksy” (2005) Loïc Wacquant scharak- teryzował te dwie odmiany krytyki jako z jednej strony epistemologiczną krytykę kantowską, z drugiej zaś strony, nawiązując do Marksa, jako krytykę społeczną. Pierwsza odnosi się do badań oceniających kategorie i formy wiedzy w celu określenia ich kognitywnej ważności. Druga o tyle wiąże się z myślą Marksa, że kieruje on „broń rozsądku na rzeczywistość społeczno-historyczną i stawia sobie za zadanie ujawnić ukryte formy dominacji i wyzysku, oraz tworzyć krytykę tak, aby ukazywała alternatywy, które owe formy blokują i wykluczają” (Wacquant 2006: 669). Wacquant twierdzi dalej, że należałoby dokonać wysiłku połączenia krytyki epistemologicznej i społecznej, aby „bezustannie, aktywnie i radykalnie [kwestionować] utarte formy myślenia i tradycyjne formy życia społecznego”, czyli „common sense albo doksę (doksa w nawiązaniu do tradycji krytycznej) w tym samym stopniu, co stosunki społeczne i polityczne, obowiązujące w danym momencie historycznym i w danym społe- czeństwie” (669).

W charakterystyce krytyki podanej przez Wacquanta również zatem znajdujemy motyw oporu wobec pewnych form urządowienia, impuls, by nie być tak rządzonym, by pogłębić podział pomiędzy tym, co wyobrażalne, a tym, co wyobrażone, pomiędzy tym, co możliwe, a tym, co rzeczywiste. „Wiedza i społeczne determinanty myśli” są nieodzowne, „żeby nas od nich uwolnić i umożliwić nam trans- cendentowanie świata, jaki jest nam dany, w celu odnalezienia konkretnych projektów przyszłości, różnych od tych wpisanych w porządek rzeczy. Krótko mówiąc, krytyczne myślenie daje nam narzędzia, by świat postrzegać takim, jaki jest i jaki mógłby być” (Wacquant 2006: 669; podkreślenie w oryginale).

Uzyskaliśmy więc w zasadzie odpowiedź na pytanie po co krytyka: krytyka konieczna jest po to, żeby utrzymać rozziew pomiędzy rzeczywistym a możliwym jako wyraz nadziei, że nie wszystko musi pozostać tak, jak jest. Z całą świadomością heteronomii każdej podmiotowości, chodzi o to, by Sabine Hark

nieustanie generować nowe sposoby rządzenia sobą i bycia rządzonym, by wynajdować nowe sposoby istnienia. Ostateczną odpowiedź zostawmy na razie Karolowi Marksowi. W roku 1843 napisał on do Arnolda Rugego:

[…] na tym właśnie polega przewaga nowego kierunku, że nie usiłujemy w sposób dogmatyczny antycypować przyszłości, lecz chcemy dopiero poprzez krytykę starego świata odkryć nowy. […] Możemy więc kierunek naszego pisma wyrazić w jednym zdaniu: praca naszej epoki nad wyjaśnieniem sobie samej (krytyczna filo- zofia) sensu własnych walk i pragnień. Jest to praca dla świata i dla nas. Może ona 14 być tylko dziełem zjednoczonych sił. (Marks 1960: 416, 419; podkreślenie w oryginale)

Tłumaczenie: Anna Kasten12

Bibliografia Bourdieu, Pierre. 1997. Die männliche Herrschaft. w: (red.) Dölling, Irene, Krais, Beate. Ein alltägliches Spiel. Geschlechterkonstruktion in der sozialen Praxis. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, s. 153–217. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1998. Vom Gebrauch der Wissenschaft. Für eine klinische Soziologie des wissenschaftlichen Feldes. Konstanz: UVK. Bourdieu, Pierre. 2008. Zmysł praktyczny. Tłum. Maciej Falski. Kraków: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego. Butler, Judith. 2002. Was ist Kritik? Ein Essay über Foucaults Tugend. W: „Deutsche Zeitschrift für Philosophie” 50/2, s. 149–165. Butler, Judith. 2005. Gefährdetes Leben. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Certeau, de Michel. 2010. Pismo historii. Tłum. Krzysztof Jarosz. W: „Er(r)go. Teoria, Literatura, Kultura” 20/21, 1-2, s. 109–137. Chow, Rey. 1993. Writing Diaspora: Tactics of Intervention in Contemporary Cultural Studies. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Clark, Burton R. 1998. Creating Entrepreneurial Universities. Organizational Pathways of Transformation. Surrey: Pergamon Press. Demirovic, Alex. 1999. Der nonkonformistische Intellektuelle. Die Entwicklung der Kritischen Theorie zur Frankfurter Schule. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Douglas, Mary. 2011. Jak myślą instytucje. Tłum. Olga Siara. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Naukowe PWN.

12 Za cenne uwagi do tego przekładu tekstu dziękuję Agnieszce Kowaluk. Za krytyczną lekturę mojego przekładu również dziękuję Redakcji „InterAlia” oraz za jej zaangażowanie w umożliwieniu opublikowania tego tekstu. (Anna Kasten, tłumaczka) Sabine Hark

Elam, Diane, Wiegman, Robyn. 1995. Contingencies. W: (red.) idem. Feminism Beside Itself. London, New York: Routledge, s. 1–8. Foucault, Michel. 1971. Die Ordnung der Dinge. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Foucault, Michel. 1993. Nadzorować i karać. Narodziny więzienia. Tłum. Tadeusz Komendant. Warszawa: ALETHEIA. Foucault, Michel. 1996. Diskurs und Wahrheit. Berlin: Merve. Foucault, Michel. 2000. Co to jest oświecenie? Tłum. Agata Sypniewska. W: „Odra „ 7-8, s. 49–59.

Genschel, Corinna. 2002. Queer Meets Trans Studies: Über den problematischen Stellenwert 15 geschlechtlicher Transgressionen in Queer Theorie. W: „Freiburger Frauenstudien“ 12, s. 163– 186. Hark, Sabine. 2005. Dissidente Partizipation. Eine Diskursgeschichte des Feminismus. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Hawkesworth, Mary. 2004. The Semiotics of Premature Burial: Feminism in a Postfeminist Age. W: „Signs. Journal of Women in Culture and Society” vol. 29 nr 4, s. 961–986. Kahlert, Heike. 2001. (K)ein Fach wie jedes andere? Feministische Lehre im Professionalisierungsprozeß. W: „Die Philosophin” 12/23, s. 74–92. Laclau, Ernesto, Mouffe, Chantal. 2007. Hegemonia i socjalistyczna strategia. Przyczynek do projektu radykalnej polityki demokratycznej. Tłum. Sławomir Królak. Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Naukowe Dolnośląskej Szkoły Wyższej Edukacji TWP. Marks, Karol. 1960. Marks do Rugego. W: Marks, Karol, Engels, Fryderyk (red.): Dzieła. Tom 1. Tłum. Konstanty Jażdżewski. Warszawa: Książka i Wiedza, s. 408–419. McRobbie, Angela. 2004. Wozu Mütter und Väter? Judith Butler, Antigones Verlangen. Verwandtschaft zwischen Leben und Tod. Neuordnung der Verwandtschaftsverhältnisse, Verwerfung des Feminismus. W: „Das Argument” 252, s. 648–657. McRobbie, Angela. 2008. The Aftermath of Feminism. Los Angeles, London: Sage. Raunig, Gerald. 2008. Was ist Kritik? Aussetzung und Neuzusammensetzung in textuellen und sozialen Maschinen. Online na: http://eipcp.net/transversal/0808/raunig. Roloff, Christine. 1993. Hochqualifizierte Frauen in Naturwissenschaft und Technik – Ursachen ihrer Marginalität und Strategien zur Veränderung. W: „WSI-Mitteilungen” 4, s. 220–229. Sennett, Richard. 2010. Kultura nowego kapitalizmu. Tłum. Grzegorz Brzozowski, Karol Osłowski. Warszawa: Muza. Wacquant, Loïc. 2006. Kritisches Denken als Zersetzung der Doxa. W: (red.) Bittlingmayer, Uwe, Bauer, Ullrich. Die Wissensgesellschaft: Mythos, Ideologie oder Realität. Wiesbaden: VS, s. 669– 674. Willliams, Raymond. 1976. Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society. New York: Oxford University Press. Woolf, Virginia. 2002. Własny pokój. Trzy gwinee. Tłum. Ewa Krasińska. Warszawa: Sic!.

Sabine Hark

What is critique and what is it for? On the potential and limits of feminist critique today

The article is constitutes a philosophical reflection on the potential of contemporary feminist critical theory. The author understands feminist critique as a project aimed at elucidating the relations between knowledge, power, and ways of being – and as the practice of testing the regimes of intelligibility that dictate what is and what is not realizable. Keywords: feminism, critique, regimes of intelligibility, power, knowledge, ways of being, exclusion, recognition

16 HEJKUM GEJKUM?

Piotr Sobolczyk Instytut Badań Literackich PAN

Artykuł jest reinterpretacją słynnego i kultowego polskiego filmu Kingsajz, powszechnie uważanego za alegorię polityczną. Film ten można jednak odczytać także queerowo jako wypowiedź nt. reżimów genderowych. Zinterpretowano tu liczne aluzje homoerotyczne. Istotne jest także pytanie o dominujący w kulturze polskiej kod odbiorczy polegający na uprzywilejowywaniu odczytań politycznych względem innych możliwych i uzna- jący oś polityczne-seksualne za wykluczającą się wzajemnie.

Słowa kluczowe: homoerotyzm, PRL, Juliusz Machulski, kamp

Od premiery Kingsajzu Juliusza Machulskiego mija równo 30 lat, a ja sam ostatni raz oglądałem go albo jeszcze w PRL-u, albo krótko po jego upadku. Od jakiegoś czasu zastanawiałem się, dlaczego w filmach i sztukach Machulskiego w zasadzie nigdy nie pojawiają się wątki czy postacie homoseksualne – podobnie jak zastanawiam się, czemu taki brak występuje w twórczości Woody’ego Allena. Tymczasem Kingsajz obejrzany po około trzech dekadach oraz licznych lekturach queerowych, cu- dzych i własnych, zaskoczył mnie obfitością homoerotycznych aluzji. Są to aluzje nieco może zako- dowane, szczególnie dla ówczesnego odbiorcy, toteż podejmę próbę ich odszyfrowania; są to aluzje nieco może ornamentalne, ale takie ich nagromadzenie prowokuje mnie do odczytania ich jako budujących pewien bardziej zasadniczy kompleks wyobrażeniowy.

Zwyczajowo Kingsajz postrzegany jest jako dość prosta krytyka totalitaryzmu w jego aspekcie poli- tycznym1; w odczytaniu tym zwraca się uwagę raczej na to, że się zabrania, niż na to czego się zabrania. Moje odczytanie ma wskazywać nie tylko na subwersywne seksualne wątki w tym filmie, ale też dekonstruować dominującą fikcję poznawczą czy alegorię czytania tego rodzaju aluzyjnych dzieł w polskiej mentalności. W uproszczeniu chodzi o mechanizm uznawania prymatu polityczności nad

1 Warto przyjrzeć się choćby wypowiedziom widzów na portalu Filmweb.pl. Użytkownik kinoman77_filmweb, wypowiedź o temacie „Znakomita antyutopijna komedia”: „Genialna w swojej prostocie metafora komunizmu, na przykładzie Szuflandii vs. Kingsajzu”. Użytkownik Goro_Gondo, wypowiedź o tytule „Dobre”: „Kino w stylu >>Misia<< pokazujące komune w krzywym zwierciadle, wręcz ośmiesza” (zachowuję styl oryginału). Użytkownik polkain, wypowiedź o tytule „Zbyt oczywisty”: „Wszystkie anty-systemowe alegorie są tak oczywiste i proste w odbiorze, że zastanawiam się czy w tym filmie jest cokolwiek więcej?”. Użytkowniczka Valtara, wypowiedź o tytule „mialam 3 lata jak to widzialam 1 raz”: „ogolnie super komedia antykomunistyczna” (pisownia oryginalna). Użytkownik / użytkowniczka doorshlaq, wypowiedź o temacie „Małe dziełko”: „Jedna z najśmieszniejszych i najcelniejszych komedii antykomunistycznych obok >>Misia<< czy >>Seksmisji<<„. Użytkownik Rockmen, wypowiedź o temacie „Dopiero teraz...”: „Zrozumiałem ze ten film odnosi się o czasów PRL” (pisownia oryginalna). Użytkowniczka soowkax78, wypowiedź o temacie „świetny!!!”: „fantastycznie zrobiona, inteligentna i dowcipna satyra na PRL w znakomitej obsadzie, ze świetnym aktorstwem i bardzo przyjemną ścieżką dźwiękową”. Użytkownik / użytkowniczka Maat, wypowiedź o temacie „jedna z najlepszych polskich komedii”: „Świetna parodia systemu PRL..... a teksty genialne!!”. Żadna z wypowiedzi nie odnosi się do kwestii queerowych. Jedyne, które można uznać za jakkolwiek dostrzegające problem genderowy, to zdziwienie, że postać Bombaliny gra Witold Pyrkosz a nie aktorka, oraz konstatacja, że w Seksmisji był świat bez mężczyzn, a w Szuflandii jest świat bez kobiet. (Filmweb Forum).

Piotr Sobolczyk

innymi aspektami (tu nad seksualnością), czy uznawania wszelkich aspektów (tu seksualności) za „tylko” metaforę polityczności, co ostatecznie ruguje te pozostałe aspekty (tu seksualność). Mecha- nizm ten powoduje, że dzieło „nie może” dotyczyć zarówno polityczności jak i seksualności, jeśli uznawać je za rozłączne, a w jeszcze mniejszym stopniu polityczności jako seksualnej i seksualności jako politycznej. Wyjątkiem mogą być najbardziej konwencjonalne heteroerotyczne fabuły romansowe, mogące działać – mówię nie o zamyśle twórczym a dominującym kodzie tzw. straight reader – jak soczewka skupiająca całą uwagę na takiej najbardziej konwencjonalnej reprezentacji romansu z ewentualnym lekkim pieprzykiem (np. w Kingsajzie pamiętna i pomysłowa scena z pomniejszonym Olem i śpiącą Alą), przez co „marginesy” romansowe oraz erotyczne przestają być dostrzegalne. 18 Podobnym tropem szły moje odczytania wskazujące na homoerotyczny kontekst szafy w Miłoszowej analizie „Ketmanu” czy skutki zmiany gestaltu w czytaniu Ciemności kryją ziemię Andrzejewskiego z alegorii stalinizmu na powieść gotycką o homoerotyzmie i jego prześladowaniu. Dominująca fikcja poznawcza zakłada, że Miłosz używa pojęcia „ketman” wyłącznie po to, by mówić o dysydenctwie politycznym – jakkolwiek zaznacza on, że przeszczepia to pojęcie z kultury perskiej, gdzie dotyczyło orto- i heterodoksji religijnej, a zatem pojęcie to już u Miłosza było używane jako metafora, choć metafora dobrze osadzona w kompleksie analiz traktujących komunizm i socjalizm jako paralelne bądź substytucyjne względem chrześcijaństwa, jako nową religię bez boga; natomiast w moim odczytaniu eksponowałem luźne uwagi Miłosza dotyczące np. tego, jak kolor odzieży może być odebrany jako polityczny i przeto piętnujący, co prowadziło mnie do hipotezy, że pojęcie „ketman” może wchodzić nie tylko w relacje wymienności metaforycznej religijność-polityczność (można przyjąć, że tertium comparationis staje się tu pojęcie „ideologia”), ale także z pojęciem „(ukrywana) seksualność”. Moją hipotezę wspierał fakt, że rozdział Zniewolonego umysłu pt. „Alfa” poświęcony jest jednemu z najbliższych przyjaciół Miłosza, Jerzemu Andrzejewskiemu, który nie był skądinąd jedynym znanym Miłoszowi gejem negocjującym swoją „szafę” gdzieś między przestrzenią prywatną a publiczną (Miłosz w zasadzie był otoczony przyjaciółmi-gejami, by pobieżnie wskazać Czechowicza, Napierskiego, Iwaszkiewicza, Gombrowicza, Giedroycia). Miłosz obserwował „ketman seksualny”, by tak rzec – czyli szafę – jeszcze w latach 30., a więc wcześniej niż mógł zaobserwować „ketman polityczny”, jakkolwiek w dominującej polskiej fikcji poznawczej „ketman” utożsamiono z politycznością (Sobolczyk 2015). Podobną zmianę gestalt zaproponowałem w lekturze powieści rzeczonego Andrzejewskiego, gdzie metaforę Hiszpanii średniowiecznej pod rządami inkwizycji odczytywano wyłącznie jako alegorię stalinizmu, ewentualnie dostrzegając analogie w prześladowaniu Żydów pod rządami królów katolickich z doświadczeniem Zagłady w XX wieku. Tymczasem jeśli uznać, że nie jest to „udawana powieść historyczna” będąca „tak naprawdę” parabolą, zaś że jest to powieść gotycka inspirowana angielskimi klasycznymi powieściami z przełomu XVIII i XIX wieku (np. Mnich Matthew Gregory’ego Lewisa, Italczyk Ann Radcliffe, Zofloya Charlotty Dacre i przede wszystkim Melmoth Charlesa Maturina – wszystkie ukazujące horrors of catholicism wedle formuły badacza queer gothic, George’a Haggerty’ego), Ciemności kryją ziemię okazują się powieścią o jakimkolwiek totalitaryzmie, w tym religijnym, a fakt, że w powieści nie ma bohaterów innych niż mężczyźni tworzący „niewy- powiadalne” układy partnerstwa, oraz opis zamku noszącego się na czerwono („z mauretańska”) dysydenta – pozwalają odczytać tę powieść także jako traktującą o nienormatywnej seksualności w Piotr Sobolczyk

czasach paranoi (Sobolczyk 2017). Wyzyskując podobny gest zmiany gestaltu można przepatrzeć także inne polskie utwory postrzegane w świetle dominującej fikcji poznawczej jako prymarnie polityczne. Choćby Barwy ochronne Krzysztofa Zanussiego. W niniejszym eseju w takiej matrycy spróbuję usytuować Kingsajz, zbierając i interpretując liczne mikroaluzje.

Pomocne będzie w tym także rozpoznanie Kevina Mossa. Opisywał on różnicę między zachodnim a komunistycznym i postkomunistycznym myśleniem o seksualności, wskazując, że analogiczne metafory poznawcze używane są do opisu dysydenctwa politycznego (w kulturach sowieckich) i homo- seksualności (na Zachodzie): 19

We wschodnioeuropejskich kulturach w czasach sowieckich główna oś struk- turyzująca myślenie nie jest seksualna, ale polityczna: dysydencki / prosowiecki. Może być uzasadnione rozważanie jak inne definicje mniejszości / większości (rasowe, etniczne, płciowe i inne) funkcjonują podobnie lub odmiennie, bądź przecinają się w złożony sposób, jest przynajmniej jedno podobieństwo pomiędzy dysydenctwem seksualnym i politycznym, które różni je od pozostałych: w większości wypadków nie są one natychmiast widoczne, nie są – jak na ogół rasa, etniczność i płeć – niezmiennie przypisane od urodzenia. Sytuacja ta wysuwa na plan pierwszy problem wiedzy / niewiedzy w tych kategoriach (seksualność, dysydenctwo polityczne) w sposób odmienny od pozostałych kategorii. Przymusowy heteroseksizm i przymusowa ortodoksja polityczna wymuszają na dysydentach seksualnych i politycznych ukrywanie swej dysydenckości. Wykażę, że środki wyzys- kiwane na Zachodzie do ukrywania dysydenctwa seksualnego, do konstrukcji szafy, często są identyczne jak te używane w Europie Wschodniej do ukrywania dysydenctwa politycznego (Moss 1995: 229-230).2

Nie można jednak poprzestać na konstatacji, że występuje tego rodzaju podobieństwo, ponieważ dysydenci polityczni występują także w niekomunistycznych społeczeństwach zachodnich (choć znaczy to coś zupełnie innego niż w krajach totalitarnych), jak też dysydenci seksualni (homo- seksualni, transpłciowi...) występują w społeczeństwach totalitarnych i używanie tych samych środków ekspresji oznacza w innym kontekście zupełnie co innego, a przede wszystkim dysydenctwo polityczne i seksualne może się nakładać w różnym stopniu, co skutkuje złożoną grą luster, przemilczeń, aluzji. Postaram się pokazać, że Machulskiemu w Kingsajzie udało się poprowadzić owe złożone gry w lekki, acz dla większości mało czytelny sposób. 30 lat po premierze Kingsajzu może nastał moment, by na nowo przemyśleć, czym była – i czym nie była – polityczna walka w latach 80., i jaką rolę wówczas odgrywała – a jakiej często nie odgrywała – artystyczna satyra. Akcent kładę na możliwość odczytania wbrew dominującej fikcji poznawczej, wbrew kodowi straight reader, a to naraża na zarzuty,

2 Moss nawiązuje tu do aparatu pojęciowego Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick (teza o tym, że kultury zachodniej nie da się zrozumieć bez osi hetero-homoseksualność a także para pojęć „uniwersalizujące / mniejszościujące”). Piotr Sobolczyk

że idę wbrew intencji autora, tj. Machulskiego. W istocie chodzi mi głównie o przetestowanie czym Kingsajz może być w oku queer reader, powtarzając modelowe pytania, jakie zdaniem Eve Kosofky Sedgwick stawia kamp:

Inaczej niż w wypadku atrybucji kiczu, system rozpoznawania kampu nie pyta: „Jaka zdegenerowana istota mogłaby być odpowiednią widownią dla tego spektaklu?” Zamiast tego pyta a gdyby / a jeśli: „A jeśli odpowiednią publicznością byłbym właśnie ja?” A gdyby na przykład oporne, ukośne, niebezpośrednie „inwestowanie” uwagi i przyjemności, które jestem zdolny wnieść do tego spektaklu, naprawdę 20 przystawało do opornej, ukośnej, niebezpośredniej „inwestycji” człowieka, czy też ludzi, którzy go stworzyli? A co by było, idźmy dalej, gdyby inni ludzie, których nie znam czy nie rozpoznaję, mogli ów spektakl oglądać z tej samej „perwersyjnej” perspektywy? (Sedgwick 2012: 523).

Jeśli ktoś chce, może uznać moja lekturę za „kampowanie”, choć muszę zaznaczyć, że nie jest to procedura tożsama z uznaniem czegoś za kamp (według mnie Kingsajz nie jest kampowy, choć niektóre sceny są kampowi bliskie). W finale eseju postaram się także nieco inaczej usytuować pytanie „a co jeśli”, dopytując o jednak możliwą intencję Machulskiego, jakkolwiek odpowiedź z konieczności pozostanie tylko hipotezą.

Wyliczmy zatem te liczne mikroaluzje, które dostrzegłem oglądając Kingsajz „nowym okiem”. Naj- oczywistsza jest tu postać pojawiająca się dosłownie na kilka sekund i nieodnotowana nawet w napisach ani w obsadzie filmu podanej w bazie filmpolski.pl – reżysera (czy asystenta) pokazu mody (na widok Ola pytającego bez entuzjazmu Ewę „co to za model”), którego epizod poprowadzony jest według stereotypu gejowskiej (nie)męskości związanej ze światem mody. Dalej tropem wyobrażeń stereotypowych zastanawiająca jest oczywiście postać Zenony (Zenona?) Bombaliny, redaktor na- czelnej „Pasikonika”, granej przez Witolda Pyrkosza. Z jednej strony to aluzja do finalnego dénoue- ment Seksmisji (a Kingsajz jest pełen aluzji do wcześniejszych filmów Machulskiego), z drugiej może aluzja do Poszukiwany / poszukiwana Barei, z trzeciej klasyczna tzw. high het entertainment (heterycka rozrywka), tj. śmiech z chłopa przebranego za babę (Butler 1993: 126). Jednak Bombalina i jej gender zostają wmieszane w bardziej skomplikowane gry. W świecie „kingsajzu”, tj. plus-minus w PRL- owskiej Warszawie, Olo zawsze mówi o Bombalinie jako o kobiecie, ale przyparty do muru w Szuf- landii, chcąc ratować Adasia, wymieni Zenona Bombalinę jako zadekowanego krasnoludka, właści- wego odkrywcę formuły eliksiru kingsajzu – a agenci reżimu stwierdzają, że istnieje taka osoba i imię oraz nazwisko się zgadzają. Oczywiście gdyby Bombalina miała pierwotnie tożsamość krasnoludka, nie mogłaby być kobietą, bo krasnoludków żeńskich po prostu nie ma. Ale może Bombalina faktycznie jest / był kransoludkiem? Tak rozwikłana przeze mnie aluzja okazuje się teraz całkiem czytelna w kontekście czy transpłciowości, czy transwestytyzmu. Układ światów możliwych w filmie na planie politycznym trzeba czytać według takiego na ogół schematu: Szuflandia reprezentuje (upraszczając) Piotr Sobolczyk

PRL, zaś PRL-owska Warszawa czy cała Polska reprezentuje tu świat pożądany, a więc tzw. Zachód.3 Taka konstrukcja była niezbędna Machulskiemu, aby mógł przekonywać cenzorów, iż jego film nie jest satyrą na socjalizm. Innymi słowy, ekspresja (płciowa), która nie jest możliwa w świecie dyktatury, staje się potencjalnością w świecie pożądanym. Jest i trzecia postać wykreowana „po stereotypie”, choć to akurat może się okazać dla wielu teza kontrowersyjna – stroje i stylizacja cielesna katów w Szuflandii przypominają mianowicie „gejów z klubu dla skórzaków”, czy z klubu S/M, powiedzmy – z Cruising Williama Friedkina, co w latach 80. stało się nowym i nierzadko komediowym chwytem- skrótem reprezentacji (nie?)męskości gejowskiej – wystarczy wspomnieć klub Błękitna Ostryga w Akademii Policyjnej (Savran 1998: 213-219). 21

Całkiem sporo jest także wypowiedzi i zachowań krasnoludków, które zdają się sygnalizować, że w ich świecie pewną siłą motoryczną jest sublimowany homoerotyzm, albo raczej napięcie homoerotyczne / homospołeczne. Podałem tezę interpretacyjną zanim wskazałem przykłady, ale tezę tę przyj- dzie mi jeszcze pogłębić. Scena, w której Olo, Kwintek i Kramerko mają przeniknąć do Szuflandii okazała się po latach czytelnie homoerotyczna być może nie tylko dla mnie – dowodem parodys- tyczny amatorski filmik na Youtubie.4 Dwaj bohaterowie rozbierają się do bielizny i nakazują to samo trzeciemu. Istotna jest tu choreografia sceny. Kwintek i Kramerko stają dokładnie naprzeciwko siebie i to bardzo blisko (celowo więc są filmowani z bliskiego planu) i zaczynają się w takiej właśnie pozycji rozbierać po znaczącym skinieniu głową jednego z nich. Kamera zjeżdża na Ola, który patrzy z przerażeniem, a po chwili spuszcza wzrok. Kiedy słyszy rozkaz „rozbieraj się!”, odwraca się do Kwintka i Kramerki (skaczących i skandujących „raz – dwa – trzy – raz – dwa – trzy!”) tyłem. Tu następuje przebitka do kolejnej sceny, która tylko wzmacnia homoerotyczny przekaz: bohaterowie będą sobie wstrzykiwać eliksir pomniejszający strzykawką – tj. robić zastrzyk w pośladek. Kramerko (pokazywany w zbliżeniu na twarz) powtarza „nie lubię, nie lubię” i zaciska pośladki aż igła się wygina, a Kwintek instruuje go „rozluźnij muskułę” (celowa agramatyczność, zmiana rodzaju męskiego „muskuł” na „muskuła” odsyła do bardziej potocznego „rozluźnij dupę”). Wówczas Olo stwierdza: „mam nadzieję, że to jednorazówka, tyle się teraz mówi o AIDS”. Kwintek wbija mu igłę w ramię (zatem są różne muskuły, w które można płyn wstrzyknąć). Strzykawka z igłą kondensuje tu dwa najbardziej zasad- nicze fantazmaty o AIDS w latach 80., narkomanię i seks analny (nie trzeba uruchamiać psychoanalizy, by we wbijaniu igły, osobliwie w tyłek, dostrzec metaforę penetracyjną).5 Kolejne dwie aluzje słowno-

3 Podobnie uważa Tomasz Basiuk (Basiuk 2011: 474-475). Badacz sytuuje Kingsajz jako poboczny kontekst w interpretacji prac fotograficznych Ryszarda Kisiela, twórcy zinu „Filo”, oraz w kontekście akcji „Hiacynt” i „różowych teczek”. 4 Dwóch chłopaków staje naprzeciwko siebie i zaczyna się rozbierać do majtek, po czym zerkają w kamerę i mówią „rozbieraj się!” (Juras715764 2011). Jednak i ten filmik może budzić rozbieżne interpretacje –w recenzji niniejszego artykułu Autor(ka) wskazał(a), że nie odbiera go jako sugerującego homoerotyzm – ja zaś tak odbieram. Nie idzie oczywiście o to, że ktoś ma rację, bo nie idzie o to, że ktoś może mieć rację w tej kwestii. Dla mnie powód zrobienia tego filmiku jest zupełnie nieoczywisty, jeśli przyjąć, że nie sugeruje on homoerotyzmu oryginalnej sceny w Kingsajzie. Z drugiej strony mógłbym kontrargumentować wbrew swojemu odczytaniu a wspierając recenzenckie, że po pierwsze ludzie publikują w YouTube różne materiały bez ambicji zakomunikowania czegokolwiek, a dla tzw. „beki”, a po drugie, sam wskazywałem wyżej kilkanaście wypowiedzi widzów z forum Filmweb, gdzie nikt nie dostrzegał w filmie wątków homoerotycznych. 5 Miejmy też w pamięci ważkie stwierdzenie badaczki queerowej literatury nt. AIDS: „Posiadanie AIDS może nie czyni cię homoseksualnym, natomiast owszem czyniło cię queerowym (...) nie chodzi tylko o to, że AIDS czyni kogoś queerowym, Piotr Sobolczyk

choreograficzne związane są z postacią dyktatora nadszyszkownika Kilkujadka, granego przez Jerzego Stuhra (powie ktoś, że przesadzam, ale może to nieprzypadkowe skojarzenie: „kilkuzadek”). Pierwsza scena, chyba czysto ornamentacyjna, to zatrzaśnięty przez Ola w saunie – czajniku (czyżby aluzja do sekwencji Snu o siedmiu szklankach w Akademii Pana Kleksa, gdzie skądinąd Pan Kleks występuje właśnie w postaci „krasnoludzkiej”?) Kilkujadek. Jego totumfaccy próbują go uwolnić przy pomocy pił, a on krzyczy „rżniesz mnie! rżniesz mnie!”, na co agent: „tak jest!”. Wreszcie scena naj- bliższa może kampowi, w której Kilkujadek i dwóch jego agentów w bieliźnie gonią Ola po łazience. Olowi udaje się wskoczyć na sznurek do spuszczania wody, ścigający go wskakują za nim, Kilkujadek pierwszy. Dyktator sięga ręką w górę, chcąc pochwycić Ola, ale udaje mu się tylko zsunąć jego majtki. 22 Przez kilkanaście sekund widzimy nagi pośladek bohatera, a dyktator wykrzykuje, szarpiąc za majtki: „teraz jesteś mój! mój będziesz, tylko mój!” Jak pamiętamy, dyktator i jego ludzie lądują w wodach (?) klozetu, „gdzie ich miejsce”. Oprócz innych, bardziej oczywistych skojarzeń, uruchomione tu zostaje i takie, w latach 80. dużo częstsze niż obecnie, z „kloaczną homoseksualnością”.

