Dystopian Emotions: Emotional Landscapes and Dark Futures 9781529214567

Citation preview

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

“Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat.” Lorem Ipsum, commodo, ex

JORDAN MCKENZIE AND ROGER PATULNY

Author name Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat.

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Ut enim ullamco ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco consequat.

SAMPLE BAR CODE

B R I S TO L

XXXXX

@bristoluniversitypress www.bristoluniversitypress.co.uk

Cover image: Dominique Chapman – stocksy.com

ISBN: XXX-X-XXX-XXX-X

DY STO P I AN E M OT I O N S E MOT I ON AL L AN D S C AP E S AN D DARK F U T U RE S E D I TE D BY J O RDA N M C KE N Z I E A N D RO G E R PATU L N Y

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS Emotional Landscapes and Dark Futures Edited by Jordan McKenzie and Roger Patulny

First published in Great Britain in 2022 by Bristol University Press University of Bristol 1–​9 Old Park Hill Bristol BS2 8BB UK t: +44 (0)117 954 5940 e: bup-​[email protected] Details of international sales and distribution partners are available at bristoluniversitypress.co.uk © Bristol University Press 2022 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978-​1-​5292-​1454-​3 hardcover ISBN 978-​1-​5292-​1455-​0 ePub ISBN 978-​1-​5292-​1456-​7 ePdf The right of Jordan McKenzie and Roger Patulny to be identified as editors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission of Bristol University Press. Every reasonable effort has been made to obtain permission to reproduce copyrighted material. If, however, anyone knows of an oversight, please contact the publisher. The statements and opinions contained within this publication are solely those of the editors and contributors and not of the University of Bristol or Bristol University Press. The University of Bristol and Bristol University Press disclaim responsibility for any injury to persons or property resulting from any material published in this publication. Bristol University Press works to counter discrimination on grounds of gender, race, disability, age and sexuality. Cover design: blu inc, Bristol Front cover image: Stocksy/​Dominique Chapman Bristol University Press uses environmentally responsible print partners. Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ Books, Padstow

Contents Notes on Contributors Acknowledgements

v ix

Introduction: The Feeling of Dystopia Jordan McKenzie

1

1

2 3

4

5

6

7 8

9

Borderland Emotions: A Case Study of Youths in Kinmen, Taiwan Gina Chin-​Yi Yang Beyond Wicked Facebook: A Vital Materialism Perspective Deborah Lupton and Clare Southerton Detangling Online Dystopias: Emotional Reflexivity and Cyber-​Deviance Vern Smith Mass Emotional Events: Rethinking Emotional Contagions after COVID-​19 Jordan McKenzie, Roger Patulny, Rebecca E. Olson and Marlee Bower Between the Nationalists and the Fundamentalists, Still We Have Hope! Kiran Grewal and Hasanah Cegu Isadeen ‘The New Economy and the Privilege of Feeling’: Towards a Theory of Emotional Structuration Roger Patulny Neo-​Villeiny University Geraint Harvey and Simon Williams Resuscitating the Past: Zygmunt Bauman’s Critical Analysis of the Recent Rise of Retrotopia Michael Hviid Jacobsen Hope Out of Stock: Critical and Melancholic Hope in Climate Fiction Briohny Doyle

iii

16

34 53

71

89

104

125 139

159

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Conclusion: A Critical Mass of Emotions – Reflexivity, Loneliness and Hope? Roger Patulny and Jordan McKenzie

176

Index184

iv

Notes on Contributors Marlee Bower is Postdoctoral Research Fellow at the Matilda Centre for Research in Mental Health and Substance Use at the University of Sydney, Australia. Marlee is interested in the broader social determinants of mental health, particularly in understanding loneliness and isolation among marginalized individuals. She is currently working with Emma Barrett on a Process Evaluation of the EQUIPS programmes, offender therapeutic programmes delivered in custody and in the community by Corrective Services NSW and is the Academic Lead on the world first Mental Health Think Tank, chaired by Maree Teesson. She has also worked in government in prison inspection and homelessness strategy. Briohny Doyle is author of the novels Echolalia, The Island Will Sink and the autoethnography Adult Fantasy. She was an Endeavour Scholarship recipient and visiting scholar at Yale University and the University of California, Santa Cruz, USA, in 2017, and a 2020 Fulbright Scholar. Briohny is Lecturer in Creative Writing at Deakin University, Australia. Kiran Grewal is Reader in Sociology at Goldsmiths College, University of London, UK. She is author of two books: The Socio-​Political Practice of Human Rights: Between the Universal and the Particular (2016) and Racialised Gang Rape and the Reinforcement of Dominant Order: Discourses of Gender, Race and Nation (2017). Kiran’s current work is focused on different forms of social activism in post-​war Sri Lanka. She is Principal Investigator on a British Academy Project entitled ‘Building Critical Democratic Communities in Post-​War Sri Lanka: The Role of Ritual and Traditional Arts’. Geraint Harvey is DANCAP Private Equity Chair in Human Organization and Professor of Human Resource Management in the DAN Department of Management and Organizational Studies, at Western University, Canada. His research is focused on the employment relationship with a particular emphasis on precarious work and precarious worker voice and representation. His research has been funded by the European Commission and the International Labour Organization and disseminated via a variety v

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

of sources such as books, book chapters, academic journal articles and the mainstream media. Hasanah Cegu Isadeen is an attorney-​at-​law and feminist activist. She is co-a​ uthor of Unequal Citizens: Muslim Women’s Struggle for Justice and Equality in Sri Lanka. Hasanah is also researcher on the British Academy Project ‘Building Critical Democratic Communities in Post-​War Sri Lanka: The Role of Ritual and Traditional Arts’ at Goldsmiths College, University of London, UK. Michael Hviid Jacobsen is Professor of Sociology at Aalborg University, Denmark. He has published many titles as author or editor, including most recently: Postmoral Society (2017), Emotions, Everyday Life and Sociology (2018), Exploring Grief (2019), Nostalgia Now (2020) and The Age of Spectacular Death (2020) as well as the forthcoming titles: Intimations of Nostalgia (2021) and The Routledge International Handbook of Goffman Studies (2021). Deborah Lupton is SHARP Professor in the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences, University of New South Wales, Sydney (UNSW), Australia, working in the Centre for Social Research in Health and the Social Policy Research Centre. She leads the Vitalities Lab and the UNSW Node of the ARC Centre for Automated Decision-​Making and Society. She is author/​co-​author of 18 books and editor/​co-​editor of eight volumes. She is Fellow of the Academy of the Social Sciences in Australia and holds an Honorary Doctor of Social Science degree awarded by the University of Copenhagen, Denmark. Jordan McKenzie is Senior Lecturer in Sociology at the University of Wollongong, Australia. Jordan’s work critically engages with happiness and the good life in order to better understand how emotional experience reflects modernization and social change, and this research has culminated in the monograph Deconstructing Happiness: Critical Sociology and the Good Life (2016) and the edited collection Emotions in Late Modernity (2019). Rebecca E. Olson is Reader in Sociology at the University of Queensland, Australia, whose research intersects the sociologies of health and emotion. As a leading innovative qualitative researcher, funded by competitive grants (for example NHMRC, Arthritis Australia, Cancer Australia), Olson employs video-​based, participatory, reflexive, post-​qualitative and post-​paradigmatic approaches to inform translational inquiry. Her recent books include Towards a Sociology of Cancer Caregiving: Time to Feel (2015) and Emotions in Late Modernity (2019, co-​edited with Patulny, Bellocchi, Khorana, McKenzie and Peterie). vi

Notes on Contributors

Roger Patulny is Associate Professor of Sociology at the University of Wollongong, Australia, and executive member of the Australian Sociological Association (TASA). He researches emotions and emotion management, gender, loneliness, social capital and social networks, and employment and the future of work, and has completed Australian Research Council Grants on gendered social isolation and exclusion (DP: 2009–​11), and on the social networks and emotional wellbeing of unemployed Australians (LP: 2015–​18). He co-​founded the Contemporary Emotions Research Network (CERN); the TASA Thematic Group on the Sociology of Emotions and Affect (TASA-​SEA); has edited special editions on emotions for AJSI and Emotion Review; and recently published Emotions in Late Modernity (ed) with Routledge. His profile and publications can be found at: http://​r patulny.com Vern Smith is currently PhD Candidate in Sociology at the University of Wollongong, Australia. His current project revolves around (in)appropriate online interactions, cyber-​deviance, the use of irony and satire online, and the proliferation of propaganda and the spread of misinformation within social media websites. He also has research interests in late-​ or fluid-​modernity, intimacy, social deviance, the sociology of emotions and affect, and other techno-​social intersections outside the scope pf his current project. When Vern was a young child he wanted to be a crop-​farming cowboy rockstar. Clare Southerton is Postdoctoral Research Fellow in the Vitalities Lab, Social Policy Research Centre and Centre for Social Research in Health at the University of New South Wales, Sydney (UNSW), Australia. Her published research has explored the intersections of social media, privacy, surveillance and sexuality. Her current research projects are focused on how intimacy and collective affects are cultivated on platforms and with devices, and potentials in these spaces for health and sexuality education. Her work has been published in New Media & Society, Social Media + Society and Girlhood Studies. Simon Williams is Senior Lecturer in People and Organisation in the School of Management at Swansea University, UK. He is also Adjunct Assistant Professor and member of the Scientific Careers Research and Development Group in Northwestern University, Chicago, USA. His research looks at the career aspirations and pathways of graduate and postdoctoral students in science, technology and engineering fields in the United States, focusing on issues of race, ethnicity, gender and inequality. He is currently involved in a United States National Institutes of Health funded research project longitudinally following a cohort of early career scientists. vii

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Gina Chin-​Yi Yang is currently a post-​doctoral fellow under the Global China Social Research Hub in the Faculty of Social Sciences, the University of Hong Kong, Hong Kong. Her research interests include youth employment and identities, youth migration and gender studies with a particular focus on marginalized youth in Taiwan. Yang’s doctoral thesis is titled ‘School-​to-​ work transitions in the borderland: choices and experiences among youth from Kinmen, Taiwan’. Using a qualitative ethnographic approach, Yang’s thesis investigates how decisions of education, employment and migration made by young people growing up in the borderland between China and Taiwan–​Kinmen are affected by globalization, cross-​strait geopolitics and local histories.

viii

Acknowledgements This edited collection would not have been possible without the contributions of some very generous and talented people. First of all, we would like to thank Quah Ee Ling for her work in the development of this project. Her input helped to shape this book for the better, and we are indebted to her for this. We would also like to thank Kai Ruo Soh for her skilled and tireless efforts in the editing and formatting of the submissions in this book. Finally, I would like to acknowledge the challenging conditions faced by the contributors in this book throughout 2020–​21. In many ways, the various global crises taking place this year serve as a fitting background for the content of this collection. Nevertheless, the task of conducting and presenting research amid the ongoing challenges faced in the university sector this year is worth noting. We are grateful for the efforts of our contributing authors and consistently impressed by the pertinence of their ideas.

ix

newgenprepdf

Introduction: The Feeling of Dystopia Jordan McKenzie

As a PhD student I remember hearing a senior professor insist that sociologists should wait at least 20 years before commenting on current events. He claimed that sociological knowledge could only be reliably generated when sufficient time had passed for reflection, and for events to become a part of history. Furthermore, he argued that any endeavour to predict or pre-​ empt the future was a reckless and calamitous venture that sank below the standards of real academic work. While I have a lot of time for historical sociology, the editors of this collection do not believe that the advice of this professor should be taken so literally. There is perhaps no task more important for sociologists than making sense of the present and understanding the implications of what we find for the future. While no book can claim to be able to predict future events with any degree of certainty, sociology and its related disciplines need to look forward, and try to seriously engage with the possible worlds that lie ahead. This book will specifically investigate the emotional consequences of perceived futures for individuals living in the present, and the open up new discourses about how people might feel in the future. It should be uncontroversial for sociologists and social researchers to investigate the emotional consequences of the past, present and future. Furthermore, there is also a need for social researchers to think seriously about how people might feel differently in the future. As George Herbert Mead (1932, p. 12) notes, insofar as human beings can reconstruct history and imagine the world to come, ‘the past … is as hypothetical as the future’. More recently, Barbara Adam and Chris Groves have described ‘present futures’ and ‘future presents’ to distinguish between the futures that are already underway in the present, and the current perception of presents that are yet to come. Adam 1

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

and Groves (2007, p. 36) conclude that in regard to the latter, ‘the scientific mode of inquiry has no tools with which to engage with future presents’. Though there is much that we do not know about the future, social researchers need to develop ways to discuss future presents without becoming futurists or determinists. This book invites researchers to think about emotional futures and the future of emotions in an era characterized by extraordinary pessimism, anxiety and ambivalence. If Hartmut Rosa (2013) is right to claim that the rapidly increasing pace of modernity is the defining element of the time, then this is a book that considers the emotional landscapes of a world that feels like it is spiralling out of control. If we are to call this sensation the ‘feeling of dystopia’, then we must ask ourselves, what does it mean to say we are living in dystopian times? Dystopia is not reducible to a literal claim about ‘the end of the world as we know it’. There is always something utopian and dystopian in the emotional climate of any given nation, era or a generation. Collective fear about societal collapse was already well established in the 20th century; without doubt the ‘duck and cover’ generation of schoolchildren felt the plausibility of nuclear war, and the survivors of the Great Depression know what it feels like to be destitute and without hope of a better future. What then is unique about the present dystopian anxiety? It could be that periods of fear and crisis that were once episodic now form a ‘new normal’, and that these crises are expected to worsen for coming generations. Perhaps contemporary cultures are experiencing what Margaret Archer has called ‘morphonecrosis’ or ‘the extinction of social forms and processes’ (2020, p. 143). It could also be that the greatest dystopian crisis today is climate change, and this particular threat is not a foreign enemy who must be defeated, but a consequence of modernity’s greed, hubris and arrogance. Climate change demands solutions that are arguably beyond the collective imagination of contemporary societies. Much like climate change, the COVID-​19 pandemic also presents a threat without an enemy, and the creation of a new normal of travel restrictions, face masks and daily news updates beginning with fatality and infection statistics. Meanwhile, the instantaneous sharing of information on social media means that we know far more about these crises than previous generations, and that we are able to easily fact-​check and expose mistruths from political leaders. And yet, instead of a more active public sphere of political accountability, we find ourselves sliding into a political malaise where we increasingly accept and expect leaders to lie, contradict themselves and ignore scientific evidence. Rather than an age of transparent and reasoned discussions about the future, debates are fractured by conspiracies like QAnon. These claims now seem as familiar, relatable and uncontroversial as they are far-​fetched, speculative and unsupported. This introduction will begin to consider the emotional consequences of collective ambivalence and pessimism through an analysis of parallel 2

Introduction

emotions like hope, nostalgia, fear and anxiety, as well as the surprising positive emotions attached to ‘end of the world’ narratives like excitement, hope and relief. The chapter will outline a series of gaps, intersections and challenges that will play out throughout the rest of the book, and it will set out the terminology of utopia/​dystopia as a means for understanding the modern world. This chapter is divided into four sections. It begins with a discussion of dystopian themes in recent popular culture, followed by an introduction to contemporary non-​fiction material on utopia and dystopia. The chapter then seeks to make connections between perceived ‘dark futures’ and the sociology of emotion, before setting out how the chapters in this book address the challenges raised in this introduction.

Dystopia in popular culture Dystopia is a process, a practice, a method of understanding and critiquing. While dystopias exist in literature and in the collective imagination of communities, contemporary society is better understood as having dystopian characteristics rather than being a dystopia. For Baccolini and Moylan (2003, p. 3), the great dystopian works of literature in the second half of the 20th century ‘refunctioned dystopia as a critical narrative form that worked against the grain of the grim economic, political and cultural climate’. The result is a world where dystopian themes, ideas, fears and fantasies are present in the everyday lives of individuals. Furthermore, dystopia and utopia in this context are inseparable concepts within the collective discourse. Therefore, dystopia is an imaginary and sense-​making practice that takes place in contemporary society. Its cultural significance is not reducible to the end or the destruction of the world, but the creation of a dark future version of society. Dystopia is the imagined outcome of a ‘worst case’ scenario that offers critical insights and commentary on aspects of contemporary politics, economics and society. In line with definitions offered by Jameson (2005), dystopia is not reducible to anti-​utopian sentiment. Instead, the term ‘critical dystopia’ (Moylan, 2000) is adopted to establish the concept as a kind of imaginative forecasting in which individuals collectively participate. For many, the election of Donald Trump as the president of the United States in 2016 was something so outrageous and utterly dangerous that it could only be imagined in an alternate dystopian timeline. As a matter of fact, in March 2000 an episode of The Simpsons featured a storyline set in the future where Donald Trump became the president and crashed the economy. The writers commented that this plot line was chosen as it was the most absurd and rock-​bottom version of the future they could come up with. Even for many conservative Republicans, the idea that Trump could win an election was so outlandish that it could only occur in the most disastrous of realities. The unnerving overlap between the Trump presidency and genre of modern 3

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

horror film and television is well set out in Brodman and Doan’s Utopia and Dystopia in the Age of Trump (2019). Within the chapters of this collection, the authors demonstrate how aspects of contemporary political realities can be found in horror and disaster narratives, but also that film and television producers are actively drawing from real examples of Trump’s behaviour in order to develop disturbing and confronting plot lines. And yet, there are many who feel that Trump offers an earth-​shattering break from the status quo. The mantra ‘Make America Great Again’ offers a powerful utopian vision of a nostalgic and conservative United States. Furthermore, far right conspiracy movements that view Trump as the saviour in this dystopia are as outlandish as they are influential in the current political landscape. Trump is by no means the only example of radical thinking in politics; there are certainly US voters who feel that the Green New Deal proffered by Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio-​Cortez is the most dystopian option in contemporary politics. Across the fault line of modern politics, one side’s utopia is the other’s dystopia. This new era of politics has arguably made the concept of dystopia –​or the apocalypse –​a mainstream phenomenon. While radical visions of the future on the fringes of society are interesting, they are not always sociologically useful in gauging the emotional climate of a society as a whole. But in recent years, the idea of the end of the world has shifted closer to reality for many people. From survivalists and doomsday preppers, to conspiracy theorists and accelerationists, to eco movements like Extinction Rebellion (XR); each of these groups speak frankly about the future collapse of the world as we know it, and each have mainstream appeal. There are popular reality TV shows about preppers and a long history of adventure novels about survivalists, YouTube is brimming with conspiracy theory channels with hundreds of millions of views, and the recent COVID-​19 pandemic has highlighted the vulnerability of large populations and the inability for many wealthy nations to effectively respond to a pandemic. The end of the world is no longer an abstract or hypothetical concept in the collective imagination. It is something that people think about and experience in very real ways. Importantly, each of the cited examples include more moderate forms of behaviour that fit neatly within mainstream social life. In the 2019–​20 Australian bushfire crisis, households were encouraged to prepare emergency packs of goods (such as water, medication, face masks, passports, baby supplies and phone chargers) as well as a survival action plan in case the fires reached their homes. This leads to very real conversations within Australian households about what sentimental items can be taken and what must be left behind, whether children and the elderly are safe with the thick smoke that blanketed the nation, where families might go in an emergency, and in many cases, whether companion animals can be saved in an emergency. Family discussions about which of these losses are acceptable create a new normal in society. 4

Introduction

There is a broad recognition that, far from being a one-​off, this kind of anxious emergency planning is something that people will need to incorporate into their hopes, ambitions and ethics about living in the present with an eye on the future. This is the new reality for the person writing this chapter, but there are countless other concerns for people in other parts of the world, from climate change-​related natural disasters, to war and government violence, disease and food shortages. There is certainly heightened pessimism among young people today. Irrespective of whether people today are better or worse off than previous generations, the belief that things are getting worse has been a key element of youth studies since the 1980s (Eckersley, 1999; Nordensvard, 2014). And yet, the optimism that young people have for the future reflects individualized beliefs about hard work and success against the odds (Franceschelli and Keating, 2018). Kaboli and Tapio (2018) insist that research on optimism and pessimism must be considered with regard to each feeling’s relation to either influence (agency) or essence (structure). Young people’s perceptions of the future are intimately tied to their concerns about the present, and according to Kaboli and Tapio, these future perceptions rarely surpass the imaginative scope of contemporary issues. Ultimately, there is an ambivalent contradiction in the experience of hope and pessimism in contemporary views of the future. Bauman’s Modernity and Ambivalence (1991) pre-​empted an overly rationalized modernity that could no longer make sense of its own disorderly reality, and Burkitt (1996) extends this concept to the work of Elias and the concept of civilization as a whole. But ambivalence is not indicative of a lack of care or interest regarding the future; it is an implicit awareness of the contradictory nature of the world. It is the awareness that experiences of optimism and pessimism are hollowed out by ambivalence when individuals are presented with a set of equally undesirable possible futures. And yet, the ever-​present potential of global catastrophe is, surprisingly, not as gloomy as one might expect. There is an impressive degree of emotional reflexivity (Holmes, 2010) in the ways that dystopian themes are adopted in mainstream society. The aforementioned examples of prepper reality television shows and YouTube conspiracy rabbit holes are a source of comedy for many of the people who consume this media. Ultimately, the apocalypse is entertaining. A number of big-​budget ‘apocalypse comedies’ have appeared on television including Fox’s Last Man on Earth and Netflix’s Daybreak. In the former, the series begins with the main character spending years roaming an empty post-​apocalyptic United States under the belief that he is the last remaining human on the planet. While the loneliness of this time ultimately leads to a suicide attempt, the show presents this period as a time of hedonic pleasure and fulfilment. In a world without other people, the main character is a king who is free to do as he likes and take whatever he wants. As predicted in Sartre’s No Exit, it is the discovery of other people 5

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

that proves to be the greatest struggle for him. Similarly, Daybreak depicts a post-​apocalyptic United States where a virus has turned all adults into zombies but left teenagers unharmed. The result is a Mad Max-​like world run by high school kids. While this is a violent and cruel world, the main character describes the apocalypse as ‘fun’ in the first episode, and the target audience of this show are encouraged to imagine a world where they are free from the supervision and control of their parents. In each of these cases, the ‘end of the world as we know it’ is funny, exciting, romantic and exhilarating, but the most appealing quality of these shows is the ability to daydream about how the apocalypse offers opportunity, even in dystopian conditions. These shows appeal to a desire to destroy the world for the sake of breaking out of boring routines and existing social structures. And yet, each of these shows are set in the US with straight, White, male lead characters. Dystopian representations of the future may offer a utopian dismantling of existing inequalities, but their presentation in the present remains through the gaze of privilege. There is also an element of satire and reflexive self-​awareness in this genre, and this satirical tone is applied to the dynamics of present-​day society, but also to the concept of utopias and dystopias themselves. Alt-​folk artist Phoebe Bridgers describes her most recent album Punisher (2020) as ‘a diary about your crush during the apocalypse’. The album speaks to the absurdity of thinking about romance during these dark times and the disorientating practice of aligning these everyday feelings with the larger social context. Barbara Klonowska (2014) offers an analysis of Danny Boyle’s film The Beach (2000) as a satirical depiction of a hedonistic ‘Gen X’ utopia, where the young and adventurous male protagonist initially finds ‘utopia’ in a secluded beach on a Thai island, only to find that this wonderland is really a dark and dystopian nightmare. The overwhelming popularity of this film speaks to the fantasies and desires of a generation of young people who idealize escape over self-​actualization, and hedonism over authenticity. The possibility of the ‘end of the world as we know it’ is now, for better or worse, an everyday aspect of social life. This does not need to be justified in terms of the seriousness of the threats facing contemporary individuals, nor does it matter if the dangers they face are greater than those of previous generations. The collective internalization of this mentality through popular culture and social media is evidence that something about the emotional landscapes of modernity involves this dystopian dimension.

Utopia and dystopia as non-​fiction Depictions of utopia and dystopia also have a newfound place in the common lexicon of non-​fiction works. This can be seen in examples of popular books in the progressive left like Bhaskar Sunkara’s The Socialist Manifesto (2019), 6

Introduction

Aaron Bastani’s Fully Automated Luxury Communism (2019), Nick Srnicek and Alex Williams’ Inventing the Future (2016) and Rutger Bregman’s Utopia For Realists (2017). These books offer unabashed descriptions of alternate future societies rooted in critiques of contemporary economic, political and cultural realities. They occupy a growing intellectual space between formal social theory and popular discourse that utilizes Marxist concepts without becoming so technical and dense that they exclude non-​specialist readers (McKenzie, 2021). These books are resonating with the general public and reviving the terminology of utopia/​dystopia in the public discourse. This resurgence of utopian and dystopian language in popular culture is not limited to theory. Examples such as the Occupy movement, Black Lives Matter, #MeToo and Extinction Rebellion all engage with and draw from aspects of utopia and dystopia. These movements align with segments of the contemporary utopian/​dystopian literature, though these texts are better understood as critical dystopian works that critique the present in the hope of creating a better future.1 In each of these movements, dystopian and apocalyptic realities inspire collective micro-​utopian praxis as well as macro-​ scale planning for alternative futures. The language used in these movements offers clear evidence of this –​‘We are the 99%’ and ‘#blacklivesmatter’ are in themselves statements about the need for reimagined futures inspired by contemporary problems. While none of these movements offer clearly defined utopian solutions, this is to their advantage. Their lack of futurist specificity lends itself to new forms of political organization that go hand in hand with thinking ahead to a better future. What is lacking in much of the contemporary research on future-​ oriented thinking –​dystopian, apocalyptic or utopian –​are the emotional dimensions of theory and praxis in these new social movements. Both the participation in these movements and their oppositional responses in the political arena (that is, ‘All lives matter’) are highly emotive, and the mere mention of these movements in the media sparks a gamut of emotional responses from rage, anger and resentment, to joy, hope and belonging. It is clear that thinking, communicating and acting with regard to the future is an emotive experience anchored in the present. This includes anxiety about climate change, excitement about new technologies or apprehension about employment. It is also clear that researchers in the social sciences and humanities are well placed to consider the kinds of emotional experiences that will become more or less common in this future. As we research the shifting dynamics of inequality, the social impacts of technology, the new realities of social media landscapes, and the unnerving pace of social change, researchers need to consider the emotional consequences of the future and what this means for all people in the coming years. One such example involves the ability for people to reflexively handle the threat of dystopia in opposing, malleable or contradictory ways. A movement 7

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

like Black Lives Matter involves potentially dangerous demonstrations and protests in response to police violence, while also weaving in comedic and satirical commentary in social media. There is an uncomfortable mixture of tear gas and Simpsons memes in many of these demonstrations, and this indicates a radical level of self-​awareness and irony in political action. Protestors are not simply using action to attract the attention of the media, they are creating their own media through podcasts and Twitter footage of the actions themselves. Finding a balance in all this requires a degree of emotion management and emotional reflexivity, and it speaks to something radically new about these movements.

Dark futures and the sociology of emotion The crossover between research in the sociology of emotion and the field of dystopian studies is underdeveloped and in need of greater exploration. A search of leading emotions journals like Emotion Review, Emotion, Space and Society, Emotions: History, Culture Society and Emotions and Society yield minimal results for the words utopia or dystopia. Furthermore, the presence of feeling and emotion are underdeveloped in the sociology of utopia and dystopia. While emotions can be understood as micro-​level responses or interactions between individuals, they also involve interactions with wide-​ ranging cultural norms and practices. The macro-​emotions literature explores collective emotional conditions from a standpoint that reveals systemic emotional patterns occurring in response to widespread social factors. For example, Jack Barbalet (1998, p. 27) explains, ‘Emotion is directly implicated in the actors’ transformation of their circumstances, as well as the circumstances’ transformation of the actors’ disposition to act.’ This does not detract from the specificity of individual emotional experiences, but it does allow for researchers to make more substantive claims about the future of emotion as a macro-​phenomenon. The influence of the future on emotional landscapes can be broadly understood within a framework that recognizes the emotional content in (future-​oriented) cultural meanings, as well as in the embodied emotional experiences of individuals. Emotional experiences are undoubtably personal and unique, yet there are collective similarities in human responses to social, economic or political events, as well as demographic factors such as class, gender and race. Sociologists can speak of an emotional climate (Härtel et al, 2008; Harvey et al, 2016) or landscape (Best, 2014; Ford, 2021) that results from ongoing forms of inequality or injustice, or of economic prosperity. There are easily identifiable utopian and dystopian themes in classical sociology. From the utopian elements of Marxism (despite Marx and Engels’ ongoing criticisms of the utopian socialists of their time), to Durkheim’s work on the importance of community and social bonds that can be read as 8

Introduction

a theory for a better society. While the classical sociologists are not known for their attention to emotion, there is a great deal in the sociological cannon that speaks to the collective feeling of the time. For example, Weber’s ongoing concern with the rationalization of society materialized in a pressure for modern individuals to adopt rational principles in everyday experiences. This can be found in the move away from religion and spirituality to scientific and empirically grounded ‘truths’, but also in the various ways that capitalist modes of efficiency and predictability become standard practice in the intimate and emotional lives of individuals. In a world where science can reveal almost every truth, and mystery no longer lingers around questions of purpose, meaning and existence, Weber predicts a new era, a disenchantment of the world. This is an exaggeration (see Jenkins, 2000; Taylor, 2007), but it serves a purpose in capturing the emotional experience of living in modernity. Without the wonder and possibility that comes from having only partial knowledge of the world, it is easy to become bored and uninspired, and to some degree, cold and unemotional. The brand of rationality offered by post-​Enlightenment Western society is at odds with the phenomenological forms of experience that make up the human experience. Ultimately, humans are not reducible to machines; they are not rational, predictable or reliant on facts, nor should they be. Weber concludes that rationality is not the rational thing to do (Mackinnon, 2001). The pressure of modernity, for Weber, is to sacrifice the qualities that make us human. Disenchantment becomes a kind of survival mechanism. Simmel developed a similar concept (coincidentally working in the same country at roughly the same time as Weber) that understood this process of de-​emotionalization as a consequence of the modern city space. Simmel’s (1903) concept of the Blasé Attitude (or Outlook) refers to the diminished emotional engagement that is necessary in order to survive in modern dense cities. Modern life would not be possible if individuals formed complex relationships with everyone they met as they might have in smaller townships. Rather, cities ensure that individuals behave as rational, detached, time-​ conscious, and shut-​off from emotional reactivity. Blasé Attitude is not simply a method for survival, modern cities reward this kind of behaviour as those who embrace it flourish with new forms of autonomy. It is beneficial to be superficial in the workplace so that decisions can be more easily oriented to growing profit margins rather than generalized, supportive friendship networks. Many blasé urban workers may pretend to care about the birthday of a co-​worker, but this is often tactical as a courtesy rather than a genuine emotional connection. Emotions are messy and clingy in a fast-​paced metropolis, and so disconnection is often preferable. Both Weber and Simmel are mourning the loss of something meaningful here, they are by no means endorsing this way of living. They are, to some degree, warning of a future emotional dystopia whereby humans are further dehumanized into workers 9

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

and consumers, but not friends, family or lovers. While both theories deal with the de-​emotionalization of modern individuals, they also hint at the darkness of modernity as a cold and inhumane place. There is something sinister about modernity in both of these theories; as though modernity is a kind of trap presented as the best possible future. Bauman extended this line of thought in the 1990s with a series of works on the emotional consequences of postmodernity. In Modernity and Ambivalence (1991) he proposes a theory of rationalization whereby organization has become the mandatory requirement of all social objects. In essence, anything that cannot be classified, ordered or organized is of no use to modernity. After living in a society obsessed with imprinting order on to the world through rationalization, Bauman asserts that modern individuals are left without the skills needed to navigate disorder. Ultimately, disorder results in fear and anxiety rather than wonder, and an essential dimension of human curiosity becomes suppressed. The ambivalence that results is a detachment from the world and from others. This is not because people today are selfish, lazy or entitled, but because they are attempting to navigate a world with the skills given to them by a society dominated by rationalist and capitalist values, and this eventually leads to further de-​emotionalization. Agnes Heller describes the phenomenon of emotional impoverishment (1989) in modernity as a result of the lack of commonality between groups who do not share the kinds of community practices that inspire shared emotional experiences. Emotions are ‘cultivated’ in Heller’s explanation, while feelings are contrasted as something more natural and unintentional. In A Theory of Feelings Heller (2009, p. 224) states, ‘To feel means to be involved in something’, and though individualization may lead to fewer forms of involvement, some form of subjective feeling is inevitable. But emotions are intentional and targeted according to Heller, and they are vulnerable to conditions of privilege. For instance, Heller makes numerous references to the nature of bourgeois feeling, whereby those who are fortunate enough to devote mental energy to emotional cultivation are likely to be less concerned with the daily challenge of survival. Therefore, in response to the question of whether individuals are becoming less emotional in modernity, Heller (1989, p. 53) insists that ‘there is a hierarchy, and not merely a difference’. There are inherent problematic aspects of future thinking that warrant scepticism from serious academic research. Barbara Adam and Chris Groves set out the apprehension surrounding the facticity of the future in contrast to the past. The common sense logic is that the past is knowable and testable according to facts, whereas all knowledge about the future is mere speculation. Adam and Groves encourage us to think about the futures that are in progress and not yet ‘materialised’. The phenomenon of climate change exists in the past, present and future, even if its full effects remain decades 10

Introduction

away in the projections of scientists. These projections are not something that only lie ahead, they are part of a series of changes with which we are already engaged. Imagination is a key element of this challenging standpoint. Adam and Groves (2007, p. 36) argue that the future is commonly depicted as something that is ‘open territory to be occupied and colonised’ when it is ‘always already occupied’ by processes and transitions that have been set in motion by the past. Writing about the emotions of our future selves can therefore constitute more than guesswork. There are pathways connecting knowledge about the past and present to predictions about the future that can reveal useful and worthwhile research about what lies ahead. There is also a degree of caution about utopias among utopian thinkers, though this does not need to amount to anti-​utopian thought. Fredric Jameson (2005, xvi) uses the term ‘anti-​anti-​utopianism’ to describe this kind of thinking. The point is that to be opposed to all forms of utopian thinking is itself a claim about how an ideal world should be structured and is therefore a kind of utopian thought. But to be considered as a utopian might be too idealistic or naive for most researchers, so the position that allows for meaningful engagement with the future involves an opposition to anti-​utopian sentiments for the benefit of working towards better futures. Dystopian thinking has arguably never been more important to capturing the mood of an era. Utopian and dystopian thinking has been a part of collective cultural reflection since Thomas More coined the term in 1516, perhaps even earlier. Arguments about the best possible and worst possible society serve as political, social and economic evaluations, criticisms and blueprints for other ways of living. But this act of dreaming about another world or another reality is also a way to better understand ourselves and the world that already exists. When the emotional component of dystopia is investigated, fascinating new perspectives are revealed about the anxieties, fears and insecurities, as well as the hopes, dreams and desires of an age.

Introduction to the collection This edited collection offers a timely set of chapters that advance debates and discussions on the topic of emotions in the future. The chapters in this collection are broadly divided into two sections: the first on the influence of the future on emotions in the present, and the second on the emotional landscapes that lie ahead. This is a porous distinction as many of the chapters offer valuable insights to both themes. But this distinction is justified by a need to create an intellectual space that shines a light on the future of emotion without losing sight of future-​based emotions in the present. The chapters in this collection are global in focus and interdisciplinary in practice, though the sociology of emotion plays a central role for many of the authors in the book. 11

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

The collection begins with the recent work of Gina Chin-​Yi Yang on heterosexual young women, and lesbian and gay youth in Kinmen County. This ethnographic study considers the role of emotion in youth perceptions of the future in a contested space, and within contested communities. The term ‘borderland emotions’ is developed in order to capture the contradictory nature of emotional experiences that shape the future in times of uncertainty and exclusion. Chapter 2 offers highly original perspectives on social media use from a new materialism perspective from leading digital sociology researchers Deborah Lupton and Clare Southerton. Based on interview data, this chapter reconsiders the role of agency in social media participation in order to challenge increasingly popular complaints about social media as purely manipulative or exploitative. As social media platforms such as Facebook have transitioned from being new and novel to an established and everyday part of social life, this chapter unpacks the emerging social dynamics of social media with an eye towards the future. Chapter 3 offers a different take on social media as Vern Smith assesses the emerging character of cyber-​ deviance through the lens of emotional reflexivity. Smith investigates deviant online behaviour from trolling and bullying, to misinformation campaigns in order to better understand these new social media landscapes of social interaction. In particular, Smith investigates the new emotional dynamics that populate these online spaces as extreme and disorientating practices are normalized. The impacts of social media on contemporary future thinking are further theorized in Chapter 4 as Jordan McKenzie, Roger Patulny, Rebecca E. Olson and Marlee Bower offer the concept of ‘mass emotional events’ to advance the concept of emotional contagions in the time of the COVID-​19 pandemic. The chapter sets out this new conceptual framework in contrast to earlier models for thinking about emotional climates and landscapes. It then offers author reflections from Olson and Bower that contrast the 9/​11 terrorist attacks and the Black Summer bushfires in Australia as examples of mass emotional phenomena. In Chapter 5, Kiran Grewal and Hasanah Cegu Isadeen offer a depiction of a contemporary dystopian reality unfolding in Sri Lanka. The chapter considers the experiences of Muslim women living within a highly oppressive and dangerous new reality. But all hope is not lost, as the chapter investigates the sources of resistance, community and intimacy as a means to challenge the present as subjects look toward the future. These chapters look ahead with feet firmly planted in the present, and offer ways to make sense of the present as transitional rather than static. The second half of the book shifts the focus to the anticipation of emotions in the future. This section begins with a chapter by Roger Patulny on emotional labour and the future of work. Drawing from Giddens and Bourdieu, Patulny outlines a theory of ‘emotional structuration’ to 12

Introduction

describe the ‘privilege of feeling’ enjoyed by the bosses of the future. He describes how future bosses will accumulate and control data on emotional performance (that is, customer satisfaction ratings), shape the emotional cultures of workplaces and have their own emotions supported and managed ‘interpersonally’ by highly trained, emotionally skilled underlings. Through a reimagining of emerging inequalities of emotional labour, this chapter looks ahead to consider the dystopian consequences of emotional work in the future. Chapter 7 specifically assesses the university as a dystopian imaginary. Geraint Harvey and Simon Williams consider the transformation of academic work in the ‘Neo-​Villeiny University’ and the emotional consequences of living, working and studying within such an institution. The result is a dark future projection of academic work where replaceable academics are subcontracted rather than supported to churn out work, chasing research output targets in an increasingly unequal, overworked, impoverished and hopeless sector. Michael Hviid Jacobsen offers an important analysis of Zygmunt Bauman’s concept of retrotopia in Chapter 8. While utopia and dystopia served as key themes throughout Bauman’s lifetime, Jacobsen considers retrotopia in the context of contemporary socio-​political tensions. This intertwining of nostalgia, ambivalence and dystopia offers a powerful theoretical framework for understanding the emotional characteristics of late modernity. Chapter 9 explores the genre of climate change science fiction literature through the concept of critical hope. Briohny Doyle is the acclaimed author of the Cli-​Fi novel The Island Will Sink (2016) and in this chapter she uses the genre to think ahead about the human experience of a climate crisis. The result is the development of a ‘post-​apocalyptic imagination’ that allows for important conversations about the future to take place. In essence, this collection offers a constellation of critiques, challenges, examinations and projections regarding emotions in dark futures. As dystopian realities materialize and unfold through the COVID-​19 pandemic, climate change, terrorism and radical political populism, this book modestly hopes to create a diverse space for researchers to engage with forecasts of emotion in the future, and to think about the impact of perceived futures on our emotional present. Note 1

For more examples, see: Pettifor (2019) The Case for The New Green Deal; Löwy (2015) Ecosocialism; Arruzza, Bhattacharya and Fraser (2019) Feminism for the 99%; Frase (2016) Four Futures; and Bridle (2018) New Dark Age.

References Adam, B. and Groves, C. 2007, Future Matters: Action, Knowledge, Ethics, Leiden: Brill. 13

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Archer, M.S. 2020, ‘The morphogenetic approach; critical realism’s explanatory framework approach’, in P. Róna and L. Zsolnai (eds) Agency and Causal Explanation in Economics (Virtues and Economics series: vol. 5), Cham: Springer, pp. 137–150. Retrieved from: https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​ 978-​3-​030-​26114-​6_​9 Baccolini, R. and Moylan, T. 2003, Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination, London: Routledge. Barbalet, J. 1998, Emotion, Social Theory, and Social Structure: A Macrosociological Approach, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bastani, A. 2019, Fully Automated Luxury Communism, London: Verso. Bauman, Z. 1991, Modernity and Ambivalence, Cambridge: Polity Press. Best, A.L. 2014, ‘Youth consumers and the fast-​food market: the emotional landscape of micro-​encounters’, Food, Culture and Society, vol. 17, no. 2, pp. 283–​300. Bregman, R. 2017, Utopia for Realists, London: Bloomsbury. Brodman, B. and Doan, J.E. 2019, Utopia and Dystopia in the Age of Trump: Images from Literature and Visual Arts, Maryland: Rowman & Littlefield. Burkitt, I. 1996, ‘Civilization and ambivalence’, The British Journal of Sociology, vol. 47, no. 1, pp. 135–​50. Doyle, B. 2016, The Island Will Sink, Melbourne: Brow Books. Eckersley, R. 1999, ‘Dreams and expectations: young people’s expected and preferred futures and their significance for education’, Futures, vol. 31, no. 1, pp. 73–​90. Ford, A. 2021, ‘Emotional landscapes of risk: emotion and culture in American self-​sufficiency movements’, Qualitative Sociology, vol. 44, pp. 125–​50. Franceschelli, M. and Keating, A. 2018, ‘Imagining the future in the neoliberal era: young people’s optimism and their faith in hard work’, Young, vol. 26, no. 4, pp. 1–​17. Härtel, C.E.J., Gough, H. and Härtel, G.F. 2008, ‘Work-​group emotional climate, emotion management skills, and service attitudes and performance’, Asia Pacific Journal of Human Resources, vol. 46, no. 1, pp. 21–​37. Harvey, S.T., Evans, I.M., Hill, R.V.J., Henricksen, A. and Bimler, D. 2016, ‘Warming the emotional climate of the classroom: can teachers’ social-​ emotional skills change?’, International Journal of Emotional Education, vol. 8, no. 2, pp. 70–​87. Heller, A. 1989, ‘Are we living in a world of emotional impoverishment?’, Thesis Eleven, vol. 22, no. 1, pp. 46–​60. Heller, A. 2009, A Theory of Feelings, 2nd edn, Lanham: Lexington Books. Holmes, M. 2010, ‘The emotionalization of reflexivity’, Sociology, vol. 44, no. 1, pp. 139–​54. Jameson, F. 2005, Archaeologies of the Future, London: Verso. 14

Introduction

Jenkins, R. 2000, ‘Max Weber at the millennium’, Max Weber Studies, vol. 1, no. 1, pp. 11–​32. Kaboli, S.A. and Tapio, P. 2018, ‘How late-​modern nomads imagine tomorrow? A causal layered analysis practice to explore the images of the future of young adults’, Futures, vol. 96 (January 2017), pp. 32–​43. Klonowska, B. 2014, ‘Satirical utopia, utopia satirised: Danny Boyle’s The Beach’ in P. Gallardo and E. Russell (eds) Yesterday’s Tomorrows: On Utopia and Dystopia, Newcastle-​upon-​Tyne: Cambridge Scholars, pp. 75–85. Mackinnon, M.H. 2001, ‘Max Weber’s disenchantment: lineages of Kant and Channing’, Journal of Classical Sociology, vol. 1, no. 3, pp. 329–​51. McKenzie, J. 2021, ‘Millennial utopians and prepper subcultures: contemporary utopianism on the left and right’, Futures, vol. 126, February. Mead, G.H. 1932, The Philosophy of the Present, New York: Prometheus Press. Moylan, T. 2000, Scraps of the Untainted Sky: Science Fiction, Utopia, Dystopia, New York: Routledge. Nordensvard, J. 2014, ‘Dystopia and disutopia: hope and hopelessness in German pupils’ future narratives’, Journal of Educational Change, vol. 15, no. 4, pp. 443–​65. Rosa, H. 2013, Social Acceleration: A New Theory of Modernity, New York: Columbia University Press. Simmel, G. 1903, ‘The metropolis and mental life’, in G. Bridge and S. Watson (2002) (eds) The Blackwell City Reader, Oxford and Malden: Wiley-​Blackwell, pp. 11–19. Srnicek, N. and Williams, A. 2016, Inventing the Future: Postcapitalism and a World Without Work, London: Verso. Sunkara, B. 2019, The Socialist Manifesto, London: Verso. Taylor, C. 2007, A Secular Age, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

15

1

Borderland Emotions: A Case Study of Youths in Kinmen, Taiwan Gina Chin-​Yi Yang

Introduction Based on an ethnographic study of 34 Kinmenese youths during the period 2016–​1 8, this chapter examines the contradictory emotions experienced by young people when facing uncertainty about the future. Drawing upon scholarly literature on emotions and intersectionality, I use the term ‘borderland emotions’ to make sense of multiple and complex emotions experienced by Kinmen youths of diverse gender, sexuality and class backgrounds living in a geopolitically marginalized place. This research advances our understanding of how emotions are experienced by marginalized individuals living in a specific geopolitical time-​space, through illustrating the dynamics of belonging among young women and sexual minorities from Kinmen. Notions of time and space are not only limited to geographical and physical descriptions or definitions. Rather, one’s emotions often shift and change as a result of interacting with the past, the future and spatial dimensions. Time and space hold up particular nodes of history and culture. We also develop our emotional attachment to specific time periods and spaces in our lives. Furthermore, our social worlds develop around them as we form feelings of belonging through our everyday social interactions. Power relations within social worlds can shape our emotions and affect how we form our feelings of belonging. For people living in and from Kinmen, their emotions are often tied to the island’s rapid social transformations under globalization and geopolitics. As Yuval-​Davis (2011) points out, emotional attachment is a critical dimension of an individual’s sense of belonging. However, interrogations into how people feel and negotiate emotions in defining their senses of belonging have often been overlooked (Wood and Waite, 2011). 16

Borderland Emotions

Kinmen County, also known as Quemoy, is located in the southwest of the main island of Taiwan and only six kilometres to the east of Xiamen, China. During the Cold War, it was placed under Taiwan government’s War Zone Administration (WZA) as a result of its close physical proximity to China for 43 years. Being geographically far away from the main island of Taiwan, Kinmen was isolated with the preservation of a patriarchal clan culture. With the gradual easing of China-​Taiwan cross-​strait relations in 1992, Kinmen has quickly transformed from being a war frontier to become a frontline borderland for business and politics between Taiwan and China. The government of Kinmen put great efforts into developing the local tourism industry. On 1 January 2001, Kinmen became the pilot area for the Mini-​Three-​Links.1 This policy enables direct traffic for the flow of people and goods between Kinmen County, Matsu County of Taiwan and shipping ports in Mainland China’s (hereafter China) Fujian province. Tourism industry-​related businesses began to emerge on the small island. For young people living in Kinmen, rapid social transformations and increased exposure to tourists from China brought both excitement and anxiety in employment and future life planning. This chapter first explains how conventional gender relations and heteronormativity in Kinmen is influenced by its traditional clan culture and its militarized past as a war zone between Taiwan and China. I engage with literature on intersectionality, affect and emotions, as a theoretical background to my formulation of borderland emotions. I provide a brief summary on methodology followed by research findings on young people’s conflicting emotions such as feelings of loss, dissatisfaction, shame, fear and optimism in the face of work precarity and an uncertain future. I conclude that the borderland emotions of Kinmenese young people are influenced by Kinmen’s distinctive identity as a geopolitically marginalized place and their specific social locations.

Patriarchal clan culture and gender relations Kinmen society has experienced rapid development in terms of its economy, social welfare policy and population structure. However, these developments do not necessarily translate to progress in gender equality. One the one hand, the traditional clan culture which has been sustained by the teaching of Confucianism is reinforced through the post-​war democratization process in Kinmen. Meanwhile, the effects of gendered militarization during the war period and continuing in the post-​war period have been repeatedly represented and extended in the development of the tourism industry. Rituals in Kinmen such as weddings, funerals and ancestral ceremonies are primarily under the deep influence of Confucianism. The teachings of Zhu Xi emphasized the virtues of women and regulated women in many aspects, 17

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

such as the virtues of chastity (zhen), filial piety (xiao), moral integrity (jie) and martyrdom (yi) as well as the concept that a husband is superior to a wife (Lee, 2004; Yang, 2011). Forming heterosexual nuclear families is a general social norm. Due to its geographical positioning as an isolated island with limited transportation options, and its status as a semi-​closed state under the strictly imposed WZA, there were limited foreign cultural influences in Kinmen. Many cultural traditions of Confucianism are kept intact along with its gender relations that privilege men in general. Male-​only participation in social activities sorted and organized by clans for each village has an impact on how local electoral politics shape the place. Women cannot enter the halls and they can only do the preparation work for the worshipping activities at home (Lee, 2004). As a result, women’s perspectives are seldom acknowledged in village affairs. Kinmen is made up of many single-​surname families that are formed into clans. The basis of a patrilineal clan in operation consisted of a joint venture involving a clan family and a village. All village affairs are influenced by the dominant clan organization. A clan organization is often comprised of male members with the most dominant single-​surname in the village. Clan organization is led by the clan elders whose tasks are mainly to cope with the clan’s affairs such as mediating disputes or spring and autumn worship rituals. As noted by Lee (2004), these clan rituals and ceremonies should be viewed as public and collective social gatherings. Normative patriarchal values and manhood are reinforced through these rituals. The strength of the clans has not diminished during the process of modernization in Kinmen; rather, Lee (2004) points out that clan families compete with each other by building temples. The need for economic prowess and competition has led to more than 600 newly built or renovated clan temples on the small island. The connection between local election culture and ancestral culture is extremely close. Local township elections are often perceived as competitions between clans. It is the goal for each candidate to obtain a clan’s support. The candidate elected with the blessing of a clan, becomes the representative of the clan who has glorified the ancestors and plays an important role in clan ceremonies. Since the clan system’s operation is based on the logic of patriarchal kinship, the interaction between democratization and the clan system has become a constant circle. This privileges certain groups of men with abundant resources and the right connections while marginalizing women in general. Men with lower social status in terms of class and lesser kinship associations are often excluded. Needless to mention, gay men would not consider running for office. If we take women’s participation in public affairs as an example, there has been no female county mayor elected by citizens since 1993. The township mayors and city mayors elected in 2009 and 2014 were all male. The first female city mayor was only elected 18

Borderland Emotions

in 2018. Only 21 per cent of the county’s parliamentary representatives were female in 2018 (Kinmen County Government, 2018). Women in Kinmen are largely excluded from public decision-​making processes. Since Kinmen County is physically and demographically a small place, the effects of patriarchal clan culture, close kinship patterns and conservative gender ideology can be magnified in everyday life. Therefore, young people growing up on the island are often aware of these dynamics early in their lives, affecting their emotions which in turn shapes their future choices in schooling and employment.