Pora na drobną dawkę klasycznej psychoanalizy. Bruno Bettelheim o krasnoludkach powiada, że „zatrzymały się na zawsze w preedypalnej fazie rozwojowej, nie osiągnąwszy dojrzałego człowie- czeństwa (nie mają one rodziców, ale nie zawierają też małżeństw i nie mają dzieci)” (Bettelheim 1985: 70).6 I dalej:

Nie ma krasnoludków płci żeńskiej. (...) są zawsze i tylko – a więc z istoty swojej – postaciami męskimi, lecz jednocześnie są to postacie zahamowane w rozwoju. (...) przywodzą na myśl skojarzenia falliczne. Na pewno nie są to mężczyźni w seksual.- nym znaczeniu słowa, gdy właściwy im sposób życia, wyłączne zainteresowanie dobrami materialnymi i wykluczenie miłości wskazują na trwanie w stadium preedypalnym (Bettelheim 1985: 86-87).

Uzupełnijmy, że mali bohaterowie Szuflandii nie są zainteresowani dobrami materialnymi, a władzą jako kontrolą i wolnością (dysydenci), ale poza tym wszystko się zgadza. Konflikt władza – wolność Machulski przedstawia właśnie w kategoriach seksualnych. Pamiętna wypowiedź Kilkujadka to po- twierdza: „Ja wam tak szczerze, po krasnoludzku, teraz powiem. Wiecie, co ich tak naprawdę ciągnie do Kingsajzu, bardziej niż te wszystkie szlachetne słowa? Kobitki! Ciurlać się chcą z nimi, o!” Innymi słowy, Kingsajz teoretycznie doprowadza do edypalizacji (ergo seksualizacji) krasnoludków, sprawowanie kontroli zaś polega na utrzymywaniu ich w stadium preedypalnym. Machulski robi tu jednak kilka przewrotek: po pierwsze owo stadium preedypalne nie jest, jak już wskazywałem, tak

ale o skojarzenie tej choroby z tożsamością seksualną i zarazem, jak jest w wypadku AIDS (albo jak AIDS jest wyobrażane), jako zarówno chroniczne i dające się zarządzać” (Pearl 2012: 59). W ustach Ola lęk przed strzykawką / AIDS (i używającymi strzykawki niezedypalizowanymi powiększonymi kransoludkami) oznacza zatem lęk przed zahamowaniem jego edypalizacji wskutek „ukąszenia”, co nadałoby mu – na powrót – i zafiksowało tożsamość „queerową” postrzeganą jako taka w obu światach. 6 Zbieżność daty wydania przekładu tej pracy i powstania Kingsajzu pozwala zasugerować nieśmiało, że Machulski mógł się zainspirować Bettelheimem. Postać Ali (Katarzyna Figura) także wydaje się przepisaną Królewną Śnieżką. Piotr Sobolczyk

całkiem nieerotyczne, jest podszytem homoerotyzmem (homospołecznym) i marzeniem o desubli- macji (idącej w różnych kierunkach). Po drugie różnie z tą edypalizacją. Sam Kilkujadek, często przebywający w Kingsajzie, otoczony jest „kobitkami” (scena pokazu mody), co oczywiście pokazuje niekonsekwencję władzy zakazującej, podobnie jak finał Seksmisji. Zedypalizował się Olo, ma narze- czoną Ewę, choć ciągnie go też do Ali. Ale już Adaś na wolności zajmował się wyłącznie chemią (to znaczy poszukiwaniem eliksiru kingsajzu, a zatem wolnością dla wszystkich). Ale czy jego stosunek do Ola nie jest przesublimowanym homoerotyzmem? Albo w każdym razie pozostaniem w aseksu- alności? Alternatywną drogę wobec edypalizacji wybrała też Bombalina (jeśli założyć, że była krasnoludkiem). Z kolei jeśli zupełnie dosłownie odczytać postaci Kwintka i Kramerki, okazuje się, że na 23 wolności albo wybrali oni nieklasyczny wariant edypalizacji (tj. nakierowany nie na matkę, a na ojca), albo najpewniej jednak zdesublimowali fraternalność krasnoludzką i Kingsajz zmienili w swój pry- watny „pinksajz”.

Co najmniej cztery sceny pokazują na latentnie homoerotyczny charakter kondycji krasnoludzkiej. Dwie z nich stanowią w zasadzie powtórzenie wyznania Ola, brzmiącego zupełnie jak coming out osoby homoseksualnej. Najpierw zostaje on dokonany przed Ewą, a potem przed Alą, ale ta przeła- muje konwencję i sama odgaduje w Olu krasnoludka. Oto jak brzmi ten performatyw:

Olo: Ja ci muszę coś powiedzieć! Ewa: Musisz mi coś powiedzieć? Nareszcie. Olo: Ja jeszcze nikomu o tym nie mówiłem. Ewa: Żadnej kobiecie? Olo: Żadnej. Ale obiecaj, że nie będziesz się śmiać. Ewa: Nie będę. Olo: Ja… Ja… Ja nie wiem jak ci to powiedzieć, ale… Ja jestem… Ja jestem krasnoludkiem. Ewa: To mają być oświadczyny?7

Pisząc o wątkach homoerotycznych w Kajtusiu czarodzieju Janusza Korczaka zwróciłem uwagę na analogiczną formułę „wiedzy / ujawnienia” jako możliwej metafory homoseksualności (czy seksual.- ności nienormatywnej w każdym razie) w dyskursie o „czarodziejach”. Koledzy z klasy nazwali Kajtusia czarodziejem, wiedzieli to przed nim, rozpoznali go; i faktycznie jest czarodziejem, rozpoczyna życie z taką tożsamością. Olo także w pracy zawodowej tj. jako dziennikarz pisze artykuły o krasnoludkach, ale tak jakby jego samego to nie dotyczyło, a pewne informacje przez niego podawane są przez innych traktowane dość paranoidalnie (wymysły albo przejaw choroby psychicznej): tak też brzmiały pierwsze polskie teksty prasowe o homoseksualności (choćby Mariusza Szczygła). Wreszcie dziwna

7 Por. też relację Ola Ewie z wydarzeń wieczoru, gdy musiał ją zostawić w mieszkaniu aby ratować Adasia: „najpierw byłem w hotelu i tam spotkałem jedną panią i poszedłem do niej. Potem poszedłem do pracowni Adasia i tam spotkałem dwóch panów. A na dachu był kot. Więc spadłem na ziemię no i już jestem z powrotem.” Ewa widzi zagrożenie tylko we frazie „spotkałem jedną panią”, ale przecież fraza „spotkałem dwóch panów” jest wobec niej paralelna. Piotr Sobolczyk

scena na bazarze, w której Olo przebrany za Mikołaja (tj. w spódnicy Ewy robiącej za pelerynę) próbuje znaleźć kontakt do utajonych (żyjących w ukryciu) krasnoludków. Chodzi między ludźmi szepcząc „Szuflandia, Szuflandia... szuflada, szuflada...”, na co pewien mężczyzna uderza go, krzycząc „zboczeńcu! zwyrodnialcu ty!”. Po pierwsze więc przynajmniej część ludzi w świecie Kingsajzu identyfikuje „kransoludzkość” ze „zboczeniem” (a więc jeśli nie jakimś fetyszyzmem, to z homo- seksualnością); po drugie, scena ta parodiuje gejowski cruising, tyle że w biały dzień (poszukiwanie „swoich”); po trzecie, „szuflada” nabiera znaczenia „szafa”.8 O znaczeniu tym w latach 80. z pewnością nie wiedziało w Polsce wielu, ale Machulski mógł je poznać na Zachodzie. W późniejszej o dwa lata komedii Co lubią tygrysy? Krzysztofa Nowaka porzucony przez żonę Piotr (Wojciech Pokora) jedzie z 24 kolegą Markiem do Sopotu aby oderwać się od ponurych myśli i zapoznać nowe kobiety; po szeregu nieudanych spotkań w pokoju hotelowym odwiedza go poznana na plaży i wyzywana (m.in. od „parów”) postać mówiąca o sobie w rodzaju żeńskim, ale będąca mężczyzną (w samym filmie nikt się tak do niej nie zwraca, ale w napisach końcowych określona jest jako „Bisex”), o czym Piotr bodaj nie wie – post factum Marek znajduje go zszokowanego zamkniętego w szafie. I sądzę, że owa szafa jest tu „sekretnym kodem” (Sobolczyk 2012).9 Myślę, że metafora szuflada – szafa10 obecna jest też w tekście piosenki słyszanej podczas pokazu mody (wykonanie: Mieczysław Szcześniak, Anna Jurksz- towicz i Majka Jeżowska, tekst Juliusz Machulski, muzyka Krzesimir Dębski): „gdy duszy duszno / w szufladzie ciała / a wokół ciebie tyle łajz / dopóki dusza jeszcze cała / wyłaź z szuflady / wyłaź z szuflady / wyłaź z szuflady / przejdź / Kingsajz to raj / gdzie wszystko naj / to seks, to luz / to utracony raj”. Słyszymy tu echo nie tylko chrześcijańskiej koncepcji „duszy uwięzionej w ciele”, ale też wczes- nodwudziestowiecznych konceptualizacji homoseksualności męskiej (np. Magnusa Hirshfelda) jako „kobiecej duszy uwięzionej w męskim ciele” (Steakley 1997: 142) – czyli kingsajzowej duszy uwięzionej w ciele krasnoludzkim. Krasnoludki wydają się dobrą metaforą homoseksualności, ponieważ ta jest najczęściej niewidoczna, niewyczytywalna z ciała, choć można ją uczynić widoczną. Czyni ją widoczną asystent przy spektaklu modowym, ale już Adaś? (Zakładając na chwilę, że kieruje swe sympatie ku mężczyznom, np. Olowi). Krasnoludzkie ciało jest takie samo w wersji mini i maxi, zmienia się tylko układ proporcji, perspektywa, soczewka. Taki gestalt switch dokonuje się nierzadko również w wypadku bycia świadkiem ujawnienia się osoby homoseksualnej czy transpłciowej („aha, te dziwne zachowania oznaczały to i tamto!”); dlatego możliwe jest odczytanie sceny wyznania Ola Ewie tożsa-

8 Choć możliwe do pomyślenia także jest skojarzenie z aktami służb specjalnych, np. „różowymi teczkami” z Akcji „Hiacynt”, ale ogóle z teczkami i archiwizowaniem donosów jako elementem aparatu kontroli w dyktaturze. 9 Jest to dość polemiczna recenzja książki Gejerel Krzysztofa Tomasika (Tomasik 2012), gdzie autor omawia m.in. motywy LGBT w kinie polskim okresu PRL-u, ale nie wspomina o Co lubią tygrysy i kilku innych filmach, o które się w recenzji upominam. 10 Lingwistycznie jest to oparte na mechanizmie synekdochy (szuflada to część szafy). Gra ta wpisuje się w logikę odkształceń słownych (czy nowomowy wręcz) krasnoludków, którą, jak się zdaje, publiczność pokochała i uznała za kultową. Chodzi o wyrażenia typu „ty smrolu!” – odkształcone „ty śmierdzielu” z kontaminacją „smród” czy „smrodek” i „troll”; „ciurlać się” (z kobitkami) – jak „ciupciać” (nie jestem pewny, ale wydaje mi się, że Machulski wymyślił to słowo, a dopiero później powstało slangowe wyrażenie „ciurlać dropsa” oznaczające seks oralny wykonywany na penisie; podobnie, jak mi się wydaje, polszczyzna potoczna zawdzięcza Kingsajzowi szeroko używany obecnie skrótowiec „spoko”); „w dziuplę kopany” jak „w dupę kopany” (albo wręcz „w dupę j...ny”); „kumotrze” jak „towarzyszu”, ale z pobrzmiewającym echem „łotrze” (łączonym z ”kumem”). Do grupy takich odkształceń należy także powtarzane jako wyraz niepokoju i alarmu „hejkum kejkum” (niczym angielskie „mayday”). Piotr Sobolczyk

mości krasnoludzkiej jako homoseksualnej. Nawet i pozostałe konsekwencje kingsajzowej metafory w jakiejś mierze się zgadzają – krasnoludki, jak wiadomo, aby pozostać w kondycji kingsajzowej, muszą regularnie pić Polo-coctę. Jest to napój autentycznie sprzedawany w PRL-u, ale nadanie mu charakteru mitycznego kojarzy się z mitologizacją Pepsi czy Coca-coli (normatywnie negatywną w intencji władz ludowych, a fetyszystycznie pozytywną w oczach spragnionych konsumentów), co skądinąd zapewne odsyła do socrealistycznych ataków, gdy Coca-colę nazywano stonką ziemnia- czaną w płynie, a także do Pieśni o coca-cola Adama Ważyka, por.: „Po coca-cola błogo, różowo (...) my wam przerwiemy sen coca-cola, / my, co pijemy wodę nadziei”), co można zrozumieć jako stały wysiłek w performowaniu własnego ciała, aby wyglądało na „męskie, heteroseksualne”. 25

Odpowiedź na pytanie, dlaczego Machulski zdecydował się stworzyć tak gęstą, a przeto konsekwen- tną sieć aluzji homoerotycznych, musi być złożona. Po pierwsze emancypacja seksualna jako taka, a totalitaryzm przestawiony jest tu jako represja i tabuizacja seksualności właśnie, jest zasadniczą właściwością czy wartością świata pożądanego, świata, do którego się dąży, czyli, po odrzuceniu alegorii – świata Zachodu. Jeśli ktoś znał nieco świat Zachodu w latach 80. i rozważał kwestie emancypacji seksualności, to nie mógł nie dostrzec emancypacji kobiet, ale też mniejszości seksualnych. Innymi słowy Machulski zdaje się mówić „emancypacja nie podąża tylko wąską edypalną ścieżką” (tj. heteroseksualną), musi być szeroka; „kingsajz dla wszystkich”. Wszystkich. Przesłanie takie, o ile ktoś w latach 80. w Polsce był w stanie je odczytać, musiało się zdawać zupełnie zdumie- wające, ale z pewnością miałoby walor edukacyjny (a nawet i dziś może mieć: dążyliście w walce politycznej do świata wartości Zachodu, to czemu próbowaliście / próbujecie być selektywni w zakresie wartości tego świata akurat związanych z seksualnością). Po drugie być może Machulski dokonuje pewnej autokorekty na planie, by tak rzec, polityki genderowej – korekty w stosunku do Seksmisji. Oczywiście wiem, że w tej chwili myślę achronologicznie i krytyka ze strony feministek polskich i zachodnich, a nie twierdzę, że nieuzasadniona, przyszła później. Kingsajz właściwie mógłby mieć podobnie „konserwatywne” przesłanie jak Seksmisja (w uproszczeniu – klasyczna lękowa fan- tazja męska przed „zębatą waginą”, która wygryzła ze świata mężczyzn, na co najlepszą receptą okazuje się odtworzenie dawnego porządku z tzw. tradycyjnym podziałem płci): źle sublimujące swoje homoerotyczne uczucia kransoludki w świecie Kingsajzu edypalizują się i wiążą z kobietami. Być może część odbiorców tak ten film też odczytuje, ponieważ jedną z zasadniczych osi filmu jest fabuła romansowa (Ola z Alą). Jednak omówione przeze mnie wyżej wątki Adasia, Bombaliny i Kwintka wraz z Kramerką wskazują na to, że heteroedypalizacja nie jest jedyną drogą w świecie pożądanym / świecie pożądania. Być może jednak sam Machulski uznał, że przesłanie Seksmisji nie jest w pełni satysfakcjonujące, czy też domaga się uzupełnienia, a może jakieś doświadczenia zachodnie mu to uświadomiły, choć to rzecz prosta tylko spekulacje. Rzec można, że różnica między tymi dwoma filmami przebiega też według logiki przejścia od płci (gender) ku seksualności. Po trzecie być może Machulski odnosił się jednak nie tylko do wartości świata Zachodu, przedstawianych tak, jakby były one obecne w PRL-u lat 80. (zgodnie z logiką planów, wskazywaną przeze mnie wcześniej), ale też i do polskich doświadczeń z ekspresją homoseksualności. Równolegle z kręceniem Kingsajzu powstał Warszawski Ruch Homoseksualny, pierwsza emancypacyjna organizacja w Polsce, choć jej Piotr Sobolczyk

jeszcze bardziej nieformalne korzenie sięgają wcześniej, a mianowicie SBeckiej Akcji „Hiacynt”, roz- poczętej w 1985 r. (również mogącej mieć wpływ na kreację Szuflandii jako krainy represjonującej seksualność), i współpracy z austriacką organizacją HOSI. Struktura światów czy obiegów w ówczesnej Polsce jest w jakiejś mierze podobna do struktury światów w Kingsajzie. Pierwszy obieg w latach 80. to były publikacje oficjalne, drugi – to Solidarność; trzeci to inicjatywy młodsze i od Solidarności w swym etosie jednak różne, „Brulion”, Pomarańczowa Alternatywa (która przecież wyzyskiwała motyw krasnoludków...), anarchistyczny Ruch Społeczeństwa Alternatywnego w Trójmieście – i do tego obiegu należy przypisać też inicjatywy homoseksualne, w tym trzeciobiegowe pismo „Filo”, fanzin publikowany od 1986 r. w Trójmieście. U Machulskiego: Szuflandia (czyli PRL), PRL jako Kingsajz (czyli 26 niedoskonały Zachód, gdzie jednej strony obywatel w samie wspomni o ORMO, a z drugiej odbywają się szykowne pokazy mody), a finalna scena, tj. dziecko bawiące się miniaturową kolejką pod Pałacem Kultury, ujawnia kolejny poziom świata (tj. być może zwraca uwagę, że PRL-Kingsajz był światem jednak dość fantazmatycznym).

Na zakończenie proponuję zabawę, którą za Sedgwick można by nazwać „a gdyby / a jeśli”. Trzy wesołe krasnoludki Jana Brzechwy i ich przygody w „dużym świecie”. Kwaterko, Kwintek, Olo? Co czytelnik słyszy w takim cytacie? Zatańczyły też komary / Nie do pary i do pary, / Bo gdy dobra jest muzyka, / Komar tańczy i nie bzyka (Brzechwa 1959). Gdy tańczy, chowa strzykawkę?

Bibliografia

Basiuk, Tomasz. 2011. Uwagi na temat projektu „Kisieland” Karola Radziszewskiego. W: (red.) Pijarski K. The Archive As Project / Archiwum jako projekt. Warszawa: Fundacja Archeologii Fotografii, s. 460-481. Bettelheim, Bruno. 1985. Cudowne i pożyteczne. T. 2. Danek, Danuta (tłum.). Warszawa: Państwowy Instytut Wydawniczy. Brzechwa, Jan. 1959. Trzy wesołe krasnoludki. Warszawa: Czytelnik. Butler, Judith. Bodies That Matter. On the Discursive Limits of “Sex”. New York – London: Routledge. Filmweb Forum, http://www.filmweb.pl/Kingsajz/discussion; dostęp: 3 IX 2017. Juras 715764, 2011. Kingsajz Juliusz Machulski 1987. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VS3zIIo9wGg; dostęp: 11 VIII 2017. Kosofsky Sedgwick, Eve. 2012. Wilde, Nietzsche i sentymentalne związki z męskim ciałem. Tłum. Warkocki B. W: Czapliński P., Mizerka A. Kamp. Antologia przekładów. Kraków: Universitas, 503- 524. Machulski, Juliusz, reż. 1987. Kingsajz. Polska, Zespół Filmowy Kadr. Moss, Kevin. 1995. The Underground Closet: Political and Sexual Dissidence in Eastern Europe. W: (red.) Berry, Ellen E. Genders 22. Postcommunism and the Body Politic. New York - London: New York University Press, s. 229-251. Pearl, Monica B. 2012. AIDS Literature and Gay Identity. The Literature of Loss. New York – London: Routledge. Piotr Sobolczyk

Savran, David. 1998. Taking It Like a Man. White Masculinity, Masochism, and Contemporary American Culture. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Sobolczyk, Piotr. 2012. GayRL czy QueeRL? W: „Teksty Drugie” 6, 119-128. Sobolczyk, Piotr. 2017. Gotycyzm – modernistyczny sobowtór odmieńca. Gdańsk: Terytoria Książki. Sobolczyk, Piotr. 2015. Polish Queer Modernism. Franfurt am Mein: Peter Lang Editions. Steakley, James D. 1997. “Per Scienciam Ad Justitiam”. Magnus Hirschfeld and the Sexual Politics of the Innate Homosexuality. W: (red.) Rosario, Vernon A. Science and Homosexualities. New York – London: Routledge, s. 133-154. 27 Tomasik, Krzysztof. 2012. Gejerel. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Krytyki Politycznej.

HEYKUM GAYKUM?

By reinterpreting the Polish cult comedy Kingsajz (Kingsize, 1987), which is generally assumed to be a political allegory, this article argues that the film lends itself to a queer reading, as a statement on so-called regimes of gender. The author analyzes numerous homoerotic allusions in the film, and questions the dominant Polish reception code which privileges political interpretations over other possible readings, and which treats the political and the sexual as mutually exclusive. Keywords: People’s Republic of Poland, film, Juliusz Machulski , homoerotic allusions, camp

Heterycki separatyzm: dziesięć tez o kłirowym archiwum

Stanimir Panayotov Central European University

Poniższy tekst jest poprawioną wersją referatu wygłoszonego podczas konferencji In/visible: The Sexual and Political Regimes of the Archive w ramach panelu “The Queer Location of Culture: Nationalism, History, Sexuality”, Skopje, National Gallery of Macedonia – Chifte Hamam, 25 lutego 2012 r.

Słowa kluczowe: queer, heterycki separatyzm, archiwum

Teza 1: Cała kultura jest archiwum heteroseksualności i tożsamości, bowiem jedno implikuje drugie. Bitwa o pamięć jest bitwą o uznanie tożsamości wykluczającej, a nie wykluczonej. Istotą kultury jest polityczne samookreślenie jednej tożsamości – heteryckiej – kosztem zorganizowanej autodestrukcji wszystkich pozostałych. Odmieńcy istnieją poprzez popęd śmierci, podczas gdy instytucja archiwum istnieje, by go łagodzić.

Teza 2: Ponieważ współczesne społeczeństwo jest rozbite na pojedyncze, kulturowo definiowane tożsamości przez politykę tożsamościowego totalitaryzmu, całe społeczeństwo i jego instytucje – w tym także muzeum – są obozami erotycznie ubarwionego separatyzmu. Sposoby formalizacji pamięci są separatystycznymi strategiami heteryckiego przetrwania. Kłirowe archiwum jest ogromną, ciemną, tanatologiczną i eschatologiczną otchłanią pragnień, której formalizacja nie prowadzi do zreformowania fałszywego uniwersalizmu heteryckiego separatyzmu. Kłirowe wkluczanie jest gettoizacją kwestii różnicy w obrębie biopolitycznych obozów heteryzmu. Należy albo zmienić formy instytucji, albo w ogóle porzucić upamiętnianie.

Teza 3: Forma instytucji, która jest biopolitycznym miejscem wykluczenia, jest również polem bitwy o tożsamość. Jednak bitwa ta toczona jest na gruncie heteryckiego imaginarium i heteryckiego ciała. Kwestia pamięci nie jest kwestią wykluczenia, ale raczej tego, czy my, kłirowi odmieńcy, chcemy zmumifikować się w tożsamość, czyli formę ponadhistorycznego przetrwalnictwa zaprojek- towaną dla mitomańskich heteryków.

Teza 4: Instytucja jest reprodukowaniem (heteryckiej) tożsamości. W tym sensie jest odgrodze- niem się, które komunikuje: „nie ty”. Na tyle, na ile jest to forma heterycka oraz na ile tożsamość jest sformalizowaniem heteryckości, instytucja jest socjokulturowym gettem heteroseksualności. Odczu- wane przez odmieńców pragnienie archiwizowania się i przybrania tożsamości jest odwróconą formą

Stanimir Panayotov heteryckiego sadyzmu. Wtargnięcie do heteryckiego getta nie ma dowodzić ludzkiej uniwersalności, tylko umożliwić dołączenie do łupów partykularyzmu i fałszywej świadomości.

Teza 5: Włączenie odmieńców w instytucjonalne formy nie jest krokiem w kierunku uniwer- salności: jest poddaniem się imperatywowi uznania. Tak jak kwestia jednopłciowych małżeństw dotyczy jedynie prawa do małżeństwa, nie zaś obowiązku, tak jak chcemy stać się częścią skorodo- wanej już historii uniwersalności – małżeństwa, podpartego swą przemocową przeszłością, tak samo objęcie instytucjonalnym patronatem kłirowego archiwum jest jedynie pragnieniem zdywersyfikowa- nia tej samej formy instytucjonalnej opresji, która funkcjonuje już od dawna, czyli getta wykluczeń. 29

Teza 6: Tworzenie (i kłirowanie formy) instytucji jest aktem nihilizmu, samonienawiści i kolejną zmodyfikowaną formą społecznie narzuconej autodestrukcji. Dlatego archiwum kłirowe powinni tworzyć heteryccy separatyści – czyli społeczeństwo zdominowane przez tożsamościowo-faszys- towską formę instytucji; tylko dzięki pozostawieniu tego zadania heterykom możemy nadal cieszyć się naszymi anomicznymi pragnieniami, bowiem każde pragnienie jest anomiczne. Jeśli heteryccy separatyści nie są w stanie stawić czoła swej partykularności i ogłosić jej w ramach represyjnego paradygmatu uznania (który jest jedynym dostępnym im sposobem performatywnego doświadcza- nia dokonywanych wykluczeń), to nie możemy zmienić biegu historii i pamięci.

Teza 7: Kłirowa pamięć i archiwum są immanentne; ucieleśniają immanentną materialność (lub też: komunalno-telepatyczną transmisję historii miłosnych). Odwrotnie niż heterycki separatyzm w formie instytucji ze swoim tożsamościowym faszyzmem, kłirowe archiwum jest praktyką codzien- nego życia. Wykluczone artefakty różnicy seksualnej są wystawione na pokaz w zbiorowych pamię- ciach naszych splątanych ciał, posiadających swoje historie ruchania, miłości, czułości. Nasze wspom- nienia są naszymi muzeami.

Teza 8: Formalizacja upamiętniania i pamięci różnicy seksualnej nie może być nienormatywna. Tym, co łączy wszystkie takie próby, zarówno kłirowe, jak i heteryckie, jest porażka wspólnej uniwer- salności i wspólnego projektu społecznego. Wszystko, na co możemy liczyć, to przekształcenie istnie- jącej inherentnie między nami antyspołeczności w politykę skutecznego nieporozumienia.

Teza 9: Jedynym kłirowym archiwum, jakie możemy stworzyć, nie zaprzedając się fałszywemu uniwersalizmowi ani heteryckiemu separatyzmowi, jest przekroczenie paradygmatu miłości i paradygmatu uznania. Jedynym sposobem zmiany formalizacji pamięci i przeciwdziałania zapomi- naniu jest porzucenie paradygmatu uznania. Zostawmy pamiętanie kłirowo-heteryckim biurokratom.

Teza 10: Tworzenie kłirowego archiwum jedynie obnaża fałszywą świadomość: pseudo- uniwersalnej heteroseksualności i zasymilowanej odmieńczości. Jedyna znacząca zmiana, która jest możliwa do osiągnięcia, to (1) obnażenie zarówno instytucji, jak i tożsamościowego faszyzmu jako składników fałszywej świadomości, a co za tym idzie, (2) włączenie się w proces przepisywania Stanimir Panayotov separatyzmu heteryckiego na kolektywny. W innym wypadku należy zrezygnować ze wszelkich spo- sobów upamiętniania.

Tłumaczenie: InterAlia Tekst oryginalny został opublikowany w czasopiśmie InterAlia nr 11a/2016.

Straight Separatism: Ten Theses on the Queer Archive

This text is a revised version of a paper presented at the conference In/visible: The Sexual and Political Regimes 30 of the Archive, in a panel titled “The Queer Location of Culture: Nationalism, History, Sexuality” (Skopje, National Gallery of Macedonia – Chifte Hamam, 25 February 2012).

Keywords: queer, straight separatism, archive

Can’t Hear or Won’t Hear: Gender, Sexualities and Reporting Male Rape

Aliraza Javaid University of East London

Drawing on heteronormativity and hegemonic masculinity, this paper seeks to unravel the issue of the underreporting of male rape to the police and to the third sector. Critically examining the issue of male sexual victimisation will provide a fuller understanding of it within the police and third sector context. Underpinned by gender theories and concepts and the framework of heteronormativity, I argue that male victims of rape are reticent to engage with the police and voluntary agency practitioners because of hostile, sexist and homophobic reactions, attitudes, and appraisal, particularly from other men in these agencies within England to police masculinities and sexualities. I draw on primary data of police officers and voluntary agency practitioners (n = 70) to illustrate the ways wherein gender and sexualities norms and beliefs affect and shape their understanding and view of men as victims of rape. The data suggests that, when male rape victims report their rape, they are susceptible to a ‘fag discourse’, whereby the police and voluntary agency practitioners are likely to perpetuate language to suggest that the victims are not ‘real’ men, intensifying their reluctance to report and to engage with the criminal justice system. Thus, the police and voluntary agency practitioners’, particularly male workers, masculinities are strengthened through emasculating male rape victims.

Keywords: stigma, heterosexuality, homophobia, heteronormativity, sexism

Introduction

This paper focuses on adult male victims of rape and sexual violence in England. The Sexual Offences Act 2003 strengthened and modernised the law on sexual offences. This Act extends the definition of rape to include the penetration by a penis of the vagina, anus, or mouth of another person. Moreover, I argue that sexual violence is any unwanted sexual act or activity. For example, as my own cultural definition, male sexual assault is a form of sexual violence, in that male sexual assault is an act of psychological, physical, and emotional violation in the form of a sexual act, which is inflicted on a male without his consent by either a man or a woman. It can include manipulating or forcing a male to participate in any sexual act, such as the male or female offender intentionally touching the victim in a sexual way, apart from penetration of the mouth or anus (however slight) with the penis since this would be rape. These definitions of male rape and sexual assault form the conceptual basis for this paper, while also including a broad spectrum of other unwilling sexual acts in the critical discussions within this paper, such as non-consensual object penetration.