Militarization, tourism and sexism In addition, the gender culture embedded in the military culture in Kinmen is also explicit. Szonyi (2008) notes that militarization in Kinmen is a gendered phenomenon and analyses three categories of militarized women’s lives, namely military prostitutes, soldier’s wives and female soldiers. On the surface, women’s participation in the army demonstrates the opportunities for women to escape from their traditional roles or challenge existing gender perspectives under the military’s political mobilization. However, the gendered division of labour during militarization demonstrates the dominant gender ideology and potential cultural logic behind it; an ideology that could be enhanced or transformed by the military (Szonyi, 2008). Militarization not only affects women but also men in general. Military masculinity lays its emphasis on being a strong heterosexual man to protect the nation and one’s family. It also attributes to rigid gender roles in society. Dimensions of militarization include cultural, institutional, ideological and economic changes in society. Policies, practices, government manifestos, national borders and people’s daily economic activities are all part of the militarization process. Examining militarization through a feminist lens can alert us to understand the reasons why militarization happens and the potential consequences it brings to both women and men (Enloe, 2000). Enloe (2000) examines the issues of demilitarization and points out that if we do not address the ideas about military masculinity, demilitarization will be superficial, partial and brief. Demilitarization not only applies to guns going silent, but khaki as a fashion fad or the popularity of war video games among boys and girls. A military-​themed fashion show, a field trip to war sites, or children’s bootcamps can be the arenas of both militarization and demilitarization. As Szonyi (2008) suggests, the three categories of mobilized women’s lives may go away along with the end of the WZA, but it does not mean that the trajectory of gendered militarization has disappeared. When the government claims to lessen its common parlance of military ideologies, a series of gendered 19

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

military representation emerged in promoting tourism for the island. Tourism, as a form of state representation, is closely tied to Kinmen’s image as a military state, where political ideologies permeate into media messages and made their way onto billboards, advertisements, pamphlets and souvenirs. Young women of Kinmen have been known to dress up in tight and sexy military-​style uniforms to dance to hit tunes for tourist events. Cheerleaders at basketball games often don similar military-​themed uniforms for their performances. A discriminative gender culture results in the unequal distribution of opportunities and resources for young women and men, which also affects the choices of migration for education and work. Deep-​rooted gendered conventions in Kinmen society have been formed by a combination of Confucianist beliefs and the island’s war history. Yet the development of democracy, the opening up of Kinmen and its tourism industry have failed to loosen gendered rules. Rather, these factors further strengthened how gender and sexualities are regulated, restricted and experienced. As the main island of Taiwan progresses to discuss issues on social inequalities, Kinmen’s specific borderland culture remains the same as if time and space exists in a vacuum. I will now proceed to engage with debates on intersectionality and emotions, and their contribution to my later analysis on borderland emotions among Kinmenese youth.

Intersectionality, affect and emotions Feminist legal scholar and race theorist, Kimberlé Crenshaw (1989) explains intersectionality as the multi-​faceted dimensions within the lives of marginalized subjects. The term has even gained mainstream usage in United Nations documents. Intersectionality points to the intersections of social identities both within and between identity categories that affect the way we exercise our agency in social worlds. Through recognizing marginalized lived experiences as key to one’s way of seeing the world and conducting research, intersectional analysis alerts us to potential biases and unequal power relations related to issues of race, class, gender, sexualities, disabilities and age. As Nira Yuval-​Davis (2011) points out cogently, the history of intersectional thinking is long and can be traced back to the abolitionist Sojourner Truth, the black lesbian collective Combahee River Collective and feminist theorists bell hooks and Angela Davis. Other feminist scholars have argued that an intersectional understanding to approaching research has long been practised. Anthias and Yuval-​Davis (1983) employed a similar approach to studying social divisions in gender and ethnicities in South East London. In this study, unpacking power relations between social identities is key to understanding how young people define and develop their feelings towards Kinmen. 20

Borderland Emotions

The intellectual project of including critical analysis of affect and emotions in social sciences research has been described as ‘the affective turn’ (Clough, 2007, p. 2), ‘turn to affect’ (Wetherell, 2012, p. 4) and ‘affect as methodology’ (Åhäll, 2018, p. 36). Barbalet substantiates the study of emotions in social theory by asserting the need to understand emotions as ‘link[ing] structure and agency’ (Barbalet, 2002, p. 3). Bericat (2015, p. 493) defines emotions as ‘the bodily manifestation of the importance that an event in the natural or social world has for a subject’. He highlights the significance of the social by affirming our grasp on emotions needs to be understood amid social relations that contribute to their emergence (Bericat, 2015). In feminist theory and queer studies, scholars often expanded on theories of affect developed by the late US clinical psychologist Silvan Tomkins. Sedgwick et al (1995) introduced Tomkins to a wider readership and specifically, draws upon Tomkins’ theories on shame and its association with pleasure and desire. Probyn (2004, p. 29) reminds us that ‘an affective response’ in the classroom brings the body back into discussions on teaching and pedagogy. Hemmings (2012, p. 147) returns to feminist roots of solidarity and argued for sustainable feminist politics through ‘affective solidarity’. Cultural theorist Sara Ahmed (2004) stresses how emotions are produced, accumulated and circulated in social worlds. Taking the British National Front as an example, Ahmed (2004, p. 12) highlights the narrative of a Euro-​White Britain being threatened by immigration with emotions of ‘loss, injury and theft’. Affect and emotions are closely linked concepts, with affect often understood as encompassing and inclusive of diverse emotional states (Wetherell, 2012). Rather than using affect as an analytical category to understand young people’s emotions, I chose to use emotion as theorized by Barbalet on its central role in social interactions and its place in social structure (Barbalet, 1998). An important discussion into borderland emotions is to seek out descriptions of borderland by young people living in Kinmen. I argue that Kinmen’s geopolitical position leads to specific constructions of borderland emotions for young people who possess contested feelings of home and belonging in the face of work precarity and future uncertainties. The future is hence full of contradictory emotions of optimism, pessimism and anything in-​between. Depending on one’s social location, young people’s attitudes towards the future can vary greatly in relation to time, space and place. These borderland emotions encompass complicated negotiations with oneself of what Kinmen as a place and a home means to them and how one feels about the place itself. Literature on the politics of belonging often points to the nation as a site of contestation where race and ethnicities play a major role in the discussion of inclusion and exclusion. In this case, being a Kinmenese youth attending school or working in the main island of Taiwan might facilitate emotions associated with self-​realization. Although the nuances of being Kinmenese in Taiwan are not the same as 21

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

an immigrant per se, the physical distance of the island being further away from the main island of Taiwan but closer to China allows for all sorts of cultural imaginations and diasporic feelings to emerge. Hannerz (2002) points out that home can make one feel grounded in a specific social and geographical space. A person can also project one’s imagination of what home is supposed to be from a distance. Both interpretations of home can lead to processes of self-​realization. In this chapter, I fuse affect with intersectionality, and vice versa, to develop an argument that the social locations of young people are key to their process of forming emotions and expressing feelings about the future. In the following sections, I will discuss emerging themes from my ethnographic study that speak to the complexities of borderland emotions as in feelings of loss, dissatisfaction, shame, fear and optimism.

Methodology note I am inspired by feminist methodology in relation to my understanding of standpoint theory in qualitative research methods. Standpoint theory highlights the importance of positioning oneself in the research process (Haraway, 1988; Harding, 1991). As a woman from Kinmen and a situated knower, I have insider’s knowledge of Kinmen’s society and its tradition, understanding the gender roles and labour divisions within the culture (Collins, 1986). With this study, I adopt a qualitative research method by conducting multi-​site fieldwork in Kinmen, the main island of Taiwan and China. In-​depth interviews were conducted from October 2016 to June 2018 with 34 research participants from diverse backgrounds in the three research sites. This chapter stems from my doctoral thesis on school-​to-​work decision-​making processes of Kinmenese youth. I made an attempt to recruit interviewees comprised of diverse class backgrounds, occupations, gender, sexuality and various levels of mobility. In-​d epth interviews have been tape-​recorded and transcribed with consent. I first utilized my social networks from familial ties and peer groups. I contacted the Office of Student Career Development and alumni associations of two senior high schools in Kinmen. The first is National Kinmen Senior High School, an academically oriented school, and the other, National Agricultural and Industrial Vocational Senior High School, where students mostly receive job-​specific training and enter the workforce after graduation. Other participants were recruited through snowball sampling based on the recommendation of interviewees. Confidentiality was a key issue for most interviewees as they worried about being overheard in public, in particular when the conversation revolved around coming out as a gay man or a lesbian, issues at home or living on the island. The selection of locations for the interviews was critical to their overall safety. 22

Borderland Emotions

Interviews were conducted in Mandarin and the Taiwanese dialect due to my fluency in both languages. In order to explore the complex and multi-​layered dimensions of young people’s emotional experiences, I developed an interview guide that included questions on specific issues related to young people’s growing up experiences based on their gender and sexuality, as well as the impact of social transformations on their everyday lives as a gendered person and/​or a gay man or lesbian. I also asked them about their future plans. During the process of interviewing Kinmenese youth, I realized that I was drawn to the way they talked, their facial expressions and body language. Williams and Boyce (2013, p. 903) reminded us that by paying attention to how words are spoken and the way they are expressed we would reach ‘the affective and emotional worlds of interviewees’. Coding and analysis of interview data were conducted since the beginning of data collection. I categorized data based on initial themes generated from the first round of interviews. Follow-​up interviews were conducted in both face-​to-​face sessions and online social media applications, such as Facebook Messenger, Line and WeChat. Both Line and WeChat are the most commonly used social media platforms in Taiwan and China. I also examined documentary data including government publications, statistics reports, news reports and personal notes as major or complementary data to provide rich contexts regarding the institutions, history, politics and culture where my research participants are located. Drawing on my ethnographic fieldwork, the next section will present emerging themes that have come to depict what I have coined as borderland emotions.

“Only sons are the zi-​ji-​ren [members of the family]” Yating’s parents always stated that “property is deemed to be given to sons” and “only sons need to know the important things about the family”. Favouritism and preferential treatment towards sons lead to a lack of resources in bringing up daughters in the family. Moreover, parents often have lesser expectations of daughters in general. Yating elaborated: ‘She [my mother] is more willing to give resources to cultivate my brothers, but not me and my sister. When we were in high school, she said that we should find a job as soon as possible or just find a convenient university. But as to my two brothers, one has better performance in school and is studying in a national university while the other studies in a less well-​known school with very high tuition fees. But he doesn’t work at all. My mum is still willing to spend the money and let him live in Taipei. I have to work my way through university. My elder sister also has to be responsible for her living expenses by herself.’ 23

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Inequalities in the distribution of resources can extend from the private sphere to the public, from one’s family to one’s employment. Facing limited job options and poor working conditions in Kinmen, most of my young interviewees expressed similar thoughts that running the family business or working for the government would be a relatively better career option for young people in Kinmen. However, most Kinmen parents hand over their businesses to their sons rather than to their daughters. Although this sometimes forms a kind of pressure for sons to return to Kinmen, they would have more choices back home than daughters. Meanwhile, job positions in the government are competitive, requiring a high academic performance in national examinations. Additional resources on education such as attending after-​school tutoring classes and other extracurricular activities are often first prioritized for sons in the family. Yating has a strong feeling that “only sons are the zi-​ji-​ren [members of the family]”. Daughters often experienced loss in resources, love and respect in a patriarchal family. These feelings had an impact on how they made decisions in their education or work later in their lives. Another young woman, Yurou, whose parents used to run a shop but have since turned it over to her older brother, informed me that her memories of growing up often had to do with “competing with men all the time”. When I probed further about her family interactions, Yurou said, “I am quite independent, I think. It’s just that my emotions would come up sporadically.” At this point of the interview, she could hardly hold back her tears. I was also at a loss for words. My feminist self urged me to share my own growing up experience and extend my hand to build ‘affective solidarity’ (Hemmings, 2012, p. 147). It became clear to me that interviewees like Yating and Yurou rarely had a chance to discuss their emotions towards male privilege or patriarchy in their immediate surroundings. The thought of changing family traditions to reflect gender equality within the family structure did not exist. It amounts to immense feelings of hopelessness. Disclosing information in an academic interview became daunting for Yurou, as if this act of disclosure forced one to openly admit the effects of sexism on one’s life experience. My interviews with Yating and Yurou were conducted in cafes in the city Taipei on the main island of Taiwan. This is the main reason why they were able to express openly their feelings on Kinmen society during the interviews.

Gendered sense of belonging: from private to public The lack of family resources drove the female interviewees to think about their own future. “I want to be able to go out and see the world” was a common statement among them. Being daughters, they realize that they have to put in more effort than their male siblings if they want to change 24

Borderland Emotions

their situation in life. Yating’s and Yurou’s feelings of anger, dissatisfaction and loss of security further exacerbated their awareness of gender inequality in social structure, hence turned their senses of injustice into personal action. Yurou described, “There are many things that I would make my own decisions and act upon them.” For Yating, she made up her mind to leave Kinmen and was very determined about it even though her parents expected her to finish her bachelor’s degree in Kinmen. The decision to leave and to venture out into the world is partly based on their marginalized social positions in a certain geopolitical space, but can also be attributed to this particular moment where opportunities emerge through closer cross-​ strait relations. It also echoes Barbalet’s assertion where emotions can drive agency in dystopian social situations. Due to the implementation of Mini-​Three-​Links in 2001, cross-​strait traffic between Kinmen, Taiwan and Xiamen, Fujian Province in China increased dramatically. In 2005, China’s government announced a series of changes in the policies towards Taiwanese students in Mainland China, including special subsidies for higher education institutions that recruit Taiwanese students (Wu and Land, 2011). Yating remembered that she had read in a local newspaper about young people from Kinmen studying at universities in Fujian, China. Besides she had been there several times through Mini-​Three-​Links and knew that the living costs were low. Yating started to look for higher education opportunities in Fujian. “I thus looked for a school that was along the coast and not too far away from home,” she said. It would only take her 30 minutes to travel back and forth by ferry and the transportation cost was only one quarter of that to travel between Kinmen and the main island of Taiwan. She then got admitted and studied in Fujian so that she did not have to worry about the tuition fees and living expenses. However, she decided to leave Fujian after a year because she “did not adapt well to the life there and felt a bit lonely. Furthermore, the teachers there taught in simplified Chinese, while I am a person who writes in traditional Chinese characters. I did not have a sense of belonging with the language.” she described. She then sought educational opportunities in Taipei, Taiwan instead. To Yating, although she had to work non-​stop to pay for her university study and living expenses and she had to spend more time obtaining her university degree, she did not regret her decision as she was determined to leave Kinmen. Yating’s experience of study abroad in Xiamen is quite distinct from that of male interviewees in the study. Young men would often choose to study in “famous universities” such as Xiamen University as an investment for their future political and business careers. To Yating, attaining higher education or gaining employment “is only a pathway” for her to “venture out and see the world”. Changes in one’s emotions on belonging reflect a person’s relationship with social transformations and globalizing forces in local society. They also reflect upon gender differences in this case. Yating’s 25

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

future aspirations were affected by her own growing up experience in the borderland. Referring to literature on gendered belonging and emotional geography, Gorman-​Murray (2011) finds that middle-​class heterosexual men tended to shift their senses of belonging from work to family during economic crises. Acker (2004) also analyses the form of masculinity that is embedded in globalization. She asserts that many male leaders of market-​ oriented transnational corporations share common features of being ‘aggressive, ruthless, competitive and adversarial’ (Acker, 2004, p. 29). This has resulted in a new form of globalizing hegemonic masculinity. Hegemonic masculinity has become an important economic force of globalization, which further defines gender expectations for leaders in transnational corporations. In Kinmen, the implementation of Mini-​T hree-​L inks might not have altered the negative feelings experienced by marginalized women. Transnational capitalism has facilitated international trade in several townships. The establishment of duty-​free shops have created employment opportunities for young people. Yet women were often relegated to low-​ ranking and low-​paying jobs such as customer service representatives, cleaners and food promoters. An interviewee said, “I felt helpless. What else can I do other than work in a duty-​free shop?” Another interviewee talked about her difficulties in meeting sales target figures at work. Over the last two years, constant stress and anxieties have led her to seek psychotherapy sessions. Most female interviewees blamed themselves for not being able to perform well at work. Some sobbed during interviews while recalling their work experiences. They frequently felt powerless and held a pessimistic view of their future. Kinmen, as a place of belonging for this group of young women, could be perceived as being stuck on a stranded island. The opening up of island tourism to tourists from Mainland China did not create meaningful employment for working-​class women, rather it created jobs with limited upward mobility and work-​security. The feeling of being trapped at home and alienated from work was more apparent for this group of women. Even their foreseeable futures became repetitions of their current lives. The opposite was true for young men in Kinmen. They have often demonstrated faith and hope in transnational corporations being stationed on the island. A young man, Eason, who returned to Kinmen from Taipei informed me that he would start employment from the basic level at a multinational retail corporation. In comparison to women, most male interviewees did not feel reluctant to start at the lower rank because of their faith in getting promoted. Another interviewee, A-​Wei, who regularly accompanied his manager on business meetings in China, told me that his manager wanted him to gain more exposure on business operations. He proclaimed with confidence, “I don’t want to leave this company!” Interviewee Yi-​Ming also expressed self-​assurance about his career in cross-​ strait business and Mini-​Three-​Links professional networks, “Once I keep 26

Borderland Emotions

doing this job, my position will be different … I am not afraid if one day this product is not popular, because I have my own connections … I can start my own business, or do other jobs. Once I own these abilities, I will definitely not die.” Young men in the study were in general more optimistic about future economic development in Kinmen. They often embraced investment projects between the local government and companies or government offices from China as a result of their work experiences as beneficiaries of these emerging economic opportunities.

“I will hide myself ”: feelings of loss and abandonment Yet not all men benefit from the increased business and education opportunities with China; the strong patriarchal culture and its compulsory heterosexuality makes gay men and lesbians feel threatened and unsafe living in Kinmen. Wen described his early experiences in Kinmen: ‘As early as elementary school, I was often ridiculed as a sissy or tranny because I was feminine. Under the impact of the military history and strong clan culture, it’s not difficult to imagine that people like me, a gay man who is not masculine and who does not conform to patriarchal expectations –​my life would be full of frustrations and obstacles. The whole society is conservative and changes slowly due to the past military governance, and this makes it almost impossible for me to come out.’ Wen told me that gay men and lesbians, whom he knew, almost never “choose to” return to Kinmen: ‘I am always wondering would my life have been more colourful and have less struggles if I had not been born in Kinmen, where there is no gay bar, gay park, or gay sauna. If I had been born in a gay-​friendly city on the main island of Taiwan or in other countries. If I had lived on the main island of Taiwan, even in a remote county or village, at least, I would not have been worried about the expensive flight ticket and I could have gone anywhere by bus or car. I could have come out to my friends earlier without fear of being abandoned by the world again and again. I would have not worried about being stuck on this small island of Kinmen without friends.’ Urban spaces such as gay bars, cruising parks or gay saunas are allowed to exist only under unrestrictive business conditions combined with progressive social values. These venues provide not only practical functions such as drinking, dating, or making gay friends, but more importantly, they provide sexual minorities with a sense of belonging. Young gay men get the chance 27

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

to build up their sexual identities in these spaces. Wen’s feelings of loss and abandonment were based on his actual and painful life experience living on an isolated island. It also led to a deep aspiration and a struggling belief to run away from his hometown. This is attuned to what Kawale (2004, p. 577) suggests that institutional heterosexuality regulates our emotional behaviour, hence contribute to maintain ‘spatial inequalities between sexualized groups in sexualized spaces on an emotional basis’. Despite keeping a low profile in Kinmen, Wen and another gay interviewee, Gary, were both very active in various social movements, including LGBT movements in Taipei. One day Wen sent me a message telling me thrillingly that that he and a friend would sell some ‘rainbow products’ at a music festival in Kinmen. But soon after, he told me that ‘I will hide myself when I see an acquaintance’. The next summer, I returned to Kinmen just before the referendum on same-​sex marriage in Taiwan. Wen was also back in Kinmen and he asked me to sign a petition. When I was on my way to meet him at his home for the petition, he called me and asked me to meet him at the alley next to his home. He said, “I have to be careful of the neighbours. There [is] always gossiping going on. I don’t want my family to hear anything about me from them.” The fear in Wen’s voice remained vividly in my memory. The wider social environment not only has an impact on how one experiences one’s emotions, but also how one develops one’s feelings towards the same environment. It became clear that being home was not safe for Wen. Rather, being away from home provided another life trajectory for fulfilment of a gay personhood. The future is elsewhere for most gay men and lesbians in Kinmen. The dual lives of sexual minorities in Kinmen and Taipei exemplify divergent performances in the ‘front stage’ and ‘back stage’ as described by sociologist Erving Goffman (1959). Gay and lesbian people play the roles expected by mainstream society in the front stage, while their oppressed real self can only appear in the back stage. As a young lesbian, Joy shared her experience of living in Kinmen. Her relatives, whom she lived with and used to get along well with when she was a child, now treated her indifferently and uncaringly because of her androgynous appearance and gender non-​ conformity. She felt hurt when her relatives ignored her. Their former affection towards Joy had often been intertwined with meanings of home and belonging. In order to protect herself emotionally, she decided to keep her distance from them. On her thoughts on home, Joy felt depressed and isolated: “My zodiac sign is Cancer. People say that Cancer loves home, but I think the home I want to love is the home where I can have my own life. It is not the home where my family is based and I cannot see the possibility of having the home.” She explained, “You cannot develop a relationship here even if you meet someone nice. Because she cannot date you under the pressure of Kinmenese society.” 28

Borderland Emotions

Governed intimacy and affections Another gay participant, Russell, echoed Joy’s sentiments on the impossibility of living as an openly gay man on the island. But unlike Joy’s case, Russell’s parents supported him and gave him substantial freedom to make his own decisions, including relocating to the main island of Taiwan. When I interviewed him in Taipei, he told me about his gay identity. So, I asked him if there was any chance of him developing relationships in Kinmen since he seemed to have more mobility than my other interviewees. He raised his voice and said, “How could that be!” He said his boyfriend had never flown over to see him during his one year of studying at university in Kinmen because “where to live in Kinmen, is a problem” and he could not let his parents know of his sexual orientation. Similarly, in Gary’s case, as a recipient of a government scholarship for his degree in medicine, he had to work at a hospital in Kinmen for seven years. He kept counting down the days left in his service. He flew out to Taipei almost twice a month to date and find (?) sexual intimacy. When I asked him about romantic opportunities in Xiamen, Gary immediately mentioned that profiles of gay men in Xiamen kept popping up on his mobile phone dating app. But he would not consider travelling over even though it is only a thirty-​minute ferry ride. He was worried about “being cheated” and issues around “national security”. Borderland emotions consist of multiple layers. Most interviewees had multiple social identities cutting across Kinmenese society in their daily interactions. As a result, their emotional experiences were also complex and manifold. Despite the fact that both young gay men and lesbians were suffering from being excluded, the type of pressures put upon them varied between men and women. As the eldest son of the family, Russell expressed his feeling of guilt, “I worry that I couldn’t fulfil my duty as the eldest son and continue the family bloodline. You know, the culture of Kinmen. But after my younger brother was born, I feel a little bit relieved. He can be the one who takes the responsibility for the family bloodline.” The birth of his younger brother not only brought a moment of relief to Russell, but it also helped him to imagine an alternative future without having to bear family responsibilities such as marrying a woman and producing male offspring for the continuation of the family’s surname. His anxieties about the future have also lessened as a result. Conversely, tense cross-​strait relations between Taiwan and China led to uncertainties in the future development of Kinmen. But as I pointed out earlier, men felt a general sense of optimism and security. Although gay men were discriminated against and felt threatened as a result of their sexual orientation, their gender as male would still afford them male privileges. “Spoilt son” was the term which Russell used to describe himself. To him, 29

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

home still offered him protection despite being gay. Therefore, each time he failed his studies in Taipei, he would move back to Kinmen. At the same time, he had freedom of mobility without fear of being stuck in Kinmen, with full financial support from his family. On the contrary, young women would have to work harder to leave Kinmen, so as to not move back to their patriarchal families, even if they experienced difficulties living in Taiwanese cities. In Joy’s case, she encountered more challenges as a lesbian in terms of her dual identity as a woman and a lesbian. She had to return home because she could not afford the high accommodation costs in Taipei. At the time of the interview, she had two jobs to try to save money. Occasionally, she would visit the job search website to check opportunities on the main island. She told me of her dreams of leaving Kinmen again and starting a new life on the main island of Taiwan.