Although there is a lack of male rape research in comparison to female rape research, there is even more scarce research on the nature and pattern of the underreporting of male rape using the theoretical frameworks of heteronormativity and hegemonic masculinity. This paper seeks to fill this void. Approximately, according to police statistics, 12,000 men are raped in England and Wales alone every year, but only around 15% of those who experience sexual violence choose to report to the police

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(Ministry of Justice). These figures, however, are likely to be huge underestimates, considering the ‘dark figure’ of crime. In other words, many victims are reticent to come forward to report their rape to the police and to seek support from the third sector, so there is more likely to be many more male rape victims than the figures suggest. Therefore, this paper seeks to explore the issue of the underreporting of male rape to give some level of understanding as to why male rape victims are reluctant to engage with the criminal justice system and the third sector. For this paper, I draw on primary data including police officers and voluntary agency practitioners (n = 70) to illustrate the ways in which gender and sexualities norms and beliefs affect and shape their understanding and view of men as victims of rape, particularly in relation to the underreporting of male rape. This paper will, further- 32 more, attempt to understand male rape discourse through the perspectives of the respondents, which will reveal nuanced understandings in relation to the issue of the underreporting of male rape.

In respect of the structure for this paper, I will first contextualise the issue of the underreporting of male rape, so as to frame the arguments made in this paper. Then, I outline the qualitative study that this paper draws data from; it is here where I give a comprehensive account of the research methods and methodology adopted; a detailed discussion of ethics is also raised given the sensitivity of the topic. After outlining the qualitative study and ethical issues, I outline the findings and discussion section that conveys the data and analysis pertaining to the issue of the underreporting of male rape, using theoretical frameworks, such as heteronormativity, to elucidate and make sense of the findings and the arguments made. Finally, the conclusion briefly sums up the main arguments of the paper, while also offering suggestions for future research and better practice to support male rape victims, encouraging them to engage with the criminal justice system and the third sector should the victims choose to do so. To raise awareness of the issue of underreporting of male rape, I first put it into context so as to set the scene.

Contextualising the Issue of Underreporting of Male Rape: an Overview

For male rape to be recognised in societies, reporting them is important in order to have services available to help male rape victims, which in turn get social recognition of male rape. How the police respond to male rape victims can be critical for how the victims experience the reporting procedure; for instance, whether the victims are treated equitably and fairly. Research studies, though, have found that men are reluctant to report to the police for various reasons. These studies will be critically reviewed to give an understanding why men may be reluctant to report to the officials.

In a study that examined men’s sexual victimisation experiences in the United States, using a nationally representative sample of victim narratives from the National Crime Victimisation Survey, Weiss found that, whilst 30% of female rape victims reported their rape to the police, only 15% of male rape victims reported their rape to the police. Weiss’ study had a much broader definition of sexual assault (including attempted sexual assault and non-penetrative contact offences), and found that women were more likely to experience penetrative sexual assault than men. Hence women’s increased reporting can be attributed to the fact that they are more likely to be severely victimised, Aliraza Javaid

and men’s decreased rates of reporting may be because they did not consider the incident serious enough. Therefore, these low figures of reporting male rape to the police may be attributed to the fact that men may have a much harder time acknowledging or recognising that what has happened to them was actually rape and that it can be reported, especially when sexual assault and rape are generally thought to only happen to females (Temkin; Clark; Apperley). While there are explanations of why women do not report rape, there is a paucity of work on why men are reluctant to report their rape. It is important to unlock the explanations with regards to male rape victims and to examine whether such explanations differ between male and female rape victims. 33 Females are usually reluctant to report their alleged rape to the police for a multitude of reasons, such as police distrust, embarrassment, and fear of retaliation (Lees, Carnal Knowledge). A female victim delaying reporting a rape is often interpreted as questionable by the police; the police assume that the first thing a female rape victim would do is to contact the police (Kelly, Research Review). Female rape victims’ trust and belief in men is seriously undermined due to them being raped by a man (Kelly, Surviving), which may make them reluctant to report to male police officers. Female rape victims usually describe themselves as ‘feeling all over the place’ as they struggle to comprehend and move on from the rape (Kelly). In addition, the drunkenness of the female rape victim was noted as a factor in nearly half of the cases (46%) and has been identified as contributing towards police scepticism (Kelly, Surviving). It is also found that women are more likely to excuse their male partner’s violent behaviour when their partner is intoxicated (Javaid, “Role”), which may make them reluctant to come forward to report or seek help.

Men hesitating to report may be feeling shame for not being able to preserve and fulfil their expected stereotypical gender role (Lees, Ruling Passions; Abdullah-Khan; Weiss). From recent research evidence (Rumney, “Gay Male Rape Victims”), it is argued that homophobia determines the way in which others, including the police, respond to or serve male rape victims. For example, Rumney (“Gay Male Rape Victims” 244) sought to explain why homophobia occurs in male rape discourse. He says:

A further issue is why homophobic attitudes arise in the context of male rape. One of the reasons may be the equation of men being anally penetrable with being gay and therefore less masculine…The association of anal intercourse with homosexuality can also be linked to attitudes that blame gay male rape victims for their own victimisation…This linkage also reinforces the assumption that, by being anally penetrable (and therefore less masculine), male rape victims must be gay.

One of the key recommendations highlighted by an Inspectorate Report is that the police need to focus on tangible evidence rather than the victims’ credibility (HMCPSI and HMIC). Evidently, however, the above results demonstrate insensitive social and victim-blaming attitudes, homophobia, and ignorance concerning male victims of sexual assault and rape. Despite such negative social attitudes, male rape victims are more likely to search for medical assistance (and, as a result, be Aliraza Javaid

referred to the police) if their rape resulted in grave wounding (Kaufman et al.). In this 25-year-old American study, it was also argued that male rape is more serious than female rape in terms of the effects of rape since it may involve greater threats of violence, with or without actual violence, the involvement of multiple offenders, and possible use of weapons. Elsewhere, it has been argued that weapons are rarely used, due to the male victim being raped whilst already vulnerable; for example, he was asleep or incapacitated through drugs or alcohol (Jamel). Kaufman et al. argue that male rape victims are more likely to have been held captive for longer and to resort to denial than female rape victims. Such conclusions on male rape may segregate and relegate female rape and could result in female rape victims’ voices being disregarded. It is important that both male rape and female rape 34 are equally and sufficiently addressed (Cohen).

Kaufman et al. hypothesise that, if there is no grave wounding from the rape, the male victim is more likely to disbelieve that they were raped and, therefore, neither look for help nor report to the police. This evidence seems to indicate that male rape is seemingly, then, a crime of acute violence and such violence must be present. Put differently, it is necessary to show considerable injury otherwise victim- hood may become dubious. It could be argued that this serves only to bolster male rape myths as opposed to eradicating them, reducing harm involved.

Kaufman et al.’s findings are premised on a low sample size of male rape victims (n=14), and, therefore, the results cannot be generalised to all male rape victims. Their findings also suggest that most male rape is stranger rape, a rape wherein the victim does not know the attacker. Other research has shown that acquaintance rape and date rape, which are both types of rape that involve people who are familiar with or know each other, are more common than stranger rape (Walker et al.; Lundrigan and Mueller-Johnson). Jamel found that some male rape victims are raped indoors by strangers, which contradicts both these research studies that found that males raped indoors knew the offenders. It is clear that research in this area is inconsistent.

It could be argued that Kaufman et al.’s findings may keep society misinformed, conveying an extremely distorted view of the incidence, prevalence and nature of male rape. This could be dele- terious for how the police deal with male rape victims since they may uncritically and simplistically believe such findings. The potential consequence of this type of study may inhibit male rape victims from coming forward. It could be suggested from this analysis that, although Kaufman et al. aim to raise awareness of male rape so service provisions can increase for male rape victims, the result of their style of argument may further stigmatise male rape victims as ‘less important’. Moreover, Kaufman’s research contradicts the findings presented in Jamel’s study, in which she argues that the public sees male rape as an anomaly, whereas female rape is seen as ‘more important’ than male rape and it has become normalised by comparison to male rape. Female rape is thus seen to be ‘normal’ and women expect it to happen, while men do not see the possibility that rape can happen to them; further research is needed in this area. Aliraza Javaid

Another physiological reason for male rape victims not disclosing rape to the police is provided by Kassing, Beesley, and Frey. These authors discuss that it is a common misconception that, if men ejaculate or have erections when being raped, they must have somehow consented. Getting an erection and ejaculating are involuntary physiological reactions to male rape (Sarrel and Masters). Additionally, as Mezey and King argue, extreme terror, anger, and anxiety can also stimulate an erection in a man. Groth and Burgess support this, arguing that male rape victims often have an erection while they are being raped, and their offenders may even get their victims to ejaculate because, for them, it personifies their power and control over their victim’s body. The danger of being seen as a homosexual or public humiliation may force the victim to remain silent. It should be noted 35 that Groth and Burgess’s study was based on a very small sample. The data was gained from 22 subjects (16 male rape offenders; 6 male rape victims), a small subset of a larger population of victims and offenders, which thus requires interpretation with caution since the results cannot be generalised. It could be suggested that this low sample size is expected, considering that male rape victims may be reluctant to report their crime. It is safe to argue that a man’s physiological response to male rape is neither an indication of consent nor enjoyment. The physiological conception may draw in blaming attitudes from state and voluntary agencies, thus, increasing male rape victims’ trauma, as evidenced in 80% of respondents (Walker et al.).

Walker et al. also highlight the issue of victim blaming. Male rape victims are sometimes blamed for their rape (Sleath and Bull), as are female rape victims (Clark), which premises itself on scepticism because of male rape myths that endorse ideas that male rape victims deserved it, wanted it or precipitated their own rape, contributing to keeping male rape a taboo and hidden (Abdullah-Khan; Javaid “Male Rape in Law” and Male Rape, Masculinities).

It has been argued that rape can undermine a female rape victim’s sense of female identity and womanhood and, similarly, frequently causes male rape victims to question their masculinity and sexuality (Clark). The offender’s power and masculinity are enhanced when the offender forces the male rape victim to perform oral sex on the offender, in turn, arguably, subjugating, subordinating and emasculating the victim (Abdullah-Khan). These authors theorising male rape as a crime of power do not go far enough, as they focus more on the offender, leaving underexplored the question of how male rape affects victims and their identity. It is noted, however, that there are several common themes across these studies: changes to sex offences legislation; funding to voluntary agencies being reduced (see Javaid, “Male Rape, Stereotypes”), b); lack of services for, and recognition of male rape victims; poor medical response to male rape victims; and underreporting of male rape.

The additional ideas that sexual assault and rape occur only to females or that ‘real’ men cannot be raped further induce men’s risk of stigma, embarrassment, and shame; this may make male rape victims reluctant to report to the police (Davies; Javaid, “Male Rape: Unseen World” and “Police Responses”). This stigma is partly the manifestation of societies’ reluctance to come to terms with, to confront, and to comprehend the issue of male rape (Clark). This may be attributed to the fact that Aliraza Javaid

men, unlike women, are expected to be strong, powerful, invulnerable, macho, unemotional, violent, and capable of protecting themselves (Javaid, “Feminism,” “Dark Side,” and “Male Rape Myths”). Men may be too ashamed to confess that they have been emasculated or ‘stripped’ of their masculinity (Weiss; Clark), so they may not seek support. Lees, in her research of 85 victims and 81 police reports of male rape, further verifies this: “The act of coercive buggery can be seen as a means of taking away manhood, of emasculating other men and thereby enhancing one’s [the rapist’s] own power” (Lees, Ruling Passions 106). The presumption that male rape victims are homosexual can be argued to be a male rape myth that is inimical because it can make men reluctant to report to the police and add to men’s shame of being raped (Rumney, “Policing”). Heterosexual male rape victims might fear being 36 seen as homosexual if they report the crime, whereas homosexual male rape victims who are not ‘out of the closet’ might fear having their sexual orientation revealed or may not be taken seriously (Abdullah-Khan). There is research that argues that negative reactions may be a salient issue regarding male victims of rape who are gay or who are presumed to be gay. These gay male rape victims seem to have their sexual victimisation taken less seriously. For instance, Banbury cites the experience of one male victim within a British study of prison sexual violence:

When I tried to report [a sexual assault], one of the [prison] officers laughed and just said “come on mate, you’re gay, hows [sic] that gonna sound?” I had basically been told to forget the incident because I was gay and hence ‘I wanted it’ and the incident was not reported (126).

Similarly, gay and bisexual male rape victims may experience homophobic attitudes or stereotypes from the police that imply that the victims got pleasure from the rape, ‘wanted it,’ or lied about their rape (Kassing et al.). This suggests that gay and bisexual male rape victims may not be taken seriously and their rape being made unimportant by the police. It is clear, then, that current empirical work needs to be conducted to explore this area further to add to our understanding of male sexual victimisation in contemporary society.

The Qualitative Study

The research on which this paper is based was concerned to explore how notions of gender, sexualities and masculinities affect and shape police officers and voluntary agency practitioners’ understandings of male rape and views of men as victims of rape. It was also concerned to explore the different roles that gender, sexualities and masculinities play in the discourse of underreporting of male sexual victimisation. Essentially, the study was concerned with understanding the underreporting of male rape with the use of heteronormativity and hegemonic masculinity as theoretical frameworks. As a result, I was able to explore the formation and enactment of masculine and heterosexual identities and practices in relation to the ways in which male rape is policed and responded to. The study employed qualitative interviewing with a sample of 25 police officers, male rape counsellors, therapists and voluntary agency caseworkers, who live in England, and it also employed 45 qualitative questionnaires with individuals of the same occupation. Those who were Aliraza Javaid

interviewed did not also fill out a questionnaire. A University Research Ethics Review Board granted ethical approval for this empirical research, which adopted a qualitative approach. There was a commitment to seek to comprehend the views of those being researched, and there were also only small numbers of state and voluntary agency workers who have dealt with or deal with male rape victims, so there were not many of these workers available to take part in the research. Therefore, this made the collection of quantitative data problematic. A qualitative approach, consequently, was seen to be appropriate for this research. I am adopting a qualitative approach because it can be used to carefully examine and help one to understand several areas regarding the constructions and reconstructions of male rape in state and voluntary agencies, which cannot be easily quantified. 37 Qualitative research is more likely to take place in a natural setting (Bryman), which was fitting for me since I researched the participants in their natural work setting where they deal with male rape victims. A qualitative approach is ideal for me also due to the aims and purposes of this research seeking to gain rich, detailed and contextual data, which a qualitative research approach usefully accommodates.

Using various and multiple questions within the two research methods increased the theoretical value of this research, revealing issues and conceptions relating to male rape that the use of one research method alone may have overlooked. Arguably, the quality of such meaning cannot be gained with a quantitative approach. Each set of data could be examined and used to interpret the other by getting data from the two different research methods. This was important to do when there were some incomplete answers or unanswered questions. Indeed, in some of the questionnaires, some questions were partially filled out or completely ignored, so the semi-structured interviews helped to supplement such questions. This was also true for when some interview questions were partially answered; the questionnaires helped to supplement, or add to the interview questions that the participants partly answered.

I adopted an inductive method in the current research. Inductive work is theory generating, not theory driven, and so this work premised itself on theory being generated from the semi-structured interviews and from the qualitative questionnaires used in the current research. Bryman comments that it is important to utilise data collection methods that are sensitive to the social setting wherein data are generated and are flexible for the social researcher in order to inductively get a comprehension of the research topic one is researching. I felt it was appropriate and necessary to use an inductive approach because the current research is qualitative, and also because I interviewed police officers, male rape therapists, counsellors and case workers, recording what they said, who all intimately provide services for male rape victims. Some of my participants also filled out qualitative questionnaires that included open-ended questions, which gave the participants an opportunity to write their answers in detail. An inductive approach, therefore, enabled me to generate theory from my research data after I carried out primary research. With the use of both interviews and qualitative

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questionnaires, I was able to get a comprehension of how my participants interact with male rape victims, how they understand the conception of male rape, and how their understandings were formed.

I employed purposive and snowball sampling methods because they were the most appropriate sampling methods to purposively select state and voluntary agencies that deal with male rape cases, and that then accordingly gave information required to locate other state and voluntary agencies who have had experience of dealing with male rape cases or are dealing with such cases. This means that I selected specific people working in state and voluntary agencies because I believed they would 38 provide me with the most appropriate information, since they work very closely with male rape victims on a one-to-one basis. These participants are solely dedicated to investigating cases of male rape and adult male sexual assault. They take initial and full statements, act as a liaison and support for male rape victims throughout the remainder of the legal procedure, and arrange forensic examinations for the victims. A random selection, therefore, would be inappropriate. It is also impossible to formulate a random sample of state and voluntary agencies that deal with male rape because the population is not only difficult to reach, but also there are not many agencies that deal with male rape in England. Therefore, the sample size for this research is low (n = 70; this study draws on 25 interviews and 45 qualitative questionnaires), but it should be noted that the aim of this research is to explore the specific, nuanced and detailed experiences of the participants who handle male rape victims, to formulate a thorough understanding of their attitudes toward, and responses to such victims.

The sample, as such, gives a useful indication of how male rape cases are handled, and it sheds light on the nature and impact of male rape. Given that there are not many voluntary agencies available that provide specific support for male rape victims, it is necessary to conceal the actual names of the voluntary services that were researched in this study. It was also considered appropriate to mask the names of the police forces because the rape departments in each police force are small and most of the police forces that were researched preferred to have the name of their police force concealed. This was also true for the voluntary agencies that were researched.

Prior to commencing the research, I already had access to a particular state agency in the North East, having already worked with them and published research on their organisation. As a result, this police force acted as a ‘gatekeeper’ for this research and introduced me to other police services and voluntary agencies that were interested in participating in my research. This process allowed for less skepticism and more enthusiasm to partake in the research. The initial point of contact, therefore, was with this particular police force in the North East. After having researched this police force, it was hoped that they would get me access to other police forces and voluntary agencies in England. This developed into a snowball sampling strategy, whereby they would pass on my details on to other state and voluntary agencies that they have connections with. I also had connections with several academics specialising in police studies, so they also acted as ‘gatekeepers’, facilitating access to Aliraza Javaid

several police forces in England. Moreover, a voluntary agency that was researched first was one based in the North East and acted as a ‘gatekeeper’ to facilitate access to other voluntary agencies that they have connections with. In addition, before commencing fieldwork, I had connections with academics specialising in voluntary agencies, so such academics also acted as ‘gatekeepers’ to facilitate access to other voluntary agencies. Despite this recruitment strategy, I also approached the state and voluntary agencies myself through email, describing my research and the benefits of participating to help increase my sample size.

I approached 13 police forces and 10 voluntary agencies in England. Ultimately, 5 police forces and 39 4 voluntary service provisions participated in the research. In respect of how many police forces and voluntary agencies declined to take part in this study, 8 police forces and 6 voluntary agencies refused. For the interviews, 15 police officers and 10 practitioners from voluntary agencies took part. For the questionnaires, 38 police officers and 7 practitioners from voluntary agencies filled out, com- pleted and returned them.

The research participants are diverse in regards to amount of experience handling male rape cases, educational level, ethnic background and training of rape cases. The type of participants include the following: specialist police officers (4); police detectives (4); police constables (34); police sergeants (9); police response officers (2); male rape counsellors (7); male rape therapists (3); and voluntary agency caseworkers (7). Due to the lack of male rape counsellors, therapists, and caseworkers who deal with male rape victims across England, this made it difficult to get an equal representation across various stakeholder groups. The gender of the participants comprises of 33 males and 37 females. The sample is predominately white and most of the participants are under 40 years of age and are mostly from highly educated and middle-class backgrounds. The respondents provide services for many male rape victims, although they often serve more female rape victims due to the higher number of female rape victims who come forward. On average, the respondents have had around 7 years of experience of working with male rape victims and male victims of sexual assault; most of their clients are middle-class men. Some of my participants had no training on male rape and sexual assault against men, but most had training on female rape and sexual assault against women.

The qualitative findings were transcribed and reviewed by the researcher. I drew on thematic analysis. Thematic analysis requires the researcher to recognise themes or patterns appearing out of qualitative data. There was a concern to recognise differences and commonalities in the views and experiences of the participants. The researcher followed thematic analysis with thematic coding where codes/labels were placed onto segments of the data that looked important. Each transcript was read and reread by the researcher while noting down some initial codes and labels on the transcripts before transcripts were imported into the data analysis software NVIVO 10 for final coding. A stage of coding involved the analysis of sentences and words for common themes, concepts, and patterns across the data set. Analysing the data focused around organising the dissimilar concepts, conceptions and themes that developed from the data, not just on putting masses of data into order. Aliraza Javaid

Researching a Sensitive Topic and Risk Analysis

It is essential to examine the nature of sensitive topics, such as male rape, that make it significant for researchers to carefully formulate a viable research strategy. It is significant to understand that the topic of male rape is an emotionally charged and sensitive area of research. Therefore, it was difficult, at times, to recruit participants who were willing to talk about the issue of male rape, considering that feelings of awkwardness, embarrassment, and discomfort that many people may feel when disclosing information on male rape. Many of the participants in this present study could have felt distressed, due to remembering and recalling male rape cases that they had worked on and found 40 particularly harrowing. The idea of being ‘studied’, also, could have resulted in the participants feeling that they are just ‘being used’ for information. Thus, the psychological and emotional state of the participants remained paramount to the research project, and always ensuring that they were first priority in the research. To achieve this, an informed consent form and an information sheet detailing my research were provided to all participants, in order to ensure that they were sufficiently aware of potential distress and were able to accurately predict their level of anticipated distress to make an informed decision to partake. In order to get informed consent from the participants, I ensured that the following bullet points were highlighted to my participants, and it was hoped that, by following this procedure, the participants would be more likely to give their informed consent voluntarily to participate in the research:

• The purpose of my research (e.g., to understand more about male rape) was clearly and succinctly outlined; • How long my participants’ participation would last in the research (after ethical approval, fieldwork ended on December 26th, 2015); • The procedures and practicalities of the research were made clear, highlighting that they can drop out of the research anytime they like; • I had asked my research participants for their consent to audio-record the interviews and to allow me to use the recordings once installed on to my laptop, and refer it over to the participants if they would like a copy of their recording; • The benefits and risks of participating in this research were stressed; • How the data will be used and managed, and how long it will be kept (I asked my participants if it would be acceptable to keep the data indefinitely, so that I can, for example, publish the findings in journal articles and a book) were notified to the participants; • I ensured to the participants that the information they choose to impart would be completely anonymous in the written publications and their information would be kept confidential. In the findings section, I utilise the gender of the participant (male or female), their occupation, and a specific number. This approach perpetuates confidentiality and enables readers to track certain respondents all through the paper in addition to attribute several quotes to the same respondent.

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Indeed, I ensured that confidentiality and anonymity were given to the research participants, which hopefully encouraged them to trust me with the knowledge they gave, possibly increasing the validity of the answers. Therefore, any information that could have possibly identified the participants was removed or reduced, so the participants were not identifiable. Because the data is kept anonymous in this research, it was hoped that this helped to alleviate any worries that the participants may have had. In the interviews, I used a voice recorder; and the data from the voice recorder was transferred on to my laptop that had a password, so nobody else could get access to it. The participants’ professional contact details were kept and stored in my laptop but were not kept in the same file as the transcripts, in order to preserve complete anonymity. This was important to do in case my laptop 41 got hacked into or stolen. Moreover, any written (hard copies) documents regarding the participants’ views were kept locked in a storage at my home, which was accessible with a key that only I had.

Despite comprehensively and carefully considering the various forms of risk that my participants could have encountered, my safety and psychological and emotional state were also important and needed to be carefully considered, too. Therefore, I ensured to carry out the interviews in a place where other people were present, such as the participants’ workplace. This was their organisation, such as a state or voluntary agency, where there were other people experienced in dealing with crime who could be called on for help if necessary. It was, in addition, important to inform a family member of my whereabouts whenever I was conducting fieldwork. By doing so, it made sure that my immediate family member could ‘check up on me’ in case I did not arrive home at a certain time after doing fieldwork, seeking help if necessary.

Moreover, there was the notion of ‘going native’, which means identifying too closely with the group one is researching. For example, I could have become too immersed into the occupational culture that I was researching when conducting the fieldwork. I was aware that my access to the participants was in flux, and at the mercy of forces that was often beyond my control, considering that some participants were conveying ‘mixed signals’ in respect of participating. Thus, I needed to ensure that I executed a detached and objective view to prevent unleashing my personal opinions, not only to prevent immersion, but also to become aware of my status as a professional researcher. A sense of alienation occurred when switching in and out of the field, which caused me some discomfort and distress. Nevertheless, before I carried out the fieldwork, I did literature searches that helped me to identity any potential threats and conundrums that I could have experienced in a particular field. Bryman argues that sensitive research inevitably includes some cost, either in terms of inconvenience, time, or finance. Throughout the research process, I was financially constricted, which made it difficult at times to get to the places in which fieldwork was conducted. Holding down a part-time job, therefore, was necessary for me to financially support myself throughout the research project. Finding the balance of conducting research and part-time teaching to financially support the research project proved very difficult at times, in that the social aspect of my life drastically deteriorated.

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A further issue to consider is the effect that the publishing of my research may have on my participants’ credibility. This is especially important in relation to my participants who may hold ideas about other people in society that are inflammatory or potentially dangerous. In these cases, I need to be prepared to justify my position and to explain the utility of my work to the development of knowledge on such groups, but, at the same time, this may put me in risk of being accused of mis- representing the people who I was researching. To prevent this from happening, I ensured that I provided the finished transcripts for those participants who asked to see them, and, where possible, gave them an opportunity to amend the transcripts. The participants did not request their transcripts to be amended. The participants were also offered the opportunity, where appropriate, to see the 42 results of the research. My participants generally believed that male rape victims face strong pre- judice and were, therefore, more inclined to participate to help raise awareness of male rape and to help tackle the myths, shame and stigma attached to the issue of male rape. Rumney (“Gay Male Rape Victims”) argues that male rape myths, such as male rape is solely a homosexual issue, and victims of male rape ‘asked for it’ by frequenting gay venues or by not showing physical resistance are, thus, blame-worthy, are all-important considerations when doing sensitive research. I felt, though, that male rape myths and the very nature of male rape being a taboo (Clark) could potentially contribute to the reluctance of people to take part in my research. Therefore, I made it essential to make sure that the research was carefully worded in a sensitive fashion when I sent the letter of introduction to potential participants and the letter of request to organisations that could facilitate my research. In the next section, I outline how notions of gender and sexualities affect and shape the participants’ understandings of male rape and their views of men as victims of rape regarding the (under)reporting of male rape.

Heteronormativity and Reporting Male Rape

This section critically details the issue of underreporting of male rape. From the findings, it was found that state and voluntary agencies believe that many male victims of rape are reluctant to report and to engage with the criminal justice system and the third sector. Reasons for this reluctance are to do with issues around gender and sexualities, which affect and shape the ways in which state and voluntary agencies perceive, respond to, and deal with male rape victims. For instance:

[W]e’ve had experience of men, who on the face of it, being married, have children, the stereotypical two plus two family, but actually, frequent the gay scene, and can become victims, so they won’t report because the effect it will have on their life basically. They could get caught or whatever you wanna call it, so there’s definitely an element of that, which is difficult to over come really from a police’s point of view…. They think they are going to get a poor response from the police. Historically, if you think back over years and years, the police, historically didn’t really deal with that type of offence very well….They have to go through the whole scenario again in court and that can be traumatic in itself…so it’s a difficult one really for a lot of people if they are not strong to go through that process. I can understand why they Aliraza Javaid

don’t report....I’m not sure how we are gonna overcome the reporting issue (Specialist Police Officer 1, Male; emphasis added).

[I]f we are talking about certain people who are maybe sexually haven’t ‘come out’, and maybe then put themselves in the situation where male rape occurs. And that’s maybe why there is underreporting as well (Police Constable 3, Male).

These passages suggest that some male rape victims will not report to the local authorities because they could ‘out’ them. The first respondent’s understanding and view of male rape is that, to conceal 43 their clandestine sexual activity with homosexual men, ‘straight’ men will not disclose their sexual abuse to keep their heterosexual relationship intact, preventing their heterosexuality from being questioned, as they “think they are going to get a poor response from the police.” This respondent has pointed out that the police have not taken the issue of male rape seriously, though he makes it unclear as to what changes have been made in the police to date to reduce male rape victims’ trauma and to encourage male rape victims to come forward to report. This type of victim population, whereby ‘straight’ men sexually engage with other men and becoming ‘hard-to-reach’ victims is arguably due to heteronormativity. It hinders their engagement with the police, third sector, and societies because of “the idea that women and men are ‘made for each other’” (Jackson 29), so making it difficult and problematic to disclose their male on male rape; in other words, their penile- anal penetration with other men. Plummer’s concept of ‘telling sexual stories’ is useful to understand ‘straight’ men’s reluctance to admit being raped. He says the following:

The story telling process flows through social acts of domination, hierarchy, margi- nalisation and inequality. Some voices—who claim to dominate, who top the hierarchy, who claim the centre, who possess resources—are not only heard much more readily than others, but also are capable of framing the questions, setting the agendas, establishing the rhetorics much more readily than the others (Telling 30; emphasis added).

It can be argued that ‘straight’ men, who have been raped and are in a heterosexual relationship, may find it difficult to report their sexual victimisation for fear of losing control and of losing their place in the gender hierarchy. Because they may fear their heterosexual identity will be tarnished and their heterosexual relationship will ‘fall apart’ if they report their rape to the police, which adds to their shame, they may at the same time draw in sexist reactions, responses, or appraisals from others including the police. Plummer (Telling) demonstrates that issues around gender and sexuality shape how particular ‘sexual stories’ are told or, in some cases, prevent certain stories from being told. Remaining silent enables them to maintain their heterosexual identity and relationship, while exercising their desire and homosexual practices at other times in a clandestine fashion. A heterosexual affiliation and identity are important for these men because, as Jackson maintains, heterosexuality is defined as ‘natural’ and ‘normal’, the ‘only “normal” and legitimate form of sexuality’ (17). Aliraza Javaid

This suggests that other sexualities, such as bisexuality and homosexuality, are “abnormal.” As she further argues, ‘While heterosexual desires, practices, and relations are socially defined as ‘normal’ and normative, serving to marginalize other sexualities as abnormal and deviant, the coercive power of compulsory heterosexuality derives from its institutionalisation as more than merely a sexual relation” (17). Male rape victims dissociating from a homosexual identity, affiliation, or relationship by concealing their rape allows them to avoid or prevent homophobic or sexist reactions, responses, or appraisals from others, including the state and third sectors. It also allows them to avoid getting “a poor response from the police” (Specialist Police Officer 1, Male). As heterosexuality is institutionalised across all institutions (Jackson; Acker; Pascoe, “Guys”), from police forces, the state, and 44 the law to voluntary service provisions, it can be argued that male rape victims deviating from heterosexual normalcy are unlikely to engage with state and third sectors and vice versa. Hetero- normativity, then, serves to worsen this underreporting of male rape to the police and to the third sector.

Stigma and Reporting Male Rape

Another related finding emerged in relation to the notion of stigma and reporting male rape. For example:

The issue is is the barriers for the victim of coming forward and reporting [male rape]…there isn’t the confidence in victims to come forward and report…because of the stereotypes and the stigmas that they perceive…that are there from the police (Specialist Police Officer 3, Female).

[T]here are many male rape victims who are reluctant to report for many reasons, mainly because of the stigma attached to male rape [and] that they will not be believed (Specialist Police Officer 2, Female).

There [are] issues of shame, so young lad[s] might be unlikely to report much less so than a female who is raped. There doesn’t seem to be the same stigma attached to a woman…I think there is definitely a lot of taboo and stigma around, and a lack of understanding on the issue of male rape…If a woman reported rape, ‘you sure you didn’t say yes?’, ‘You sure you didn’t consent?’ So, I think there are still kind of reminiscence of that within this idea of male rape…law enforcement almost use that as a ‘stick to beat the victim with’…so that their whole credibility is undermined,

and so they are made to feel more of an offender than a victim. But unfortunately, I think that that sometimes does happen (Police Detective 1, Female; emphasis added).

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I think it would be helpful if the victims didn’t seek any help at all (Male Rape Counsellor 3, Female).

[T]he fact that people don’t go to report [male rape]…I think that is instinctive in men anyway. It’s a bit like men not bothering to go to the doctors in the same way. Men don’t like to make a fuss and that. They think that they are strong enough to be able to just cope with it and get on with it and not report it and/or, if they start to report it, and they feel they are not getting a positive reaction or they are not being believed, they’ll shut down (Voluntary Agency Caseworker 3, Male). 45

Macho males are less likely maybe to come forward, as they’ll see it as a sign of weakness. Maybe they’ll think the person who reports it will be humiliated….People who can’t look after themselves at night time (Specialist Police Officer 4, Male).

There is a pressure that many report feeling…that they should be strong (not show emotion) and not talk about it because the assault makes them look weak (Male Rape Counsellor 7, Female).

These excerpts highlight the issue of stigma, whereby the topic of male rape is embedded in stigma and seen as a taboo, and so the victims often face stigma in a social sphere. Specialist Police Officer 3 (Female) raised the issue that the police stigmatise male rape victims, arguably based on stereotypes embedded in police agencies. Stereotypes of men may, indeed, generate such stigma for these victims. As a result of their stigma, the victims are reluctant to report and to engage with the police. This reluctance is not only due to the potential stigma that the victims may suffer from the police and potentially the third sector, but also due to beliefs that the police will undermine their credibility, making them “feel more of an offender than a victim” (Police Detective 1, Female) due to stigma undermining their credibility as victims, which in turn may bring about disbelieving attitudes. Male Rape Counsellor 3 (Female) says that, “it would be helpful if the victims didn’t seek any help at all”, perhaps to prevent or avoid the stigma that state and voluntary agencies may generate for the victims as gender and other inequalities are highly legitimated and perpetuated in these agencies where discrimination is pervasive (Acker). Simultaneously, stigma may affect or challenge men’s masculinity, highlighting their weakness. Goffman argues that a stigmatised person is a “blemished person, ritually polluted, to be avoided, especially in public places” (1), and he goes on to say that:

While the stranger is present before us, evidence can arise of his possessing an attribute that makes him different from others in the category of persons available for him to be, and of a less desirable kind – in the extreme, a person who is quite thoroughly bad, or dangerous, or weak. He is thus reduced in our minds from a Aliraza Javaid

whole and usual person to a tainted, discounted one. Such an attribute is a stigma, especially when its discrediting effect is very extensive; some-times it is also called a failing, a shortcoming, a handicap (11; emphasis added).

This suggests that, by male victims reporting their rape, they are revealing their vulnerability and powerlessness that could in turn induce stigma, generated by those who are not weak and have power, authority and control: police officers. Goffman demonstrates that men, who do not embody hegemonic masculinity, showing signs of weakness, are stigmatised as ‘inferior’ and are deeply dis- credited. This inferiority may propel many victims to remain silent. Because stigma is so powerful, the 46 stigmatised individual can metaphorically and symbolically transpose his stigma onto anyone who associates with him (Goffman). This suggests that, when stigmatised male rape victims report to the police or seek help, their stigma may metaphorically and symbolically transpose onto police officers and onto practitioners working in the third sector, which in turn may bring about reluctance amongst the ‘professionals’ to engage with the victims, attempting to prevent or avoid the stigma being transposed and metaphorically ‘infecting’ them. It appears that the police are unlikely to take the issue of male rape seriously by stigmatising the victims. It also seems that the police can generate the victims’ shame, humiliation, embarrassment and guilt, which may discourage these victims to report or to seek help, or may propel them to drop out of the criminal justice process. As Gregory and Lees (113) note, stigma “appeared to be one reason few of the victims considered reporting to the police to be a serious option.” Similarly, Weiss argues that:

For men, the potential of skepticism may be even greater because of social definitions of sexual violence and ideals of masculinity that deny that real men can be raped. After all, when men report sexual victimization, they are publicly admitting that they were not interested in sex, were unable to control situations, and were not able to take care of matters themselves—all statements that run counter to hegemonic constructs of masculinity. It is not surprising that few men appear to be willing to risk negative scrutiny and potential ridicule (293).

If a man discloses rape to whomever, he is publically admitting that he did not want sex. This public confession runs counter to hegemonic constructs of masculinity. Once a victim confesses that he was raped, he is susceptible to a public discourse of hate, disgust, distain and antagonism, all of which can easily be directed towards the victim. What gradually and increasingly unfold, then, are stigma, skepticism, scrutiny and ridicule. While these negative responses may seem determinist, essentialist, causal and inevitable, they are strictly not. They will unfold at particular contexts, times, spaces and places; so, through social and power relations, male rape victims have to negotiate these negative responses to prevent (or reduce) stigma. However, a key mechanism that male rape victims can adopt is to simply remain quiet, to not disclose their rape, to remain ‘invisible’. Silent discourses about male rape, therefore, begin to surface with the presumptions that ‘male rape does not exist’ or that ‘male rape is solely a homosexual issue’. Aliraza Javaid

Homosexuality and Reporting Male Rape

Another issue that emerged in the data involves homosexuality and reporting male rape. The finding suggests that, when male rape victims report their crime, they may be seen solely as homosexuals and this has severe implications. For example:

The idea that they might be seen by the people who they reporting to as a homosexual (Police Detective 1, Female). 47

I would imagine that gay people have quite a rough time, and I think that will breed a reluctance to go forward and report it in the first instance and/or to go forward to try and secure any prosecution (Voluntary Agency Caseworker 3, Male).

I’m aware of friends of mine, who were men, who have reported being raped and one of them was a gay man. I know he is gay, but he made the allegation, but he fell that he was not taken seriously, and when he went to speak with his doctor, his doctor asked him, “Have you really been raped?”, almost like declining it (Police Sergeant 1, Male).

These quotes support Gregory and Lees’ findings. They found that male rape victims are reluctant to report because of “[f]ear that they will be considered to be homosexual…leads many to have qualms about reporting to the police….For men who are gay, the barriers to reporting may be even greater as they may assume that the police are homophobic” (119). Their findings, as well as mine, draw on the issue of the police and other agencies subscribing to male rape myths, such as ‘men cannot be raped’, ‘male rape is a homosexual issue’ and ‘homosexual and bisexual individuals deserve to be sexually assaulted because they are immoral and deviant’. These myths, as my findings suggest, may be borne out of (implicit or explicit) homophobia that discourages men from reporting to the local authorities or from seeking help from the third sector. Sivakumaran develops the notion of the “taint” of homosexuality that doubly stigmatizes male rape victims since they engage with anal penetration with other men, regardless whether it was consensual, so they are forced to hide behind a “veil separating the public from the private” (1276). What this suggests is that male rape is conceptualised as a ‘private’ issue rather than a public one, or that the “matter is considered best resolved within the community itself” (Sivakumaran 1284), even though it affects men in the community and in intimate relationships.

For some men in state and voluntary agencies, homophobic discourse is, arguably, important to express because it is essential to the embodiment of heterosexual masculinity and of hegemonic masculinity. Drawing on Pascoe (“Guys”), it becomes clearer why gay men are not taken seriously when they report their rape to the police or to seek support from the third sector. She illustrates that, for men who diverge from obeying normative practices of sexuality, they may well consequently Aliraza Javaid

suffer degrading treatment through discourse of language or through homophobic reactions, such as being called “queer” or “faggot”, as a way in which to police gendered identities and practices. This policing phenomenon can also take shape through discourse. For example, Pascoe (“Dude” and Dude) explains that men can draw on the ‘fag discourse’ to police the boundaries between the ‘normal’ (heterosexuality) and the ‘abnormal’ (homosexuality), which includes enacting homophobic attitudes and practices to reject gay men, the unmasculine, and to perpetuate compulsive heterosexuality. Male police officers and male voluntary agency practitioners can draw on this ‘fag discourse’ if their hegemonic masculinity is threatened, fearing “men’s same sex desire” as Pascoe (“Guys” 177; italics in original) puts it, when male rape victims report since the act of male rape is a 48 non-masculine practice equated with anal penetration for the submissive victims. Producing gender inequality, sexism and homophobia through the ‘fag discourse’ in this way may intensify the underreporting of male rape, reinforcing secondary victimisation.

Getting an Erection During Rape and Reporting Male Rape

In respect of the underreporting of male rape, a finding emerged in relation to the male rape myth ‘if a victim physically responds to an assault, he must have wanted it’. For example:

I believe that heterosexual males, regardless of race or culture, are reluctant to report due to the masculine society we live in….Males do not have the confidence to report for fear of their sexuality or masculinity being put into question, especially if the male achieves an erection during the attack, which I believe is a regular occur- rence and, therefore, less chance that they will be believed or it will be thought that they enjoyed it because of this and, therefore, not a ‘real’ victim! (Police Sergeant 2, Female; emphasis added).

Due to some men getting an erection during their rape, they are often silenced by shame and embarrassment. What this means is that, for having an erection during their attack, men are unlikely to disclose their abuse to state and voluntary agencies because of the possibility of being disbelieved regarding their rape. Although getting an erection during an episode of rape is an involuntary physiological reaction (Groth and Burgess; Tewksbury), they are still likely to be seen as having engaged in ‘consensual sex’, as having enjoyed it, and, therefore, classified as not ‘real’ victims. Two important issues emerge from this analysis: first, this notion of consensual sex; and second, this idea of not a ‘real’ victim. To make sense of the former, Plummer (“Male Sexualities”) points out that societies put pressure on men to have sex, lots of sex, so they are believed to have the power to be able to have sex with whomever they want and whenever. For a man to admit that he did not want sex, however, directly challenges this pressure and societal ideal. In itself, the erect penis is a personification of male power and dominance (Plummer, “Male Sexualities”), so male rape victims who are erect during their attack may be seen as having initiated the sex in the first place or that it was consensual since the erection ‘says it all’, that he ‘enjoyed it’, and his masculinity remains intact for the erection is a symbol of an embodied hegemonic masculinity. Societies, state and voluntary agencies’ thinking in Aliraza Javaid

this way may perceive male rape as a consensual phenomenon when a report is made. This links into the latter part of the analysis—not ‘real’ victims—whereby these agencies may find it problematic to classify a male rape victim who had an erection as a ‘real’ victim, considering the power and dominance that an erection symbolises. Admitting rape challenges this representation of power, making it difficult to take these victims seriously when they report their allegation.

Discussion and Concluding Thoughts

This paper has detailed the issue of underreporting of male rape that was frequent in the data. It 49 covered this area using the theoretical frameworks of heteronormativity and hegemonic masculinity because stigma is attached to male rape, which makes it difficult for men to come forward as rape challenges their masculine and heterosexual identities, affiliations, and configuration of practices in everyday life. It was also found that, because of the taboo nature of male rape, state and voluntary agencies perpetuate a culture of disbelief that prevents many victims from reporting since they think that they will be disbelieved and not be taken seriously. Disclosing rape leaves men vulnerable to a ‘fag discourse’, whereby the police and voluntary agency practitioners are likely to perpetuate language to suggest that the victims are not ‘real’ men, intensifying their reluctance to report and to engage with the criminal justice system. Further, state and voluntary agencies are likely to silence men through shame and embarrassment if they had an erection during their rape, since getting an erection equates to a masculine identity that induces men to always initiate sex and to always be ‘ready for it’. Admitting that they did not want sex, however, may bring about disdain, disbelief, and homophobia when a report is made. The findings, overall, suggest that male rape victims are often positioned as ‘inferior’ and ‘abnormal’ because their victimisation often places them as marginal in a hierarchy of sexual violence that privileges the sexual victimisation of certain victims over others.

I argue that male and female rape victims, although they experience similar issues in terms of reporting rape, such as both suffering stigma, differ in some ways with regards to reporting rape. For example, male rape victims are expected to embody power, strength, self-reliance, insensitivity and unemotionality. In other words, they are expected to look after themselves, which may discourage some male victims to report their rape. In contrast, female rape victims are typically seen as weak, emotional and sensitive, cultivated by gender norms and values. These assumptions strategically shape what rape should be. Therefore, rape is often (mistakenly so) conceptualised as a ‘women’s issue’, meaning that only women can be raped, not men. Davies and Rogers support this, arguing that “sex role expectations of gendered behavior relate closely to victim blame towards male and female rape victims. Traditional views about masculinity and gender roles relate to homophobia…and both contribute to the negative evaluation of male rape victims” (374). This suggests that, because of gender roles and expectations, male victims of rape are highly likely to be disbelieved in contrast to female rape victims when they report their crime. Homophobia is likely to manifest into victim blaming when men report their rape. Negative views about men failing to look after themselves and to prevent their rape from happening can contribute to negative judgments being made toward them, resulting in negative evaluations of male victims when their rape is reported. I argue that Aliraza Javaid

homosexual male rape victims are more likely to be blamed more than heterosexual male rape victims and women rape victims. They are more likely to be blamed by heterosexual men (Davies and Rogers). Although it is not clear which certain characteristics of the victim would create the highest level of negative attitudes and responses, I speculate that homosexual male rape victims who display “campness”, which is a style of homosexual conduct that is frequently exaggerated and effeminate for effect, are more likely to be blamed than ‘straight-acting’ male victims of rape.

Despite some police and voluntary agency workers in the current study have more insight into the reasons for the underreporting of male rape (and female rape), the findings from the interviews and 50 questionnaires cannot be generalised to the wider population, so the sample may not necessarily represent the population of state and voluntary agencies that deal with male rape and sexual assault against men. However, from the data presented in this paper and the arguments made herein, I suggest that state and voluntary agencies become better trained in order to eradicate sexist, homophobic and gender bias attitudes and responses that were explored in this paper. Tackling harmful myths and misconceptions, particularly in male police officers and male practitioners working in the voluntary sector, would induce safer, sensitive and sympathetic responses directed toward male victims of rape. I believe that this sympathetic approach would not only encourage the victims to come forward to report and to seek help, but also would challenge gender inequality and injustice. The police and voluntary sector need to be aware of consciously or unconsciously perpetuating gender norms and values that can be harmful to male rape victims and ought to be prepared to counter these when serving male victims. Otherwise, some police officers are likely to conceptualise allegations of male rape as ‘false’, which may not necessarily be based on concrete evidence that the police can draw on to classify such allegations as genuinely false (Javaid, “Giving” and Male Rape, Masculinities).

I also suggest that future research considers male rape victims. One way in which potential work can raise awareness of male rape discourse is by using both quantitative and qualitative approaches to understanding this phenomenon. Using these approaches in different contexts is beneficial, such as male rape occurring in, though not limited to by no means, train stations, institutional establishments, and airports. To my knowledge, there has been no research conducted in these areas within England. I hope that researchers would come up with different and nuanced ideas as to how to understand male sexual victimisation in order to help deal with this problem sensitively, sympathetically, and with hope that male rape victims can live a peaceful and optimistic life.

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------. “Male Rape, Stereotypes, and Unmet Needs: Hindering Recovery, Perpetuating Silence.” Violence and Gender 3.1 (2016): 7-13. Print. ------. “Male Rape: The ‘Invisible’ Male.” Diss. Internet Journal of Criminology (2014): 1-49. Web. 9 May 2019. . ------. “Male Rape: The Unseen World of Male Rape.” Diss. Internet Journal of Criminology (2014): 1-42. Web. 9 May 2019. .

------. “Police Responses to, and Attitudes Towards, Male Rape: Issues and Concerns.” 52 International Journal of Police Science and Management 17.2 (2015): 81-90. Print. ------. “The Dark Side of Men: The Nature of Masculinity and its Uneasy Relationship with Male Rape.” The Journal of Men’s Studies 23.3 (2015): 271-292. Print. ------. “The Role of Alcohol in Intimate Partner Violence: Causal Behaviour or Excusing Behaviour?” British Journal of Community Justice 13.1 (2015): 75-92. Print. ------. “Voluntary Agencies’ Responses to, and Attitudes toward Male Rape: Issues and Concerns.” Sexuality & Culture 20.3 (2016): 731-748. Print. Kassing, Leslee R., Denise Beesley, and Lisa L. Frey. “Gender Role Conflict, Homophobia, Age and Education as Predictors of Male Rape Myth Acceptance.” Journal of Mental Health Counseling 27.4 (2005): 311-328. Print. Kaufman, A., et al. “Male Rape Victims: Non-Institutionalised Assault.” American Journal of Psychiatry 137.2 (1980): 221-223. Print. Kelly, Liz. A Research Review on the Reporting, Investigation and Prosecution of Rape Cases. London: Her Majesty’s Crown Prosecution Service Inspectorate, 2002. Print. ------. Surviving Sexual Violence. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1988. Print. Lees, Sue. Carnal Knowledge. Rape on Trial. London: The Women’s Press Ltd, 2002. Print. ------. Ruling Passions. Sexual Violence, Reputation and the Law. Buckingham: Open UP, 1997. Print. Lundrigan, Samantha, and Katrin Mueller-Johnson. “Male Stranger Rape: A Behavioral Model of Victim-Offender Interaction.” Criminal Justice and Behavior 40.7 (2013): 763-783. Print. Mezey, Gillian C., and Michael B. King. “The Effects of Sexual Assault on Men: A Survey of 22 Victims.” Psychological Medicine 19.1 (1989): 205-209. Print. Ministry of Justice. An Overview of Sexual Offending in England and Wales. London: HMSO, 2013. Print. Pascoe, C. J. “‘Dude, You’re a Fag’: Adolescent Masculinity and the Fag Discourse.” Sexualities 8.3 (2005): 329-346. Print. ------. Dude You’re a Fag: Masculinity and Sexuality in High School. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: U of California P, 2007. Print. ------. (2011) “’Guys Are Just Homophobic’: Rethinking Adolescent Homophobia and Heterosexuality.” Introducing the New Sexuality Studies. Eds. Steven Seidman, Nancy L. Fischer, and Chet Meeks. 2nd edition. Abingdon: Routledge, 2011. 175-182. Print. Aliraza Javaid

Plummer, Ken. “Male Sexualities.” Handbook of Studies on Men & Masculinities. Eds. Michael Kimmel, Jeff Hearn, and R. W. Connell. United States of America: Sage, 2005. 178-195. Print. ------. Telling Sexual Stories: Power, Change and Social Worlds. London and New York: Routledge, 1995. Print. Rumney, Philip N. S. “Gay Male Rape Victims: Law Enforcement, Social Attitudes and Barriers to Recognition.” The International Journal of Human Rights 13.2 (2009): 233-250. Print. ------. “Policing Male Rape and Sexual Assault.” Journal of Criminal Law 72.1 (2008): 67-86. Print. Sarrel, Philip M., and William H. Masters. “Sexual Molestation of Men by Women.” Archives of Sexual Behavior 11.2 (1982): 117-131. Print. 53 Sleath, Emma, and Ray Bull. “Comparing Rape Victim and Perpetrator Blaming in a Police Officer Sample: Differences Between Police Officers with and without Special Training.” Criminal Justice and Behavior 39.5 (2012): 646-665. Print. Temkin, Jennifer. Rape and the Legal Process. London: Sweet and Maxwell, 1987. Print. Walker, Jayne, John Archer, and Michelle Davies. “Effects of Rape on Men: A Descriptive Analysis.” Archives of Sexual Behavior 34.1 (2005): 69-80. Print. Weiss, Karen G. “Male Sexual Victimization: Examining Men’s Experiences of Rape and Sexual Assault.” Men and Masculinities 12.3 (2010): 275-298. Print.

Nie słyszą czy nie chcą słyszeć? Płeć i seksualność a zgłaszanie gwałtu przez mężczyzn będących ofiarami gwałtu

Artykuł odwołuje się do pojęć „heteronorma” i „męskość hegemoniczna”, by rozwikłać problem zaniżonych statystyk policyjnych i organizacji pozarządowych jeżeli chodzi o zgłoszenia gwałtów popełnionych na męż- czyznach. Krytyczna analiza wiktymizacji seksualnej mężczyzn umożliwi pełniejsze zrozumienie tego zjawiska przez pracowników policji i trzeciego sektora. W oparciu o teorie płci kulturowej i normatywnej seksualności twierdzę, że zgwałceni mężczyźni niechętnie zgłaszają się na policję i do organizacji pozarządowych, obawiając się wrogich, seksistowskich i homofobicznych reakcji, postaw i ocen, szczególnie ze strony innych mężczyzn, pracujących w tych instytucjach w Wielkiej Brytanii. Korzystam ze danych uzyskanych od policjantów i wolontariuszy z organizacji pozarządowych (n = 70), by pokazać, jak normy płci i seksualności kształtują ich rozu- mienie i obraz mężczyzn jako ofiar gwałtu. Zebrane dane wskazują na to, że gdy mężczyźni zgłaszają gwałt, są narażeni na homofobiczny język sugerujący, że nie są prawdziwymi mężczyznami tylko „ciotami”, co zwiększa ich niechęć do składania zeznań i korzystania z wymiaru sprawiedliwości. Tym samym, męskie tożsamości policjantów i wolontariuszy agencji pozarządowych wzmacniane są poprzez upokarzanie mężczyzn będących ofiarami gwałtu.

Słowa kluczowe: stygmatyzacja, heteroseksualność, homofobia, heteronormatywność, seksizm

Public against our will? The caring gaze of Leviathan, “pink files” from the 1980s Poland and the issue of privacy1

Ewa Majewska University of Warsaw

In my article I attempt to decipher the logic of a large police and secret services operation conducted by means of surveillance and direct control of the gay men in the late 1980s in Poland. LGBTQ+ activists claim that some 11000 men were involved in it, and yet, this action has never been properly researched, summarized and no justice procedures have been undertaken after 1989. This article combines the “archive activism” of Howard Zinn and his followers in the queer activism and theory, certain elements of theories of the public sphere and counterpublics (Kluge and Negt, Warner etc) and the critical deconstructive and feminist research on the archive and the private (Derrida, Berlant, Gatens) in order to build a discussion of how to queer the scattered state archives of the state police and services without petrification, nostalgia or resignation. It investigates the large spectrum of implications of “being public against our will”, depicting forms of resistance and insubordination as well, as “archivizing against their will” in the institutional context avoiding responsibility.

Keywords: archives, Operation “Hiacynt,” surveillance, homosexual men, police

We're so glad to see so many of you lovely people here tonight, and we would especially like to welcome all the representatives of Illinois’ Law Enforcement Community who have chosen to join us here in the Palace Hotel Ballroom at this time. We do sincerely hope you'll all enjoy the show, and please remember people, that no matter who you are, and what you do to live, thrive and survive, there are still some things that make us all the same. You, me, them, everybody, everybody. (Elwood, in the Blues Brothers)

(…) the privacy of embodied individuals cannot be understood independently of the historical specificity of the social and political contexts within which such identities are formed. (Moira Gatens, Privacy and the Body)

Privacy is the Oz of America. (Lauren Berlant, The Subject of True Feeling)

1 The article was written within a grant of the Polish National Science Center „Wczesna Solidarność oraz Czarny Protest w koncepcji kontrpubliczności oraz „podporządkowanych innych” [The early Solidarity movement and the Black Protest in the concept of counterpublics and the „subaltern others”], no. 2016/23/B/HS2/01338. I would like to dedicate this text to Waldemar Zboralski, the “gay Wałęsa”, to Tomek Kitliński and Paweł Leszkowicz – the amazing gay couple of friends, scholars and activists, to the late Ania Laszuk – a wonderful lesbian writer, pianist, journalist and friend; to the collective of the InterAlia journal for their work in the field of queer studies, including the meticulous corrections and inspiring suggestions for my article; and to all my lesbian, gay, queer friends and colleagues fighting their way in the heteromatrix of the Polish academia and beyond. I would also like to thank Agata Lisiak, Baruch Gottlieb, Kostek Szydlowski, Jarosław Lipszyc, Robert Kulpa and countless others for their comments on the manuscript. This text has been written thanks to the generous support of the ICI Berlin, where I was a fellow in the years 2014-2016. I would also like to thank Claudia Peppel for the invitation to the conference Can we have some Privacy?, held at the ICI Berlin on 7-8 May 2015, where the first version of this paper was presented.

Ewa Majewska

Becoming public

The image of the public sphere reproduced in liberal media and political theory, academia and to some extent also in art, most often suggests that becoming public is not only harmless but should also be seen as highly rewarding (Habermas). Discussions surrounding the concept of the public sphere, including many of its critical reinterpretations, such as the concepts of proletarian, feminist, subaltern or queer counterpublics or even theories of the common, almost never mention the more painful repercussions of entering the public realm. In the theories of Jurgen Habermas, but also Alexander Kluge, Oskar Negt or even Nancy Fraser, participation in the public sphere seems a blissful 55 bath in the river of deliberation, truth and recognition, rather than a fight or sacrifice2. Somewhere between Aristotle’s legitimate citizen and Sophocles’ Antigone spreads the large spectrum of possible versions of becoming public and its repercussions, which only in some cases seem plausible.

From the perspective of those excluded, oppressed and marginalized, the public sphere is not merely a blissful confrontation with the common matters, but also a clearly separated zone of privilege, in which those allowed enjoy the possibility of expressing their political interests and sharing their political concerns, while the excluded experience a variety of exposures to forced publicity, segregation, marginalization and discrimination3. The gay population of the People’s Republic of Poland enjoyed almost complete invisibility, with the exception of some key figures of culture in the 1950s and the 1960s, investigated upon by the secret services, until the sudden decision of the Head- quarters of the Polish Police (Milicja Obywatelska, MO) in Warsaw to examine the population of the homosexual men in fall 1985, in a nation-wide action called “Hiacynt”, repeated in 1986 and in 19874. Currently the state’s preoccupation with the gay community in Poland is at times combined with the conservative backlash, as in the years 2005-2007 and from 2015 onward. The official reasons for the “Hiacynt” operations were that the number of solved criminal cases where gay men were involved as victims was low, that the sudden appearance of HIV/AIDS required some investigation of the supposedly most exposed group and that the Polish Police did not have sufficient knowledge about this sexual minority5. According to the documentation gathered in the state archives of the Institute of National Remembrance (Instytut Pamięci Narodowej, IPN), the “Hiacynt” operations were held each time only for 48 hours or less, however various particular investigations were continued longer. As it will be shown further in this article, many gay rights activists in Poland recall oppressive forms

2 See: Alexander Kluge and Oskar Negt, Public Sphere and Experience: Toward an Analysis of the Bourgeois and Proletarian Public Sphere (1993) and Nancy Fraser, Rethinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of Actually Existing Democracy (1990). 3 See: Warren Montag and Mike Hill, Masses, Classes and the Public Sphere (2005); bell hooks, Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center (1984) and Moira Gatens, Privacy and the Body. The Privacy of the Affect (2004). 4 Documents of the IPN about the launching of the action issued in the Warsaw headquarters of the Polish Police: KR 0105/85 (signed by plk. Jablonski); a letter from the police headquarters in Warsaw from 30 July 1986 (IPN number unclear, in the Szczecin files), KR I 020/87 (signed by Mr. Trzcinski). 5 These aims are depicted in the documents issued in Warsaw, quoted above and in the action plans I refer to later in this article. Page 102 in the Szczecin file however suggests a possibility for the Secret Police to use the data collected during the operation “for its own purposes.” This and other small remarks of the kind suggest that there might have been more purposes of the “Hiacynt” operations, and of less noble nature. Ewa Majewska

of police control and repression as elements of these operations. While I do not want to undermine these statements, I need to suggest, basing on the archive research, that while the police might have used the reference to “Hiacynt” as legitimization of their repressive agency, the files clearly define these operations as lasting only two days each time, and conducted in 1985, 1986 and 19876. It must be emphasized that while incidents of homophobic abuse happened in the post-war Poland, there is no data proving that the sexual orientation-based persecution was a commonplace motivation behind the workings of these institutions or that the “Hiacynt” operations lasted for long years, as it is suggested by various activists and scholars in Poland7. 56 In this article I give an account of the “Hiacynt” operations, basing on my archive research at the state archives of the IPN, conducted in April and June of 2015. This account is embedded in a wider investigation concerning the issue of queering the archives – which I understand as not only a production of grassroots archives of sexual minorities, but also as a transformative critique of the modus operandi of the existing state archives. In doing this, I critically address the issue of the archive, and I do this in several ways: in its classical version, in the form shaped by the Foucauldian “critique of the repression hypothesis,” in the feminist perspective, where the concepts of “the public” and “the private” are under particular scrutiny, and finally – in the deconstructive perspective, opened by Jacques Derrida in his Archive Fever, where the psychoanalytic hypothesis of the unconscious and desire are put in play, allowing a further renegotiation of the supposed neutrality of the archive.

This article’s main aim is therefore above all to show how to queer the existing, institutional archives, how to develop the idea of the “archive activism” invented by Howard Zinn, which – due to the state’s resistance to activism, but also due to some misguided concepts of “neutrality”, “privacy” and “protection”, still remain largely closed to the wider public and are completely unprepared to serve any queer researchers, not to speak about the “archive empowerment”, as defined by Ben Power Alwin in his excellent interview for the Radical History Review (Rawson).