Conclusion This chapter highlights specific borderland emotions as experienced by Kinmenese young people under geopolitical influences. The specific war history, rapid social transformations and geopolitical position made the island an important place for critical investigation of young people’s feelings towards notions of home, belonging and the future. I use a feminist approach to examine how the island’s military history and patriarchal clan culture affects the current generation of youth. On the whole, the meaning of ‘home’ could be translated as a gendered place where young women yearned to ‘escape’ to the ‘bigger world’, but also as a ‘shelter’ where privileged young men stayed or went back to when they failed to complete their studies or left their undesirable employment on the main island of Taiwan. When job opportunities increased by way of incoming transnational capital and heightened tourist traffic, young people were initially excited about potential changes in their future. Yet as this study finds out, the future spells out differently along lines of gender and sexualities. The future might appear dystopian to some while optimistic to others. Young women often suffered under patriarchal clan culture and developed feelings of loss and dissatisfaction, whereas young men saw glimmers of hope and felt more optimistic about their future. Intersectionality also plays a key role in understanding how young people make sense of Kinmen as a home and a small place in close proximity to China. For gay men and lesbians, their fear of being exposed forced them to hide their same-​sex sexualities from family and relatives on the small island. As cross-​straits traffic and tourism came to a halt under COVID-​19, the future for the youth on the island has become increasingly unclear. This study hopes to shed some light on the connections between deep-​rooted patriarchal culture and its impact on intersectional social identities and emotions embodied by Kinmenese youth. 30

Borderland Emotions

Note 1

The Mini-​Three-​Links is the first policy that allowed for direct cross-​straits exchange of goods and people since 1949. The National Immigration Agency statics reported the number of passengers travelling from Kinmen to China’s Fujian Province and vice versa at 1,385,617 between January and September 2018. 280,898 visitors were recorded from China to Kinmen in the same period. See: www.taiwannews.com.tw/​en/​news/​ 3551814

References Acker, J. 2004, ‘Gender, capitalism and globalization’, Critical Sociology, vol. 30, no. 1, pp. 17–​41. Åhäll, L. 2018, ‘Affect as methodology: feminism and the politics of emotion’, International Political Sociology, vol. 12, no. 1, pp. 36–​52. Ahmed, S. 2004, The Cultural Politics of Emotions, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Anthias, F. and Yuval-​Davis, N. 1983, ‘Contextualising feminism: gender, ethnic and class divisions’, Feminist Review, vol. 15 (November), pp. 62–​75. Barbalet, J. 1998, Emotion, Social Theory, and Social Structure: A Macrosociological Approach, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Barbalet, J. 2002, ‘Introduction: why emotions are crucial’, The Sociological Review, vol. 50, no. 2, pp. 1–​9. Bericat, E. 2015, ‘The sociology of emotions: four decades of progress’, Current Sociology, vol. 64, no. 3, pp. 491–​513. Clough, P.T. 2007, ‘Introduction’, in P.T. Clough and J. Halley (eds) The Affective Turn: Theorizing the Social, Durham, NC: Duke University Press, pp. 1–​33. Collins, P.H. 1986, ‘Learning from the outsider within’, Social Problems, vol. 33, no. 6, pp. S14–​32. Crenshaw, K. 1989, ‘Demarginalizing the intersection of race and sex: a black feminist critique of antidiscrimination doctrine’, University of Chicago Legal Forum, pp. 139–​68. Enloe, C. 2000, Maneuvers: The International Politics of Militarizing Women’s Lives, Berkeley: University of California Press. Goffman, E. 1959, The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, New York: Doubleday/​ Anchor Books. Gorman-​Murray, A. 2011, ‘Economic crises and emotional fallout: work, home and men’s senses of belonging in post-​GFC Sydney’, Emotion, Space and Society, vol. 4, no. 4, pp. 211–​20. Hannerz, U. 2002, ‘Where are we and who we want to be’, in U. Hedetoft and M.E. Hjort (eds) The Postnational Self: Belonging and Identity, Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, pp. 217–​32.

31

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Haraway, D. 1988, ‘Situated knowledges: the science question in feminism and the privilege of partial perspective’, Feminist Studies, vol. 14, no. 3, pp. 575–​99. Harding, S. 1991, Whose science? Whose knowledge? Thinking from Women’s Lives, New York and Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Hemmings, C. 2012, ‘Affective solidarity: feminist reflexivity and political transformation’, Feminist Theory, vol. 13, no. 2, pp. 147–​61. Kawale, R. 2004, ‘Inequalities of the heart: the performance of emotion work by lesbian and bisexual women in London, England’, Social and Cultural Geography, vol. 5, no. 4, pp. 565–​81. Kinmen County Government 2018, Report and Statistics on Gender, Accounting and Statistics Department. Retrieved from: https://​ws.kinmen.gov.tw/​ Download.ashx?u=LzAwMS9VcGxvYWQvMzExL3JlbGZpbGUvMC8zNTAwMi8 zODljNWM0My1jZmI3LTRjODgtYTVkZC1mNjA5MDE3 M j R h N j Q u c G R m & n = 6 Ye R 6 Z a A 5 7 i j M TA 4 5 b m 0 5 o C n 5Yil57Wx6KiI5ZyW5YOPLnBkZg%3d%3d Lee, F.M. 2004, ‘Lisheng, daoshih, fashih yu zongzu jhanglao, zuren: yi ge jin men zong tsih dian an de tu siang’ [‘Lisheng (master of ceremony), Daoist, Shaman, the elders and clan members: a picture of the Dian-​ An (establishing security) ceremony of ancestors’ temples in Jinmen’], in Wang Chiou-​guei (ed) Jinmen li shih,wunhua yu shengtai guo ji syueh shu yan tao huei lun wun ji [Proceedings of the International Conference on the History, Culture and Ecology of Quemoy], Taiwan: Shih Ho-​Cheng Cultural Foundation, pp. 215–​48. Probyn, E. 2004, ‘Affects in/​of teaching’, Body and Society, vol. 10, pp. 21–​43. Sedgwick, E.K., Frank, A. and Alexander, I.E. 1995, Shame and Its Sisters: A Silvan Tomkins Reader, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Szonyi, M. 2008, Cold War Island: Quemoy on the Front Line, New York: Cambridge University Press. Wetherell, M. 2012, Affect and Emotion: A New Social Science Understanding, London: SAGE Publications Ltd. Williams, J. and Boyce, G.A. 2013, ‘Fear, loathing and the everyday geopolitics of encounter in the Arizona Borderlands’, Geopolitics, vol. 18, no. 4, pp. 895–​916. Wood, N. and Waite, L. 2011, ‘Editorial: scales of belonging’, Emotion, Space and Society, vol. 4, no. 4, pp. 201–​2. Wu, Y.F. and Lan, P.C. 2011, ‘Chyu jhongguo liou syueh: lyu jhong tai sheng de jhih du kuang jia yu chian yi guei ji’ [‘Taiwanese students pursuing higher education in China: institutional frameworks and migration trajectories’], Taiwan shehuei syueh kan [Taiwanese Journal of Sociology], vol. 50, pp. 1–​56.

32

Borderland Emotions

Yang, T.H. 2011, ‘Jinmen zong tsih ji li yan jiou: yi Chen, Tsai, Syu san sing jia zu wei li’ [‘The research on the sacrificial rites of ancestral temple and ritual in Kinmen: taking the three family names, Chen, Cai, Xu, for example’], Doctoral dissertation, Soochow University, Taipei. Yuval-​Davis, N. 2011, The Politics of Belonging: Intersectional Contestations, London: SAGE Publications Ltd.

33

2

Beyond Wicked Facebook: A Vital Materialism Perspective Deborah Lupton and Clare Southerton

Introduction Ever since the widespread distribution and adoption of digital technologies in everyday life from the 1980s onwards, two counter imaginaries have been expressed in both the popular media and the academic literature. The first imaginary deals with the techno-​utopian dimensions of novel digital technologies: that is, the almost magical benefits they can supposedly offer human lives in terms of promoting social networks and communication, improving health and productivity, solving mundane problems and removing the tedium of low-​skilled work. The second imaginary is directly opposed in its dystopian directions, positioning digital technologies as manipulating people, knowing ‘too much about them’, profiting from their personal data without their knowledge or consent, taking away their jobs, de-​humanizing personal relationships, de-​skilling children and young people and so on. Both imaginaries are simplistic, techno-​determinist and hyperbolic, yet they continue to receive widespread attention and promotion (Wajcman, 2017). Techno-​dystopian visions of new digital technologies can be characterized as a broader affective atmosphere (Anderson, 2009) experienced by countries of the Global North, in which the future is increasingly imagined as disastrous, with little hope for redemption (Urry, 2016; Tutton, 2017). Sociologists of the future have identified the seemingly intractable pessimism that pervades future-​oriented imaginaries. Tutton (2017) characterizes this approach as outlining ‘wicked futures’, replete with imaginaries of social problems that are difficult to solve. For Urry (2016, p. 33), the dystopian portrayal of novel technologies and other trends such as environmental pollution and climate

34

Beyond Wicked Facebook

change is born of what he describes as ‘new catastrophic futures’: a pessimistic sentiment about the future that began to emerge in the early 2000s. This timeline is evident in the altered visions of digital technologies. Devices and software that in the late 20th century seemed to hold much promise for contributing to human flourishing, by the turn of the century had begun to feel tarnished, their potential for democratic expression, activism and civil society overtaken by what Zuboff (2019) describes as ‘surveillance capitalism’. Surveillance capitalism refers to the commodification of the digitized information about people that is generated when they go online and use mobile devices and apps. Zuboff’s influential book on this subject is replete with generalizing and hyperbolic statements about the manipulation and exploitation of internet users by the major tech companies: Apple, Microsoft, Amazon, Google and Facebook. She is not alone in this portrayal, with a raft of other publications in digital sociology, internet studies and surveillance studies continually positioning these tech companies as preying on publics with the sole intention to profit from them, invade their privacy and control them (for example Andrejevic, 2013; Srnicek, 2016; Fuchs, 2017; Vaidhyanathan, 2018; Sadowski, 2020). In recent years, social media companies have become particularly imbricated within technological dystopian imaginaries –​and among these companies, Facebook and its founder and CEO Mark Zuckerberg, in particular, have been vilified. Since opening membership globally in 2006, Facebook has rapidly grown to become the most profitable and highly used social media platform worldwide, with close to 2.5 billion active monthly users by the end of 2019 (Clement, 2020). Facebook is well known for commercializing the information that is uploaded by its users, particularly for generating targeted advertising (Srnicek, 2016). Its domination and wealth have received significant media and academic attention, which have progressively turned negative as a number of scandals and controversies have reached public attention. It is notable that some of the academic literature positions Facebook as exerting an affective force over users that impels them to become ‘addicted’ (Przepiorka and Blachnio, 2016) or ‘manipulated’ and even ‘coerced’ (Waldman, 2016) into what is considered to be excessive use or unmanaged sharing of personal details on the platform. Facebook and Zuckerberg have been accused of emotionally manipulating their users and exploiting their personal details to generate the vast profits for which Facebook has become famous, without adequately protecting people’s privacy rights. The ‘emotional contagion’ study published in a prestigious science journal in 2014, in which Facebook participated with two US academics, attracted high levels of media publicity and concern in the academic literature. The study involved altering the content of close to 700,000 Facebook users’ News Feeds during a period of one week as an experiment to see whether exposure 35

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

to emotional content (described as ‘sentiment’) posted by the users’ friends would change the nature of their own posts. One group received a higher concentration of content deemed to be affectively ‘positive’ while a second group was exposed to more ‘negative’ content and a third was less exposed to content deemed ‘emotional’ (Kramer at al, 2014). While these kinds of user experience experiments are the norm in the industry, including social media companies like Facebook (boyd, 2015), this study contravened usual standards of ethical practice in university research because it was conducted without users’ consent or knowledge. Another central element of the controversy related to concern that people’s emotional wellbeing should not be tampered with by social media companies (boyd, 2015; Hallinan et al, 2020). One of the more recent Facebook scandals involved the data analytics company Cambridge Analytica and its alleged misuse of Facebook users’ information for profiling and political campaigning purposes. Media reports published en masse worldwide recounted the involvement of the data analytics company Cambridge Analytica in using personal data taken from an estimated 87 million Facebook users to help political parties use targeted advertising in their election campaigns (Cadwalladr and Graham-​ Harrison, 2018a). Headlines of news reports described this process as part of ‘Facebook’s surveillance machine’ (Tufekci, 2018), resulting in a ‘psychological warfare tool’ (Cadwalladr and Graham-​Harrison, 2018b). It was further claimed that coverage of Cambridge Analytica had ‘sparked the great privacy awakening’ (Lapowsky, 2018). In these representations, Facebook was positioned less as a social networking platform and more as a ‘surveillance machine’ (Fuchs, 2017; Vaidhyanathan, 2018) that was apparently ‘weaponising’ people’s information against them (Cadwalladr and Graham-​Harrison, 2018b). Users who remain on Facebook in the face of such public privacy scandals are frequently portrayed ungenerously in academic literature as duped or manipulated by the power of the platform (Fuchs, 2017; Sadowski, 2020). Facebook has been described as ‘antisocial’ and even as ‘undermining democracy’ (Vaidhyanathan, 2018). In short, the platform has become characterized as ‘wicked’: a social problem that needs to be solved for the benefit of the world. It is remarkable that in the face of all this bad publicity and scholarly critique, Facebook continues to be highly popular among users worldwide. The substantial negative publicity about the Cambridge Analytica scandal in news outlets appearing in early 2018 has not appeared to have had a major impact on the numbers of active Facebook users globally, with the platform recording steady increases year-​on-​year, including the months following the Cambridge Analytica reporting (Clement, 2020). This is also the case for Australia. Australians are high users of Facebook: it is by far the most popular social media platform in the country (Hughes, 2019). The Social Media Statistics Australia website provides a monthly report on Australians’ 36

Beyond Wicked Facebook

use of social media. It has found no reduction in the numbers of Facebook users since the period that Cambridge Analytica was reported, including in the months immediately following revelations of the scandal. Indeed, by January 2020, this number had risen to 16 million active users (from a population of 25 million), with one in two Australians using Facebook daily (Social Media News, 2020). Most social research on Facebook published thus far was conducted prior to the Cambridge Analytic revelations, but a small number of studies have responded to the scandal. A Pew survey of US adults conducted soon after Cambridge Analytica (Perrin, 2018) found that around a quarter of respondents had deleted the Facebook app from their phone in the past 12 months, and more than half had adjusted their privacy settings. However, the survey did not ask directly about why the respondents had taken these measures, and as the timeframe related to the past year, there may have been other reasons (for example, different controversies over ‘fake news’ or poor content moderation on Facebook that have also received high levels of news media publicity). A follow-​up survey conducted in early 2019 on US adults’ use of Facebook and other social media published by Pew identified no change in their Facebook use compared with early 2018 (Perrin and Anderson, 2019). An interview study of young Danish Facebook users conducted post-​Cambridge Analytica found widespread knowledge of recent privacy scandals as expressed in media coverage, but little evidence that this scandal had changed their Facebook privacy concerns or practices (Schwartz and Mahnke, 2020). In this chapter, we discuss findings from our Australian-​based study involving interviews with current or past Facebook users conducted in the wake of the Cambridge Analytica reporting. The study was designed to probe the interviewees about their beliefs, understandings and practices related to using Facebook, with an emphasis on what they know and understand about how Facebook and third parties access and use the personal information they share on the platform. We were interested in how these participants conceptualized Facebook privacy issues and to what extent the negative publicity around ‘wicked Facebook’ had changed their uses of the platform. Our study extends previous research on the topic of Facebook users and digital privacy by interviewing a wide range of Australians across a range of age groups, educational backgrounds and geographical locations, and by developing a vital materialism theoretical perspective. Vital materialism views humans as always part of more-​than-​human assemblages, involving other people, other living things, objects, place and space, and acknowledges the distributed nature of agencies across humans and nonhumans. Thus far, this approach has received little attention in social research related to Facebook. In what follows, we begin with outlining key concepts from this scholarship, then describe our study and discuss findings. 37

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Vital materialism theory Some research in platform studies has applied a sociomaterial perspective, drawing largely on science and technology studies perspectives such as actor-​ network theory. These studies emphasize the dynamic relations between human users and cultures of use and the technological affordances, objects and infrastructures involved in configuring platform ecosystems such as Facebook. These studies often highlight the ‘affordances’ of platforms: or how they are designed to offer certain experiences for users (see, for example, Anable, 2018; van Dijck et al, 2018). In our analysis of Facebook users, we adopt a different sociomaterialist approach. We are particularly inspired by the insights offered by vital materialism scholarship. This is a subset of more-​ than-​human theory that builds on the philosophy of Spinoza, Deleuze and Guattari and on indigenous and non-​Western cosmologies (Todd, 2016; Ravenscroft, 2018) and is primarily articulated in the work of feminist new materialism scholars such as Barad (2007), Bennett (2009), Haraway (2016) and Braidotti (2019). As presented in these bodies of scholarship, vital materialism focuses on the liveliness, or vitalities generated with and through human-​nonhuman assemblages, including the affective forces, relational connections and agential capacities that are created when humans come together with nonhumans such as digital technologies and media. More-​than-​human scholarship such as vital materialism theory challenges the dominant ideal of human-​centric agency, positioning agency as relational, emergent and generated with and through people’s encounters not only with each other but also with things, places and spaces: including digital devices and software. A vital materialism perspective on social media assemblages highlights their liveliness and dynamic capacities. Agency is understood as emergent, distributed and iterative, rather than something that is possessed by any one agent (human or nonhuman) (Warfield, 2016; Lupton, 2019). The more-​than-​human concept of assemblage, derived from the work of Deleuze and Guattari, is particularly useful for thinking outside of human agency, to understand how an action (for example, the act of scrolling through Facebook) comes about through interacting forces rather than only the choice of a single actor (Schadler, 2019). Anderson and McFarlane (2011, p. 124) describe assemblages as ‘composed of heterogeneous elements that may be human and non-​human, organic and inorganic, technical and natural’, which become reconstituted to momentarily create a singular but unstable entity. As we demonstrate in our analysis, in bringing together vital materialism theory with this concept of assemblage it can be productive to think of the ‘Facebook privacy assemblage’ as a dynamic and lively entity, generating affective forces, relational connections and agential capacities. We argue that vital materialism scholarship can begin to identify the ways in which human fleshly embodied and technological affordances work with 38

Beyond Wicked Facebook

affective forces and relational connections to generate agential capacities with and through the Facebook assemblage. Personal digitized information, for example, can be viewed as agential assemblages of humans and nonhumans (Lupton, 2019). We seek to investigate Facebook users’ embeddedness in complex human-​nonhuman assemblages. From this perspective, personal information uploaded, shared and archived on these sites emerge in and with a complex assemblage of humans, technologies, imaginaries, practices and affective forces (Warfield, 2016; Lupton, 2019). Such personal information itself is also always entangled in other assemblages –​especially as it may be collated and presented in various forms, such as Facebook users’ ‘likes’ and ‘friends’ metrics, shares or responses from other users to users’ posts or the targeted advertising which is such a profitable enterprise for Facebook. Taina Bucher’s (2017) work on what she describes as the ‘algorithmic imaginaries’ of Facebook is one of the few empirical studies to identify the affective forces generated by people’s use of the platform. Bucher was interested in identifying the situations and feelings involved when people become aware and attempt to make sense of the erstwhile invisible algorithms shaping their Facebook experiences. As she notes, algorithmic imaginaries (ways of thinking about what algorithms are and what they do) are integral in co-​constituting the Facebook assemblage when the platform comes together with users. In considering not only ways of thinking but also material practices, our approach also builds on and extends Costa’s (2018) concept of ‘affordances-​in-​practice’, which emphasizes people’s lived experiences of using technologies, but with greater attention to the distribution of agencies and affective forces as part of affordances. We position the details generated with and through engagements with online platforms such as Facebook as lively and vibrant in their ever-​changing formats, combinations and uses. So too, practices of data sharing and data privacy can be reimagined from this perspective as emergent agential capacities emerging from human-​nonhuman encounters (Lupton, 2019). This approach focuses on the capacity to affect and be affected that these agents can generate when they come together in assemblages.

Details of our study Developing a detailed understanding of users’ practices offers us a starting point to begin to identify the various forces, relations and agencies which constitute routine and sustained Facebook use even in the face of personal data privacy scandals and other controversial events involving the platform. Our study involved 30 semi-​structured telephone interviews conducted with current or former Facebook users in Australia in September and October 2018, six months after Facebook’s Cambridge Analytica scandal first received national and international media attention. This project received ethics 39

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

approval from the human research ethics committee at the University of Canberra (where Lupton was based at the time of data collection). A total of 30 participants were recruited by a research company using its panels of people who had volunteered to be research participants. All participants were required to be adults (aged 18 and over) and be current or past Facebook users. Members of these panels who fit these criteria were sent information about the project by the research company, and those who were interested were invited to take part in a telephone interview at a time convenient for them. These interviews, lasting approximately 30 minutes, were conducted by research assistants trained in telephone interviewing techniques. Using telephone rather than face-​to-​face interviews meant that we were able to recruit an intentionally socio-​demographically heterogeneous participant group dispersed around the continent. To achieve this diversity, we set sub-​quotas for recruitment to ensure an equal number of female and male participants and broad age distribution (ten participants aged 18–​40, ten participants aged 41–​60 and ten participants aged 61 and over) and geographical distribution (ten participants living in rural towns or areas, 20 participants living in cities or major towns). The participants were distributed across all states and territories, excepting the Northern Territory. The educational background of the participants was diverse; with five people who were university educated, two currently enrolled at university, ten participants with TAFE level education and 13 who had high school level education. Our semi-​structured interview schedule was designed to probe participants about their recent Facebook use. The questions did not explicitly mention Cambridge Analytica or any other Facebook scandals or controversies, as we wanted to see if these events and issues would be spontaneously raised by the participants. Our participants were asked about their current use of Facebook as well as how long they had used the platform and if they had ever left it. Participants were also asked about the kinds of data they think Facebook is collecting about them, as well as what they were concerned about in terms of privacy and the platform. Questions also covered whether they had ever changed their use of Facebook or ‘privacy settings’ in response to concerns about privacy. All interviews were professionally transcribed, and the transcriptions were used for our analysis. We gave pseudonyms to every participant to protect their anonymity. In our analysis of the interview materials, we adopted a post-​qualitative interpretive approach (Schadler, 2019) involving ‘thinking with theory’ (Jackson and Mazzei, 2012). Elsewhere we have used the interviews to present a set of case studies that demonstrate the lively forces, relations and agencies that drive people to continue to use Facebook, moderate their use or take a break (Lupton and Southerton, 2021). For the purposes of this chapter, also drawing on vital materialism concepts, we 40

Beyond Wicked Facebook

read through the transcripts looking for moments at which affective forces and relational connections were articulated by the participants when they described their practices and imaginaries concerning Facebook privacy, identifying points of ease or familiarity as well as discomfort or tension. We viewed the participants’ narratives as an entry point into understanding the lively Facebook privacy assemblage.