Queering the archives in Poland

In countries governed by highly undemocratic forces, such as Poland, which, while currently belonging to the global center, were for many years part of global (semi-)peripheries, it seems necessary to rework the public memory institutional practices, including the state archives, which remain the most important resources of history knowledge, partially due to the lack of resources on the side of

6 It should be stressed that the documentation gathered in the IPN state archive is very scattered – some assume that as much as 90% of the documents of the Polish Police and Secret Police from the years 1945-1990 have been destroyed. Although I examined the documents at the IPN for some 3 weeks altogether, and further in this article I build some claims concerning the “Hiacynt” operations, it should be stressed that due to the incompleteness of this archive any generalization based on the evidence gathered there can only be relative. 7 Perhaps the most interesting effort to build a queer archive has for many years been made by the gay artist Karol Radziszewski, who reconstructs the memories and images of the gay communities in Poland, sometimes in cooperation with the gay activists and artists from the 1980s. The novels of Michał Witkowski also offer reconstructions of the gay communities of the 1970s and the 1980s in Poland, see: M. Witkowski, Lovetown, Portobello Books, London 2011. The articles and other publications concerning “Hiacynt” will be listed and discussed further in this essay. Ewa Majewska

the LGBTQIA activists and researchers. As it becomes clear from my own experience as an archive researcher at the IPN archives, the Polish state-run archives are not only completely unprepared for any form of queer research, they also dissimulate the basic knowledge of the state-run operations against queer communities after 1945, and by so doing – they perpetrate the LGBTQIA invisibility as well as they protect the perpetrators of sexuality-based repression perpetrated on behalf of the Polish state apparatus in the post-WWII years. It is therefore necessary to undermine this dis- simulative rationale, while at the same time – to negotiate all the formats of what epistemologically can be called “subalternity”, following Gayatri Spivak (Critique). In my critical account of the state archivization of the state repression against queers (particularly – gay men in the 1980s), I follow 57 certain elements of the “archive activist” proposal, as it evolved from the 1977 formulation of Howard Zinn, but Foucault’s critique of the “hypothesis of repression” is also referred to in the article. I also investigate the necessary opacities and blanks produced in the cultural processes of dissimulation, resulting in the state’s inability and unwillingness to properly archive its own acts of repression against the LGBTQ persons, but also in the activist’s impossibility of embracing the historical truth “in its entirety” caused by the constantly reshaping formats of identity making and unmaking, the reconfigurations of privilege and oppression etc. I begin with a recapitulation of Zinn’s “archive activist” concept, then I follow the feminist critique of the ideas of transparency and privacy. After that I discuss the concept of “the archive activist”, the problems of queering the state archive in a semi-peripherial country such as Poland and finally – the “Hiacynt” operations themselves. I believe a version of “the archive activist” will emerge at the end of this text, signaling the constraints and opportunities at hand for a feminist-queer archive activist of semi-periphery. This archive is concluded with a strong statement against the sometimes practiced refusal to enter and/ or produce the archives, which I find conformist.

The seminal essay by Howard Zinn, Secrecy, Archives, and the Public Interest, from 1977 inspired several generations of researchers and activists to overcome the “silence of the files” and to undermine the status quo by actively engaging not so much into politicizing the archive, as to openly declare that the archive is always already political. Zinn’s arguments about the archives as a site of privilege preservation unfold in seven steps, and I believe it is worth bringing them here since what I was doing in the IPN archive and what I try to achieve writing this article can be seen as a con- tinuation of his principles. In Secrecy, Archives... Zinn argues that the “preservation of social arrangements” in the state archives is made possible because: 1) the archives are determined by the existing divisions of power; 2) the governments preserve their power by negating the public access to documents; 3) the collection of records, papers, and memoirs, as well as oral history, is biased and compliant with the existing privilege; 4) the written word still dominates; 5) the emphasis in the collection of records is placed on individuals rather than movements; 6) the emphasis is on the past over the present; 7) far more resources are devoted to the collection and preservation of what already exists as records than to recording any fresh data (Zinn 20-21).

Ewa Majewska

These objections to the ways the government preserves its undemocratic power are particularly relevant in Poland. The ways the IPN operates make it virtually impossible to use their resources, although theoretically they should be made accessible to any Polish citizen. But the problems do not end at the gate of the archive, they mount in the IPN’s libraries as well since there is virtually no order in which the files are offered to be viewed. The example of my own research is in many ways peculiar, however I do not see any good reason why I was offered to look at some 40 files of men named “Hiacynt” from the years 1945-1955, when I clearly requested the files concerning the “Hiacynt” police operations from the 1980s. Before I even came to Warsaw, I called the IPN several times, asking about any kind of documents, recommendations etc that I should bring with me from Berlin. On the day of 58 my arrival I was informed that my research requires a recommendation of the director of my institute. Luckily, the Director of the ICI Berlin was available, and I got my recommendation properly stamped and signed within 15 minutes. But what if he had not been at work? In Zinn’s terms, the IPN service is a clear representation of the state power's desire to keep the documentation of the Polish history away from the citizens and therefore it requires not only critique but also serious changes.

Although the “Hiacynt” files clearly follow the script of a state action against a group of citizens (the gay men in Poland in the 1980s), the archive not only focuses on particular cases and stories but it also makes it virtually impossible to put the ends of the police action together. I was prepared for it, but it seems that other researchers simply get lost in the material. The “Hiacynt” files do not follow any order. They are offered to the public as a chaotic mixture of documentation of the local police actions from different regions, central orders, files of significant and insignificant investigations. It seems as if nobody was interested in suggesting any order to one of the largest police operations of the 1980s, which seems improbable, given the fact that the police usually want to understand the logics of its own actions, and they usually proceed in orderly ways rather than invent completely new, chaotic strategies every time they want to examine a large group of citizens.

Although in recent years several researchers working on the archive methodology have made a big effort to dissimulate the role of the social struggles of the 1960s and 1970s in the process of reshaping the archives, most scholars and activists are referring to the archive activism in positive ways, usually in an effort to continue Zinn’s radical critique of the state power and to develop democratic strategies of accessing, maintaining and transforming archives8. The essay by Patrick M. Quinn, The Archivist as Activist, puts the account straight, enumerating several crucial groups of political activists, whose interventions in the ways the archives are organized made previously excluded

8 The most striking efforts to dissimulate the role of social movements for the process of making of the archives can be found in two articles: Mark A. Greene’s A Critique of Social Justice as an Archival Imperative: What Is It We’re Doing That’s All That Important? (2013) and Randall C. Jimerson’s From the Pacifc Northwest to the Global Information Society: the Changing Nature of Archival Education (2010). I quote Jimerson: “The debate over whether history or library science departments were the best places for archival education became the focus of attention during the late 1960s and the 1970s, with some later reverberations. Thirty years ago most archival education programs were based in departments of history. In recent decades, library and information science has played an increasingly important role in archival education”. Not a word about feminist and anti-racist researchers fighting for the minorities to enter the archives! Ewa Majewska

groups visible. Recently scholars have persuasively argued for maintaining a vital connection between archive work and litigation, thus allowing the documentation of the repressions of sexual minorities to be combined with the search for justice – this is the key argument of the recent article by Charles Francis and Pate Felts, Archive Activism: Vergangenheitsbewaltigung!, in which they explain why and how only the combined forces of archive revisions and juridical action against the decisions of particular politicians and state functionaries actually bring about change. Their argument is particularly interesting in the context of the research I conducted in order to write this article, because only a combination of archive research and litigation could allow one to meet justice in the context of the “Hiacynt” operation, which cannot be measured without proper research. 59

Big Mama, data collecting, feminist theories of privacy and nostalgia today9

This article is an element of a larger discussion concerning resistance to the constantly changing apparatuses of sovereign power, recently acquiring surprisingly “caring” and “maternal” aspects, as opposed to the pater familias figure of the Roman law and pre-modern times (Foucault, Discipline; Derrida, “Archive Fever” 9-63). While the caring aspects of state power have been analyzed at length since Foucault and his theory of bio-power, the shift from “the paternal” to “the maternal” “caring” modes of state power still needs their critical feminist interpretation. Therefore, together with the feminist-queer critique of the often fetishized concept of privacy, I would like to discuss the “caring” agency of the Leviathan based on the “Hiacynt” operations from the late 1980s. Based on archive research, personal experiences and critical theories of power, archive, privacy and surveillance, this small study sets to dismantle the romantic nostalgia of privacy and at the same time to reject the conformist logic of “resistance is futile.” In the times aptly called those of “the spectacle of transparency”, the dangers of uncontrolled sovereignty should be opposed and avoided just as carefully as in the past (Hansen et al. 117-131). However, in both cases the optic of the criticized “repression hypothesis” should be replaced with more nuanced approaches, possibly feminist ones, since, as I argue, the power has shifted towards those forms of cultural agency which were understood as feminine in the past (Foucault, Discipline). Since Foucault (Society) we have been speaking about the biopolitical agency of the Leviathan, but only in the recent years the “paternal” forms of power are accompanied by the “maternal” models of care. The surveillance after 9/11, the “Patriot Act” and other documents allowing the state apparatus to enter into formerly preserved spaces of human activity, are most often backed up by narratives of care and supposed empathy of the state, efforts to “best protect” the population. The Foucauldian analytics of biopower and pastoral discourse should therefore be strengthened by the introjection of an analysis of the instrumentalization of traditionally maternal functions into the state apparatus. I think that as much as we discuss “the feminization of labor” in the cultural production and analysis of work, we should also think of the caring imperatives as some form of “feminization of sovereignty” (Hochschild, 1983; Negri and Hardt;

9 I refer to the title given by the Tactical Tech Collective to a small part of the Nervous Systems exhibition at HKW in Berlin 2016. I need to credit Oliver Bauerhenn for the title of my presentation at the Nervous Systems exhibition (But I am your Mother!). Ewa Majewska

Fantone 5-20). Therefore a new question should be asked, somehow reversing the usual feminist concerns about how women can refuse housework (Federici), namely: how is resistance possible if the sovereign is a caring rather than punitive one?

In order to grasp the problem of becoming public involuntarily, it is perhaps interesting to look at the conceptualizations of the private and privacy. If we understand privacy as a sphere in which some unmediated intimacy magically renders itself available, and this is its most common understanding, then this article might bring some genuine disappointment to those who thought they could have direct access to it. The dominant tendency in claims and demands concerning privacy is often con- 60 veyed in a purely nostalgic way, in the sense given to this word by Svetlana Boym, the author of The Future of Nostalgia, who argued:

Nostalgia is a sentiment of loss and displacement, but it is also a romance with one’s own fantasy. Nostalgic love can only survive in a long-distance relationship. A cinematic image of nostalgia is a double exposure, or a superimposition of two images—of home and abroad, of past and present, of dream and everyday life. The moment we try to force it into a single image, it breaks the frame or burns the surface (Boym).

In the words of those defending privacy against surveillance and control, the perhaps dominant tendency is to position it as somehow directly available and unmediated. It results from the liberal ontology, in which individuals, groups and institutions are defined as independent from one another (Benhabib 38-60). Rightly criticized by Hegel, Marx and feminists as highly unrealistic, this liberal ontology is unfortunately organizing the mainstream image of privacy, leading not only to its nostalgic idealizations but also to the downplaying of other aspects of social life, such as autonomy, solidarity and freedom. The neoliberal visions of privacy petrify our imagination and enforce a highly problematic image of the social and the political where once the atomized users of computers and smart phones have been liberated from the state control, freedom and equality abound and everybody becomes happy. While freedom from overprotective state surveillance is a basic human right, and it definitely should be not only claimed but also executed, it is necessary to remember that it cannot provide a happy or livable life when detached from other freedoms and rights.

Moira Gatens rightly specifies that the body constitutes the primary space of exercising privacy and as such it also leads to a materialist theory of privacy (Gatens 113-132). Different bodies lead to different experiences of privacy, as it is demonstrated by Gatens’s reading of the biographies of two white European men, J. S. Mill and J. P. Sartre and of an indigenous Australian woman, Sally Morgan. Gatens (130) argues that privacy should be given a context and argues that its value is neither good nor bad but it is context dependent. Borrowing Etienne Balibar’s concept of “transindividuality” and using arguments of fellow feminist authors, Gatens proposes an excellent alternative to the liberal understanding of privacy, one in which its role is neither overlooked nor overestimated. Ewa Majewska

Another feminist and radical take on privacy is developed by Lauren Berlant, who depicts privacy as “the Oz of America”, and while analyzing the “place of feeling in the making of political worlds” she mercilessly dismantles the highly idealized concept of “the American citizen”, privacy constituting a milestone of it. While it is necessary to remember that the European or Polish constructs of citizenship are definitely different from those practiced in the USA, the recent strengthening of the caring eye of the Leviathan on one hand and the public protest against it on the other again make the American experiences, but also the American dream, quite hegemonic in Eastern Europe. The idealized visions of privacy remind us of the “beyond the rainbow” safe space from the Wizard of Oz, says Berlant, who also emphasizes that 61

[b]ased on a notion of safe space, a hybrid space of home and law, in which people will act legally and lovingly toward one another, free from the determinations of history or the coercions of pain, the constitutional theorization of sexual privacy is drawn from a lexicon of romantic sentiment a longing for a space where there is no trouble, a place whose constitution in law would be so powerful that desire would meet moral discipline there, making real the dreamy rule (60) . While demands of freedom from the “caring gaze of the Leviathan”, formulated in times of surveillance cameras and constant invigilation, seem perfectly justified, perhaps our claims concerning privacy should be scrutinized and liberated from idealist illusions? The nostalgic longing for perfect privacy might be just as controversial as the demand of full accessibility of individuals for state’s observation. This idealistic longing also strengthens the public/private divide, undermined by the feminist scholars, as shown above. If we look at the lives of Mary Wollstonecraft, Olympia de Gouges, Emma Goldman, Rosa Luxemburg, Rosa Parks, Angela Davis, Anna Walentynowicz, Assata Shakur or Chelsea Manning, we see an entire line of female, trans- and queer political figures whose privacy has always been permeated by politics in a very spectacular way, sometimes leading to deportations, imprisonment or even political executions. The feminist-queer archive activist should not try to install an idyllic vision of privacy at the core of their research, they should instead problematize the controlling practices of the state in the context shaped by a complex interplay of privilege and invisibility. The possibility of arranging archives in ways empowering for minorities was beautifully demonstrated by Ben Power Alwin, who lives in the Sexual Minorities Archive, initiated by the lesbian-feminist organization, the New Alexandria Lesbian Library, in 1974, and moved to Massachusetts in 1979. The SMA is a home-archive where the classical mode of presentation has been twisted and queered in order to empower the queer communities and to strengthen the LGBTQIASM rainbow coalition (2015).

A quite different question however is how to queer the state-run archives in countries which have not embraced the queer-friendly politics, such as Poland? Should we make all the archives public in a society in which the queer persons are most often not ready to come out? How to provide public access to scenes/ operations of homophobic violence without risking personal assault? These are Ewa Majewska

relevant questions in the context of the “Hiacynt” operations archives where not only perpetrators of offenses or crimes against the LGBTQ communities might be still alive but also the names and other private data of possibly living persons are present, and these persons might not all be queer activists ready to come out.

Privacy has become a vital element of the popular image of a “good life”, and as such it obviously is nostalgically drawn on some highly improbable and definitely inaccessible idyllic “past.” We are somehow “homesick” about privacy and we do fantasize about it without acknowledging its always already interrelated character that is dependent on the context, including our own embodiment, 62 historical and cultural conditions and economy. This contemporary tendency to buy the comfort of building one’s comfortable autonomous self depends on our ability to keep countless “Others” in precarity (Lorey). Foucault’s recapitulation of the “Panopticon” project reminds one of the deep impossibility of this dream (Berlant). The Polish state often employs the caring logic of protecting privacy, neglecting the fact that the society should be allowed to investigate the clear cases of abuse of power in the police actions conducted during the “Hiacynt” operations or under their pretext.

A la recherche des archives perdus. The “Hiacynt” operations files

The main object of my investigation was a collection of materials gathered in a particular Polish state archive, the Institute of National Remembrance – Commission for the Prosecution of Crimes against the Polish Nation (Instytut Pamieci Narodowej – IPN), created in the late 1990s by the Polish Parliament. For a definition – I quote the official IPN website:

The Institute of National Remembrance – Commission for the Prosecution of Crimes against the Polish Nation (IPN) was established by the Polish Parliament by virtue of the act as of 18 December 1998. Its actual activity began in the middle of 2000 (…) The resolution on the establishment of the IPN, made by the coalition of parties, stemming from the Solidarity movement (…) was connected with an attempt to solve the problem of documents left after the Communist State Security Bodies dissolved in 1990. This concerned the establishment of an institution, which was apolitical and independent from the government. The institution would take control over the archives of the Communist political police, which were controlled by secret services…10.

The archivist research I conducted for the purpose of writing this text lasted some two weeks in April and one in June 2015, however it encompasses enough data to allow some generalizations. No general archive under the name “Hiacynt archive” exists today in the IPN archives, although this is a commonly used phrase. “Hiacynt” is the name of 3 police and secret services operations, lasting approximately 48 hours each, conducted in the years: 1985, 1986 and 1987 in Poland. It is important

10 From the IPN official website. Accessed: 30 09 2016. Ewa Majewska

to remember that the archives of the Polish Police and the secret services were destroyed in almost 90% whereas their equivalents from, for example, the Czech Republic or East Germany were mostly preserved. Therefore my analysis is at times speculative, drawing much more on Gayatri Spivak’s Critique of Postcolonial Reason and her own archivist fever during a visit to the palace of the woman depicted in Can the Subaltern Speak? as “Sati”, than on classical archive studies (Spivak, Critique; LaCapra). It is also indebted in Dominick LaCapra’s theory of trauma inscribing itself in our memory as a sort of trickster, making the content of our remembrance work hyperbolically (Kitliński and Leszkowicz; Fiedotow; Kurpios; Warkocki; Selerowicz). 63 Several researchers, journalists and writers have written about the files of the “Hiacynt” operations. None of them offers a detailed description of the IPN “Hiacynt” files, except Agata Fiedotow, who mentions several documents without analyzing the structure of the actions. An interesting book, recently published in Polish, Foucault in Warsaw by Remigiusz Ryziński, depicts the existence of the remnants of the “Hiacynt” files, but does not offer any synthesis of these actions. Błażej Warkocki explicitly says that the “Hiacynt” operations still await their monograph. These scattered files constitute a perfect pretext to show how the incompleteness of any archive leads to the necessary conclusion that objective knowledge can only be based on a partial perspective. None of the sources I have considered presents the general schematics of the “Hiacynt” operations and many scholars still refer to a “Hiacynt Archive”, which does not seem to exist. In the book Kryptonim “Hiacynt” Andrzej Selerowicz does not depict the basic schematics of this police action either, he does however cover one very important empty spot of the history of gay men in Poland – he collects the memories of the gay men from different regions in Poland who were targeted in the “Hiacynt” operations (see Selerowicz).

To complicate things more, on the basis of the IPN archive materials it can be said that the “Hiacynt” operations were launched upon the orders from the vice-chief of the Polish Police (MO), not the Secret Police, although several documents regarding the “Hiacynt” actions issued by the Department of Internal Affairs (Urząd Bezpieczeństwa, UB, the Secret Police) are accessible too. It is important to remember that the data collected as a result of the “Hiacynt” actions, or what is left of them, were meant to stay peacefully dispersed in the police stations all over the country. From what can be found in the IPN archives, only general reports happened to be sent from the regional police to the police headquarters in Warsaw after each of the “Hiacynt” operations. Perhaps some of the documents are still in local police stations since the police stopped sending their archives to the IPN in 2006 due to the change of law regulating this institution. It should also be noted that some 80-90% of the Polish Police and secret services files were destroyed in the years 1988-1990. Partly as a result of the political changes of 1989 in Poland, the scattered materials collected in the IPN became accessible for practically anyone via the IPN offices in cities across the whole country; one can order documents gathered in other cities upon request as well. My main tropes for researching the IPN archives were: “homosexual men”, “Hiacynt” (which gives perplexing results since this word also stands for a male name in Poland, apparently still quite popular around the 1940s and the 1950s, not anymore) and Ewa Majewska

“sexuality.” In April and June 2015 I analyzed some 70 files, approximately 300 documents, mainly from the 1980s. In order to compare two distinct periods, I also requested some files from the 1950s and the 1960s. I wanted to compare the methods of police operations, and the differences were striking. The majority of the 1980s files are written by the police or result from the investigations and testimonies gathered in police stations, and they are very formal and neutral. The files from the 1950s and the 1960s, however, combine police documents and large amounts of long testimonies of police informants (spies), who describe the invigilated persons in wildly judgmental terms, sometimes overtly expressing disgust. It has to be said that the Polish legal history concerning male homosexuality was rather progressive – the ban on sexual relations between men was erased from the 64 Polish penal code as early as in 1932, and it was never brought back, therefore while the society did not accept same sex relations until very recently, the law was not forbidding them. Although it is known that the police were trying to use “accusations” of homosexuality against politically involved writers and artists in the first decades after the WWII and against the political opposition in the 1980s, the strategic use of homophobic plots by the police was far less common in Poland than in some other countries of the Eastern Bloc, such as the USSR, East Germany or Romania, where the ban persisted long after 1945.

The data from the IPN archive documents regarding the “Hiacynt” operations should not be seen as the sole source of information about these events. According to the gay activists, some 3000 people were taken to the police stations and questioned on 15 November 1985 alone. The witnesses claim that some 11 000 persons were investigated upon (Kurpios). This number of the “pink files” created as a result of the “Hiacynt” operations appears in the open letter signed in 1988 by a particularly important lawyer and communist politician, Mikolaj Kozakiewicz, on request of the gay activists. The letter demands the right of the gay men to form non-governmental organizations and the end of surveillance of this group by the police (Kozakiewicz). If we compare these numbers to the number of persons under NSA surveillance today or even those investigated by the Polish Police in the 1980s because of their supposed oppositional activities, it does not sound very big, however still the “Hiacynt” operations constitute one of the biggest police actions of the 1980s in Poland and demand systematized research, analysis and perhaps also measures of justice to rehabilitate those who were victimized by the state apparatus.

The main objectives of the “Hiacynt” operations, as defined in the documents issued by the headquarters of the police in Warsaw, were: to investigate the homosexual circles, to register the homosexual prostitutes, to establish the knowledge about possible AIDS cases and to get to know more about young men, some of whom are becoming homosexual when runaway etc. The initial document starting the “Hiacynt” operation of 1986 specified that the operations should not concern individuals already under the Secret Services supervision, which most certainly means the political opposition. This would be a very clear indication that the initial motifs behind the “Hiacynt” operation were not immediately directed at the political opposition. It actually seems that there was a genuine concern about “AIDS” and the unsolved criminal cases within the police forces of the time. In one of Ewa Majewska

the IPN documents it can be read that this action was started because the high number of unsolved murder cases when the victim was homosexual was 7 times bigger than of those cases in which the victim was heterosexual (Pietkiewicz).

On 14 October 1985 a “Framework of the Nationwide Operation „ was issued by the headquarters of the Polish Police in Warsaw (Komenda Główna Milicji Obywatelskiej, KGMO) and signed by its vice- commendant, general Zenon Trzcinski. All the state officials and gay activists confirm that the order must have come from the Minister of Interior (Ministerstwo Spraw Wewnętrznych, MSW), at that time – general Czesław Kiszczak, however I could not find such a document in the IPN archive. I believe it 65 is logical that the order must have been issued by the Minister of Interior, this was also suggested by numerous gay activists. In this Framework we find a general description of the aims, strategies, tactics etc of an action which was to be started at 8.00 AM on 15 November 1985 and to be terminated at midnight on 16 November 1985. At this early moment of what I would call “the first Hiacynt operation” (there will be similar mobilizations in 1986 and 1987) the logic of the supposedly communist Leviathan is a “caring” one. The first reason given to legitimize the action is the lack of success in solving murder cases in which the victims are homosexual. The state acts therefore not as a prohibitor of homosexual acts but as a guiding, caring instance that understands the vulnerability of the non-heterosexual masculine subjects who live a risky, often lonely life under cover and might be vulnerable to criminal activity or might also participate in it. In line with Foucault’s somehow ironic narrative from The Society must be Defended lectures series, the Polish state’s agents also tried to “care” for their citizens, to protect them in classically “pastoral” ways. At that time the Polish state was composed of 49 regions (vojvodshafts). The IPN archives I managed to see (although I demanded a more extensive material on several occasions) provided the information on 9 of them. They were often scattered; more or less complete files came only from Szczecin and Białystok. The “Hiacynt” operation was conducted in each of the 49 regions, which required local “action plans” and specific forms of involvement and possibly also resistance, or at least obstinacy, which could today be seen as a form of (intended or unintended) resistance.

Gay activists in Poland claim that the process of registering gay men, brutal investigations and threats were intrinsic elements of the “Hiacynt” operations. The archives do not allow this kind of generalization; however, they do suggest that in some regions in Poland this might have been the case. The popular belief is also that there was one “Hiacynt” action which lasted several years. This also cannot be confirmed on the basis of the IPN archives, which prove that there were several, most probably 3, actions that lasted for less than 48 hours and in some cases led to new investigations. However, it is possible that the regional police headquarters, as well as police stations, were using the name “Hiacynt” or referring to these operations as a justification of their homophobic actions in other periods than these stipulated as the beginnings of the “Hiacynt” operations.

Interestingly, some form of resistance can be found also in the police files. In the small town called Police and three other small towns near Szczecin, the police refused to conduct the “Hiacynt” operation Ewa Majewska

because – as they wrote in their notes sent to Szczecin’s police headquarters, “no homosexual milieu was detected in our region”11. This might simply mean laziness or insubordination, but perhaps it was more than that – a sudden act of refusal based on decency? The chief of the police in Szczecin demanded to register all gay men in Szczecin, which led to the production of a list of 450 men, with their addresses and dates of birth, in 1985 and another 550 men in consecutive years. The registration of gay men in the regions was not mentioned as a necessary task in the documents issued by the Warsaw General Police Headquarters, and it seems from the IPN archive that the police chiefs in other regions did not order such private data collections. The gay men were brought to police stations on 15 November 1985 in several cities in Poland, according to the statements made by 66 activists – at least in Wrocław, Kraków, Gdańsk, Warsaw, Poznań and Sopot12. On the other hand, In Białystok the police seem to re-open the files of unsolved crimes against homosexual men and actually perform some police work. There is no mention of any “registering” of gay men in that region, however we must remember, that the IPN files are generally incomplete13. Every regional police chief was writing an action plan for the “Hiacynt” operation each year, and in Szczecin the registration of the gay men is not only mentioned but the archive also offers such a list, while in Białystok there is no mention of any general registration, however there are several names and addresses of supposedly gay men who are questioned. The police in Białystok also ordered some lectures about homosexuality, and the general focus of the “Hiacynt” action in that area seems to be to understand the gay milieu better in order to solve “pending” crimes, which cannot be said about the documentation of the actions conducted in Szczecin. This difference might result from the scarcity of the archive, however since the IPN archive provides reports from both regions to the Warsaw General Police Headquarters, and these reports differ significantly, it can be assumed with some probability that the ways the police conducted the “Hiacynt” operations varied depending on the region and possibly – on the decisions of the regional chiefs of the police.

The “Hiacynt” operation in 1986 was “enriched” by the problem of runaway youth and this led to some satiric archival results, like a detailed description of the Socialist Youth Organization of the Sieradz summercamp in Nowy Sącz, included in the “Hiacynt” operation file. The young people apparently drank alcohol and had sex14. This occupies some 40 pages of the files and perhaps explains why the topic of youth was dropped in 1987 during the next operation. From the perspective of the chaotic collection of data presented to me at the IPN archive in Warsaw, some of which arrived from other cities in Poland, the “Hiacynt” operation seems like a police action similar to any other. The exceptional effect of this action was the building up of resistance, as early as in 1986: gay men began to unite and decided to register the first gay-rights organization to defend their rights. There

11 IPN documents from the Szczecin Region: the action plan demanding registration of homosexual men: KR 04381.85; KR I 03363/85; the documentation of the refusals of the undertaking of the “Hiacynt” operation in Pyrzyce L.dz. 02229/85. 12 Based on conversations with Paweł Leszkowicz, Waldemar Zboralski, Karol Radziszewski, Błażej Warkocki and several other anonymous testimonies; conducted in the years 2015-2017. 13 IPN documents concerning Bialystok and the region, file nr: IPN Bi 445/15 19/5: concerning AIDS: KR III 154/ 85; concerning crimes investigated during the “Hiacynt” operation: KRIII 355/87, KR I 01829/87. 14 IPN document nr OE III 06266/86. Ewa Majewska

was a “gay Walesa” – Waldemar Zboralski, a gay activist from Nowa Sól, who came out long before the police started the “Hiacynt” operations (Tomasik)15. He was one of the first gay men to openly declare the necessity of standing up against the repression and legalizing an organization of gay men and lesbians to speak up about their rights.

Incidents of orientation-based violence have been discussed in sociological books, for example Gejerel by Krzysztof Tomasik, but also in literary fiction smoothly mixing social facts, like Michał Witkowski's Lubiewo [Lovetown], also in art catalogues and books. Several persons claim that they know people who were threatened, harassed or even raped (Witkowski). Zboralski, who is the most 67 outspoken about the “Hiacynt” events, says that the policeman who investigated him seemed em- barrassed and generally showed that he did not feel comfortable asking about Zboralski’s intimate life details16. I would not like to suggest that the cruelty of the police actions against gay men depicted in Lovetown never happened. The IPN archives allow one to assume that perhaps they were not immediate effects of the “Hiacynt” operations, but resulted from other reasons, including the homophobic character of the society in general and some police members in particular.

LaCapra claims that “trauma registers in hyperbole”, that even those who promise a linear, realistic report end up repeating literary narratives, inventing events etc. LaCapra uses the radical example of Primo Levi and his effort of reporting of Auschwitz. Levi claims that he will not use any metaphoric or poetic language, which of course does not happen, and La Capra demonstrates it. Another paradox of Levi’s “report” emphasized by La Capra is the fact that the image Levi paints of Eastern European women clearly comes from the anticommunist propaganda of the 1950s American media, so from the time after he was one of the prisoners of the Auschwitz camp… I would like to suggest that the memories of the people involved in the “Hiacynt” operations might mix events that happened under different orders and circumstances, in different years and within different agendas.

The remnants of the IPN documentation of the “Hiacynt” actions in the years 1985-1987 allow one to see contemporary police surveillance in a larger perspective, both historically and politically. Becoming public in the context of homosexual men in a homophobic society is not necessarily a wanted strategy. In the context of the “Hiacynt” actions we witness an underscrutinized form of becoming public happening via the state investigations and surveillance and resistance to those and not one based on individual choices. Both in the “Hiacynt” actions in Poland in the 1980s and in the current “data wars”17, the overdose of state surveillance leads to the appearance of new public personae who resist them, but also certain individuals or groups become “public” against their will due to the leaks from state agencies or because they decide to oppose and resist the state activities.