The Facebook privacy assemblage Lack of trust in Facebook was almost a given for most of our participants. To express trust in the platform, by implication, was to appear naive or unknowledgeable. This feeling is exemplified in the comment made by Craig (aged 62, technical certificate, living in a major city). After describing how he attempts to preserve his privacy using the platform’s privacy settings, he added, “I hope I’ve been paranoid enough for you.” Craig uses humour to allude to his awareness of the expectation that Facebook users should not trust the platform as well as suggesting that, in fact, he does not take these issues very seriously. All the participants were well aware that their personal information was used for the purposes of targeted advertising, and that Facebook profits from this service as part of its successful business model. In the interviews, encounters with targeted advertisements were often recalled as key moments by which participants were given the opportunity to notice and reflect on Facebook’s personal information collecting and profiling practices. One example is the experiences described by Maria (aged 64, Year 10 high school education, living in a capital city). In considering how Facebook might use her personal information, Maria recalled a situation in which she noticed a targeted advertisement appeared on Facebook following various searches, messages and face-​to-​face conversations: ‘So there’s all the advertising and stuff that comes on your [Facebook] page. For example, we were talking about wigs the other day and writing about wigs and I was looking at some wigs. And the next thing you know I was getting things of wigs coming up on my, like, I was talking, like, a private conversation with my daughter, and the next thing you know, I’ve got frigging wigs coming up on my [Facebook] page! So, something’s happening somewhere. And I don’t know how they do it but, yeah, most definitely.’ In this moment that Maria was recounting, it was the targeted advertisement that drew her attention to the way the platform monetized her digital and in-​person conversations and information-​seeking as they were presented back to her in the wig advertisements. Maria finds this process rather mysterious 41

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

and is at a loss to explain exactly how Facebook was able to access this information –​or indeed, which of her searches or conversations were used by the platform to profile her as someone in the market for a wig. She even suggests that Facebook is somehow listening in to her private conversations. This idea that Facebook is somehow ‘listening’ –​or indeed, ‘following’ people around the internet and into their interpersonal interactions –​was also evident in the ways in which Joe (aged 45, university education, living in a major city) described the platform’s use of his personal information: ‘Yes, well, I know they collect, they obviously, their whole model is advertising, so they take note and they record which pages you look at. Because later on you might start seeing ads from those pages popping up. So they obviously follow your history. … [Facebook] obviously, it has a, like a fingerprint of you in your life, and so therefore it can target ads to your interest.’ Joe was also aware that Facebook accessed people’s personal information from their other online interactions: ‘Also, I’ve heard stories about that, say like iPhone app, even if you’re not on it, I don’t know if this is true, but it still, it still looks at your search history. And even outside of Facebook, it follows you, because then you start getting ads relevant to what you’ve looked at outside of Facebook. So obviously they are kind of, there’s something going on … So it’s obviously, it’s always kind of listening, I think.’ After observing that “it’s always kind of listening”, Joe went on to note that: “I do think they collect a lot more than they let on.” Joe’s words in these accounts suggest a continual mode of data collection by Facebook of its users even beyond the platform itself that is largely hidden. As both Maria’s and Joe’s words suggest, people have ‘heard stories’ and know that ‘something is going on’ or ‘something is happening’ in terms of Facebook’s data harvesting and profiling practices. The generally held imaginary that Facebook was watching them for most participants did not translate into the idea that Facebook use should therefore be avoided. Participants acknowledged that this use of their information was part of the bargain they had with the platform when they signed up and integrated this imaginary into their engagement on the site. For example, despite his statements about the ‘always listening’ mode that Facebook uses, Joe said that he was unconcerned about his data privacy. He went on to state that he is “not bothered at all” by these practices, particularly as Facebook is a free service and he himself has benefited from using it for his business: 42

Beyond Wicked Facebook

‘No, no, because at the end of the day, it’s easy to ignore an ad if you’re not interested, and if you are interested, they’re kind of doing you a favour. But also, the whole thing is a free service, and for me, professionally I’ve gained a lot out of it, so I don’t mind … I mean, what’s the worst that’s going to happen? They’re going to send me an ad that I don’t care about or that might actually interest me.’ These attitudes to Facebook’s use of their personal information position the company as a service to users rather than as a malicious actor who is exploiting or manipulating people. The participants knew that Facebook profited from their information through targeted advertising (even if most of them did not fully understand how this process operated), and for them, this was the trade-​off for the benefits they gained from using the platform: or what we characterize as ‘the Facebook privacy bargain’. Their response to this use of their personal data for commercial purposes was to accept that they had agreed to this use when signing up and continuing to use Facebook. This was not viewed as devolving agency to Facebook, but rather exerting agency in making a rational choice to accept these conditions. Instead of positioning Facebook as a bad actor that should take steps to better engender and preserve the trust of its billions of users, the dominant tendency in the participants’ accounts was to deflect responsibility for the management of privacy to users. People described strategies in their Facebook use that suggested that their concerns were oriented towards personal responsibility regarding what they shared and with whom, rather than a focus on the responsibilities of the platform itself. These strategies included avoiding uploading details about themselves, using a false name, limiting the number of friends or type of friends, setting and checking privacy settings, clearing their Facebook history, not using the check-​in feature (as it advertises that the user is not at home), and being very selective about what photos to upload (including of oneself and one’s children). Maria’s lack of certainty about exactly how Facebook operates its targeted advertising did not lead her to feel suspicious or cautious about using the platform. When Maria was asked about whether this bothers her, she replied that it does not. She had come to this conclusion on the basis that she feels she has taken sufficient steps to protect her information, explaining that: “I don’t put much personal stuff –​details on there [Facebook]. Like, I’d rather look to see what other people are writing on their photos. I don’t share many photos or stuff on there. If I do share something it’s, like, a bunch of flowers that I got or something like that.” Maria went on to note that she has checked her Facebook privacy settings to ensure that only her friends can see her status updates: “I’m on private so that I don’t have any outsiders looking –​only for the people that I’m friends with. I think that’s the way 43

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

I’ve done it. I put on private settings so only the people that I talk to will see what I’m doing.” As was evident from these participants’ accounts, strategies of protecting personal information privacy often involved making considered decisions about what “personal stuff” should be shared on Facebook. Maria’s privacy management strategies, although they do not necessarily address broader issues surrounding tracking of her activity on the site, suggests that she feels she is only presenting a superficial version of herself on Facebook, based on careful management of the material she uploads and shares. As such, she is less concerned about the material that she has disclosed. Additionally, as noted earlier, although Maria emphasizes her discomfort at the way details from her discussions (both online and offline) with her daughter appear to filter into advertisements she receives, she appears to remediate these concerns with her conviction that she had managed her data responsibly. In defining what is “personal stuff”, her discussion of and searching for a commodity such as wigs appears not to fall into this category. Instead, she positions “personal stuff” as mostly comprised of photos of herself, instead of photos of things (such as the “bunch of flowers” she uses as an example). People’s understandings of what it means to be “a private person”, as Peter put it, were also central to how they felt about Facebook’s use of their details. Many of the participants felt that if they limited the uploading of this information, they could ensure that Facebook could not have access to details they considered to be highly personal. For Peter, this meant using a false name, limiting the number of Facebook friends he had, not letting family members know he was on Facebook and letting his wife use her Facebook account to share family details. Isabella’s conviction that personal information uploaded to Facebook then “belongs to everybody” underpins her caution about her daughter’s digital privacy. She feels able to trust someone she knows personally, but it is the unknown others that can be part of the distributed social relationships of Facebook that are distrusted. Cheryl, aged 49, with a Year 10 education and living in a major city, was one of the few participants to express a highly negative view of Facebook and other internet companies that harvest people’s personal information. It is notable, however, that her standpoint was based on a personal experience she had had that was not directly related to Facebook. After finding Facebook useful to share information and photos with family members in a different state or overseas, Cheryl had stopped using the platform approximately 18 months before the interview (and therefore, before the Cambridge Analytica scandal was reported). In her interview, she made no reference to Cambridge Analytica or any other scandal involving Facebook. Instead, Cheryl recounted how for her, the turning point had been when she and her husband had been subjected to someone trying to scam them (not on Facebook). They had reacted by reducing their online presence significantly, 44

Beyond Wicked Facebook

including eventually leaving Facebook: “Me and my husband, they tried to scam us, so I’ve just cut all internet. We don’t have internet banking anymore either.” As part of minimizing her online presence, Cheryl did not own a computer and used her smartphone only for sending text messages and making phone calls. She did not use any other apps on her phone. Cheryl expressed her concern that: “I don’t want people knowing my details. Well, they can do what they like with my information. They could steal my identity, they could go into my bank –​that sort of security stuff, yes.” Cheryl’s distrust of Facebook, therefore, was part of her much more encompassing wariness about online platforms and smartphone apps resulting from her experience of being scammed. It was not Facebook itself that worried her, but the wider ecosystem of personal data extraction and the threat of identity theft that she had been attempting to protect herself against by reducing not only her online interactions but her ownership and use of digital devices.

Discussion In our study, we sought to demonstrate how better understanding of the more-​than-​human dimensions of Facebook use might open up debates about how users conceptualize privacy and consider their use in light of increasing public imaginaries concerning suspicion about the motives of platforms like Facebook and their apparent egress upon users’ personal data privacy. Given the ambivalences and anxieties our participants expressed about the platform, how can we account for most continuing to use the platform and the strategies they use to cope with distrusting Facebook? A vital materialism perspective on Facebook privacy highlights the distributed working of agency and ways affective intensities such as a user’s sense of trust and personal privacy operate as but one part of the Facebook assemblage. From this perspective, just as human users of Facebook do not possess agency, nor does Facebook itself. Facebook does not simply ‘act on’ users and users do not simply ‘act on’ Facebook. It is a mutual processing of becoming as the platform’s affordances come together with the users’ mundane routines and habits of use. Facebook and users work together to shape concepts and practices of content generation and use, and in the process, generate affective forces, relational connections and agential capacities. The relational and distributed nature of agential capacities related to Facebook privacy were evident in our findings. They show that Australians’ attitudes towards Facebook following the Cambridge Analytica scandal involve a low level of trust in the platform. However, this affective atmosphere of distrust was a taken-​for-​g ranted acknowledgement of the commercial imperatives driving Facebook, rather than a sense that Facebook was malicious. Facebook users know and accept that the company wants 45

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

to make money from them, and closely watches users’ behaviours and preferences as part of their (extremely successful) business model. Even though the participants were discussing these issues at a time very close to the Cambridge Analytica revelations, Facebook (typically referred to as ‘they’) was imagined as an active and ever vigilant data-​collecting and processing entity, but not necessarily one that was overly manipulative or exploitative. The simultaneously obvious and mysterious liveliness captured in the participants’ accounts of Facebook suggested an agent that was somehow always watching or listening to its users, albeit in ways that remained opaque for the most part (as expressed in such phrases as “I don’t know how they do it”). Participants demonstrated an awareness of their moral obligations to show they were responsible for their Facebook privacy by emphasizing that they distrusted the platform in nebulous ways. However, their practices and their descriptions of their everyday routines offered insight into the complexity of their continued use of the platform despite this distrust. These responses are similar to those articulated by the young Danish Facebook users interviewed in a post-​Cambridge Analytica study (Schwartz and Mahnke, 2020). Our interviewees’ continued Facebook use in the face of negative publicity about personal data privacy reveals the necessity to gain a more nuanced understanding of the embodied and affective routines and practices of everyday Facebook use, which create the conditions within which users both contextualize these privacy scandals and conceptualize privacy futures. While media and some academic analyses of Facebook have tended towards techno-​dystopian imaginaries, our participants viewed Facebook’s data practices in more mundane ways as part of the atmosphere of the platform in both enabling and constraining ways. Far from alarming, Facebook personal data affordances were sometimes viewed as offering a valuable ‘personal service platform’ (cf West, 2019) and had become domesticated into everyday routines. As we noted in our analysis of the participants’ accounts both of their Facebook use and their understandings of how the platform operates in relation to targeted advertising, there was little sense that they viewed Facebook as ‘knowing too much’ about them, despite media reports to the contrary at the time of the Cambridge Analytica exposé. Nor did their accounts suggest that they felt manipulated or exploited by Facebook. Rather, they were able to support the affordances of Facebook as promoting the opportunity to establish relational connections with people at the same time as accepting that these very affordances also operated in Facebook’s commercial advantage as it developed relational connections between its users and its advertisers. Users navigate relations of comfort and discomfort with Facebook, of trusting and distrusting at the same time. These affects are not mutually exclusive. This is possible because the actions are not the outcome of an 46

Beyond Wicked Facebook

actor making decisions, rational or otherwise. Rather, the action emerges from an assemblage of bodies, technologies, histories, habits, practices and inclinations (Southerton and Taylor, 2020). As such, the relations of (dis)trust are ambiguous, constituted both by familiarity and routine and irregular moments of violation. People’s understandings, affective intensities and practices related to Facebook privacy were assembled with and through the set of the platform’s affordances that were offered to them related to generating, sharing and responding to content. These agents were relational, responding to each other as people sought to make sense of what Facebook did with their information and how connections were made between their details and the third parties who sought to advertise their products or services to users. All these elements were contextualized within broader discourses concerning the integrity of Facebook and its practices related to users’ information, many of which (such as the emotional contagion experiment or the Cambridge Analytica scandal) the participants could only barely remember or articulate, but which nonetheless configured affective atmospheres of use. This awareness of Facebook liveliness had not induced our interviewees to relinquish its use, but it did generate practices that work towards preserving a sense of personal privacy. These Facebook users had become habituated to noticing targeted advertising that demonstrated Facebook was monitoring their interests in some way (although exactly how the platform achieved this remained mysterious for most people). Their response to this use of their personal data for commercial purposes was to accept that they had agreed to this use when signing up and continuing to use Facebook. This was not viewed as devolving agency to Facebook, but rather as exerting agency in making a rational choice to accept these conditions. This is not to suggest that the participants did not care about their Facebook privacy. Our Facebook users actively engaged in strategies to protect their privacy in ways that made sense to them. The participants’ concerns were situated and emergent at the micro-​level of the kinds of social interactions they had on the platform. The participants wanted to exert control over the extent of the details they uploaded to Facebook and felt for the most part that they were managing this well. For them, it was a simple matter of not giving Facebook the opportunity to garner insights into their lives. In the participants’ accounts, notions of Facebook privacy were represented and imagined through the lens of Facebook as both a social networking and sharing platform and a profitable company. ‘They’ (Facebook) watch and listen to what people do and say because this is inherent to their commercial enterprise. People were aware of these practices through their personal experiences of using the platform and from hearing about Facebook’s practices from sources outside the platform. 47

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Most participants accepted Facebook’s use of their details for targeted advertising and did not find this use of their information to be particularly surprising or confronting, which contradicts depictions of users as ‘duped’ by the platform. They viewed protecting their privacy as an individual responsibility that took place at the micro-​level of their enactments of Facebook. Indeed, for some participants, it was other users rather than the platform itself who posed a challenge to their or their digital privacy and who were portrayed as potentially risky. These accounts suggest that Facebook users understand that private information, once uploaded to Facebook, no longer could be defined or protected: it “belongs to everybody”. Reference was often made to what they considered to be the over-​sharing and over-​ personal practices of other Facebook users. In contrast, our participants presented themselves as more contained and controlling of their privacy, by taking steps to manage the details they revealed on Facebook according to their interpretation of what “personal stuff” and being a “private person” meant. The everyday encounters with Facebook our participants described and the reasons they kept returning to the platform, even in the wake of privacy scandals, suggest we need to think about social media platforms, their users and their data from a more relational and agential perspective. The archetypal representation of platforms like Facebook as separate entities from their users –​and often as in opposition to users as manipulative agents –​needs to be reconsidered if we are to better understand the dynamic and lively dimensions of the relational connections and affective forces that generate agencies. Other human Facebook users are important agents in these assemblages, and users often positioned themselves in relation to these others as well as to the anonymous Facebook platform when thinking through how they defined personal privacy and what it meant to be a “private person”. We found that in our participants’ accounts, concepts of Facebook privacy were continually negotiated and assessed, as people observed others’ practices as well as the operations of the automated targeted advertising generated by the platform’s software, making decisions about how they defined the type of content and interactions that were, for them, simply “too personal” and therefore kept private. This is a conceptualization of digital privacy that encompasses attention to how the affordances of platforms such as Facebook operate together with affective forces such as people’s need and desire to establish and maintain relational connections with other people at the same time as preserving their sense that their “personal stuff” is protected.

Conclusion In this chapter, we have argued that Facebook can be viewed as a dynamic assemblage that is constantly generating vitalities and vibrancies as people 48

Beyond Wicked Facebook

engage with it and the continual streams of content uploaded by other users and advertisers. Facebook assemblages generate forces, vitalities and capacities as a continuing and emergent set of encounters between the agents that come together at each use of Facebook: including other humans such as Facebook users but also third parties seeking to attract attention and promote their goods and services as well as the technological affordances of the platform, materialized in code and platform architecture. We can conceptualize Facebook use and privacy, in the context of our participants, differently when we no longer locate agency within the user or the platform. We might also consider the reconfigurings, the doings of agency that occur through the devices on which the platforms are accessed, the gestures used to scroll through Facebook feeds, the affective responses to the content they encounter. The agential capacities generated, reshaped or reorganized throughout the event of a privacy scandal like Cambridge Analytica and its connected affective flows and tensions, and so on. This is not to diminish the full affordances of the platform, in which users engage with an interface rather than the ‘backend’ of the information-​harvesting system. Rather we argue that this approach allows a more capacious understanding of users’ practices and ambivalence about social media privacy. It urges an understanding of agency that is more attentive to the ways decisions to use Facebook are not acts of individuals (even if our participants think of it in this way), but rather emerge from assemblages of entangled relations. References Anable, A. 2018, ‘Platform studies’, Feminist Media Histories, vol. 4, no. 2, pp. 135–​40. Anderson, B. 2009, ‘Affective atmospheres’, Emotion, Space and Society, vol. 2, no. 2, pp. 77–​81. Anderson, B. and McFarlane, C. 2011, ‘Assemblage and geography’, Area, vol. 43, no. 2, pp. 124–​7. Andrejevic, M. 2013, Infoglut: How Too Much Information is Changing the Way We Think and Know, New York: Routledge. Barad, K. 2007, Meeting the Universe Halfway: Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Bennett, J. 2009, Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. boyd, d. 2015, ‘Untangling research and practice: what Facebook’s “emotional contagion” study teaches us’, Research Ethics, vol. 12, no. 1, pp. 4–​13. Braidotti, R. 2019, Posthuman Knowledge, Cambridge: Polity. Bucher, T. 2017, ‘The algorithmic imaginary: exploring the ordinary affects of Facebook algorithms’, Information, Communication & Society, vol. 20, no. 1, pp. 30–​44. 49

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Cadwalladr, C. and Graham-​Harrison, E. 2018a, ‘Revealed: 50 million Facebook profiles harvested for Cambridge Analytica in major data breach’, The Guardian, 17 March. Retrieved from: www.theguardian.com/​news/​ 2018/​mar/​17/​cambridge-​analytica-​facebook-​influence-​us-​election Cadwalladr, C. and Graham-​Harrison, E. 2018b, ‘Zuckerberg set up fraudulent scheme to “weaponise” data, court case alleges’, The Guardian, 24 May. Retrieved from: https://​www.theguardian.com/​technology/​ 2018/​may/​24/​mark-​zuckerberg-​set-​up-​fraudulent-​scheme-​weaponise-​ data-​facebook-​court-​case-​alleges Clement, J. 2020, ‘Number of Facebook users worldwide 2008–​ 2019’, Statista. Retrieved from: www.statista.com/​statistics/​264810/​ number-​of-​monthly-​active-​facebook-​users-​worldwide/​ Costa, E. 2018, ‘Affordances-​in-​practice: an ethnographic critique of social media logic and context collapse’, New Media & Society, vol. 20, no. 10, pp. 3641–​56. Fuchs, C. 2017, Social Media: A Critical Introduction, 2nd edn, London: SAGE Publications Ltd. Hallinan, B., Brubaker, J.R. and Fiesler, C. 2020, ‘Unexpected expectations: public reaction to the Facebook emotional contagion study’, New Media & Society, vol. 22, no. 6, pp. 1076–​94. Haraway, D. 2016, Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Hughes, C. 2019, ‘Social media usage Australian 2019 by brand’, Statista. Retr ieved from: www.statista.com/ ​ s tatistics/ ​ 7 29950/​ australia-​social-​media-​usage-​by-​brand/​ Jackson, A.Y. and Mazzei, L.A. 2012, Thinking with Theory in Qualitative Research, New York: Taylor & Francis. Kramer, A.D., Guillory, J.E. and Hancock, J.T. 2014, ‘Experimental evidence of massive-​scale emotional contagion through social networks’, Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, vol. 111, no. 24, pp. 8788–​90. Lapowsky, I. 2018, ‘How Cambridge Analytica sparked the great privacy awakening’, Wired, 17 March. Retrieved from: www.wired.com/​story/​ cambridge-​analytica-​facebook-​privacy-​awakening/​ Lupton, D. 2019, Data Selves: More-​than-​H uman Perspectives, Cambridge: Polity Press. Lupton, D. and Southerton, C. 2021, ‘The thing-​power of the Facebook assemblage: why do users stay on the platform?’ Journal of Sociology, online first. Retrieved from: https://doi.org/10.1177/1440783321989456 Perrin, A. 2018, ‘Americans are changing their relationship with Facebook’, Pew Research Center. Retrieved from: www.pewresearch.org/​fact-​tank/​ 2018/​09/​05/​americans-​are-​changing-​their-​relationship-​with-​facebook/​

50

Beyond Wicked Facebook

Perrin, A. and Anderson, M. 2019, ‘Share of US adults using social media, including Facebook, is mostly unchanged since 2018’, Pew Research Center. Retrieved from: www.pewresearch.org/​fact-​tank/​2019/​04/​10/​share-​of-​ u-​s-​adults-​using-​social-​media-​including-​facebook-i​ s-m ​ ostly-u ​ nchanged-​ since-​2018/​ Przepiorka, A. and Blachnio, A. 2016, ‘Time perspective in internet and Facebook addiction’, Computers in Human Behavior, vol. 60, July, pp. 13–​18. Ravenscroft, A. 2018, ‘Strange weather: indigenous materialisms, new materialism, and colonialism’, The Cambridge Journal of Postcolonial Literary Inquiry, vol. 5, no. 3, pp. 353–​70. Sadowski, J. 2020, Too Smart: How Digital Capitalism is Extracting Data, Controlling Our Lives, and Taking Over the World, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Schadler, C. 2019, ‘Enactments of a new materialist ethnography: methodological framework and research processes’, Qualitative Research, vol. 19, no. 2, pp. 215–​30. Schwartz, S.A. and Mahnke, M.S. 2020, ‘Facebook use as a communicative relation: exploring the relation between Facebook users and the algorithmic news feed’, Information, Communication & Society, vol. 24, no. 7, pp. 1041–56. doi: 10.1080/1369118X.2020.1718179. Social Media News 2020, ‘Social media statistics in Australia: January 2020’. Retrieved from: www.socialmedianews.com.au/​social-​media​statistics-​australia-​january-​2020/​ Southerton, C. and Taylor, E. 2020, ‘Habitual disclosure: routine, affordance, and the ethics of young people’s social media data surveillance’, Social Media + Society, vol. 6, no. 2. Retrieved from: https://j​ ournals.sagepub.com/d​ oi/​ full/​10.1177/​2056305120915612 Srnicek, N. 2016, Platform Capitalism, London: Wiley. Todd, Z. 2016, ‘An Indigenous feminist’s take on the ontological turn: “ontology” is just another word for colonialism’, Journal of Historical Sociology, vol. 29, no. 1, pp. 4–​22. Tufekci, Z. 2018, ‘Facebook’s surveillance machine’, The New York Times, 19 March. Retrieved from: www.hec.unil.ch/​lspinto/​Papers%20&%20 CV/​Facebooks%20Surveillance%20Machine%20-​%20The%20New%20 York%20Times.pdf Tutton, R. 2017, ‘Wicked futures: meaning, matter and the sociology of the future’, The Sociological Review, vol. 65, no. 3, pp. 478–​92. Urry, J. 2016, What is the Future?, Cambridge: Polity. Vaidhyanathan, S. 2018, Antisocial Media: How Facebook Disconnects Us and Undermines Democracy, Oxford: Oxford University Press. van Dijck, J., Poell, T. and De Waal, M. 2018, The Platform Society: Public Values in a Connective World, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

51

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Wajcman, J. 2017, ‘Automation: is it really different this time?’, The British Journal of Sociology, vol. 68, no. 1, pp. 119–​27. Waldman, A.E. 2016, ‘Privacy, sharing, and trust: the Facebook study’, Case Western Reserve Law Review, vol. 67, pp. 193–​233. Warfield, K. 2016, ‘Making the cut: an agential realist examination of selfies and touch’, Social Media + Society, vol. 2, no. 2. Retrieved from: https://​ doi.org/​10.1177/​2056305116641706 West, E. 2019, ‘Amazon: surveillance as a service’, Surveillance & Society, vol. 17, no. 1/​2, pp. 27–​33. Retrieved from: https://​ojs.library.queensu.ca/​ index.php/​surveillance-​and-​society/​article/​view/​13008/​ Zuboff, S. 2019, The Age of Surveillance Capitalism: The Fight for the Future at the New Frontier of Power, London: Profile Books.