15 A letter of Zboralski available in the National Library in Warsaw, 19 November 1985. 16 Based on the conversations with the activist, 2015 and on the articles in the magazine Inaczej, 10/99. 17 Just one reference to a largely used notion: http://sloanreview.mit.edu/article/the-coming-consumer-data-wars. Ewa Majewska

Le cas Foucault

Michel Foucault was one of the first men oppressed by the Polish state apparatus on the grounds of his homosexuality, but not merely because of it, after the WWII. When in Great Britain the brilliant logician, and WWII hero, Alan Touring, was still facing a dilemma of either imprisonment for his sexual orientation or being subjected to a hormonal treatment, which eventually cost him his life, in Poland homosexuality was legal from 1932 on, yet not socially accepted.

In 1957 Foucault went to Warsaw to become the director of the Centre de la Civilisation Francaise in 68 Warsaw, an old research entity within the University of Warsaw. At that time he also researched for his studies on the clinic (The Birth of the Clinic was published in 1963). Foucault wrote in a letter to his friend on 22 November 1958 that “Ubu [le Roi – a piece by Alfred Jarry, EM] happens now in Poland, meaning nowhere. I am in prison: I mean on the other side, but this actually is the worse”18. As it was claimed in several biographies of Foucault, including Eribon’s, he had to leave Poland in 1959 due to a secret police action which led to a scandal involving his sexual life (Eribon). All the sources confirm that an agent was introduced to Foucault to play the role of his lover, and some sources also claim that the motivation behind the scandal was his research on confinement and his contacts with more critical academics (Fiedotow). The Polish State Archive (IPN) does not contain any information on Foucault, or at least I was not able to find any of it. It does contain however quite specific information about several other important cultural figures, such as writers or composers, and their sexual lives, depicted in sometimes astonishing details by two particularly active “spies”, gathered a bit later, in the early 1960s. Today, these facts are quite well known, but at the time it could have had some power as a threatening tool. This kind of depictions, resulting from the activity of civilians spying on their friends or colleagues, are not present in the files from the 1980s, where almost only the state agents, usually policemen, collected the results of their work, usually in a particularly dry and formal style.

The archive fever

Derrida’s theory of the archive is based on the presumption that working for the past actually means working for the future, that reshaping the past order and possibly also past traumas establishes not only the possibility of a future but also a version of it, possibly a less traumatized one: “The archive has always been a pledge, and like every pledge [gage], a token of the future. To put it more trivially: what is no longer archived in the same way is not lived the same way. Achievable meaning is also and in advance codetermined by the structure that archives. It begins with the printer” (Derrida, “Archive Fever”). The father-son/father-daughter relations permeate his vision, since Freud’s letter to his own father is discussed, and also Freud's relation to Anna. Modernity, par excellence the time of archives, starts with the father figure being killed by the brothers, who later re-enact the father’s most hated aspects in their unconscious mimicking of the patriarchal power. The re-enacted “father” now

18 Michel Foucault’s Archive online, http://michel-foucault-archives.org/?Michel-Foucault-et-la-Pologne,306. Translation from the French: EM. Ewa Majewska

has to confront the daughter(s), and this is where I also found myself while visiting the IPN state archive – with the “father” killed by many: the anti-communist opposition, the rebelling gay men in the 1980s, my own antipatriarchalism etc; the father re-established in me becoming an archont in the archive when I was rearranging the otherwise completely chaotic files so that they form a response to my questions about the “Hiacynt” operations, all enacting not just intellectual but also affective response to the archive and the files it contains. There is an interesting twist between the titles of two versions of Jacques Derrida’s most famous essay on the archive – in the French version we see the “evil or pain of the archive”, clearly referring to the death drive which Derrida locates in the archive. In the English title of the same text we only encounter “fever”, which in some cases cannot 69 be good, yet it might also work as a power having contradictory significations – like the pharmacon or the writing, which petrifies and sets free at the same time (Derrida, “Plato’s Pharmacy” and “Archive Fever”). The malaise, the fever, but also sickness, was definitely my experience at the IPN, but at the same time some catharsis appeared as I slowly managed to put the puzzles of the “Hiacynt” operations together on my small desk in April 2015, 30 years after the first police operation of surveillance and control of the Polish gay community.

For a situated knowledge or feminist uses of partiality and location

Laura Poitras, the Oscar winning documentalist, who made Edward Snowden’s enunciations a publicly known matter, recently opened an exhibition at the Whitney Gallery in New York, in which she discussed the lives under surveillance, including her own19. In the debates about surveillance it is often forgotten how deeply these practices of the eyes and hands of Leviathan alter one’s life experience, especially in the times of the digital data collection when we do not even try to be nostalgic over some lost “privacy” in a sharp consciousness that perhaps we never had... The archives of the “Hiacynt” operations definitely alter the affective neutrality causing flashbacks, comparisons and associations because they contain the documentation of oppressive control actions performed by the state power on people whose only “crime” was to desire against the heteronormative social norm.

The “Hiacynt” files from the mid 1980s were produced at the time when my own father was involved in the political opposition, and also spied upon, arrested and investigated. The confrontation with files concerning men investigated by the Secret Police in the same years as my own father was, obviously is not the same experience as the one I might have visiting my father’s files, but it un- expectedly evokes memories, including traumatic ones. The “accusation” of homosexuality and sexual abuse was used against my father to discourage his students from supporting him around the year 1984 when he was arrested for 7 months. This kind of allegations were a common strategy of the Polish secret services, although obviously this is not something to be found in the IPN files, probably because the police forces did not document their own violence against gay citizens. Since my family’s contacts with the “caring” forces of the state powers are not only of dissident nature –

19 Laura Poitras, Astro Noise: A Survival Guide for Living Under Total Surveillance, exhibition statement for the Whitney Museum in New York 2016. Ewa Majewska

after 1989 my father became a politician, one of his responsibilities was the reshaping of the Polish Police and other institutions of repression, there is some unheimlichkeit in these shifts of power that condenses and collapses in the process of archive research of that period. It is only ironic that later I confronted the same executive powers of the state both as a political radical and researcher. The images of my somewhat troubled childhood were obviously brought back by the IPN files and I came to a reflection that some other people of those 11 000 affected by the “Hiacynt” action were troubled in a similar way.

The sense of privacy, the number and forms of the daily experience coding strategies, a sense of 70 always being observed – these are peculiar experiences, and perhaps only those exposed to them know how they affect their trust in others, the sense of safety, intimacy and other aspects of life that are usually seen as the core of privacy. At my home we never had that. When I was a child, the police raids, including those actually leading to my father’s imprisonment, were quite common. From a certain point we knew the apartment was bugged, so certain conversations were hushed, and some topics abandoned. The books, pillows and other things had double functions, also serving as containers of other materials, like Marx and Engels’s Communist Manifesto which was used as a hiding place for small anti-communist leaflets since no secret policeman would think it could contain such things. This would eventually teach me certain behaviors that my friends did not develop, later we called it “hygiene in our contacts with the police”, an appropriately Foucauldian term. While the proximity with the police was shaping the behaviors of my father and my own, it had a very different impact on my mother who was deeply traumatized by these restrictions of privacy, and she reacted with some classical post-traumatic stress disorder, the most theatrical manifestation of which was perhaps her habit of hiding us – herself and me, age five or six, under our big table with a candle (which could easily put our home on fire) and repeating neurotically that “they are listening” until I convinced her to go to bed. These images of my somewhat troubled childhood accompanied my reading of the IPN files on several levels – on the highly personal one, where once again I had to confront the sad obligation to calm my own mother in the times of my father’s imprisonment, and on a more generalized level as well, in which, as I think I can realistically imagine, not only my mother but perhaps also some other people of those 11 000 affected by the “Hiacynt” action were traumatized by the police as well, perhaps to such extent as my mother? I was sitting there, in the IPN building, trying to mend the pieces of yet another “broken vessel” of the “Hiacynt” actions20, trying to understand the logics of the police from the scattered pieces of the original texts, possibly destroyed in 90%, and at the same time revisiting traumatic memories of my parents’ lives and my own childhood trauma, at the same time arranging the archive in a comprehensive way and also producing growing empathy towards the suddenly scrutinized gay men living in the 1980s Poland who sometimes had families, towards the kids whose fathers were being dragged out of homes... The scarcity of resources, but also the general argument of “they were not really persecuted, look at

20 I am vaguely referring to Walter Benjamin’s theory of translation here, see: Walter Benjamin, The Task of Translator, 1968. Ewa Majewska

the real victims of communism”, is not enough to preserve the silence of the archive and the silence of the victims of state abuse. The Polish queer communities will not build reasonable standards of state’s responsibility without a decent investigation concerning the 1980s police actions against gay men. We need to work it through, otherwise it will hunt us as a ghost of those who were persecuted and never gained peace.

Matteo Pasquinelli rightly points out that today it is metadata that seems to be the main object of investigative scrutiny. Depicting the difference between now and the times of Foucault, he argues that “the database depicts mathematically the formations of power that Foucault was used to record 71 institutionally” (254). In his account the central position of metadata signifies that the individual was replaced by “the dividual”, production by modulation and bodies by masses and samples, just as Deleuze argued in the Postscript to the societies of control. This shift does not tell us that the control over individual has been replaced by the more general su*rveillance of groups. It informs us that the algorithms are generated far more quickly, but it also suggests that as data is collected in masses also massive mistakes and misunderstandings are possible. I would add, basing on my own experience of traumatic results of surveillance, that also massive traumas are induced on otherwise also quite insane masses of today.

Wherever there is control, there always is resistance

In her article about queer visibility and its relations to the capitalist process of commodification, Rosemary Hennessy argues that

A way of seeing sexuality, critique insists on making connections between the emergence of a discourse or identity in industrialized social formations and the international division of labor, between sexy commodity images and labor, the spectacle and the sweat- shop, style and class (141).

In the context of the massive data collecting taking place today both in the commercial contexts but also by the state apparatus, we should understand the connection between data collecting and circulation in different parts of the world as means of control, disciplining and abuse. We should also try to think beyond the repressive hypothesis, as Foucault rightly insisted; this however cannot lead to assimilationist strategies of accepting the archives as they are, because all state regimes create oppression. The intrinsic connection between state and oppression, emphasized among others by Judith Butler, who in Gender Trouble makes a brilliant case of symbolic violence accompanying the binary gender divisions, and in Excitable Speech explains the presence of censorship in any culture, cannot lead to the blind acceptance of institutional abuse. The culture wars also lead to battles in the archives about what is stored there, how it is made accessible to the public, who is to define it.

Ewa Majewska

In the post-communist countries archives have been instrumentalized by the political right, often for the purpose of discriminating against the opposition. Disagreeing with such misuses of the state archives, we cannot assume the conformist attitude of neglecting the archives as “corrupted anyways.” In order to maintain disagreement with state abuse, we need to work on dissident, oppositional, critical practices in the archive. In a recently published article, Stanimir Panayotov displays precisely the opposite position arguing that “the making of the queer archive is merely the exposure of false consciousness”. It can very well be argued that the false consciousness consists in remixing catchy phrases without comprehension. The unexamined presumption that queer politics can only survive in actu can perhaps seduce some rhetorically unprepared audience, but its main premises do not 72 hold if we examine any cultural production. The refusal of engaging with the archives and more generally – with the hard work of rehearsing, transforming and queering the canon is at best a childish conformism dressed up as disobedience resulting in handing the power over our future to the archonts of the past who had centuries to profess it in ways leading to our exclusion and discrimination.

As an alternative I suggest to explode the archives with our queer radical affects, methodologies and disobedience, to invade and reshape them in such ways that for a traditional archivist will seem like a bombing. We need to enter the archives, to declare our democratic power over their content and our right to rework the twisted and abusive line of state treatment of the LGBTQA minorities. In his blatant effort to contradict any rational take on the archive, Panayotov also claims that “the forma- lization of remembrance and memory of sexual difference cannot be non-normative” (124). After decades of memory and archive studies, this statement seems a matter of fact only until we realize that it is embedded in a supposedly radical manifesto in which such evident truths are combined with a complete lack of interest in actually contradicting or opposing the state power. He also states that “the form of institution, apart from being a biopolitical site of exclusion, is the battlefield of identity” (121). His strategy is to give this battle up. There is no bigger conformity than that.

In the context of the “Hiacynt” archive, it is a question of whether to protect the privacy of people investigated in the 1980s or perhaps preserve the archive as a set of traces of the state’s repressive, disciplinary and controlling agency in a particular time. In Lisa Duggan’s words, “the queering of the state should proceed as a practice of dissent”. I argued in line with her that a disruptive, subversive attitude towards the part of the state archive depicted here is perhaps better than the more definitive ones demonstrated by the gay activists until now. The demands to “bring order” to the scattered and dispersed parts of the “Hiacynt” archive or the calls to eliminate this archive are both built on a sense of clarity and innocence which is never accessible in the state archives and which has also been criticized by feminist and queer researchers as an ideologized ideal in the context of defining privacy or identity. Enforcing “order” on the IPN archive, and particularly on its “Hiacynt” part, could be compared to the claims to “the objective knowledge” and the efforts to get rid of this archive – to “relativism”, both criticized by Haraway in Situated Knowledges.

Ewa Majewska

Today neither the liquidation of the archive will be effective as scholars, politicians, journalists and others had access to it and probably also documented it, nor the demand of full order could possibly be effective given that different parts of the archive had been dispersed in different institutions and some 90% of the police documentation had been destroyed around 1989. Our knowledge will always be “partial” and situated, and perhaps this is the only way of gathering it.

It is important to emphasize that the “Hiacynt” operations directly inspired the first efforts to create gay rights organizations in Poland. Waldemar Zboralski and other gay activists demanded the acceptance of their organization which they wanted to register since 1988. Since their own efforts 73 did not break through, they requested support from state functionaries, lawyers and politicians, who – like Professor Mikolaj Kozakiewicz – supported their petition and put some pressure on the Polish state. Then the year 1989 came, the system changed, and the first two post-“Solidarność” governments seemed actually quite promising not just for the legalization of the gay rights ngo’s and groups but also for the state engagement in the protection of the rights and liberties of the Polish gay community. This tendency of resistance seems present also today, when Jakieś Studia Gejowskie lub Lesbijskie [Some Gay or Lesbian Studies Journal] was created after the current moment minister of higher education, Jaroslaw Gowin, declared that he wants to cancel all the gender and queer studies programs at Polish universities and that the gay and lesbian studies journals should not be given any recognition21. We can obviously accept this politics of ignorance or we can explode it with the knowledges, practices and lived experiences aimed at a transversal, queer reshaping of culture, approaching archives like any other field of social praxis – with radicalism, affect and critique.

It is therefore even more important to research the past ways the Polish state investigated sexualities, to build critiques of the state surveillance, which are actually helpful and do not solely spread panic, and to form solidarity networks across the lines of class and political views in which resistance can be practiced not only theoretically. For all this to really happen, privacy needs to cease being an ideological site of privilege. This text is perhaps an effort to perform the supposedly impossible connection between the Foucauldian and Habermassian traditions, to move between the supposedly caring powers of the sovereign gaze and the conceptual framework of the public sphere in order to provide a queer-feminist critical response, embracing the risks resulting from the current forms of surveillance. The discussion about how a state archive should function, also as a resource of information concerning sexuality, is par excellence a public sphere topic, and it allows us to undermine the liberal optimistic vision of the public as a blessing. It also undermines the conservative repressive silencing of sex minorities and gender radicals, leading to a more egalitarian society of dissent. I do not believe that without a strong queer counterpublics any interesting social changes could be reached. As Derrida claimed, and as the state functionaries very well know, the archives

21 Jaroslaw Gowin’s statement in Polish: http://wyborcza.pl/1,75478,19198390,minister-gowin-reforma-nauki-i- szkolnictwa-wyzszego-zaboli.html (accessed 10.09.2016); Some Gay or Lesbian Studies Journal website: https://jsgll.wordpress.com (accessed 01.10.2017). Ewa Majewska

have the power over our future. Regardless, whether it is based on our progeny or merely on the digital avatars of our precious selves, we might want it freed from the hetero-matrix.

I think that Gayatri Spivak (“Scattered Speculations”) was right when she argued that Habermas’s model of the public sphere should not be forgotten, but it should constantly be resisted. In this sense queering the public means not only using the existing public sphere against a repressive archive, it also means permeating the collective critical strategies and techniques with somewhat deconstructive and counter-liberal insights. In one of his earlier books, In a Queer Time and Place Jack Halberstam makes several suggestions concerning queer archive. He argues that 74

by reckoning only with Brandon’s story, as opposed to the stories of his girlfriends, his family, and those other two teenagers who died alongside him, we consent to a liberal narrative of individualized trauma. For Brandon’s story to be meaningful, it must be about more than Brandon (33).

It is important to notice that a tacit claim for radical archivization is embedded in this generally innocent statement. What is important in this claim however is the insistence on not separating the queer from the (supposedly) non-queer. I tried to show that this insistence could be developed into noticing elements of disruption or subversion in the institutions supposedly functioning as the key agents of the social order, such as the police. In the behavior of the contemporary archivists and historical agents of government control there is sometimes more subversion than in the actions of some activists or supposed radicals. This paradox is one of the highlights in this text.

On the 25th of September 2007 two gay rights activists, Szymon Niemiec and Jacek Adler filed a demand to the IPN to investigate the “Hiacynt Action”, as they called it, as a case of a crime against the Polish nation. The response came on the 29th of January 2008 in the form of decision of the Regional Court in Warsaw that there is no sufficient ground to find a crime in the agency of the Polish authorities. The Chief of the IPN at the time, Janusz Kurtyka, made a stronger claim – he said, that the “organs” of the Polish state acted to protect the population. As most of the actual witnesses of the events do not talk openly and the only documentation of the “facts” remains police data, scattered as it is, most probably destroyed in 90% or more, we will never be able to reconstruct the events surrounding the “Hiacynt” operations in fully credible ways. There is however some hope in visiting even these scattered archive, there is something more than actual orders, arguments and practices of the state functionaries that we can find there. The constant curiosity and “caring” engagement of the state authorities with our bodily and sexual practices is once again documented there. I believe that it is worth going to the IPN archives just to learn about that. It is not only interesting as a historical fact. The states do investigate our bodily and sexual practices still now, only now their technological capacities expanded to an extent which is difficult to imagine. Obviously, the visit to the IPN archives was useful also because it allows understanding of the processes. We can Ewa Majewska

accept this clear abuse based on a misinterpretation of the historical facts, or we can undermine the way the archives have been organized with critical practice.

My visit to the IPN archives was useful because it allowed me to understand the mechanism of one of the most enigmatic operations of the Polish state in the 1980s. It is a necessary companion to the traumatized memories of those who, because of the “Hiacynt” operations, but very probably – mostly because of other police actions, became the victims of homophobic crimes. Their pain, their trauma and oppression should never be forgotten, and it is, I think, an important part of any researcher’s work, including my own, not only to remind others of it, but also to act upon this moral and political 75 premise so that any form of registering, segregation or gender, race, ethnicity, ableism or sexual orientation-based bias can never be deployed again. In this I join Zinn’s postulate of “archive activism”, while also queering it in ways depicted above. I hope that both queer archives and the process of queering the state archive will soon accelerate.

Works Cited

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Francis, Charles, and Pate Felts. “Archive Activism: Vergangenheitsbewaltigung!” QED: A Journal in GLBTQ Worldmaking 4.1 (2017): 28-41. Print. Fraser, Nancy. “Rethinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of Actually Existing Democracy.” Social Text 25/26 (1990): 56-80. Print. Gatens, Moira. “Privacy and the Body: The Privacy of the Affect.” Privacies: Philosophical Evaluations. Ed. Beate Rössler. Stanford: Stanford UP, 2004. 113-132. Print. Greene, Mark A. “A Critique of Social Justice as an Archival Imperative: What Is It We’re Doing That’s All That Important?” The American Archivist 76.2 (2013): 302–334. Print. Habermas, Jürgen. The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere. An Inquiry into a Category of 76 Bourgeois Society. Massachusetts: MIT Press, 1989. Print. Halberstam, Jack. In a Queer Time and Place. Transgender Bodies, Subcultural Lives. New York: New York UP, 2005. Print. Hansen, Hans Krause, Lars Thøger Christensen, and Mikkel Flyverbom. “Introduction: Logics of Transparency in Late Modernity: Paradoxes, Mediation and Governance.” European Journal of Social Theory 18.2 (2015): 117-131. Print. Haraway, Donna. Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature. New York: Routledge, 1991. Print. Hennessy, Rosemary. Profit and Pleasure. Sexual Identities in Late Capitalism. New York: Routledge, 2000. Print. Hochschild, Arlie. The Managed Heart. Commercialization of Human Feeling. Berkeley: U of California P, 1983. Print. hooks, bell. Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center. New York: South End Press, 1984. Jimerson, Randall C. “From the Pacific Northwest to the Global Information Society: The Changing Nature of Archival Education.” Journal of Western Archives 1.1 (2010): 1–22. Web. 9 May 2019. . Kitliński, Tomek, and Paweł Leszkowicz. Miłość i demokracja. Rozważania o kwestii homoseksualnej w Polsce. Kraków: Aureus, 2005. Print. Kluge, Aleksander, and Oskar Negt. Public Sphere and Experience: Toward an Analysis of the Bourgeois and Proletarian Public Sphere. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1993. Print. Kozakiewicz, Mikołaj. “List poparcia dla środowisk homoseksualnych” [Letter of support for the homosexual community]. IPN document, 1988. Kurpios, Paweł. “Poszukiwani, poszukiwane. Geje i lesbijki a rzeczywistość PRL.” Kultura i społeczeństwo PRL. Eds. Magdalena Parus-Jaskulowska, and Anna Stabrowska. Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Wrocławskiego, 2001. 35-40. Print. LaCapra, Dominick. Writing History, Writing Trauma. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 2001. Print. Lorey, Isabell. State of Insecurity. Government of the Precarious. London: Verso, 2015. Print. Montag, Warren, and Mike Hill. Masses, Classes and the Public Sphere. London: Verso, 2005. Print. Negri, Antonio, and Michael Hardt. Commonwealth. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 2009. Print. Ewa Majewska

Panayotov, Stanimir. “Straight Separatism: Ten Theses on the Queer Archive.” Interalia: A Journal of Queer Studies 11a (2016): 122-124. Web. 9 May 2019. . Pasquinelli, Matteo. “Metadata Society.” Posthuman Glossary. Eds. Rosi Braidotti, and Maria Hlavajova. London: Bloomsbury, 2018. 253-256. Print. Pietkiewicz, Barbara. “Gorzki fiolet.” Antologia polskiego reportażu z XX wieku. Tom 2. Ed. Mariusz Szczygieł. Wołowiec: Wydawnictwo Czarne, 2014. N. pag. Print. Quinn, Patrick M. “The Archivist as Activist.” Georgia Archive 5.1 (1977): 1-11. Web. 9 May 2019. . Rawson, K. J. “Archival Justice. An Interview with Ben Power Alwin.” Radical History Review 122 (2015): 177-187. Print. Ryziński, Remigiusz. Foucault w Warszawie. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Dowody na Istnienie, 2016. Print. Selerowicz, Andrzej. Kryptonim “Hiacynt.” Warszawa: queermedia, 2015. Print. Spivak, Gayatri Ch. A Critique of Postcolonial Reason. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard UP, 1999. Print. ------. “Scattered Speculations on the Question of Value.” Diacritics 15.4 (1985): 73-93. Print. Tomasik, Krzysztof. Gejerel. Mniejszości seksualne w PRL-u. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Krytyki Politycznej, 2012. Print. Warkocki, Błażej. Różowy język. Literatura i polityka kultury na początku wieku. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Krytyki Politycznej, 2015. Print. Witkowski, Michał. Lovetown. London: Portobello Books, 2011. Print. Zboralski, Waldemar. A letter available in the National Library in Warsaw. 19 Nov. 1985. Zinn, Howard. “Secrecy, Archives, and the Public Interest.” Midwestern Archivist 2.2 (1977): 14-17. Print.

Upublicznianie wbrew naszej woli? Opiekuńczy wzrok Lewiatana, polskie „różowe teczki” z lat 80. XX w. i kwestia prywatności

Artykuł jest próbą zrozumienia logiki dużej akcji przeprowadzonej przez milicję obywatelską i służby specjalne, polegającej na inwigilacji i bezpośredniej kontroli homoseksualnych mężczyzn w Polsce pod koniec lat 80. XX w. Aktywiści LGBTQ+ twierdzą, że akcją objęto około 11.000 mężczyzn, lecz akcja ta nigdy nie została rzetelnie zbadana. Po 1989 r. nie zostały też podjęte przez wymiar sprawiedliwości żadne kroki naprawcze. Niniejszy artykuł łączy „aktywizm archiwalny” Howarda Zinna (i podzielających jego poglądy queerowych aktywistów i teoretyków) z wybranymi elementami teorii sfery publicznej i kontrpublik (Kluge i Negt, Warner et al.), dekon- struktywizm krytyczny oraz feministyczne badania na temat archiwów i prywatności (Derrida, Berlant, Gatens), by otworzyć dyskusję na temat tego, jak queerować rozproszone państwowe archiwa milicji i służb specjalnych bez petryfikacji, nostalgii i poddawania się. Autorka rozważa szerokie spektrum implikacji „bycia osobami publicznymi wbrew naszej woli”, przedstawiania form oporu i nieposłuszeństwa, a także „archiwizowania wbrew ich woli” w instytucjonalnym kontekście unikania odpowiedzialności.

Słowa kluczowe: archiwa, Akcja „Hiacynt”, inwigilacja homoseksualnych mężczyzn, milicja obywatelska

Westernization and The Transmogrification of Sailor Moon

Rhea Ashley Hoskin Queen’s University

Sailor Moon, a Japanese series grounded in manga and anime, began airing translations in the West throughout the 1990s. The series provided what could be interpreted as resistance to dichotomous conceptualizations of sexuality, sex and gender. The focus of this article is the set of challenges presented by the genderqueer characters in Sailor Moon and how Westernization and English translations have worked to erase and re-write queer identities. Arguably, Sailor Moon acts as a site to play out the contextualities and complexities of sexuality, sex and gender identities. To name Sailor Moon characters in Western specific terms would be at the expense of reducing the complexity of their identities to a categorical system whose boundaries detract and limit meaning. Queer characters in Sailor Moon are not translatable into dichotomous Western thought - categories fail us and, through their enforcement, the depth of meaning and the complexities of queer identities/desires are lost in translation. Working within Western binary systems, categories and language, many of these identities appear contradictory and incoherent. Sailor Moon characters offer a re-envisioning of identities that is not limited by Western binaric thought and cannot be easily pegged within the heterosexual matrix.

Keywords: gender, sexuality, Sailor Moon, anime/manga, censorship, westernization

Introduction

The tradition of bifurcated thought is heavily influenced by Renee Descartes, who divided all of reality into „conscious subjects” and „mere bodies” – otherwise known as mind/body dualism (Bordo). Operating within Western systems of thought, cultural intelligibility relies on dichotomous pairings. These dichotomies prop up much of Western thought and are largely the framework through which Western society derives meaning. One of many social expressions of discursive dualities is that, while some groups have been awarded subject-status and protections, others have regularly and systema- tically been denied those protections, stripped of their „dignifying, and humanizing subjecttivity” and erased from the public view (Bordo). The current paper will examine the function of discursive binaries in maintaining Western heteronormativity through the translation and transmogrification of Sailor Moon. This paper will demonstrate how discursive practices are carried out through exclusions and erasure within cultural imagination and representation of what constitutes proper subjectivity.

Sailor Moon, a Japanese series grounded in manga and anime, began airing translations in the West throughout the 1990s (Grigsby 59). Though there are slight variations of timelines, Sailor Moon was cancelled between 1997-2003, depending on the location and network. Sailor Moon is both the title of the show and the name of the protagonist who, along with the other Sailor Scouts, are brought to Earth from the future to protect it against evil. The Sailor Scouts each have alias-human bodies as well as names and can transform into their respective superhero form when summoned. The show had a large audience base, as it was not only equally popular among girls and boys, but also appealed to adults, which made up 22 - 38% of the viewers (‘Sailor Moon among YTV’s Top 40 Shows’).

Ashley Hoskin

According to YTV, a leading Canadian broadcaster in the 1990s, of its 177 shows, Sailor Moon ranked among the top 40. Despite this popularity, the 5th and final season of Sailor Moon, which involved the Sailor Stars, was never dubbed or adapted for presentation in English to a North American audience. The cancellation of the show led fans of the show to launch the S.O.S. (Save Our Sailors) campaign, asking the networks to continue airing the show. The networks stood by their decision to stop translating the show into English, a somewhat mysterious decision given its extreme popularity.

Initially, the series seems recognizably heteronormative and conducive to the maintenance of heterosexual congruencies (Hoskin Femme theory). The term heterosexual congruencies refers to the 79 cultural aligning of sex, gender and sexualities in ways that are thought to remain consistent and unchanging (Hoskin Femme theory). For example, a feminine female that is heterosexual, whose sexuality, sex and gender have always remained stable and unchanging, would represent the notion of heterosexual congruency. Within the series, Sailor Moon, the main protagonist, appears to fit this model of heterosexual congruency. Sailor Moon has a distinctly male boyfriend and, along with her friends – the other Scouts, she is portrayed as being „boy-crazed.” A cursory examination of the storylines and characters can lead to the conclusion that the show presents characters who all appear to have stable sexes, genders and who are unquestionably heterosexual. However, upon closer inspection of the original and complete Japanese version of the entire Sailor Moon series, it becomes clear that the show contains many queer characters, relationships and a consistent blurring of the dichotomous boundaries concerning sex, sexuality and gender.

Unfortunately, the queer characters, relationships and depictions of gender fluidity were censored from the North American version of Sailor Moon as a result of decisions made by Optimum Productions, the Canadian company who produced the English version of Sailor Moon. Optimum claimed that the censorship of storylines and characters in the original Japanese version of Sailor Moon was required in order to meet the standards set out by the Canadian Radio - Television and Telecommunications Commissions (CRTC; Wockner). Optimum justified this censorship as a way of ensuring a „product that is suitable for children” (Velasco). Despite this explanation, a spokesperson for the CRTC stated that the organization had no guidelines at the time concerning queer content for children’s programing (Velasco). This article theorizes the reasoning behind Optimum Production’s decision to censor queer content. In so doing, the current paper explores the discursive process through which queer sexualities, genders and sexes were erased and re-written for the Anglicized version of Sailor Moon and how these censorships can be linked to historical and symbolic methods of disciplining bodies that are deemed not to fit within the dichotomous bounds of heteronormativity.