52

3

Detangling Online Dystopias: Emotional Reflexivity and Cyber-​Deviance Vern Smith

Introduction As the internet and online social media platforms (such as Twitter, Facebook, YouTube and other blog websites) become increasingly pervasive in the everyday lives of their users, instances of poor online behaviour and ‘cyber-​ deviance’ have become commonplace. There has been a proliferation of any number of activities that might be described as deviant, and not all of them fit a dystopian portrayal of the unregulated internet as a ‘a community plagued by internet trolls’ (Heart and Klink, 2017, p. 97) where ‘civil discourse may become a thing of the past’ (Kruse et al, 2018, p. 79). For example, deviant online behaviour is frequently examined as ‘online harassment’ (when perceived as unwanted or targeted) or ‘trolling’ (when referring to other forms of conflict in online spaces), but may also include acts of online activism (different, but related, to hacktivism) oriented to uncovering or responding to social injustices or even the spread of misinformation. To avoid sinking into dystopian depictions of all online deviant behaviour as negative, it is important to engage and develop the literature around cyber-​ deviance in a manner that identifies netizens as passionate and reflective agents, and not just a ‘jeering pack’ (Binns, 2012, p. 551). However, this is no easy task. Theories surrounding appropriate methods for communication between individuals and groups within these online spaces continue to evolve, particularly regarding conflict within public debates (Chen and Lu, 2017), and tend to fragment rather than unify our conceptions of cyber-​deviance. This can be seen in how the literature branches into three broad styles of

53

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

socially deviant behaviour online1 (which will be discussed further in this chapter) broadly identified as: 1. sneaky thrills and entertainment such as trolling; 2. harassment and cyber-​bullying; and 3. antidisestablishmentarianism (that is, online propaganda and ‘fake news’ intended to maintain a ‘status quo’). There is no universally accepted overarching term to cover all of these deviant forms of online phenomena, nor even the three styles identified. There are many ambiguous, overlapping or conflating terms, particularly regarding ‘trolling’. Importantly, it should be noted that the behaviours comprising each of these styles are not always discernible from one another (Fragoso, 2015, p. 43). The descriptions provided are to identify clear typical cases, yet the borders are ‘fuzzy’ and rarely isolated from one another. Interestingly, the articles surrounding cyber-​bullying all follow the general use of the harassment term, which broadly entails persistent hostile, unpleasant or inappropriate behaviour directed towards one or more member of a given online community; usually directed at women, by men (De Fazio and Sgarbi, 2016, p. 228), and often unavoidable to most everyday social media users (Theocharis et al, 2016, p. 1008). This crossover hints at great value in pursuing a superior, more comprehensive theorization, and this effort must be cognizant of the motivations and agency of netizens. It is not possible to fully understand the motivations and subtleties of cyber-​deviant behaviours like trolling without allowing for how trolls –​far from reacting –​are aware of and are reflexively proactive concerning their own feelings and those of others. For this reason, theories of cyber-​deviance must engage with the idea of emotional reflexivity. Emotional reflexivity can be defined as ‘the intersubjective interpretation of one’s own and others’ emotions and how they are enacted’ (Holmes, 2015, p. 61). It is further understood as a capacity exercised in interaction with others, oriented towards the ‘future’. Holmes (2015) identifies that, in online spaces, researching ‘netiquette’ (appropriate and inappropriate online interactions) may offer evidence of how emotional reflexivity may be employed and required for using computer mediated communication. Research regarding the use of emotional reflexivity (future-​oriented thought/​feeling) in navigating online spaces is rare. As such, much of the emerging literature often ignores important caveats to the phenomena altogether. For example, treating trolling and cyber-​bullying as the same thing, or failing to acknowledge the ways in which humour might play a part in the motivations for perpetrators or even audiences. Indeed, as this chapter will show, there is an apparent element of emotional reflexivity involved within cyber-​deviance behaviours and ironic sentiment online, which has not been overtly identified in the literature so far. The proposed 54

Detangling Online Dystopias

umbrella term of cyber-​deviance chooses not to ignore these important nuances. From this, emotional reflexivity is implicit in trolling, in that trollers are aware of and ‘rely on their culture’s structural and regularizing variables to enable their behaviors’ (Bratu, 2017, p. 88). In so doing, they utilize humour and ironic statements to entertain themselves and others who are ‘in on the joke’, which inevitably creates conflict with those who are not. This is in opposition to the reductive arguments of Sest and March (2017), who describe trolls as purely ‘everyday sadists’ who are ‘motivated to and enjoy inflicting cruelty online’ (p. 70). This chapter critically reviews the key theories and evidence surrounding (in)appropriate online conduct within public online spaces (such as social media websites and comment sections), and the dangers of a great array of social deviance present on the internet (such as cyber-​bullying, trolling and the spread of misinformation). It proposes the umbrella term of cyber-​deviance (CD) to encapsulate the three ranges of behaviours within a sociological framework: from entertainment, to harassment, to antidisestablishmentarianism. It will first outline the three social styles of CD, within the framework of emotional reflexivity. It will then provide understandings of netiquette, emotional reflexivity online and their connections. Finally, the chapter will present the ways in which emotionally reflexive cyber-​deviance may be operationalized in collectivized ways, and how CD may be minimized, combatted and/​or flouted, despite its depiction by some of contributing to an internet dystopia.

Three social styles of cyber-​deviance Online sneaky thrills, colloquially known as trolling In the case of the first style of CD, socially deviant behaviours emerge when anonymously causing discord within online forums and games (often claimed to be for purposes of entertainment) in a similar vein to the seductiveness of ‘sneaky thrills’ described by Katz (1988). Sneaky thrills are ‘created when a person (i) tacitly generates the experience of being seduced to deviance, (ii) reconquers her emotions in a concentration dedicated to the production of normal appearances, (iii) and then appreciates the reverberating significance of her accomplishment in a euphoric thrill’ (Katz, 1988, p. 53). Although this theory surrounding the sneaky thrill was formulated prior to the prevalence of online trolling it could easily be updated to include online deviance, alongside the original shoplifting and vandalism examples that saw the theory’s creation. In particular, the elements within Katz’s (1988) framework of 1. the self and its boundaries, where ‘one’s ability to bound the authentic morality of the self from others’ perception’ (Katz, 1988, p. 66) is tested by 55

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

the use of online personas (real or imaginary) within social media websites and blogs through the anonymity computer mediated communication (CMC) affords; 2. the ludic (playful) metaphor –​trolling is often treated as a ‘game’ for entertainment’s sake (winners being considered the troller, losers those who ‘take the bait’); 3. the religious metaphor, whereby the perpetrator ‘secretly and in the spirit of desecration penetrates another’s world’ (Katz, 1988, p. 69) often under trolls’ beliefs that on the internet nothing is sacred and ‘if it exists, there is porn of it’ (Phillips, 2015, p. 1); and 4. the sexual metaphor –​‘Colloquially, the thief and the vandal [and the troll] fuck their victims’ (Katz, 1988, p. 72). may each be expanded to include the social deviance perpetrated by online trolls. Contrarily, the CD displayed by trolls may sometimes be seen to exemplify the pro-​social aspects of internet culture (challenging, correcting or educating other internet users), rather than always being viewed as purely antisocial (abusing, antagonizing, deceiving or harming other internet users) (Buckels et al, 2018, pp. 1–​2). For instance, Bulut and Yörük (2017) identify a difference in acceptance of trolls between Facebook and Twitter. They note that a troll would not be friended on Facebook, yet they are often followed on Twitter: ‘There are undoubtedly trolls commenting on Facebook, but Twitter trolls impact the national agenda by creating trending topics’ (Bulut and Yörük, 2017, p. 4097). This is due to virality and spectacle being implicated by controversy within Twitter, which are primary indicators of social entertainment for its audience and participants (Theocharis et al, 2016, p. 1024). Indeed, Phillips (2015) notes that because of their skill in navigating and harnessing the socially networked realm, and their reliance on the value of ‘freedom of expression’, ‘trolls are in many ways the grimacing poster children for the socially networked world’ (Phillips, 2015, p. 8). Regardless of whether trolls are viewed as pro or antisocial, their behaviours are observable once a debate is disrupted and its participants distracted (Bulut and Yörük, 2017, pp. 4096–​7). Importantly, it must be noted that knowing what a troll aims to achieve is not the same as knowing why they behave in CD ways. One motivation seems reasonably clear though, ‘independently of how or where they act, all trolls say that they enjoy the results of their actions’ (Fragoso, 2015, p. 46). Oftentimes humour is claimed to be used when performing CD. However, ‘trolls’ use of humor fails our expectations given that their language and humor are exclusionary in terms of nation, ethnicity, and gender’ (Bulut and Yörük, 2017, p. 4109). Although, many social media platforms come with an expectation of being able to perform ‘equal opportunity laughter’ 56

Detangling Online Dystopias

(Bulut and Yörük, 2017, p. 4109) due to users’ ability to shape the platforms with their practices, embedded within their everyday lives (Bulut and Yörük, 2017, p. 4096). Emotional reflexivity is implicit in this idea that netizens have t.he ability to shape the platform as it is used. The ability for users to reflexively shape the social media platforms they use is not without its disadvantages. Aro (2016, p. 128) identifies that some journalists and researchers are fearful of publishing their findings because of ‘the hate speech that will follow’, claiming that the trolls have already silenced some citizens. Sometimes the CD that will be used to silence will come in the form of merely commenting on grammatical errors. These commenters are frequently identified by others as ‘grammar nazis’: ‘Even very minor typos will be picked up on by the jeering pack’ (Binns, 2012, p. 551). Links between online emotional reflexivity and CD may be argued to exist; however, none of the articles under review in this chapter directly acknowledge them. For example: Bratu (2017) develops a deeper understanding of the moral consequences of online trolling behaviour, the peculiarities of the troll space, the effect of socio-​cultural and technological settings of online trolling, and the personality features and incentives of individuals that get involved in Facebook trolling. The article focuses more on the influence of deviant, disruptive and non-​normative conducts in online communities surrounding trolling behaviour. It makes important note of the links between online social conduct (netiquette) and trolling behaviours: ‘Trolls’ conducts, which are eagerly denounced as being ruthless, offensive, and going beyond acceptable boundaries of the law, enable the reorganization of what the main culture interprets as acceptable, opportune, and normal’ (Bratu, 2017, p. 92). It also identifies the importance of anonymity for conducting trolling behaviour online, distinguishing this conduct as something that may not necessarily be reproduced in public (offline) environments: ‘either as the particular conducts would be regarded socially intolerable, or as the trolls’ online characters would conflict with their offline contexts’ (p. 92). This indicates that trolls display some kind of reflexivity in their behaviours –​or possibly employing a post-​reflexive stratagem –​particularly when parodying everyday internet users in order to provoke a reaction. Reflexivity is observable within the description Fragoso (2015) provides for the HUEHUE troll. This character is said to actively portray themselves as the buffoon, ridiculing themselves and intentionally playing badly in online multi-​player games. This is in direct contradiction to a typical troll character that employs CD in order to make fun of an ‘other’. Although Fragoso (2015) does not directly speak of reflexivity, its theories are present within the article. The deliberate act of using CD in non-​normative ways, being deviant deviants, is described as being ‘a type of empowering, but an inside-​out takeover’ (p. 49). Then again, those who are labelled as HUEHUE trolls may actually simply be behaving in inappropriate ways or are actually 57

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

poor players who do not understand English: ‘The big trump of hueing is the persistence of both possibilities’ (p. 51). Trolling is a complex matter (Hardaker, 2015); thus, so too is the broader umbrella term CD. It is more nuanced than simply acting aggressively on an online space. The inappropriate behaviours involved may be turned against an instigator, reflexively reconstructing them as ‘the naive, gullible victim instead of the successful aggressor’ (Hardaker, 2015, p. 225). Indeed, Hardaker (2015, p. 225) comments on the various ways of responding to CD: some responses will encourage further trolling, some will successfully end trolling, while others may provoke offline damage. The cited examples indicate the emotional reflexivity required to interact in online spaces. Vrooman (2001) also comments on this, noting that as an online community fosters anti-​CD norms a group will behave with ‘(1) restrained group-​invoking admonition, (2) highlighting of emotional response, (3) overtures of forgiveness and (4) discursive connection with a larger agonistic myth’ (p. 37). Bratu (2017) aids this argument, noting that this style of CD behaviour is often confused with cyber-​bullying by the media due to the broad range of repercussions, circumstances, meanings and displayed routines involved with the act of trolling –​again displaying the ‘fuzziness’ of the styles of CD. This negative link to bullying is frequently designated when it affects (or vilifies) unsuspecting netizens (Burroughs, 2013; Bratu, 2017; Sest and March, 2017; Buckels et al, 2018). However, trolling is distinguished from other forms of online antisocial behaviour because of its disruptive nature (Sest and March, 2017) and that, to most trolls, the acts are conducted in the name of entertainment –​rather than being conducted as a targeted attack.

Online harassment and cyber-​bullying The second social style of CD, online harassment and cyber-​bullying, is increasingly being researched and described as ‘an endemic and growing problem in many digital communities’ (Ehrett, 2016, p. 272). As such, many online communities become marred by the persistent presence of what Ehrett (2016) calls ‘toxic behaviours’, Jane (2016) calls ‘e-​bile’ and De Fazio and Sgarbi (2016) call unwanted online attentions (UOA). All of these behaviours include threatening, harassing, harmful, hurtful, offensive, threatening or unwanted messages delivered via chatrooms, email or instant private message services, in order to annoy, offend, intimidate, attack, disturb or humiliate recipients (Holt et al, 2012; De Fazio and Sgarbi, 2016; Ehrett, 2016; Jane, 2016). Whereas Holt et al (2012) use the terms cyber-​deviance and cyber-​ crime in claiming that online harassment is an offence that may take a variety of forms. They note social networking websites as online spaces in which offenders may publicly post ‘mean or cruel messages’ (Holt et al, 2012, 58

Detangling Online Dystopias

p. 380) that can lead to similar outcomes as offline stalking and harassment (for example fear and distress, physical or emotional stress or even suicidal behaviours). Although, they also comment that these communications may be viewed by some receivers as little more than a nuisance. However, Holt et al (2012) often conflate the terms ‘deviance’ and ‘crime’, demonstrating the ambiguity surrounding, and within, the three styles of CD identified. Many motivations for online harassment and cyber-​bulling are similar to their offline face-​to-​face counterpart (including terminating a relationship, dealing with disputes, or power struggles) (De Fazio and Sgarbi, 2016, p. 220). De Fazio and Sgarbi (2016) continue, noting that additional motivations to behave with this style of CD may be for satisfaction, pleasure and/​or for fun, ‘without any consideration for the situation of the target’ (De Fazio and Sgarbi, 2016, p. 221). They also note that young people, considering the youth stage at which these behaviours occur, may display this form of CD as they follow their feelings and needs, or out of naivety (De Fazio and Sgarbi, 2016, pp. 220–​1). The findings of their survey study on adolescent internet use revealed that many of their participants were unaware of what specifically ‘UOA’ were. De Fazio and Sgarbi (2016, pp. 229–​30) suggest that this may be due to several of the behaviours being perceived as common to online conduct, only considered as annoying (rather than harmful or scary) or even considered as funny. Interestingly, they attribute their results to a lack of understanding on their participants’ part, despite acknowledging the ambiguities connected to the motivations behind these behaviours (De Fazio and Sgarbi, 2016, p. 230). However, it could be suggested that, due to ambiguity being a major aspect of CD (for example, appearing unknowing in order to behave offensively), a post-​reflexive stratagem is engaged by perpetrators in order to distance themselves from the outcomes of their actions to their victims. Anonymity leaves cyber-​bullies with little fear of repercussions, allows them to behave in ways they may not necessarily behave in face-​to-​face offline settings and distances them from the reactions of their victims and outcomes of their actions (Camacho et al, 2018, p. 494). Furthermore, Camacho et al’s (2018) findings indicate that the emotional reflexivity that may be exhibited alongside CD is purposefully and strategically engaged in ways such that the harm caused to victims is avoided or unrecognized by the perpetrator(s). However, the theories surrounding reflexivity are not directly engaged with by Camacho et al (2018). The impacts of online harassment and cyber-​bullying reach more than just the social. Victims’ perceptions of the severity of a cyber-​bullying episode negatively impact their satisfaction with information and communication technology (Camacho et al, 2018). Additionally, Camacho et al, (2018) indicate that these detrimental effects on satisfaction with information and communication technology may have potential ensuing repercussions on the 59

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

victims’ future use of such technology. Furthermore, dystopian portrayals of technology within mainstream media can build a view of it being dangerous, out of control and a threatening entity (Felt, 2017). As such, connections are drawn by Felt (2017) between legislation surrounding the restriction of new media (such as the internet) and public perceptions of technology being dangerous. For example: online social media platforms are spaces where cyber-​bullying occurs, cyber-​bullying leads to suicide, therefore social media is dangerous (Felt, 2017, p. 905). According to Martin (2019) online harassment may lead to, and add to, self-​censorship. As individuals face more online harassment, they incline to avoid posting on social media platforms out of fear. This is particularly the case with political content (Kruse et al, 2018, p. 76). The next section discusses this in more detail and when this is a desired outcome, particularly for institutions, states, and organizations.

Antidisestablishmentarianism, the proliferation of propaganda and weaponized trolling (troll armies of a dystopian future) Certain online socially deviant behaviours have become weaponized (Aro, 2016). These ‘troll armies’ are more directly political and have links with the spread of ‘fake news’ and other state, institutional, organizational or ideological-​ based propaganda. Their goal is to ‘not only disrupt political conversations, but also consolidate government’s power by networking scattered masses’ (Bulut and Yörük, 2017, p. 4094). This style of antidisestablishmentarian troll should not be confused with that previously mentioned: ‘their [this antidisestablishmentarian style’s] purpose is to disinform the society and alter opinions’ (Bârsan, 2017, p. 21). However, their aim is to appear to behave in the same style as the ‘sneaky thrill’ troll previously mentioned, indicating the difficulty in identifying and distinguishing the three styles of behaviour from one another at times. Kurowska and Reshetnikov (2018) term this phenomenon, where a regime adopts trolling to produce political disengagement by breeding radical doubt through counterfeit internet activism, as ‘neutrollization’. This process of de-​politicization operates not by blocking the internet in an openly authoritarian manner, but by ‘flooding the market’, so to speak, and ‘out shouting’ opposition. In a more collectivized way, CD may be operationalized by those colloquially termed troll armies. In so doing, the lines between the trolling style of CD and the harassing style are further blurred by this newer, less recognizable style. Bârsan (2017, p. 20) describes that a militarized troll group will ‘create and generate almost alternative universes which nothing can be trusted, everything is put under a series of “attack” questions and leaves everything to wondering, never giving a clarification or solution’. The spread of fake news is provided as an example, noting that the mainstream media and 60

Detangling Online Dystopias

general readers become victims of this kind of information attack. Whereas Al-​Khateeb and Agarwal (2016) studied the use of social media platforms (for example social networking sites and blogs) as spaces for influencing opinions, spreading propaganda and recruitment into transnational terrorist groups. They showed that the use of trolling and bots were used by groups to spread their opinions through strategic information manoeuvres aimed to create emotional attitudes for their followers in a ‘battle of ideas’. Furthermore, it is claimed that this is a global phenomenon, in which many organizations hire employees and pay a great deal of money in an attempt to spread their message or propaganda for the purposes of influencing the public opinion in their favour (Khateeb and Agarwal, 2016, p. 8). Comparisons to the activities of organizations such as ISIS or ISIL and the like are also drawn. Troll armies depend on being a community in order to exist, and usually consist of people who are paid to write online articles and comments, or are ‘bots’ which automate part of the process of spreading misinformation, propaganda or defamation (Bârsan, 2017). These groups will often provide links within their blog articles that lead to other disinformation websites (Aro, 2016). Aro (2016, p. 127) identifies that this weaponizing of CD is currently either unrecognized or ignored by legislation and many major social networking websites (such as Facebook and Twitter). The process troll armies undertake in order to create and spreading propaganda, disinformation and fake news may also lead individuals to believe alternative facts which are purely manufactured, and question political authorities and institutional decisions based on events or decisions that never actually occurred (Bârsan, 2017, p. 21). For instance, climate change denial groups, calling themselves things like ‘climate realists’, funded by mining companies, influencing voter opinion. It would appear that this style of CD requires a level of reflexivity that lets them anticipate the emotional responses of their victims in order to remain hidden from them. Manufactured content designed to influence, such as fake news, is tailored in such a way as to be indistinguishable from mainstream journalism (Bârsan, 2017, p. 26). Additionally, when readers do attempt to find clarification, these militarized trolls will undermine the discussion claiming it to be unverified opinion using the argument of ‘truth for each person which implies a multiculturalist argument used out of context’ (Bârsan, 2017, p. 20). In so doing, everyday users may become hesitant to use online spaces with honesty out of fear of becoming the target of CD because of the surveillance present on social media (such as monitoring by friends, family, employers or troll armies) (Kruse et al, 2018, p. 65). Bârsan (2017) also identifies the silencing ability of this style of CD and the use of aggressive and offensive language to derail an argument rather than address it. However, the army of trolls is usually more interested in targeting the mass media of a state, rather than individuals (although it 61

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

may not always appear this way when, for example, a political leader is involved). Importantly, ‘Countries that have a less independent mass media and a lower education level are more vulnerable to what trolls distribute and write’ (Bârsan, 2017, p. 20). Interestingly, Bârsan (2017, p. 18) identifies that: ‘Challenging as it may be the development of online trolling has had a long historical backtrack in communist countries’ and provides the example of the Kremlin operationalizing a state-​based troll army programme during other states’ leadership election times. In an attempt to ‘combat’ this ‘threat’ Heart and Klink (2017) –​in a US Army-​funded conference paper –​advise, endorse and encourage the creation of a ‘troll battalion’ within their military. It is suggested that the methods of CD be weaponized in both offensive and defensive cyber-​operations, mixing behaviours more commonly associated with both the harassing and sneaky thrill styles (although without the entertainment motivations associated with the latter). They argue in aggressive detail of how such ‘teams’ may strategically infiltrate, undermine, degrade, deny, disrupt and neutralize various ‘cyber-​personas’ on both individual and/​or organizational levels (Heart and Klink, 2017, p. 99). The distinguishing of organizational/​militarized trolling and a more casual/​everyday trolling is somewhat blurred by Burroughs (2013) in a study surrounding purposeful and politicized ‘Obama Trolling’ through the use of memes. Here, emotions that may not have otherwise been expressed online may be displayed through the use of memes (Burroughs, 2013, p. 259). The article makes special mention that although any one given individual troll (or act of trolling) may not necessarily be political, the behaviours associated with trolling more generally may be. This is particularly the case for satirical journalism, especially when more traditional news media are parodied (in similar way to a ‘fake news’ outlets). Waisanen (2011) provides the example of The Onion and its Onion News Network (ONN). By ironically imitating and parodying the structure and delivery of mainstream news broadcasts, Waisanen (2011, p. 513) claims that ONN creates an alternate understanding and reflexive judgment of these traditional journalistic communication norms and practices through online satire. In so doing, audiences are argued to be afforded the ability to engage with complex content more critically, and possibly even be provided with the tools to better distinguish the CD described earlier.