Nearly two decades since Sailor Moon began airing in the West, Canadian psychologists continue to grapple with gender independent children. With ongoing debates percolating over the ethics of how to best treat gender diverse children, the ease with which Sailor Moon characters engage with sexual and gender fluidity might provide a good prescription for the Western world. Specifically, the characters Ashley Hoskin

of Sailor Moon provide insight and stand as examples to remedy the current Canadian controversies over gender independent children. For example, the current Canadian context debates whether or not stopping children from growing up to be trans is considered conversion therapy asking whether it might be better to take the wait and see approach, whereby children are allowed to simply explore their gender identity in a supportive environment. This exploratory gender approach is much like how the characters on Sailor Moon are allowed to explore their identities within the original series. Sailor Moon characters offer an alternate starting point to questions of sexual and gender identity; one that is focused on fluid gender expressions, self-determination and identities that are not requisite to pre-existing categories of sex and gender. 80

Methodology

The following article employs Queer, Trans and Foucauldian theoretical frameworks as well as tools of content analysis. Rather than grounding this content analysis in quantification, the current analysis focuses on the meaning of the text in order to explore the queer content in Sailor Moon and the implications of North American editorial decisions. This analysis was further achieved by reviewing the complete Sailor Moon series and comparing the subtitles (direct translation) to the dubbed English voice-overs. Comparative manifest content analysis was used for the initial phase, in which I described the explicit material of the two versions of Sailor Moon, followed by a latent content analysis of the underlying and layered meaning of the texts (Kirby et al. 155; Esterberg 172). Finally, the Queer ‘scavenger’ method of combining both interactive and discourse content analysis was used to build theory and provide explanation for the discrepancies between manifest analyses and to examine their discursive function (Kirby et al. 220; Dahl).

Results: Revealing Queer Characters

In the original Japanese version, Zoisite is in a relationship with Malachite, both of whom are readable as cisgender men. Zoisite is characterized femininely and appears to romantically orient toward men. In the English dubbed version Zoisite is turned into a woman, rendering the formerly queer relationship between the characters heterosexual. According to Optimum Productions, Zoisite was changed from male to female due to broadcaster's fears that viewers would intuit a „gay” relationship between the characters (Wockner).

The third of Sailor Moon's five seasons introduces the queer couple, Sailors Uranus and Neptune (English Earth names Amara and Michelle, respectively). Amara is depicted as presenting or identifying masculinely in her Earth form. She uses feminine pronouns but is frequently read as a man. When the character Amara is introduced, the other Scouts have crushes on her, thinking that she is a boy. Amara tells the girls that she does not remember ever saying she was a boy, at which point the Scouts question their sexualities and deny their attraction but are drawn with hearts in their eyes and rose petals in the wind whenever Amara is around. When Amara transforms into Sailor Uranus her masculine presentations turns feminine, essentially challenging the idea of a dichotomously Ashley Hoskin

bound, monolithic and static gender expression as well as the assumption of feminine passivity. Amara transforms from masculine to feminine in order to fight: it is in her feminine gender expression that she becomes a powerful fighter. This transformation undermines the hegemonic and femme- phobic gender orderings that naturalizes the superiority of masculinity and maintains the assumed weakness of femininity (Blair and Hoskin “Experiences”; Hoskin Femme theory and “Femme Theory”; Serano).

Sailors Uranus/Amara and Neptune/Michelle are lovers. In the Japanese version the relationship between Amara and Michelle is evident. When dubbed over, Amara and Michelle are depicted as 81 „cousins” who are simply said to be „very close” (Wockner). The relationship between Amara and Michelle exemplify how the Westernization of Sailor Moon works to maintain heteronormativity and normative-bodies by erasing queer desire and identities.

Fisheye uses masculine pronouns, dresses as what might be considered a „woman” or feminine presentation and frequently refers to themself as a woman or girl. Fisheye is openly attracted to men and „passes” as a woman. Notably, the use of masculine pronouns may reflect cissexism and cisnor- mativity on the part of the translators who, through a biological determinist paradigm, have wrongly and problematically gendered Fisheye to reflect his/her/their sex as assigned at birth. As such, this article uses gender-neutral pronouns when referring to Fisheye.

Though Fisheye could be classified within Western cultural imaginaries as trans*, this category does not account for the complexities of their identity. In the series, Fisheye's non-binary gender-variance is made apparent, however these differences are masked once translated into English; the contrast between direct translation subtitles and the dubbed-voices demonstrate the deliberate erasure of queer-identities. For example, in season 4 Sailor Moon SuperS, episode „Mini ga daishiki!Oshare na Senshitachi / Clothes Call / Love Those Minis! The Fashionable Soldiers” (Satou), Fisheye is chosen to be an up-and-coming fashion designer's newest muse and model. In the direct translation, the designer states that Fisheye is a „miraculous person that surpasses genders.” This scene is altered so that, instead, the fashion designer says to Fisheye, „you're beautiful and have a unique look” (Satou). Later in the original episode during a fitting with the Fashion designer, Fisheye rips off the garment to reveal a masculine/male-contoured chest. In the dubbed version, the view of Fisheye's chest is cut so that the audience can only see from the shoulders up. Fisheye is changed into a stably gendered woman in the English dub of the anime. Scenes demonstrating their bodily signs of masculinity are cut and cropped.

The next queer characters appear in the fifth season, Sailor Moon Stars, the point at which Sailor Moon was cancelled in the West. Arguably, it is also at this point in the series that the concealment of queerness became too complicated and the erasure of queer-identities through translation and editing, impossible. On their „home-planet” the Sailor Starlights are women and female-bodied. On Earth, they embody masculinity, male identities and sexually orient towards women. When they Ashley Hoskin

„transform” from their Earth male-bodies into Sailor Starlights, they return to female-embodiment. The transformation sequence of the Sailor Starlights begins with what may typically be understood as a masculinely/male contoured body. The viewer watches as the physical embodiment of the Sailor Starlights weave between dichotomized boundaries of sex, gender and sexuality, essentially positioning these characters against notions of stable identity. Fluid identities became so complicated in Sailor Moon that Optimum Productions could no longer erase their variance nor account for their complexity.

The characters in Sailor Moon play out the complexities of sexuality, sex and gender identities in a 82 way that does not subscribe to Western binaries, nor the notion of stable identities bound by these categories. Furthermore, several characters may be readable as transgender, yet exemplify how this categorization would be at the expense of other identities. Working within binary systems, many of these identities appear contradicting and incoherent - confused because of their constant flux. Between English translations of Japanese depictions and processes of hegemony, their queerness is lost, erased and, eventually, taken off the air. English translations deemed „acceptable” by broad- casters could not account for the complexity of these identities, and the broadcaster’s attempts at erasure became too convoluted.

Bodies that Do Not Fit: Non-docility, Queers and Binary-Breakers

The queer characters of Sailor Moon represent what Cherrie Moraga and Gloria Anzaldúa describe as „the queer groups, the people that don't belong anywhere, not in the dominant world nor completely within [their] own respective cultures,” in short, those „who cross over, pass over, or go through the confines of the normal” (Moraga and Anzaldúa 222). These bodies do not fit and, for this reason, pose a threat to dominant systems of power (233). Margrit Shildrick (227) describes the threat of non- normative bodies as „anxiety of an inherent fluidity” generated by the „unpredictability of a body that does not behave as [one's] own.” Shildrick (227) explains that „it is as though [one's] own self- control is at stake, as though [one's] own ability to draw boundaries of distinction between self and other [...] is put in permanent doubt.” The Subject is therefore threatened by the Other, whose presence poses a symbolic endangerment by serving as a reminder of the „putative failure of [the Subject's] own boundaries of distinction and separation” (232). In this way, the queer characters of Sailor Moon threaten and expose the insecurity and vulnerability of conventions of normativity. Normativity's hold on „order, control, and self-determination is fragile and uncertain” and is maintained by strategies that uphold boundary structures (231).

Drawing from a Foucauldian model, docile bodies can be understood as those who either fit, may be subjected, used, transformed, improved or are easily malleable into hegemonic binary systems of normality (McRuer 20). Non-normative bodies do not fit and can be conceptually positioned against docile bodies. Historically, bodies that are not cohesive or undermine dominant structures have been disciplined. To this end, over the past two or three centuries bodies have been monitored „for signs Ashley Hoskin

of behavioural and physical difference that might impede on their productivity” with the intention of rendering these non-docile bodies complaisant within hegemonic systems of power (21).

Hegemonic systems of power, including dichotomous systems of thought and heterosexual congruencies, require docile bodies. A body that is docile does not challenge, go against or subvert dominant structures. Those bodies that are not complaisant with dominant structures pose a threat to dominant order. One means by which this threat is disciplined is through the erasure, representtation and invisibility of non-docile bodies. Michel Foucault (Discipline 8) argues that as punishment moved away from an immediate physical discipline it moved toward a „certain discretion in the art of 83 inflicting pain, a combination of more subtle, more subdued sufferings” such as depriving non-docile bodies of their visible display. Rather than contributing to the production of „docile bodies,” Sailor Moon „celebrates and proliferates images of unruly bodies” (Connell 212). Arguably, the denial of visibility through censorship functioned as a disciplinary sanction by normative rule.

Every system of power is presented with the same problem; a non-normative body that subverts the standard of normalcy (Foucault, Discipline 218). Discipline can be considered a „normalizing gaze” whereby surveillance monitors, classifies, conditions and establishes a visibility through which one is differentiated and then judged (184). It is a means of training bodies (231). From a Foucauldian perspective, the censorship and subsequent erasure of non-normative bodies and identities is a form of discipline. Specifically, this discipline pertains to the ways in which non-docile bodies are kept suppressed or erased from the public view. In this way, discipline is a tactic to assure the „ordering of human multiplicities” (218). However, power does not simply repress, it constructs by producing „knowledge, categories, and identities that manage and regulate behavior” (Spade 318). The erasure and normalizing of queer characters in Sailor Moon demonstrates a mechanism of social forces that functions to prop up a „naturalized version of the sexual boundary” and promotes norm abiding gendered subjects (315). Sailor Moon serves as a site of resistance against these systems and, as such, demonstrates how popular culture can serve as a site of resistance against binary systems of hegemonic heterosexual congruencies.

In challenging systems of hegemonic heterosexual congruencies, the characters of Sailor Moon call assumed naturalized orderings into question, forcing the viewer to consider how such orderings became naturalized and to begin re-imagining alternative possibilities (McRuer 2). Moreover, the system of compulsory heterosexuality depends on a queer existence that is contained: i.e., the hetero/homo binary. Failing to adhere to the „hetero/homo” binary through the fluidity of sexes and genders of its characters, Sailor Moon threatens to expose queer existences that can never quite be contained within this binary, illustrating how heterosexual hegemony is always in danger of collapse (31). Non-normative bodies, whose existence cannot be securely placed in polarized categories, expose the permeability of said boundaries (Shildrick 224). As demonstrated within Queer theory, normalcy is maintained through compulsion and repetition (McRuer 7). By upholding normalcy Ashley Hoskin

through the erasure of queer identities that cannot be situated within binaries, the cessation of Sailor Moon works to promote and maintain compulsory heterosexual congruencies.

Furthermore, the distinctions between cultural binaries (e.g. hetero/homo, cis/trans, male/female, and so on) require ongoing maintenance in order to uphold them as „discrete” categories. The censorship of existences between binary distinctions, such as those in Sailor Moon, reveals the maintenance necessary to uphold assumed natural orderings and serves as a threat to dominant powers (Shildrick 225). Consequently, this risk has been culturally „negotiated with a strict set of normative rules and regulations that construct the parameters of safety and danger” (225). Having no guideline 84 for queer content in children's television, yet maintaining social rules of keeping queer content away from children's developing imaginations, represents this normative rule of risk management. Furthermore, normativity's hold on „order, control and self-determination is fragile and uncertain, maintained only by strategies that hold at bay those others whose own corporeality re-awakens intimations” of the possibilities that exist and move between naturalized binaries (231).

Resistance, Power and Voices from the Margins

Practices of exclusion are discursive (Foucault History). Discourse is transformative in that where there is power there is resistance – the two constantly in flux and informing one another. In this way, power relations are inherently unstable as they continuously spawn new opportunities for transformation, putting hegemony in a perpetually precarious state (Bordo 28). While discourse is a productive power, Foucault also noted the „politically transformative possibility of counter-discourse,” encouraging those who have been silence, erased or otherwise marginalized to begin to articulate their subjectivity and „counter the domination of prevailing authoritative discourses” (as cited in Connell 212). Counter-discourse moves beyond productive power, recognizing the transformative power of voices from the margins and how they „can change discourse through the circulation of what Foucault calls ‘Subjugated Knowledges’” (Connell 212).

Power relations continuously spawn „new forms of culture and subjectivity,” and „new opportunities for transformation” (Bordo 27). Dominant discourses are continuously renegotiated and reconstruc- ted by resistance from the margins. Change, however, emerges gradually as both power and resistance remain in constant dialogue, continuously informing one another and creating minute shifts in power (Foucault History; Bordo). Power produces and normalizes bodies to „serve prevailing relations of dominance and subordination” (as cited in Bordo 26). Representations, along with discourses of sex(ual) embodiment, homogenize and „smooth out” all differences that disturb expectations and identifications. These homogenized images normalize – that is, they function as models against which the self is continually measured, judged and corrected (Bordo). As such, what is visible constructs the norm through repetition and compulsion. Teleologically, then, exploring multiplicities should serve to break away from binary logistics and compulsive repetitions.

Ashley Hoskin

However, breaking away from binary logic cannot be achieved through the invocation of multiplicity alone. Challenges to dualistic frameworks require that we bring the margins to the center and that we „legitimate and nurture, in those institutions from which they have been excluded” (41). The practice of bringing marginalized aspects of ourselves and society into central areas of culture not only transforms these aspects, but makes these aspects transforming (Bordo). Largely falling outside of even normative hetero/homo identities, the queer characters of Sailor Moon are abjected from the Western world and expelled from the cultural imaginary. Characters such as the Sailor Starlights, who weave between Western notions of the proper self, are abject bodies who threaten to breakdown meaning by disturbing order and systems of identity. They do not „respect borders, positions or 85 rules” of cultural intelligibility (Kristeva 4). Queer characters of Sailor Moon not only offer sexual and genders that break away from discursive binaries, they also have the ability to bring marginalized voices into mainstream popular culture – to bring the margins to the centre. The showcasing of marginalized voices promotes changes in consciousness. Not only are these changes to life, in a culture that „counts on our remaining unconscious” these changes are equally political (Bordo 30). By carving-out a space of belonging for those abjected from dominant imaginaries, while simultaneously engaging the mainstream culture in a highly visible and popularized forum, the characters of Sailor Moon are particularly dangerous. If „normal” is constructed and discursively maintained through repetition, the queer characters of Sailor Moon disrupt this repetition on a large scale and to a broad, mainstream audience.

Discussion

Although many who study Japanese culture describe manga/anime as targeting an older audience, the question still beckons; why are heterosexual love narratives acceptable and not censored, as in those between Darien and Serena (Tuxedo Mask and Sailor Moon)? What makes love narratives between various genders and sexes less appropriate for younger audiences? Why are such relations and identities only understood within a pornographic and deviant framework? These questions are especially pertinent considering The Children's Charter, which was created at the World Summit on Media For Children, and was used in the development of legislation such as the Children's Television Act (Home). The Children’s Television Act is endorsed by 38 countries, and mandates for children's television to „promote an awareness and [appreciation] of other cultures” (Home). Equally perplexing is the Youth Media Alliance, whose mission is to provide content of productions that stimulates „the intellect and imagination, and [fosters] openness to others as well as [allowing] children and teens to explore the world beyond their immediate experience (their family, friends, school, street, city, society, world and universe)” (2012). Neither the Children's Television Charter, the Youth Media Alliance nor the CRTC formally take issue with queer content in children's television. Yet, societal discomfort with any queer signifiers in children's television remains prominent. Take, for example, the outrage over the intuited queerness of Teletubbies' Tinky Winky, who sported a triangular aerial, wore purple and carried a purse; Sesame Street's Bert and Ernie, whose homosociality was, for many, a cause for concern; Spongebob Square Pants whose caring relationship with Patrick prompted discussions of the pathological implications for developing minds; and Shark Tale's subtext of 'closeted' desires and Ashley Hoskin

identities. These are merely a few modern examples of queer sub-text in children's media that sparked outrage. Such examples demonstrate the extent of social discomfort and covert homophobia over the intuited queerness within loving relationships. While heterosexual narratives and violence are naturalized, the positive messages and acceptance of differences are deemed inappropriate for developing minds.

Recent studies such as those conducted by California Safe Schools Coalition (Burdge et al.), show that the inclusion of diversity into the education system creates a safer space for all students - not simply those whose identities have been kept marginalized within the larger society. Furthermore, 86 some have suggested that comic and manga/anime’s unconventional narratives „give its female audience more agency” and offers safe opportunities to „experiment with different sexual and gender roles” (Goldstein and Phelan). Conversely, Moraga and Anzualda (104) write that, „when patriarchy dismisses us, it encourages our murderers.” Indeed, the erasure, eradication and invisibility of queer characters sends a specific message to queer youth. Recent work by Blair and Hoskin (“Experiences” and “Contemporary Understandings”) demonstrates the impact of invisibility and a lack of representtation on identity formation. How can a society claim to be concerned over queer suicides, while simultaneously erasing the existence of queer role models from youth television? From characters who might be understood as lesbian, bi, gay or trans, and even depictions of queer-parenthood: Sailor Moon offers what could potentially be a positive depiction of diversity so badly needed for Western youth of the 1990s as well as the gender-independent children and youth of today.

Conclusion

Sailor Moon functions as resistance to dichotomous conceptualizations of sexuality, sex and gender; offers a re-envisioning of gendered/sexed categories; and gives space to queer youth to understand the complexity of identities by opening-up possibilities for creating their own. However, to name Sailor Moon’s characters in Western specific terms would be at the expense of reducing the complexity of their identities to a categorical system, whose dichotomous boundaries detract and limit meaning. Queer characters in Sailor Moon are not translatable into dichotomous Western thought - categories fail us and, through their enforcement, the depth of meaning and complexities of queer identities and desires are lost in translation. It is this fluidity, the blurring of Western boundaries, that provokes cultural anxiety. The characters in Sailor Moon offer a re-envisioning of identities that are not limited by Western binaric thought, as they cannot be easily pegged within the heterosexual matrix (Butler). The re-writing of cultural categories of normalcy poses a symbolic threat to the assumed naturalized order: systems of power require docile-bodies. As demonstrated by the original series of Sailor Moon, these characters do not contribute to docility but, instead, celebrate „unruly” and „abjected” notions of self. Resultantly, and despite the potential benefit to youth, the series was censored, edited and finally taken off the air.

Ashley Hoskin

Works Cited

Allison, Anne. “A Challenge to Hollywood? Japanese Character Good Hit the US.” Japanese Studies 20.1 (2000): 67-88. Print. Blair, Karen Lyndsay, and Rhea Ashley Hoskin. “Contemporary Understandings of Femme Identities and Related Experiences of Discrimination.” Psychology and Sexuality 7.2 (2016): 101-115. Print. ------. “Experiences of Femme Identity: Coming Out, Invisibility, and Femmephobia.” Psychology & Sexuality 6.3 (2015): 229-244. Print. Bordo, Susan. Unbearable Weight: Feminism, Western Culture and the Body. Berkeley: U of California 87 P, 1993. Print. Burdge, Hilary, et al. “Lessons That Matter: LGBTQ Inclusivity and School Safety.” Gay-Straight Alliance Network and California Safe Schools Coalition Research Brief No. 14. San Francisco, CA: Gay-Straight Alliance Network (2012): 1-8. Butler, Judith. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York: Routledge, 1990. Print. Connell, Catherine. “Fashionable Resistance: Queer ‘Fa(t)shion’ Blogging as Counterdiscourse.” Women’s Studies Quarterly 41.1&2 (2013): 209-224. Print. Cornog, Martha, and Timothy Perper. “Non-Western Sexuality Comes to the U.S.: A Crash Course in Manga and Anime for Sexologists.” Contemporary Sexuality 39.3 (2005): 4-6. Print. Dahl, Ulrika. “Femme on Femme: Reflections on Collaborative Methods and Queer Femme-Inist Ethnography.” QueerScope Articles 1 (2011): 1-22. Print. Esterberg, Kristin. Qualitative Methods in Social Research. Boston: McGraw-Hill Higher Education, 2002. Print. Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. New York: Vintage Books, 1979. Print. ------. The History of Sexuality: An Introduction. Volume 1. New York: Vintage Books, 1978. Print. Gauntlett, David. Media, Gender and Identity: An Introduction. New York: Routledge: 2002. Print. Goldstein, Lisa, and Molly Phelan. “Are You There God? It’s Me, Manga: Manga as an Extension of Young Adult Literature.” American Library Association, Young Adult Library Services 7.4 (2009): 32-38. Print. Grigsby, Mary. “Sailormoon: Manga (Comics) and Anime (Cartoon) Superheroine Meets Barbie: Global Entertainment Commodity Comes to the United States.” The Journal of Popular Culture 32.1 (2003): 59 -80. Print. Home, Anna. The Children's Television Charter. The World Summit on Media for Children Foundation, 1995. Web. 28 Aug. 2012. . Hoskin, Rhea Ashley. Femme theory: Femininity’s Challenge to Western Feminist Pedagogies. Master’s thesis. Kingston, Ontario: QSpace at Queen’s University, 2013. ii-168. Print. ------. “Femme Theory: Refocusing the Intersectional Lens.” Atlantis: Critical Studies in Gender, Culture, & Social Justice 38.1 (2017): 95-109. Web. 9 May 2019. . Ashley Hoskin

Kirby, Sandra, Lorraine Greaves, and Colleen Reid. Experience, Research, Social Change: Methods Beyond the Mainstream, 2nd edition. Toronto: Broadview Press, 2006. Print. Kristeva, Julia. Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection. Trans. Leon Roudiez. New York: Columbia UP, 1982. Print. McClintock, Anne. Double Crossings: Madness, Sexuality and Imperialism. Vancouver: Ronsdale Press, 2001. Print. McRuer, Robert. Crip Theory: Cultural Signs of Queerness and Disability. New York and London: New York UP, 2006. Print. Moraga, Cherríe Lawrence and Gloria Evangelina Anzaldúa. This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by 88 Radical Women of Color. Berkeley: Women of Color Series, Third Woman Press, 2001. Print. “Sailor Moon Among YTV’s Top 40 Shows.” The Gazette. Informart, a Division of Postmedia Network Inc., 1997. Web. 26. Oct. 2013. Satou, Junichi. “Mini ga daishiki! Oshare na Senshitachi / Clothes Call / Love Those Minis! The Fashionable Soldiers / Episode 140.” Sailor Moon SuperS, Season 4, Television Program, 1995/2000. TV Asahi - Kenji Ohta. Original air date 1. July 1995. English air date 12. Oct. 2000. Sebert, Paul. “Kissing Cousins May Bring Controversy: Cartoon Network Juggles Controversial Topics Contained in the Sailor Moon S Series.” The Daily Athenaeum and The Daily Athenaeum Interactive, 28 June 2000. Web. 29 Aug. 2012. . Serano, Julia. Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity. Emeryville, CA: Seal Press, 2007. Print. Shildrick, Margrit. “Dangerous Discourses: Anxiety, Desire, and Disability.” Studies in Gender and Sexuality 8.3 (2007): 221-244. Print. Spade, Dean. “Mutilating Gender.” The Transgender Studies Reader. Ed. Susan Stryker and Stephen Whittle. New York: Routledge, 2006. 315-332. Print. Velasco, Ab. “Sailor Moon's Pals go Straight: Canadian Version of Kids Show Dumps Lesbian Lovers.” Xtra, Pink Triangle Press, 2000. Web. 20 Aug. 2012. . Wockner, Rex. “Lesbians Edited from Japanese Cartoon.” Bay Windows, 2000. LGBT Life with Full Text (EBSCO). Web. 20 Aug. 2012. < https://www.ebsco.com/products/research- databases/lgbt-life-full-text>. Youth Media Alliance. “Mission.” Web. 28 Aug. 2012. .

Westernizacja i przeobrażenia Sailor Moon

Sailor Moon (Czarodziejka z księżyca), Japoński serial oparty na mandze i anime, zaczął wchodzić na zachodnie ekrany z tłumaczonymi napisami w latach 90. XX w. Serial ten wprowadzał coś, co można interpretować jako opór wobec binarnych koncepcji seksualności, płci biologicznej i płci kulturowej. Niniejszy artykuł opisuje wyzwania stawiane widowni przez queerowe postaci Sailor Moon, a następnie ukazuje, jak westernizacja i angielskie tłumaczenia napisów wymazywały i przepisywały na nowo nieheteronormatywne tożsamości.

Ashley Hoskin

Według autorki, Sailor Moon stanowi przestrzeń dla złożonych, kontekstualnych tożsamości seksualnych i płcio- wych. Nadawanie postaciom z Sailor Moon imion zgodnie z zachodnimi konwencjami wymagałoby zredu- kowania ich złożonych tożsamości do systemu kategorii ograniczających znaczenie. Ponieważ tożsamości odmieńców w Sailor Moon nie da się prowadzić do dychotomicznych kategorii płci i seksualności przyjętych w zachodnim świecie, głębia potencjalnych znaczeń i różnorodność nieheteronormatywnych tożsamości oraz rodzajów pożądania zostają utracone w tłumaczeniu. Wiele z tych tożsamości, wtłoczonych w zachodnie binar- ne systemy i kategorie językowe, cechuje wewnętrzna sprzeczność i niespójność. Oryginalne postaci z Sailor Moon umożliwiają nowe spojrzenie na tożsamości, nieograniczone zachodnim binarnym myśleniem i niepa- sujące do heteroseksualnej matrycy.

Słowa kluczowe: gender, seksualność, Sailor Moon, anime/manga, cenzura, westernizacja 89

“Where Is My Tribe”? Queer Activism in the Occupy Movements1

Pablo Pérez Navarro University of Coimbra

From the Arab Spring to the Umbrella Revolution, the last cycle of citizen protests has widely shared the strategy of occupying public spaces through the settlement of protest camps. Although one might imagine a homogeneous unity amongst the protesters, these encampments have been the scenario of multiple inner conflicts in relation with different vectors of oppression. This article discusses the conflicts faced and the coalition-building developed by queer activists in different encampments, with a focus on the relation between the occupation of queer spaces and the space of the protest as a whole. The Foucauldian concept of heterotopia is used here as a guide in order to understand the ambivalences and inner tensions of the space of the protest without losing, nor idealizing, the utopian impulse of these movements.

Keywords: queer activism, Occupy movements, queer spaces, protest

Introduction

Given their similarities, the label “Occupy movements” will be used here as an umbrella term for those movements that have shared the strategy of camping in public spaces at the heart of major cities, from the occupation of Tahrir Square in Egypt to the Umbrella Revolution in Hong Kong. This label stresses their “core claim to space” (Pickerill and Krinsky 279), evidenced through “the occupation and subversion of prominent urban public spaces” (Halvorsen 431) that they all share with the Occupy movement as such despite the “disjunctures and fissures between these other movements and moments and the ways in which Occupy was conceived and practiced” (Pickerill and Krinsky 279).

Another common feature of the Occupy movements is the way their inner complexity defies super- ficial readings of the slogan “we are the 99%” A good way to counter reductionist depictions of the encampments as spaces inhabited by a homogeneous and non-conflictual multitude is to take into account the analysis of their inner tensions in relation with different vectors of oppression. Good examples of this kind of inquiry is the work carried out by various authors, addressing such topics as indigenous and decolonial struggles in North America (Barker; Brady and Antoine), race in Occupy Boston (Juris et al.), homelessness in both Occupy Wall Street (Schein) and Occupy el Paso (Smith et al.), gender in the Occupy movement, with an emphasis on the articulation of women’s voices (Lewis) and paperless immigration in the 15M movement (Nair), among others that have aided in understanding some of the inner struggles of the protest camps.

1 This work has been developed within the project “INTIMATE - Citizenship, Care and Choice. The Micropolitics of Intimacy in Southern Europe,” funded by the European Research Council - Starting Grant n. 338452 (2014-2019), hosted by the Centre for Social Studies, University of Coimbra, under the coordination of Ana Cristina Santos.

Pablo Pérez Navarro

This paper's main aim is to complement this body of literature by focusing on a topic which has received little academic attention: the challenges faced and the strategies deployed by queer activists in different encampments and their complex relation with the space of the protest as a whole. I will refer to materials directly produced by queer activists in different formats, including brief articles in independent media sites, posts in blogs and other virtual spaces2. Given the frequently ephemeral, minority character of queer activism, this essay faces some of the difficulties inherent to the process of accessing – and contributing to – the “queer archive”3 of the Occupy Movements, with the hope of making it easier for researchers from different academic fields to engage in further discussions of the topic. 91

Protest Camps as Heterotopian Counter-Cities

The protest camp is an anomaly in the space of the city. It entails the production of a different space, a spatial alterity or, more specifically, a counter-space. In the words of Henri Lefebvre, counter-spaces respond “to the demands of a body ‘transported’ outside itself in space, a body which by putting up resistance inaugurates the project of a different space, either the space of a counter-culture, or a counter-space in the sense of an initially Utopian alternative to actually existing ‘real’ space” (Lefebvre, Production 349). Counter-spaces would thus be liminal spaces where utopian possibilities emerge in the realm of the “real” spaces of the city. This definition is rooted in the Foucauldian concept of heterotopia that Lefebvre also explicitly uses. However, the protest camps seem to be more intimately related to the Foucauldian origin of the concept than to Lefebvre’s uses of it. For example, in The Urban Revolution, he associated heterotopias with spaces of commercial trade and exchange in the historical context of emergence of the polis (9) and, later on, in The Production of Space, with those differences that “endure or arise on the margins of the homogenized realm,” that is, “what is excluded: the edges of the city, shanty towns, the spaces of forbidden games, of guerrilla war, of war” (373). It is true that Lefebvrian heterotopias constitute alternatives to the homogeneous and exclusionary production of public spaces in the neoliberal city. However, their spatially diffuse character makes it difficult to relate them with the very well delimited structure of the protest camps, not only spatially but also temporally.

Foucault in 1967 dedicated a conference to the concept of heterotopia, entitled “Of Other Spaces.” There, he offered a discussion of those spaces that work as “a kind of effectively enacted utopia” (Foucault 24). He contrasted utopias, ones conceived as ideal, imaginary spaces, with heterotopias, thought of as places that in “real” space introduce those forms of social alterity that we usually associate with the political and literary topic of utopia. “Enacted” utopias, therefore, that establish a critical relation with the space in which they emerge: heterotopias share “the curious property of

2 For a very similar approach to the research on queer activism in the context of massive citizen protests see the introduction to From ACT UP to the WTO: Urban Protest and Community Building in the Era of Globalization (Shepard & Hayduk, 2002, 7). 3 Defined by queer theorist Jack Halberstam as “an eclectic merging of ethnography, oral history, online databases and homepages, collections of zines and temporary artifacts, and statements and descriptions from activists and cultural producers,” as summed up by Mathias Danbolt (2008: 93). Pablo Pérez Navarro being in relation with all the other sites, but in such a way as to suspend, neutralize, or invert the set of relations that they happen to designate, mirror, or reflect” (24). It is in their relational character where Foucault more clearly highlighted the most politically meaningful possibilities inherent to the spatial alterities that he had in mind.

For our purposes, it becomes necessary to relate the Foucauldian suggestion that heterotopias establish a critical relationship “with all other sites” with regard to the urban character of the movements to which they belong. With this in mind, the reference to “all other sites” refers, in the first place, to the space of the very same cities in which the emergence of the protest camps takes 92 place. Not surprisingly, the maps of some encampments have been compared with that of the ancient Greek camp-cities (Nofre). Taking their urban character into account, their utopian impulse would necessarily rely on the critical inversion of the institutional life in the neoliberal city through radically democratic assembly-style politics, this being an inversion that, nonetheless, is not exempt of inner tensions that the unavoidable ambivalence of the concept of heterotopia helps to take into account. In the following pages, in order to retain their urban character in the Lefebvrian sense and their spatial “otherness,” in the Foucauldian sense, the protest camps will be referred to as heterotopian counter-cities.

A Tent of One’s Own

In her lecture “Bodies in alliance and the Politics of the street”, Judith Butler included a reference to the variety of differentiated spaces in Tahrir Square encampment and its relation with the overcoming of certain “inequalities”:

So the social form of the resistance began to incorporate principles of equality that governed not only how and when people spoke and acted for the media and against the regime, but how people cared for their various quarters within the square, the beds on the pavement, the makeshift medical stations and bathrooms, the places where people ate, and the places where people were exposed to violence from the outside. (Butler 89)

She describes the organization of these spaces as one that, “overcoming class and gender inequalities” in relation with the distribution of tasks, was actually producing a “different space” to “Mubarak’s regime and its entrenched hierarchies,” making apparent that “the claim of equality is not only spoken or written, but is made precisely when bodies appear together or, rather, when, through their action, they bring the space of appearance into being” (my emphasis).

This bodily “bringing into being” is a key element when considering the strategies through which the attempt to build egalitarian relations within the space of the camp takes place. This is important in relation to those spaces within the protest camps where some gather to face or confront oppressions and forms of violence that have the particularity of being experienced, potentially at the very least, Pablo Pérez Navarro also within the limits of the space of the protest. Moreover, it seems to be the case that this kind of proliferation of different spaces within the heterotopian counter-cities plays a major role when it comes to achieving the egalitarian goal that Butler refers to.

The settlement of the big feminist tent within Acampada Sol is a good example of this kind of inner spatial differentiation. The dossier of the feminist assembly of the 15M Movement in Madrid, Femi- nismos Sol, states that “via social networks, we tried to arrange for all of us to meet, really all of us, at the same place and at the same time in the middle of the crowd, but it was absolutely impossible. Yet we felt that our intention and the needs were quite clear. ‘Shall we form a feminist block?’. 93 ‘Yes!’”(Feminismos Sol 3; my translation). It was in the setting up of a tent of their own, to paraphrase Virginia Woolf, that the formation of the feminist assembly and thus the emergence of a feminist voice within the 15M movement was made possible4.

From the point of view of their relationship with the space of the protest, it should be noticed that Feminismos Sol, in terms of the organization of Acampada Sol, was established both as a “work group” and a “commission.” Generally, work groups, are given the task of discussing political demands in relation to specific issues (economy, education, health, culture, among many other issues) whereas commissions deal instead with the inner organization of the camp as such (dynamisation of assemblies, communications, legal issues, inner coordination, infrastructures, and so on). This double status of the feminist assembly greatly exemplifies the double directionality of its political work: toward the rest of “the city,” adding up a feminist perspective to the movement as a whole, and toward the space of the camp itself. The latter task included objectives such as the use of inclusive pronouns within all the assemblies of the movement, organizing open feminist workshops and, at a certain point, publicly denouncing different forms of violence that the members of the feminist assembly were suffering at the camp. This included aspects such as “sexual aggressions, sexism and homophobia,” in the form of “sexual harassment, fondling, glances, gestures, disavowal and abuse of power, insults and physical aggression, unconsented sexual, and non-sexual, contacts and paternalistic attitudes” (46; my translation). This set of problems led to the decision of the members of Feminismos Sol to no longer sleep at the camp meaning that they would maintain the tent as a meeting point during the day. They did not refrain from calling public attention to the fact that the habitability of the camp for women and gender non-conforming people was not a given, but something to fight for.

Within the Acampada Sol, there was yet another group committed to the politicization of gender and sexual differences, this time from a specifically queer point of view: the Transmaricabollo [trans- fagdyke] de Sol assembly. Even if it did not occupy a differentiated space in the form of a tent, the gathering of activists in its assemblies nevertheless represented the “bringing into being” of a new physical and political space within the encampment. In this case, its creation met with some significant resistance coming from the feminist assembly Given that the call for its formation had been made in

4 For an interesting reading of Woolf’s room of one’s own through the lens of the concept of heterotopia, see “Taxi! The Modern Taxicab as Feminist Heterotopia” (Fernald, 2014). Pablo Pérez Navarro the feminist tent, including the overlapping of the topics that both assemblies were addressing, some of those present perceived it as a subgroup of the feminist assembly as opposed to a fully independent assembly. After repeated debates amongst members of both assemblies, the consensus regarding Transmaricabollo’s full independence was finally achieved, which signaled the constitution of an autonomous queer space in a proper sense (Redondo 227; Feminismos Sol 10).

In the same way that Feminismos Sol had to struggle with gender inequalities within Acampada Sol, the queer assembly had to work for the queerification of the space of the camp. This entailed the use of banners declaring it as a site where homo-, bi- and transphobia were unwelcomed; visible in a 94 decided strategy of defiance to those slogans of the movement that included homophobic and “sex worker-phobic” slurs and featured the repeated dressing of an emblematic statue in the square with a rainbow flag, among other strategies that accompanied the emergence of a queer discourse in the form of manifestos, statements, and interventions in the general assembly of the movement (Pérez Navarro 93).

Given the uniqueness of their relationship with the space of the camp, the formation of both assemblies can be read as the constitution of new, inner heterotopias within the encampment in order to resist everyday forms of sexism and “queer-phobia” common to the city as a whole and to the heterotopian counter-city by critically suspending, neutralizing, or inverting them. In this sense, the gathering of bodies in both assemblies shows how certain collectives need to occupy spaces of their own in order to render political action possible.

Coalition Building from Queer Spaces

The constitution of a queer assembly in the Occupy Austin’s encampment is another good example. As Holly Lewis explains in “Occupy Gender: How Women and Queer People Find Their Voice in Mass Movements”, the refusal of Occupy Austin’s general assembly to address LGBTQ-phobic violence in systemic terms, rather than as an episodic problem, caused many women and queer people to start to abandon the encampment (128). In the end, the well-intended presuppositions on the “radical inclusivity” of the movement, typically accompanied by the fear of the divisive effects that the diversification of political voices could entail and the “failure to address gender and racial injustice” was what “divided, weakened, and disengaged the movement” (129). The subsequent formation of the OccuQueers assembly encouraged women and queer people to “rejoin the movement as a novel, for-itself force” (129; my emphasis), not only by producing safe spaces for women and queer protesters, but also by assuring, through a frequent participation in the general assembly that became “routine in Occupy Austin”, that “such blatant anti-woman and anti-queer sentiment [was] no longer tolerated” (129).

Holly Lewis uses the expression “for-itself” in what she describes as a Marxian sense for which “the articulation of a class for-itself occurs through the process of political mobilization and struggle itself: Pablo Pérez Navarro the process of struggle shapes the being of the collective”5 (117). This approach would serve the purpose of avoiding any essentialist pre-definition of those who are supposed to be included in the constitution of what she refers to, nonetheless, as a “women’s voice,” in the understanding that “closing ranks through asserting the demands of the most vulnerable populations solidifies women as a unit and helps thwart political disintegration,” a goal which would be “valuable because such actions help the group cohere and develop into a for-itself entity” (123).

However, one may wonder what a “for-itself force” actually means in relation to the emergence of queer activism, given that the blurring between any “for-itself” politics and “external” coalition 95 building is, typically, a constitutive part of queer politics: the more “for-itself” they get, the more the bonds with a heterogeneous spectrum of oppressions start to proliferate from its very core. One of the unique aspects of queer activism is its tendency to undermine distinctions between “internal” and “external” differences in such a way that its political subject cannot longer be conceived “as a unit” in any meaningful sense, even though the “incohesiveness” of the subject of queer politics is not at odds with the relationships it establishes with specific forms of gender and sexual differences. In fact, the productive tensions that arise from the embodiment of highly specific subject positions and the expansive proliferation of queer subjectivities has been a distinctive feature of queer activism since the AIDS crisis, when AIDS and HIV-positive-related struggles offered the occasion for the establishment of unprecedented forms of solidarity and coalition-building along the entire spectrum of class, race, sexual and gender differences. In this sense, when read in terms of the formation of political subjects through coalitional practices, the Foucauldian characterization of heterotopias as spaces which establish a critical relationship with “all other spaces” serves as a good spatial metaphor for the ungroundable, incohesive character of the queer subject.

In the case of OccuQueers, this tendency is already implicit in their self-definition as a group “encompassing activists identifying as lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, genderqueer, asexual, intersexual, leather, polyamorous, kinky and other non-heteronormative sexual orientations, life- styles, and identities as well as straight allies” (OccuQueers, “Calling”) but also one reflected in their direct involvement in the struggle against a wide range of overlapping forms of oppression. The list includes, but is not limited to, their coalition with the disability rights activist group OccuKripz (“OccuQueers Meeting Notes”), with End Homelessness for housing related struggles (“OccuQueers Minutes”) and their participation (including organizational tasks, theatrical actions and the production of audiovisual resources) in the protest Occupy Austin Welcomes Obama –denouncing the US’ use of drones and “his policy of killing anyone anywhere without due process” (“About”)– among other forms of coalition building. Even if some of them are in fact deeply related with gender and sexual discrimination, such as the politics of homelessness, to the point that they can be read as part of the constitution of the group in a relatively self-centered point of view, it is also true that seriously

5 Lewis presents this concept in opposition to Hegel’s definition of “in-itself” phenomena, understood as “the bare facts” of their “existence, as disorganized potential” before any processual articulation, “in both language and being” that can turn them into a “self-aware and mature force” (Lewis, 2011: 116). Pablo Pérez Navarro engaging with any of these struggles ends up by exceeding any possible conception of cohesive, “for-itself” conception of politics.

As a good example of the overcoming of a self-centered subject through coalition politics that departs, nonetheless, from extremely specific differences is the self-reflective discourse of the group Occupy the Rainbow during the occupation of Saint James Park in Toronto. Jordan B.G. was one of the activists who founded the group after perceiving the need for safe meeting spaces for queer people who were, like him, living with a dual diagnosis of HIV and hepatitis C. Upon this realization, he asked himself: 96

As my first week in the park progressed and I allowed myself to reflect, I wondered, where is ‘my tribe’? Was this simply a labor or student movement? Safe spaces for other communities have developed, so how come there was nothing for queers? I often feel that our LGBTQ2S voices are not heard demanding justice in traditional movements. We can often be silenced from within and never taken as more than a small element. At Occupy, again I felt that way – this wasn’t a place for me, this was a movement of others, the majority, the 99%. (my emphasis)

Again, the formation of affinity groups in order for certain voices to be heard came hand by hand with how certain groups of people became aware of the importance of occupying spaces of their own. These spaces served as a basis for processes of coalition building between different struggles in such a way as to undermine any coherent delimitation of the subject of queer politics: “we know that, as a community, we are all the letters of LGBTQ2S+++, we are all the letters of the alphabet, we are people of color, we are natives, we are unemployed, we are artists, we are working for not-for- profits, we are working for independent businesses” (Occupy the Rainbow; my emphasis). One of these overlaps between communities is implicit in Jordan B. G.'s question “Where is “my tribe”?”, and made in explicit in the statement “we are the natives”, as much as in their consistent inclusion of two- spirit (2S) identities (referring to gender-variant people from North-American native communities) in all their minutes and calls. By joining the task of raising “awareness about the links between Indi- genous issues and struggles against austerity, privatization and neo-liberalism, and sovereignty” ((de)Occupy Toronto), Occupy the Rainbow would not only be establishing links between overlapping forms of oppression, but also joining other groups in posing a fundamental question to the protesters: was their occupation going to be able to acknowledge and, more importantly, to challenge the deeply rooted exclusionary power relationships through which the public spaces they were occupying had been historically constituted?

Queering the Resistance in the Neoliberal City

The case of the Gezi uprising in Turkey is, from the point of view of this last concern, paradigmatic. The project to construct a shopping center in the Beyoğlu district was the last episode in a process of gentrification of the area that already carried a memory of “dispossession and displacement” Pablo Pérez Navarro

(Nahrwold and Bayhan 134) for different ethnic, religious and sexual minorities that had been specially violent for transgender people (134). Nonetheless, despite the intensity of the “conservative restructuring of public space” (126), the Beyoğlu district is still a cosmopolitan place were “different worlds meet and coexist” (134). And Gezi Park is, as well, a gay cruising area:

Both Cairo's Tahrir Square and Taksim Square in Istanbul, with the adjacent Gezi Park, in fact, are known as cruising areas, where gay people meet each other, make friends, organize sexual encounters. Gezi Park, which in the daylight is a paradise for families looking for a green corner, at night becomes the republic of a prole- 97 tarian and almost anarchist homosexuality which prefers the trees along Mete street to chic gay clubs, when in search for a quickie, a male prostitute, a love... (Pier)

In this sense, as the “the biggest 'cruising' spot for the community” (Yildiz) Gezi was already a queer heterotopia before the uprising, if only because “the way it is experienced by the LGBT constitutes a counterhegemonic production of space” (Nahrwold and Bayhan 135), that is, a space of otherness and resistance against the heteronormative production of public spaces. Which is not, in any way, independent of the economic life of the neoliberal city:

In order to ensure the ‘safety’ and ‘well-being’ of Turkey’s youth and build his ‘conservative generation’ through increased procreation (‘at least three children’ per couple, he [Erdoğan] repeatedly ordered), Erdoğan commanded that ‘Beyoğlu had to be cleansed, and the LGBTQ spaces dismantled. In other words, Erdoğan’s larger ‘renewal’ project has always been equally interested in generating capital accu- mulation and heterosexual procreation. (Yildiz)

As a result, the underlying power relations through which the constitution of public space had taken place in this case had already produced a profound exclusionary impact on diverse minorities before the project of urban renewal. One that echoes similar processes of gentrification in many other cities in which the commodification of public space entails the production of a “safe domestic space, where families can occupy space without the threat of contagion from alternative forms of intimacy” (Bell and Binnie 95).

For all these reasons, the presence of the “spontaneously-hung rainbow flag on one of the trees in Gezi Park” since the very beginning of the occupation, that worked as a “mark to find each other [LGBTQ activists] in the crowd” and facilitated “the formation of the LGBT Block” (Okçuoğlu) not only did not come as a surprise, but must be read as a meaningful reminder of the power relations that were already at stake in the history of the park before the settlement of Gezi Parks’ heterotopian counter-city.

Pablo Pérez Navarro

Once again, the work developed from the space occupied by the LGBT block was also bi-directional. They participated in the global resistance against neoliberal politics that the shopping mall had come to symbolize and, at the same time, they conducted an inner work within movement. A work that entailed struggling against the use of homophobic slurs in its slogans (so successfully that “Erdoğan is a fag [ibne]” became “Erdoğan is sexist,” as explained by Nahrwold & Bayhan, 2013, 136) and building solid solidarity links with the very diverse groups that had joined the protests.

In this instance, the impact of their very active presence at the protests in terms of coalition building was made evident by the massive participation in both the trans march on 23 June (which increased 98 from 500 participants the previous year to 10,000 in 2013, see Pearce 114) and in the LGBT march of 30 June (from 20,000 participants to at least 40,000 in 2013; see Pearce 116). From the point of view of both “organizers and observers” this was mostly due to the “Gezi Park protests that yielded new allies” (117). Both marches are considered to “signal a historical turning point in the broader legitimacy of LGBT rights in Turkish culture” (111), to the point that the participation of the LGBT bloc at the Gezi resistance is regarded by some as a “transformative contribution to the collective memory of LGBTQ people in Turkey,” which “may have opened up the possibility of thinking what was previously ‘unthinkable’” (Okçuoğlu).

Following these events, the Turkish government was even praised by the Commission of the Euro- pean Parliament in its “Turkey 2013 Progress Report” (COM 53) for not having “disrupted” these marches, in contrast with the police brutality met by the Gezi protesters during the previous month. At this point, as Harvard University social anthropologist Emrah Yildiz has convincingly argued, it is crucial to avoid any reductionist reading of this contrast in the terms provided by any reductionist narrative of LGBT emancipation based on western categories of identity politics. The underlying danger of such a reading in the first place would lie in the acceptance of (neo)liberal tolerance of gender and sexual diversity as an isolated marker for social and political progress in addition to overlooking the local narratives on non-heterosexuality that cannot be simply assimilated within the LGTB acronym. The LGBT bloc, or even the LGBT Turkish movement as a whole, have been quite successful at counteracting that kind of western-centred narrative. This has occurred mainly by virtue of the strong links of solidarity established with other minorities (which, in any case, are overlapping ones) and among which is the Kurdish population, a common target of state violence and a prominent example. Other instances of this type of solid coalition were the chants during the LGBT march denouncing the very recent “brutal military response” to a march held at the Lice district in Turkish Kurdistan and the restructuring of the calendar of activities of the week as a direct consequence (see specially Yildiz).

Conclusions

In light of the recurrence of the set of challenges faced by queer activists in the Occupy movements, I would like to suggest that the analysis of queer activist interventions in massive citizen protests should take into account, at the very least, the following elements: the importance of occupying Pablo Pérez Navarro spaces “of their own” within the space of the protest, the double directionality of the political work developed from those spaces, the productive tensions between the sometimes highly specific character of queer identities and the wide scope of the coalitions that they engage in, and, finally, the relationship established with the constitutive exclusions of those urban spaces in which the protest takes place.

All these lines of inquiry point at the somewhat ambivalent position of queer activism within mass citizen protests. The effects and outcomes of its interactions with the movement as a whole are always dependent on unpredictable encounters and processes of conflict resolution within each specific 99 context. In this sense, the analysis of queer activism helps greatly to underscore a general trait of the Occupy movements themselves. In her speech in Occupy Oakland, Angela Davis contrasted the social movements of recent decades, “which have primarily appealed to specific communities” with the unity and inclusivity of a movement which “imagines itself from the beginning as the broadest possible community of resistance – the 99%, as against the 1%.” And she posed the most crucial question linking this imagined coalition with the effectively enacted one: “how can we come together in a unity that is not simplistic and oppressive, but complex and emancipatory?” (Davis). What the concept of heterotopia helps us to grasp is the complex relation between this imagined, utopian unity and the actually enacted one. Its inherent political ambivalence allows to highlight that this kind of coalitional politics is never a given but rather a possibility opened up by the repetition, at a different scale, of the challenge launched by the movement through its occupation of public space. In the same way that the movement as a whole poses a radical alternative to what is perceived as a neoliberal hijacking of democracy, so do the proliferating minorities within the movement occupy spaces of their own within the space of the protest, posing the question of whether or not, or to what extent, they are going to be able to establish effective forms of coalition in order to multiply their forces.

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“Gdzie jest moje plemię”? Queerowy aktywizm w obrębie ruchów Occupy

Seria protestów obywatelskich przeprowadzonych w ostatnich latach, od Arabskiej Wiosny do Rewolucji Para- solek, opierała się na strategii okupowania przestrzeni publicznych za pomocą rozbijania obozów protesta- cyjnych w miejscach publicznych. Choć można było odnieść wrażenie, że osoby protestujące tworzą homoge- niczną jedność, w rzeczywistości obozy te były miejscem wewnętrznych konfliktów przebiegających według różnych linii opresji. Niniejszy artykuł omawia zaistniałe konflikty oraz sposoby budowania koalicji, wypraco- wane przez queerowych aktywistów w różnych obozach, ze szczególnym naciskiem na relacje pomiędzy przes- trzeniami queerowymi a przestrzenią protestów jako takich. Odwołania do pojęcia „heterotopii” Michela Fou- cault umożliwiają zrozumienie ambiwalencji i wewnętrznych napięć pojawiających się w ramach protestów, bez idealizowania ruchów Occupy i jednocześnie bez tracenia z oczu ich utopijnego charakteru.

Słowa kluczowe: queerowy aktywizm, ruchy Occupy, queerowa przestrzeń publiczna, protest

AUTORKI I AUTORZY / CONTRIBUTORS

Sabine Hark is a German feminist and sociology scholar, Director of Zentrum für Inter- disziplinäre Frauen- und Geschlechterforschung (ZIFG), Technische Universität in Berlin. She initiated queer theory in Germany. She is the author of the following books: Unter- scheiden und herrschen. Ein Essay zu den ambivalenten Verflechtungen von Rassismus, Sexismus und Feminismus in der Gegenwart (2017) [co-author: Paula-Irene Villa]; Koali- tionen des Überlebens. Queere Bündnispolitiken im 21. Jahrhundert (2017); Dissidente Partizipation. Eine Diskursgeschichte des Feminismus (2005); Deviante Subjekte. Die paradoxe Politik der Identität (1996, 1999).

Sabine Hark jest niemiecką feministką i socjolożką, kierowniczką Zentrum für Interdiszi- plinäre Frauen- und Geschlechterforschung (ZIFG), Technische Universität w Berlinie. Zapoczątkowała teorię queer w Niemczech. Autorka książek: Unterscheiden und herrschen. Ein Essay zu den ambivalenten Verflechtungen von Rassismus, Sexismus und Feminismus in der Gegenwart (2017) [współautorka: Paula-Irene Villa]; Koalitionen des Überlebens. Queere Bündnispolitiken im 21. Jahrhundert (2017); Dissidente Partizipation. Eine Diskurs- geschichte des Feminismus (2005); Deviante Subjekte. Die paradoxe Politik der Identität (1996, 1999).

Rhea Ashley Hoskin is a post-doctoral fellow in Sociology & Gender Studies at Queen’s University, Kingston, Canada. Theorizing femme identities and systemic forms of feminine devaluation, her work focuses on perceived femininity and its impact on the experiences of marginalization and oppression among sexual and gender minorities. Within this framework, Rhea applies feminist and femme theory to the study of femme identities, femmephobia, popular culture, decolonization, social prejudices and the links between gender, gender expression, health and fitness.

Rhea Ashley Hoskin pracuje naukowo w Queen’s University (Kingston, Kanada), specja- lizując się w socjologii i gender studies. Bada postrzeganie kobiecości i jej wpływ na doś- wiadczenia marginalizacji i opresji wśród mniejszości seksualnych i płciowych, a w szcze- gólności tożsamości femme i systemowe formy dewaluacji kobiecości. Rhea stosuje teorię feministyczną i teorię femme do badania tożsamości femme, femmefobii, kultury popularnej, dekolonizacji, społecznych uprzedzeń oraz powiązań między płcią kulturową, eks- presją płciową, zdrowiem i sprawnością fizyczną.

Autorki i Autorzy / Contributors

Aliraza Javaid holds a PhD in Sociology and Social Policy, an MSc in Clinical Criminology, and an MRes in Social Sciences. His research interests are gender, sexualities, masculinities, police and policing, sexual violence, the sociology of ‘evil’, and the sociology of love. He is the author of two books: Masculinities, Sexualities and Love (2018) and Male Rape, Masculinities, and Sexualities: Understanding, Policing, and Overcoming Male Sexual Victi- misation (2018).

Aliraza Javaid jest doktorem socjologii i polityki społecznej oraz magistrem kryminologii klinicznej i nauk społecznych. Jego badania koncentrują się na płci kulturowej, seksual- 103 ności, męskościach, działaniach sił porządkowych, przemocy seksualnej, socjologii „zła” i socjologii miłości. Jest autorem dwóch książek: Masculinities, Sexualities and Love (2018) and Male Rape, Masculinities, oraz Sexualities: Understanding, Policing, and Overcoming Male Sexual Victimisation (2018).

Ewa Majewska is a feminist philosopher of culture. She was a visiting fellow at the University of California, Berkeley (BBRG), a stipendiary fellow at the University of Orebro (Sweden), IWM (Vienna) and ICI Berlin. She is the author of three monographs, co-editor of four volumes on neoliberalism, politics, gender and education. She has published articles and essays in: Signs, e-flux, Nowa Krytyka, Przegląd Filozoficzny, Przegląd Kulturoznawczy, Kultura Współczesna, Le Monde Diplomatique (PL) and multiple collected volumes. Her main focus is weak resistance, counterpublics and critical affect studies.

Ewa Majewska jest feministyczną filozofką kultury. Odbyła staż naukowy na University of California w Berkeley (BBRG), staż ze stypendium na University of Orebro (Szwecja), IWM (Wiedeń) i ICI Berlin. Jest autorką trzech monografii, współredaktorką czterech tomów na temat neoliberalizmu, polityki, płci kulturowej oraz edukacji. Jej artykuły i eseje zostały opublikowane w: Signs, e-flux, Nowa Krytyka, Przegląd Filozoficzny, Przegląd Kulturoznawczy, Kultura Współczesna, Le Monde Diplomatique (PL) i wielu zbiorach. Jej badania koncentrują się na słabym oporze, kontrpubliczności i krytycznych badaniach nad afektami.

Pablo Pérez Navarro holds a doctoral degree in Philosophy from the University of La Laguna. He was a research visitor at the Center of Lesbian and Gay Studies (CLAGS) at the NYU, and a postdoctoral researcher at Universidad Carlos III de Madrid, where he taught the course “Gender, Sex and Identity: An Introduction to Queer Theory” for three academic years. He is currently a research fellow at the Center of Social Studies of the University of Coimbra. He is the author of Del texto al sexo: Judith Butler y la performatividad (Egales, 2008), and coauthor of collective works on Philosophy, Queer and Gender Studies, such as Judith Butler en disputa. Lecturas sobre la performatividad (Egales, 2012), Autorki i Autorzy / Contributors

Teoría queer. Políticas bolleras, maricas, trans, mestizas (Egales, 2005), Conjunciones. Derrida y compañía (Dykinson, 2007) and Éticas y políticas de la alteridad. En torno a la obra de Gabriel Bello Reguera (Plaza y Valdés, 2015). His recent articles address topics like queer masculinities, LGBTQ activism, contemporary social movements and radical politics of the street.

Pablo Pérez Navarro obronił doktorat z filozofii w Uniwersytecie La Laguna. Prowadził badania w Center of Lesbian and Gay Studies (CLAGS) w NYU i odbył staż badawczy w Uniwersytecie Carlos III w Madrycie, gdzie przez trzy lata prowadził kurs „Gender, Sex and 104 Identity: An Introduction to Queer Theory”. Obecnie jest pracownikiem naukowym w Center of Social Studies na Uniwersytecie w Coimbra. Jest autorem Del texto al sexo: Judith Butler y la performatividad (Egales, 2008) oraz współautorem zbiorowych tomów na temat filozofii, queer oraz gender studeis, takich jak Judith Butler en disputa. Lecturas sobre la performatividad (Egales, 2012), Teoría queer. Políticas bolleras, maricas, trans, mestizas (Egales, 2005), Conjunciones. Derrida y compañía (Dykinson, 2007) oraz Éticas y políticas de la alteridad. En torno a la obra de Gabriel Bello Reguera (Plaza y Valdés, 2015). Jego najnowsze artykuły dotyczą kwestii queerowych męskości, aktywizmu LGBTQ, współ- czesnych ruchów społecznych i radykalnej polityki ulicy.

Stanimir Panayotov graduated in Philosophy from Sofia University and holds MA in Philosophy and Gender Studies from Euro-Balkan Institute (2011) with a thesis on Plato’s natural philosophy and the problem of femininity/maternity in the ancient concept of space (khôra). He is currently a Ph.D. Candidate in Comparative Gender Studies at Central European University, Budapest, working on the problem of disembodiment in the cosmologies of Neo- platonism and New Realism. His research interests and published work are centered round issues in feminist and Continental philosophy, queer theory, and gender studies. Stanimir is also part of New Left Perspectives in Sofia, where he is the co-director of Sofia Queer Forum, and of IPAK.Center – Research Center for Cultures, Politics and Identities in Belgrade, where he co-organizes the Summer School for Sexualities, Cultures and Politics.

Stanimir Panayotov (ur. 1982 w Bułgarii) ukończył filozofię na Uniwersytecie Sofijskim oraz uzyskał stopień magistra w zakresie filozofii i studiów gender w Euro-Balkan Institute (2011) na podstawie rozprawy poświęconej Platońskiej filozofii naturalnej i kwestii kobie- cości/macierzyństwa w starożytnej koncepcji przestrzeni (chora). Obecnie jest doktoran- tem CEU w Budapeszcie w zakresie studiów gender i zajmuje się związkiem pomiędzy pożądaniem a przestrzenią w starożytnych kosmologiach i u Platona. Jego zaintereso- wania badawcze oraz publikacje dotyczą zagadnień z zakresu filozofii feministycznej i kontynentalnej, teorii queer oraz studiów nad płcią kulturową. Ponadto jest tłumaczem (Sedgwick, Fuss, Butler, A. Rich i in.), a także członkiem Social Center Xaspel i New Left Perspectives w Sofii. Autorki i Autorzy / Contributors

Piotr Sobolczyk is an assistant professor at the Polish Academy of Sciences. He is the author of the following books: Tadeusza Micińskiego podróż do Hiszpanii (2005), Dyskur- sywizowanie Białoszewskiego (vol. I 2013, vol. II 2014), Queerowe subwersje. Polska literatura homotekstualna i zmiana społeczna (2015), Polish Queer Modernism (2015), Gotycyzm – modernistyczny sobowtór odmieńca (2017). He won scholarships from the Estreicher Foundation (2005), the President of Krakow (2005), Foundation for Polish Science (2008 and 2009), The Ministry of Culture and National Heritage (2011), and one for the out- standing young researchers (2015-2018). He is a visiting lecturer at Jagiellonian Univer- sity, Oslo University, INALCO, Universidad Pablo Olavide. 105

Piotr Sobolczyk jest adiunktem w Instytucie Badań Literackich PAN). Jest autorem książek Tadeusza Micińskiego podróż do Hiszpanii (2005), Dyskursywizowanie Białoszew- skiego (t. I 2013, t. II 2014), Queerowe subwersje. Polska literatura homotekstualna i zmiana społeczna (2015), Polish Queer Modernism (2015), Gotycyzm – modernistyczny sobowtór odmieńca (2017). Stypendysta Fundacji Estreicherów (2005), Prezydenta M. Krakowa (2005), Fundacji na rzecz Nauki Polskiej (2008 i 2009), Ministra Kultury I Dziedzictwa Narodowego (2011), stypendium dla młodych wybitnych naukowców (2015-2018). Goś- cinny wykładowca na UJ, Universitat i Oslo, INALCO, Universidad Pablo Olavide. InterAlia welcomes submissions from authors and guest editors!

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