Netiquette and emotional reflexivity Many areas of the internet allow for the meeting of opposing views (for example, comment sections of news articles about polarizing topics). Undoubtedly this leads to disagreements online. However, disagreement alone is not necessarily troublesome. It is incivility that can lead to more 62

Detangling Online Dystopias

incivility, leading to aggression (Chen and Lu, 2017). Furthermore, hostile reactions towards a disagreement are more likely to result in antagonism and increased close-​mindedness, while deliberative open-​minded reactions are more likely to result in more favourable attitudes to opposing views within discussions surrounding differing opinions; both of which lead to an increased awareness of opposing opinions (Hwang et al, 2018). Some incivility may activate a defence mechanism for discussion participants which encourages the political engagement necessary to facilitate a ‘healthy democracy’ online (Chen and Lu, 2017; Martin, 2019). Alternatively, highly charged disagreements (for example, ‘Facebook fights’) may often occur when their participants encounter differing political views on social media websites. ‘These interactions typically involved name-​ calling, insults, and a general lack of respect by one or both parties, falling far short of civil discourse’ (Kruse et al, 2018, p. 76), and frequently lead to ‘avoidant social media behaviours’ (for example avoiding posting political views, avoiding joining potentially polarizing discussions and so on), thereby producing a severing of access to opinions and information required for true communicative action required for the facilitation of a ‘healthy democracy’ (Martin, 2019). Thus, in order to interact appropriately –​and avoid the pitfalls of incivility online –​netizens must exercise self-​control and other emotionally reflexive processes. Indeed Voggeser et al (2018) examined the role of self-​control in recognizing social cues in the context of disinhibited online behaviour. Their results indicated that a failure in self-​control may manifest itself in a failure to recognize social cues. This means that, in instances involving disinhibited online behaviour, individuals may not actually realize that a situation calls for self-​control; rather than the instance being caused by an individual not being able to control themselves. Although not directly described within the article, there appears to be some form of emotional reflexivity required when interacting appropriately online. These results indicate that in failing to reflexively identify the need for ‘self-​control’, the participants have some kind of ‘knee-​jerk’ reaction and appear to communicate ‘inappropriately’. Furthermore, Ehrett (2016) was quite insightful regarding netiquette, identifying appropriate and inappropriate online interactions, and what is termed e-​judiciaries (‘policing’ and responding to inappropriate behaviour). It was described that ‘hard’ enforceable policies are often unwanted in online spaces, and that ‘guidelines’ are considered more favourable by netizens (Ehrett, 2016). Hence, CD is more than simple disagreement in online spaces, or perceived online conflict. It entails specific, intentional or accidental, behaviours that exaggerate a disagreement or discussion (such as the use of irony or not noticing its use), often to the point of aggressive conflict, which is then sometimes perceived as harassment or even cyber-​bullying. It is reflexively built upon the feeling 63

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

rules and social guidelines that the participants within online spaces negotiate (often non-​directly, or by website moderators). Thus, CD is most commonly perceived by those that respond to or observe it as behaving inappropriately in online spaces.

Collectivized cyber-deviance, emotional reflexivity-cyber deviance as activism online and combatting cyber-deviance Although much of the literature under review in this chapter examined CD from the perspective of a ‘victim’ (and is therefore treated as a negative thing, with a seemingly dystopian view of the internet), some articles discussed how CD may be responded to, and others (very few) spoke of using online spaces in more emancipatory ways, moving beyond the dystopia online. When it comes to the collective interactions of online gamers Ehrett (2016, p. 272) observed the community-​regulation model of the online game League of Legends, noting its ‘democratic adjudicative structure’ . The e-​judiciary structure is described as offering a grassroots-​style opportunity to respond to the CD that occurs within the online space, which is broadly supported by its community. Here, a report of misconduct is anonymized then anonymously reviewed by other players of the game who determine if the alleged offender is guilty or not; punishments are then handed out by an automated system. The article’s findings suggest that the tribunal judges tend to err in favour of guilty verdicts (Ehrett, 2016, p. 272), indicating this community’s consensus towards maintaining a status quo of appropriate behaviours (dictated by the game developer’s use of standard-​based guidelines, rather than rule-​based policies). This approach to community governance is found to be favoured by the game’s players. Interestingly, Ehrett (2016) points out that once misconduct is accused, the tendency is towards punishment over pardon. Additionally, participants tend to be more aggressive towards addressing reported misconduct, rather than less, when an online community is empowered to conduct their own review (Ehrett, 2016, p. 288). As such, alleged offenders are more likely to be treated as deviant and unwanted which may lead to the community conducting ‘witch hunts’ in the name of enforcing social norms. However, the lack of strict clarity surrounding the standard-​based guidelines may also be normatively desirable, as this allows the standards to evolve, develop and progress over time as the community adapts and reacts to the behaviours of the game’s participants (Ehrett, 2016, p. 288). This indicates the reflexivity required for such an online community to function progressively. Also, given that the e-​judiciary system is anonymized, it is near impossible to determine if the voting system is unsympathetic towards reports of CD by minority members, despite the community being comprised mostly of a particular demographic (Ehrett, 2016, p. 291). 64

Detangling Online Dystopias

It must be noted that although this style of online community –​where participants may reflexively (re)construct the social and feeling rules of appropriate online behaviour within an online space –​may appear to fit the descriptions of the public sphere, ‘it is more likely that niche communities form’ (Kruse et al, 2018, p. 65). In some ways the flow of ideas is facilitated across the social media landscape; in other ways a closed community is formed around polarizing and divisive debate. This is what is colloquially named an echo chamber, and what Kruse et al (2018) term a ‘hug box’. Furthermore, the article claims that, particularly for Generation X, political engagement, topics deemed ‘too personal’, serious topics and negativity are deemed inappropriate on social media websites unless it is ‘virtually guaranteed that others would agree with them’ (Kruse et al, 2018, p. 77). As this unfolds, some online communities are constructed in ways that create or reinforce social myths. For example, Johnston et al (2011) examined the myth that women are not politically active when blogging online. They identified that this is false and is formed by the methodology used by ranking websites which favour the way men blog, rather than the content of blogs. The examined ranking websites rank blogs based on the number of other blogs linking to it; higher-​ranking blogs have more other blogs linking to it. According to Johnston et al (2011, p. 294), ‘Men tend to link to other men’s blogs’, creating the appearance of being more authoritative due to a higher ranking. They note that women often blog using experience as part of their political engagement ‘thus, their participation in the blogosphere, and in political debate specifically, is valuable for the range it represents’ (Johnston et al, 2011, p. 291). It is also argued that the unequal social locations these ranking systems produce cause women’s voices to appear as the minority while men are seen to out-​shout and outnumber women bloggers. CD may be argued to be linked with identity formation through the creation of fictional group identification. Blodgett and Salter (2018) provide the alt-​right and #GamerGate movements as case studies. They describe the alt-​r ight to reflexively perceive validation in their beliefs from reactions to their CD behaviours projected towards their fictional enemies on social media websites. The group attribute the attention they receive (positive or negative) as a form of social power within the online realm. This then encourages ‘members to be purer in the belief buy-​in’ (Blodgett and Salter, 2018, p. 141), making them appear louder, thus larger. Examples are provided of commenters proclaiming to perform their CD in the name of ‘free speech’. In so doing, the focus on the ‘negative actions and mental stress of maintaining a persecution mindset’ (Blodgett and Salter, 2018, p. 142) is disaffected in its online community due to the righteousness on which their identity hinges. Alternatively, Hollaback! –​a social activist movement against women’s experience of street harassment –​promotes engagement with a community 65

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

that is committed to engaging the previously disengaged bystanders to gender issues in public spaces (Gómez and Aden, 2017, p. 161). The online space the movement occupies has been reported to shift women’s ‘understanding of their experience from the individual to the collective, and re-​framed how they defined street harassment’ (Gómez and Aden, 2017, p. 161). The activity of sharing their stories of harassment helps situate personal problems into social issues, while also encouraging one another to engage in collective actions. Alongside this, Hollaback! opens up ‘new possibilities for transnational or worldwide activism’ (Wånggren, 2016, p. 403), and the importance of new technologies for these movements. This is due to the increased capacity for movement campaigns to be organized across many venues at once, afforded by the internet and social media websites. Furthermore, Gómez and Aden (2017) discovered that Hollaback! provides ‘an alternative means of envisioning how public spaces can be transformed into safe spaces for women’ (p. 162), claiming that online spaces are part of these public spaces. Indeed, Vera-G ​ ray (2017) argues that since technology is a tool that is mobilized within the context of ‘gender inequality that facilitates the violence and harassment women experience online’ (Vera-​Gray, 2017, p. 67), the task is to continue refining the concepts that are already in place surrounding the forms of violence against women –​rather than seeking new terminology. Although the articles mentioned do not directly engage with theories of reflexivity, it could be argued that it is present within the behaviours observed in response to the harassment experienced and the activism displayed within the Hollaback! movement. According to Dunsby and Howes (2019) this naming and shaming is a form of digital vigilantism and may be participated in by social media users with as little as liking and sharing content of this nature. They argue that this occurs not only towards the street harassers mentioned previously but also to people accused (but not necessarily convicted) of crimes, alleged offenders of social inappropriateness, and those who are convicted of crimes. In so doing, those identified are subjected to ‘embarrassment, harassment and/​or condemnation’ (Dunsby and Howes, 2019, p. 42). Indeed, as Martin (2019) claims: ‘Dissent can be risky, but it is not always clear what is safe and what is not’ (p. 50). Interestingly, Humphrey (2017) argues that the quintessential internet vigilante activity is ‘troll-​hunting’. This activity’s goal ranges from blocking trolls’ access to a platform, to revealing their offline personality or organization/​group, or at least threatening to do so (p. 22). Dunsby and Howes (2019) identified that anonymity for the digital vigilante is almost as important as it is for CD. However, their findings also indicate that some Facebook users may regard the social media landscape as a reputable source of information, inciting ‘witch hunts’ (associated with the weaponized trolling identified in a previous section of this chapter). Although, they do note that some Facebook users are aware of this (as well as being thoughtful of the severity of the 66

Detangling Online Dystopias

crime and if the offender was convicted or only alleged). This indicates that some form of reflexivity is required in order to safely distinguish CD and ‘fake news’ from ‘reality’ and react accordingly to nuanced circumstances. As such, Dunsby and Howes (2019) claim that digital vigilantism is regarded as acceptable –​despite less than half their participants endorsing naming and shaming –​so long as it may help protect other, more vulnerable, members of a community. Digital vigilantism is also regarded as a means to inform and educate people of socially inappropriate behaviours, alongside reflecting a behaviour modification motive (Dunsby and Howes, 2019, p. 53), with an aim of moving beyond a seemingly dystopian internet full of e-​bile.

Conclusion Recently, there has been an increase in research oriented to understanding the proliferation of the deviant acts of online harassment, trolling and cyber-​ bullying in the open terrain of the internet. However, the research on such a new and evolving area is not yet consolidated and matured, particularly regarding the use emotional reflexivity online. As such, the terms being used in academic literature are often ambiguous, overlapping or conflating, lack providing enough agency to netizens, and are thus in need of consolidation and more nuance understandings. From this, trolls and other CD actors are not understood effectively, and dystopian sides of online interaction are overplayed. This chapter has countered this –​or at the very least rendered the dystopia more complex and in need of more suitable nuances –​by engaging with emotional reflexivity. Furthermore, this chapter proposed the use of an umbrella term: CD. This chapter has described CD to be comprised of three primary styles: 1) sneaky thrills and entertainment such as trolling, 2) harassment and cyber-​ bullying and 3) antidisestablishmentarianism involving cyber-​warfare and ‘fake news’. Having done this, it has been revealed that identifying and performing (in)appropriate interactions online utilizes emotionally reflexivity. Indeed, understanding CD through an emotionally reflexive lens affords researchers the ability to understand, observe and explain social media and internet phenomena sociologically with the nuances and contextuality they require. Finally, the chapter argues that by understanding CD through an emotional reflexive lens netizens are afforded the ability to combat, accept, contain and not be fooled by the unwanted, negative and harmful downsides to CD, yet also be entertained and emancipated by the opportunities CD affords. Note 1

It should be noted that the deviance discussed in this chapter is primarily social in nature, and so does not currently include primarily technologically natured deviance, such as 67

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

hacking. Nevertheless, the proposed umbrella term of cyber-​deviance (CD) has the capacity to include such further nuances.

References Al-​Khateeb, S. and Agarwal, N. 2016, ‘Understanding strategic information manoeuvres in network media to advance cyber operations: a case study analysing pro-​Russian separatists’ cyber information operations in Crimean water crisis’, Journal on Baltic Security, vol. 2, no. 1, pp. 6–​27. Aro, J. 2016, ‘The cyberspace war: propaganda and trolling as warfare tools’, European View, vol. 15, no. 1, pp. 121–​32. Bârsan, M. 2017, ‘Military trolls, public distractions and the cyber’, Studia Universitatis Babes-​Bolyai.Studia Europaea, vol. 62, no. 2, pp. 17–​29. Binns, A. 2012, ‘Don’t feed the trolls!’, Journalism Practice, vol. 6, no. 4, pp. 547–​62. Blodgett, B. and Salter, A. 2018, ‘Ghostbusters is for boys: understanding geek masculinity’s role in the alt-​r ight’, Communication, Culture & Critique, vol. 11, no. 1, pp. 133–​46. Bratu, S. 2017, ‘The inexorable shift towards an increasingly hostile cyberspace environment: the adverse social impact of online trolling behavior’, Contemporary Readings in Law and Social Justice, vol. 9, no. 2, pp. 88–​94. Buckels, E.E., Trapnell, P.D., Andjelovic, T. and Paulhus, D.L. 2018, ‘Internet trolling and everyday sadism: parallel effects on pain perception and moral judgment’, Journal of Personality, vol. 87, no. 2, pp. 1–​13. Bulut, E. and Yörük, E. 2017, ‘Digital populism: trolls and political polarization of Twitter in Turkey’, International Journal of Communication, vol. 11, pp. 4093–​117. Burroughs, B. 2013, ‘Obama trolling: memes, salutes and an agonistic politics in the 2012 presidential election’, Fibreculture Journal, no. 22, pp. 258–​77. Camacho, S., Hassanein, K. and Head, M. 2018, ‘Cyberbullying impacts on victims’ satisfaction with information and communication technologies: the role of perceived cyberbullying severity’, Information & Management, vol. 55, no. 4, pp. 494–​507. Chen, G.M. and Lu, S. 2017, ‘Online political discourse: exploring differences in effects of civil and uncivil disagreement in news website comments’, Journal of Broadcasting & Electronic Media, vol. 61, no. 1, pp. 108–​25. De Fazio, L. and Sgarbi, C. 2016, ‘Unwanted online attentions among an Italian students sample’, European Journal on Criminal Policy and Research, vol. 22, no. 2, pp. 219–​34. Dunsby, R.M. and Howes, L.M. 2019, ‘The NEW adventures of the digital vigilante! Facebook users’ views on online naming and shaming’, Australian and New Zealand Journal Of Criminology, vol. 52, no. 1, pp. 41–​59.

68

Detangling Online Dystopias

Ehrett, J.S. 2016, ‘E-​judiciaries: a model for community policing in cyberspace’, Information & Communications Technology Law, vol. 25, no. 3, pp. 272–​91. Felt, M. 2017, ‘News portrayals of cyberbullying as the product of unstable teen technological culture’, Canadian Journal of Communication, vol. 42, no. 5, pp. 893–​912. Fragoso, S. 2015, ‘ “HUEHUEHUE I’m BR”: spam, trolling and griefing in online games’, Revista FAMECOS: Mídia, Cultura e Tecnologia, vol. 22, no. 3, pp. 37–​53. Gómez, N. and Aden, R.C. 2017, ‘ “I stared at him in defiance”: Hollaback! movement and the enactment of reflexive, resilient countervisuality’, Journal of Applied Communication Research, vol. 45, no. 2, pp. 160–​78. Hardaker, C. 2015, ‘ “I refuse to respond to this obvious troll”: an overview of responses to (perceived) trolling’, Corpora, vol. 10, no. 2, pp. 201–​29. Heart, S.W. and Klink, M.C. 2017, ‘1st troll battalion: influencing military and strategic operations through cyber-​personas’, 2017 International Conference on Cyber Conflict (CyCon US), pp. 97–​104. Holmes, M. 2015, ‘Researching emotional reflexivity’, Emotion Review, vol. 7, no. 1, pp. 61–​6. Holt, T., Bossler, A. and May, D. 2012, ‘Low self-​control, deviant peer associations, and juvenile cyberdeviance’, American Journal of Criminal Justice, vol. 37, no. 3, pp. 378–​95. Humphrey, M.L. 2017, ‘ “I am in no way this”: troll hunters and pragmatic digital self-​reference’, Persona Studies, vol. 3, no. 2, pp. 21–​34. Hwang, H., Kim, Y. and Kim, Y. 2018, ‘Influence of discussion incivility on deliberation: an examination of the mediating role of moral indignation’, Communication Research, vol. 45, no. 2, pp. 213–​40. Jane, E.A. 2016, ‘Online misogyny and feminist digilantism’, Continuum: Journal of Media & Cultural Studies, vol. 30, no. 3, pp. 284–​97. Johnston, A., Friedman, B. and Peach, S. 2011, ‘Standpoint in political blogs: voice, authority, and issues’, Women’s Studies: An Interdisciplinary Journal, vol. 40, no. 3, pp. 269–​98. Katz, J. 1988, The Seductions of Crime: Moral and Sensual Attractions of Doing Evil, New York: Basil Blackwell. Kruse, L.M., Norris, D.R. and Flinchum, J.R. 2018, ‘Social media as a public sphere? Politics on social media’, Sociological Quarterly, vol. 59, no. 1, pp. 62–​84. Kurowska, X. and Reshetnikov, A. 2018, ‘Neutrollization: industrialized trolling as a pro-​Kremlin strategy of desecuritization’, Security Dialogue, vol. 49, no. 5, pp. 345–​63. Martin, B. 2019, ‘Free speech on Australian campuses: hidden barriers’, Australian Universities’ Review, vol. 61, no. 1, pp. 49–​54.

69

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Phillips, W. 2015, This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things: Mapping the Relationship between Online Trolling and Mainstream Culture, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Sest, N. and March, E. 2017, ‘Constructing the cyber-​troll: psychopathy, sadism, and empathy’, Personality and Individual Differences, vol. 119, pp. 69–​72. Theocharis, Y., Barberá, P., Fazekas, Z., Popa, S.A. and Parnet, O. 2016, ‘A bad workman blames his tweets: the consequences of citizens’ uncivil Twitter use when interacting with party candidates’, Journal of Communication, vol. 66, no. 6, pp. 1007–​31. Vera-​Gray, F. 2017, ‘ “Talk about a cunt with too much idle time”: trolling feminist research’, Feminist Review, vol. 115, no. 1, pp. 61–​78. Voggeser, B.J., Singh, R.K. and Göritz, A.S. 2018, ‘Self-​control in online discussions: disinhibited online behavior as a failure to recognize social cues’, Frontiers in Psychology, vol. 8, pp. 1–​11. Vrooman, S.S. 2001, ‘Flamethrowers, slashers and witches: gendered communication in a virtual community’, Qualitative Research Reports in Communication, vol. 2, no. 2, pp. 33–​41. Waisanen, D. 2011, ‘Crafting hyperreal spaces for comic insights: the Onion News Network’s ironic iconicity’, Communication Quarterly, vol. 59, no. 5, pp. 508–​28. Wånggren, L. 2016, ‘Our stories matter: storytelling and social justice in the Hollaback! movement’, Gender & Education, vol. 28, no. 3, pp. 401–​15.

70

4

Mass Emotional Events: Rethinking Emotional Contagions after COVID-​19 Jordan McKenzie, Roger Patulny, Rebecca E. Olson and Marlee Bower

Introduction Recent work on theories of collective emotions has recognized emotions as phenomena that spread between individuals and groups to form collective emotional moods, landscapes and climates (Bar-​Tal et al, 2007; Von Scheve and Salmela, 2014). Nevertheless, the COVID-​19 pandemic has caused sudden and dramatic shifts in social interaction that warrants a reimagining of emotional contagions. The collective hopes and anxieties of those living through the pandemic indicate the development of a ‘new normal’ that highlights the need to reconsider existing theories. In particular, the rapid change in collective emotions, spreading in an almost ‘viral’ manner, warrants that we pay new attention to these concepts. The idea that emotions are created and shared collectively is not new. The spread of feelings to create common, collective emotional experiences and cultures is captured in existing theories of emotional contagion (Von Scheve and Ismer, 2013). Emerging from early theories about crowd behaviour from Gustave Le Bon (1895), they suggest that emotions spread physically at the micro-​social level through a process of mimicking and synchronizing expressions, vocalization, postures and movements, creating a feedback loop that homogenizes into a recognizable emotion shared by a group of people (Hatfield et al, 1994). More recent studies have found this micro-​level phenomenon can occur online, between individuals interacting through bounded digital social media networks (Underwood and Olson, 2019). However, recent events demonstrate the power of macro-​events to influence and spread emotions widely across whole societies and nations. 71

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

COVID-​19 has resulted in new attention, focus and emotional valence being given to rolling government press releases and the 24-​hour news cycle, amplified and hastened by social media. In this new emotional landscape, singular examples of emotional contagions (for example panic buying and grocery shortages, and anxiety manifest from self-​isolation regulations, travel-​bans, and school closures) are experienced by millions of people simultaneously. In light of the ongoing COVID-​19 pandemic, this chapter rethinks the ways that emotional contagions develop and function on a mass scale. We use the term ‘mass emotional event’ to describe how the impacts of emotional contagion accumulate across the micro, meso and macro levels of society, and take particular forms at the national and international levels. The chapter will evaluate existing theories of emotional landscapes and emotional contagions before setting out a reimagined approach in the concept of mass emotional events. The chapter goes on to unpack the nature of mass emotional events using the authors’ reflections of two events that continue to have emotional impacts after the urgent crises have passed: the 9/​11 terrorist attacks in New York and the 2019–​20 ‘Black Summer’ bushfires in Australia. This analysis will then be used to think about the mass emotional event of the COVID-​19 pandemic (which is still unfolding at the time of writing).

Collective emotions: climates, landscapes and moods Over the last decade, the language of collective emotions has become a common feature in the sociology of emotion. Social emotions have featured in the discourse for some time (Kemper, 1978; Hochschild, 1983; Denzin, 1984), but there has been considerable development in the scale of research into collective emotional experiences. While sociologists working on emotions have emphasized the interactional and interpersonal aspects of emotions since the late 1970s, the recognition that emotions spread throughout crowds, spaces and networks is a welcome addition. This repertoire of social emotional dynamics has grown to include terms such as collective emotions, emotional climates, emotion landscapes and collective moods. These terms reflect specific disciplinary practices across sociology, cultural studies, psychology and cultural geography, and they draw from literature on both emotions and affect. In this section, we examine each of these concepts pertaining to collective emotions within the sociological literature, both to demonstrate their overlapping characteristics and to point to gaps in how they account for the impact of mass events on collective emotions. The collective emotions literature is perhaps the most developed of these terms and often serves as an umbrella term for the genre (Von Scheve and Ismer, 2013; Von Scheve and Salmela, 2014; Sullivan, 2015). This literature originated in the study of crowd behaviour (Sullivan, 2015) in an effort to 72

Mass Emotional Events

understand how an emotion spreads through a group of people in either voluntary or involuntary ways. Sullivan cites Le Bon’s social psychology of crowds (1895) which argues that the collective emotions of group behaviour can overpower the individual’s use of reason and lead them to participate in actions that are out of character. This resonates with much of the psychological literature on emotions during the early modern industrial period that associated heightened emotions with irrationality (Wettergren, 2019). In the more recent surge of literature on collective emotions, definitions are less interested in rationality and more open to the need for individuals to share, communicate and identify with the emotions of a group. Von Scheve and Ismer (2013), for example, ‘propose an understanding of collective emotions as the synchronous convergence in affective responding across individuals towards a specific event or object’ (p. 406) (emphasis in original). These convergences do not just occur between individuals;1 they can also converge between small groups following shared exposures to phenomenon, regular interactions, and identification with other group members and patterns of emotional behaviour (Parkinson, 2001). For Von Scheve and Ismer (2013), shared social appraisals and intentions are important for the emergence of collective emotions, helping to ‘calibrate’ intentions and emotions within collectives. They also note from Salmela (2012) that this can occur as part of an ‘I’ mode, where individual intentions and feelings are separate but act in concert (such as the shared but separate interests and moods of shoppers or investors), or a ‘we’ mode, where group intentions are fully harmonized and directed towards a common goal (for example orchestra, sports team or crowd). In Von Scheve and Ismer’s (2013) review of the collective emotions literature, they differentiate between three understandings of the collective: face-​to-​face, cultural and group (p. 407). In the first instance, face-​ to-​face collective emotions rely on an understanding of emotional contagion that is heavily influenced by psychological research. In this model, emotions spread through a group (such as a crowd, school or workplace) through mimicry and expression mirroring, and are linked to evolutionary theories of human social behaviour. This mimicry is something that individuals do automatically and often without thinking (Hatfield et al, 1994). Von Scheve rightly points out that this form of mirroring has sociological implications, such as in Durkheim’s theory of collective effervescence. In The Elementary Forms of Religious Life (1912), Durkheim argues that heightened emotional experiences can result from group activities where individuals bond over a shared celebration of a sacred object. This can be found in traditional religious services and has been used more recently to understand music festivals (Liebst, 2019). This physical and interpersonal conception of the evolution of collective emotions has several flaws; the understanding of collective emotions as a 73

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

reflex that occurs in face-​to-​face interaction fails to capture the context of communities, subcultures and geographical spaces. Collective effervescence contains more than a reflex form of mimicry, it draws from a deeply held sense of belonging in accordance with ideas about morality, virtue and meaning. Sullivan (2015) emphasizes the role of ‘emotional energy’ to demonstrate that collective emotional experiences are more than passive reactions, but as a standalone concept, the idea of emotional energy does not go far enough in identifying the important role of context. It cannot be assumed, for example, that an understanding of collective emotions spread by physical interpersonal interaction translates neatly into interactions occurring within a social media context. Recent experiments such as the 2012 Facebook emotional manipulation study (Kramer et al, 2014) have demonstrated that while positive and negative emotional qualities are transmissible online via posts and likes, they are emotionally distinct from emersion in a physical crowd, or even saturation in mass media and news. The second genre of collective emotions reviewed in Von Scheve and Ismer’s paper involves emotional landscapes and climates and is highly relevant to the themes of cultural impact from mass media contained in this chapter. The emotional ‘landscape’ literature tends to focus on emotion and affect in reference to space and cultural geography (Best, 2014; Frihammar and Silverman, 2018; Ford, 2020), while the emotional ‘climates’ material (de Rivera, 1992) typically refers to the institutional context of collective emotions and their outcomes –​such as emotional climates in workplaces, classrooms (Kasen et al, 1990; Brackett et al, 2011) and families (Raikes and Thompson, 2006; Sim et al, 2009). In both instances, collective emotions at the cultural level speak to the emotional moods or climates of a community of individuals who do not need to be homogeneously understood in order to share emotional experiences. Such collective emotions not only speak to the ideologies, values and norms of a society; they can potentially strengthen or generate those values and norms. de Rivera (1992) distinguishes emotional climates from ‘emotional atmospheres’, which are more temporary group feelings about particular events, and ‘emotional cultures’, where the prevailing collective emotion has become so powerful and ubiquitous, it is expected to be felt and performed. The result is that emotional cultures go on to shape emotional experience and expression, and become equivalent to the feeling rules and social structural emotional conditions described by Hochschild (1983; we examine the cultural impact of emotions further below). Importantly, an emotional climate can develop as a group response to an event. We can speak of the collective emotional response to war or a terrorist attack, a recession, a natural disaster, an election, even the death of a celebrity. While individual emotional responses may vary in response to these stimuli, emotions including shame, pride, empathy, disappointment, 74

Mass Emotional Events

nostalgia, anxiety and fear can all materialize at a collective level (Von Scheve and Salmela, 2014; Patulny and Olson, 2019; Sullivan and Day, 2019) to mark the impact of the event. One weakness with macro-​level cultural/​c limactic approaches to understanding collective emotions, however, is the lack of detail they pay to the impact of big events upon the micro-​interactions and personal contagion of emotions. Large events might dominate the news and create a climate of anger or sympathy, but they are less likely to have a long-​term impact on the prevailing emotional climate if they do not change the everyday structures of interactions in the societies in which they are shown. This is visible in the aftermath of the 2004 Boxing Day Tsunami, when millions of people in comfortably unaffected Western countries felt temporary sympathy for those effected by the crisis, but themselves experienced no lasting change in their sentiments (Hutchison, 2014). The third form of collective emotion involves the practice and feeling of self-​identification with a group. In this case, individuals participate in collective emotions by identifying with the group and its moral sentiments, and this then becomes a core element in their selfhood as well as a form of social belonging. Sullivan and Day (2019) emphasize important differences between collective and group-​based emotions. They insist that while collective emotions can describe the joint behaviour of a group, they do not automatically require self-​identification with the group, and may lack the personal connectedness that comes with the feeling of belonging to the group. These hybrids of individual and collective emotion offer useful avenues for thinking about group behaviour in ways that are more sophisticated than simple mimicry. But ultimately the collective emotions literature is limited to subgroups and subcultures; it cannot explain mass convergence in emotions across large societies, nations and beyond.

Emotional contagions: then and now Existing theories of collective emotions depend upon some form of emotional contagion that spreads between physically interacting individuals, or through shared cultural representations. The former, emotional contagion literature is particularly well developed in psychology and social psychology. Hatfield et al (1994) target much of their groundbreaking book on the topic on ‘primitive emotional contagion’ which is described as ‘relatively automatic, unintentional, uncontrollable, and largely inaccessible to conversant awareness’ (1994, p. 5). Recent definitions have considered the transfer of emotions from person to person within workplaces (Banerjee and Srivastava, 2019), and crowds (Von Scheve and Ismer, 2013). The relevance of a pre-​intentional emotional stimulus (or an equivalent concept) within interactions remains key in the literature. 75

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

More recently, it has become clear that emotional contagions can also exist in virtual and online spaces (Didry and Giannelloni, 2019). The Facebook emotional contagion experiment in 2012 is a clear example of the transfer of emotions between users in social media, as well as the potential for social media platforms to wield the power to drive mass emotional manipulations. The controversial findings published by Kramer et al (2014) suggest that when manipulating users feeds on Facebook with more/​less positive/​negative content, the posts produced under the manipulation matched the collective mood of their feed. Flooding a user’s feed with negative content led to users tending to post more negative content themselves (and vice versa for positive content). While the ethics of this online manipulation have been repeatedly called into question, it is important to note that this kind of algorithm-​ based content manipulation is precisely how Facebook works, with or without the presence of a research paper (boyd, 2016). Irrespective of these concerns, the findings clearly show that emotional contagions do not need to be face-​to-​face or verbal, but can function through a variety of forms of communication (Kramer et al, 2014). Furthermore, emotional contagions can result in emotional experiences that are intentional and reflexive. Memes are another example of emotional contagions in online spaces (Guadagno et al, 2013). While memes can be read as silly or one-​dimensional humour, they can also reflect and transmit sophisticated forms of irony, sarcasm and reflexivity (Underwood and Olson, 2019). The rapid spread of a meme through social networks arguably aligns with some form of shared emotional context that validates the content of the meme as funny or poignant. They are ‘inside-​jokes’ for people who have no specific connection other than a shared understanding of a topic. The emotional reaction to the meme then creates a shared emotional experience that transcends specific online platforms and social networks. Guadagno et al’s (2013) analysis of emotional responses to internet memes found a correlation between the intensity of the emotional response to the meme and the likelihood of an individual sharing it. Therefore, the popularity of a meme is linked to its emotional impact (regardless of its valence). Stieglitz and Dang-​Xuan’s (2013) analysis of Twitter posts suggests that ‘emotionally charged’ tweets, on average, were retweeted more than tweets with more neutral language. This further indicates that social media spaces have emotional intensities that users access and reproduce in virtual exchanges. Stieglitz and Dang-​Xuan go on to hypothesize that emotive communication is more likely to distribute information than non-​emotive communication, and this promotes the distribution of certain messages over others. Steinert (2020) picks up on this trend and highlights that the COVID-​19 pandemic can be linked to increased social media usage as well as an increase in the volume of ‘emotional content’ in users’ posts. This includes preliminary data from a variety of social media platforms that 76

Mass Emotional Events

indicate increased levels of fear, sadness and anxiety during the COVID-​19 pandemic. Other examples of this kind of response on social media platforms can be found following natural disasters and terrorist attacks, though it seems as though the COVID-​19 pandemic offers a much more dramatic picture of emotional contagions online due to the prominence of social media in 2020 and the increased usage during periods of self-​isolation. The influence of emotional contagions is evident here as Steinert (2020) claims that the creation of ‘negative emotional moods’ will effect political views through altered forms of information dissemination.

Mass emotional events The recent COVID-​19 pandemic warrants the development of a broadened understanding of emotional contagions and collective emotions to incorporate what we are calling ‘mass emotional events’. The fundamental differences between mass emotional events and hitherto examples of emotional contagions are: • the mass scale of both the event itself and the resulting collective emotional experience; • the emotional contagion in a mass emotional event develops and spreads from fundamental changes both in human interaction brought on by the event, and by interaction with nonhuman sources of emotionally charged and saturating information, such as mass media, public panic and the health campaign around the virus itself; and • the catalyst of the event being something that participants may have no direct contact with, but regardless, has a profound effect on their lives (that is, the global impact of the 9/​11 attacks). Von Scheve’s depiction of collective emotions is widely relevant and useful in a sociological understanding of emotion, but his work remains largely based on face-​to-​face and crowd interactions. Even when his theory is expanded to consider macro phenomena through the contributions of Randall Collins and Emile Durkheim (Von Scheve and Ismer, 2013), it remains limited by a core focus on psychological/​physiological exchanges between interacting individuals. This allows for physical proximity and ‘widely shared appraisal structures within existing communities’ (Von Scheve and Ismer, 2013, p. 412), but is limited in scope in the context of the enormity of an event like COVID-​19. Mass emotional events, in contrast, transcend ‘group-​based emotions’ and allow for an analysis of shared emotions on both a micro and a mass scale. The dissemination of emotional contagions defies traditional understandings of shared emotions within groups to include the spread of emotional 77

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

information across social, economic and geographical borders. An enduring consequence of this new format is the lack of emotional reciprocation between individuals and the source of the emotional stimulus. As a result, despite the increased use of social media platforms during the pandemic, large numbers of individuals participate ‘together-​alone’ in the event of the crisis. Mass emotional events also possess unique and often chaotic forms of emotional energy that contrast sharply with the more traditional moral foci of emotional contagions. The widespread transmission of emotional catalysts results in displaced feelings that lack a singular focus for people to direct emotions towards. In the case of COVID-​19 there is no clear resolution, no hero and no enemy (although there are public scapegoats). This leads to a diffused and ambivalent emotional energy that defies description and definition, and can feel passive and active, targeted and directionless, angry and elated all at once. While traditional emotional contagions spread bit by bit (ironically, much like a virus), in a mass emotional event individuals are affected by the stimulus synchronously, as the contagion permeates all interactions and leaps rapidly through news and social media. While this could result in heightened levels of collective emotions, it can also lead to individuals processing aspects of the emotional contagion in greater isolation –​such as the experience of loneliness during COVID-​19 –​while the broader community is fragmented by a lack of organic interactional exchanges. Although some have associated collective emotions and emotional contagions with an intellectual return to Durkheim’s collective effervescence (Von Scheve and Ismer, 2013; Sullivan, 2015), mass emotional events suggest the possibility of contagion in the absence of contact, and offer a renewed risk of anomie and emotional disconnection. Although there are counter examples of increased community solidarity in response to crises like the recent bushfires in Australia and the COVID-​19 pandemic more broadly, it is unclear how long cases of goodwill and generosity can last in a situation of prolonged mass contagion. Evidence is already suggesting that in the months following the 2019/​20 Australian Bushfire crisis, rates of depression and anxiety, as well as drug and alcohol use, have risen significantly for those directly affected (Lykins, 2020). Tensions surrounding isolation practices in many countries are already bubbling over, perhaps nowhere more than in parts of the United States where anti-​facemask and vaccination protests have become a common part of the COVID-​19 media landscape. Furthermore, these events arguably defy the community transmission model of emotional contagion and reflect larger emotional effects. For example, the act of donating money to various public appeals for those affected is a case of acting together-​alone in response to a crisis. It may create a moment of perceived connectedness through a charity concert or auction, but community bonds are not formed or lastingly reinforced with these actions. 78

Mass Emotional Events

It is important to note that the more encompassing characteristics of mass emotional events do not flatten out existing demographic differences and inequalities. Demographic differences based in age, class, race, gender and education remain mediating conditions for the impact of a mass emotional event like the COVID-​19 pandemic (Landivar et al, 2020; Noble et al, 2020). Yet it is important to recognize that these phenomena are not limited to in-​group transmission as has previously been the case with collective emotions. In contrast to traditional understandings of emotional contagions, a mass emotional event is capable of creating irreversible cultural shifts that transcend demographic or subcultural groupings. At the time of writing this chapter, the COVID-​19 pandemic is a continuing issue with no immediate end in sight. Without the luxury of hindsight, there are limits to the conclusions that can be drawn as the social, economic and political consequences of the pandemic unfold. The chapter will therefore demonstrate the application of the theory of mass emotional events by contrasting two real word case studies from two of the authors of this chapter: (1) the 9/​11 attacks in the US, and (2) the 2019–​20 Australian bushfires.

Case Study 1: The 9/​11 terrorist attacks in the US Rebecca Olson’s September 11th: ‘Every American with the capacity to remember can tell you their version of the story’, writes ABC news USA correspondent Emily Olson (2020, p. 1). My story –​peppered with examples and commentary from academic and media sources –​begins just before 9 am with the trill of my landline ringing twice before the line dropped out. It rang again ten seconds later –​it was my then boyfriend calling to ask if I was okay. He barely had time to tell me to check the news before the line dropped out again. I had moved to New York City 11 days earlier, at age 18, to start my sophomore year as a transfer student to a small liberal arts college in midtown Manhattan. The night before I had attended a dance class on the West Side, navigating the crowded subway, swaying to the rhythm of buskers’ beats and tolerating the familiar late summer stench of hot bodies, waste and dust. Today was different. After checking the news on television and making a phone call to my parents in another state, I packed a backpack with food and clothing and guided my roommates on the 30-​block walk of empty pavement uptown to my sister’s studio apartment. We were eager to escape from midtown as there were reports of bomb threats at both the UN headquarters and the nearby Queensboro Bridge. We spent the rest of the day locked into the news: ‘watching over and over again as the plane hit the tower … as they screamed … as [they] ran 79

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

through smoke and debris’ (Olson, 2020, p. 1). With all Americans, we shared a feeling of ‘uncertainty and anxiety’ (Bail, 2012, p. 857). We shared ‘a sense of national solidarity as an “imagined community” gathered around the television’ (Stoneman, 2003, p. 51). But things were a little different in New York City. This wasn’t something happening to an imagined ephemeral ‘us’, it was happening right outside the window. We heard the crack of a plane flying low and fast overhead and panicked; the news broadcaster reported that all air traffic had been grounded. It took more than ten minutes for our renewed fears to be calmed following news that the air force was now safeguarding the skies of Manhattan. That night we ventured out to find dinner before returning to our midtown dormitory. We were confronted with other New Yorkers eager to escape the churning news coverage featuring angry politicians like President G.W. Bush calling for the terrorists to be ‘hunted’ down. While consuming their dinners, New Yorkers were drinking more than usual on a Tuesday night and laughing harder –​the sad laughter that precedes tears. The next day, I ventured to the top floor of our 32-​storey building to look down on the empty streets below. I opened the window. Assaulted by the chemical stench of thousands of melting plastic computers and burning bodies, I quickly shut the window. In the weeks and months that followed 9/​11, the country rallied together around national symbols of solidarity, epitomized by ‘united we stand’ bumper stickers (Stoneman, 2003, p. 51). Residents of the tristate area hung flags by their front doors. They went to church (Savage and Torgler, 2013, p. 588) and hosted candlelight vigils for neighbours, acquaintances and strangers who died in the Twin Towers. Those on the island, in closest proximity to the events (Kemper, 2002, p. 64), maintained –​for at least the rest of the year –​a sense of disquiet, furthered by reminders on subway posters and automated announcements: ‘if you see something, say something’. Rather than responding to this sense of insecurity with the heightened anger and patriotism found in other parts of America (Kemper, 2002, p. 56; Stoneman, 2003, p. 50), New Yorkers responded with care. Notoriously stand-​offish New Yorkers acknowledged a shared grief distinct from the rest of the country which manifested in offers to help each other, sift through the rubble at ground zero or even just carry heavy groceries home from the supermarket. As Sander and Putnam put it, ‘The attacks and their aftermath demonstrated that our fates are highly interdependent. We learned that we need to –​and can –​depend on the kindness of strangers who happen to be near us in a plane, office building or subway’ (Sander and Putnam, 2005). September 11, 2001 offers a rich example of an early mass emotional event. The scale and immediacy of the physical impact –​over 3,000 dead –​and the metaphorical impact –​a realization of the US’s vulnerability –​had a profound 80

Mass Emotional Events

emotional impact (Stoneman, 2003; Olson, 2020). These affective changes were accelerated both through the synchronous ‘inertia of the media echo chamber’ (for example TV news, web 1.0) and the face-​to-​face rituals (for example vigils, moments of silence) held in the days and weeks following the event (Bail, 2012, p. 870). Though the 9/​11 attacks predate the social media age that is central to the notion of a mass emotional event, the instant and global media coverage through live television created a precedent for a globally emotional contagion. It prompted feelings of anger, patriotism –​ and especially for those in closest proximity to the events –​fear and sadness (Kemper, 2002). The collective emotions served to deflate previous class and race division lines, while supporting, weaker geographically based group identities (for example New Yorker) encircled within a broader ‘sense of [American] solidarity’ (Putnam, 2006, p. 75). The intensity of the collective emotional response underpinned altered identities and interactions, along with a renaissance in ‘community-​mindedness’ –​observed empirically through increased interest in politics and voting in the decade following the attack –​especially among the ‘9/​11 Generation’: people born in the 1980s who were coming of age at the time of the attacks (Sander and Putnam, 2005, p. 12).

Case Study 2: ‘Black Summer’ Australian bushfires Marlee Bower’s December/​January 2020: The Australian 2019–​20 ‘Black Summer’ bushfires arrived at the peak of collective anger about the impact of climate change and the lack of response from Australia’s politicians. Just a few months earlier, I had marched to Domain park in the Sydney CBD with almost 100,000 others unified as part of a global Climate School Strike. We stood together –​young and old –​under the hot sun, hopeful, in a rallying call against ongoing climate inaction from our politicians. Fast-​forward a few months, and almost 200,000 square kilometres of Australian land had burned, destroying 2,779 homes and killing 34 people. Billions of native animals and plants were killed or displaced (Hitch, 2020). After years of inaction on climate change, the bushfires felt like karmic inevitability. Except that, it didn’t feel entirely inevitable. While fires have long been part of Australian consciousness, the Black Summer bushfires had an arguably unprecedented and shock-​inducing impact for many Australians, regardless of actual proximity to fires. City dwellers –​like myself –​are usually divorced from climate-​based Australian issues plaguing rural and regional areas, like the loss of homes and livelihood from drought and fires. Although few fires actually hit Australian cities, city dwellers found –​often for the first time –​the impact of the fires actually affecting their daily lives. The novelist Charlotte Wood (2019) described how people in the city like her were: 81

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

used to turning our attention briefly, intensely, to ‘those poor people’ affected by climate change, then returning to normal life. Now those poor people include us … There’s nothing like going to sleep with the taste of ash in your throat to give you an actual, physiological understanding of real fear. The shock we experienced from being directly impacted by fires was depicted by author Chloe Hooper in her book, The Arsonist (2018) on the Victorian Black Saturday bushfires; while ‘Australia had always been a burning continent’, Australians’ reactions to the bushfires was ‘numb incredulity … People had understood that this could happen, but had never really believed it would. In some ways it was a shock to feel such shock’. We became used to seeing grey smoky or bright orange skies every day. Ash collected on our clothes, hair and at the back of our throats. We were informed that exercising outside was no longer recommended, so my routine of swimming laps at my local pool had to stop. I began a strict daily routine of opening and closing all the windows and doors in my home to manage the air flow to minimize ash and smoke inhalation. I forgot to close my bathroom window one night, and in the morning my usually white bathtub was blackened with soft grey ash. This routine, which at first felt dramatic, soon became mundane. We bought specialized filtration masks to wear when outside, which, flanked by the orange skies made us look like characters in an apocalyptic horror film (as masks at that point were still a rarity!). When I ran into people I knew on the street, we started each conversation with the same exasperated sentiment, will things ever go back to normal again? This feeling of existential fear and distress associated with being exposed to one’s environment altering as a result of climate change has been reified in the psychological literature as ‘solastagia’ (Albrecht et al, 2007). ‘Solastagia’ is a neologism derived from ‘solace’, ‘desolation’ and ‘-​algia’ (a term referencing pain/​suffering) tapping into the loss and nostalgia experienced when one’s natural home environment, which once had provided solace, has changed irreversibly through climate change, and people experience nostalgia, desolation and grief for a place that they have never left. My usual summer activities like bushwalks, beach days and parties were interrupted by the bushfires. Holidays down the coast were cancelled, lest we get caught in a fire zone and be left unable to evacuate. With a group of 30 friends, I booked a large Youth Hostel in Pittwater Basin for New Year’s Eve. We went as planned, but there was an underlying tone of deep mourning and grief for what our world had become. One of us had lost his family home in a fire in the Southern Highlands. Like a war story, we heard the tale of his family’s escape several times over the short trip and continually marvelled at some of their experiences (the burnt ash remnants 82

Mass Emotional Events

of a deck of playing cards where the ridges of each single card were visible, the childhood aluminium dinghy that melted into metallic pools) and felt horror at others (family photos and a hand-​built house lost for eternity). His wife was pregnant, and we wondered what type of world this baby was coming into. When midnight of 2020 hit, we feigned a small dance on the dance floor and went to bed after 20 minutes. It didn’t feel right to celebrate when our country was on fire. The Red Cross issued a media release stating that ‘it feels like the entire nation is traumatised by the event, our sense of safety and security compromised by the seemingly unending disaster unfolding on our screens, even filling the air around us’. The country’s shared emotional climate of anticipatory dread, terror and loss was exercised through frantic and ongoing consumption of digital and print media and the increasing popularity of the ‘Fires near me’ mobile phone app, which used GPS technology to track movement of fires around your current location in real time. The experience of shared terror was immortalized in a now famous photograph of a young boy with long blonde hair wearing an oversized face mask and life jacket fleeing his burned hometown of Mallacoota by boat against a dark and hazy orange sky. The impact of the intense engagement with the Australian media’s portrayal of bushfires on the emotional health of Australians was critiqued in a later commentary in the Australian and New Zealand Journal of Psychiatry: The intense and often very graphic media coverage of emergency service warnings and updates for [the bushfires] has caused a cascade of apocalyptic negativity that looms over the populace, affecting population mental health in Australia … The rising availability of [this news has] been further inflamed by salient negativity bias, negativity dominance and contagion. (Looi et al, 2020, p. 938) Past research on disasters led the authors to conclude that ‘sensationalised media coverage may increase pre-​disaster levels of distress, as well as contribute to negative expectations about psychological responses’. These findings identify the central role the media plays in public emotion, providing information designed to foster ‘moral panics’ to maintain a constant stream of viewer engagement, rather than a moral obligation to inform and engage ethically with the public. It is difficult to conceptualize whether the negative emotional impact persisted beyond the end of the fire season. Bryant et al (2018) found that even five years after Melbourne’s Black Saturday bushfires, 21 per cent of those directly affected were still experiencing serious mental health issues, suggesting that more severe emotional experiences can persist, at least for those directly affected. Lockie (2020, pp. 2–​3) connects the potential for 83

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

long-​term emotional impacts of the bushfires with Australians’ connection to their land: it is, of course, possible that feelings of loss, fear and hopelessness will fade, and it is possible that the frustration and anger people are expressing today will have no long-​term political impacts. But it is possible too that trauma will persist, that summer will be reimagined by many as a time of dread. Of course, all emotions occur within a historical context; in the assembly of all possible futures, no one could have anticipated the advent of a global pandemic through COVID-​19, which arguably interrupted or even eclipsed any ‘normal’ emotional trajectory or recovery from the bushfires. Time will tell us how the emotional fallout from the bushfires will play out, whether the experience served as a short-​lived Emotional Event or whether worry, dread and trauma will continue on, linked to global climate change anxieties –​as part of a mass emotional event –​to be attached to Australian identity, changing land and summer seasons into the future.

Conclusion In many ways, the global emotional impacts of the COVID-​19 pandemic are unprecedented, and yet there are historical precursors that help to develop ways of thinking about the situation that we find ourselves in today. The aforementioned vignettes show traces of the phenomenon of mass emotional events as they have unfolded from the 9/​11 terrorist attacks and the 2019–​20 Australian bushfires. They identify both the speed with which collective emotions can change in response to a massive event, and how such changes result not just from the contagious spread of emotions through physical interaction, social media postings or mass media/​symbolic depictions. Rather, a mass emotional event implies the sudden triggering of complex and rapid emotional feedback between all of these mechanisms, and the emergence of new and collectively held sentiments and feelings. There are numerous other examples that could be used here, but the authors’ proximity to these specific challenges speak to the emotional content of these specific experiences. The characteristics are visible in the present in the current COVID-​19 pandemic. COVID-​19 provides unprecedented potential for instant and accessible global communication to create social spaces for traumatic emotional experiences to arise and merge together-​alone –​simultaneously in the presence of strangers, and with loved ones in quarantine. The paradoxical emotional reality of the COVID-​19 pandemic is that people are connecting in ways that transcend traditional understandings of collective emotional 84

Mass Emotional Events

experiences and even shared emotional identities, as they isolate physically and emotionally from communities that might usually provide support. This is not a simple case of broken networks, fragmented societies and increased loneliness. The COVID-​19 pandemic may well be the turning point as many societies enter a new normal of simultaneous emotional connection and physical isolation, and the role that digital media will play in the transmission and mediation of such mass emotions is yet to be determined. Note 1

Kemper (2002, p. 62) argues that emotions are ‘fundamentally and incontrovertibly an individual level phenomenon’. He asserts that any discussion of group emotions can only refer to ‘some aggregate of individuals … feeling something that is sufficiently alike to be identified as the common emotion’. He makes allowance for some recognition of collective emotions in extreme settings: ‘Only in exceptional circumstances does the dominant emotion become virtually universal. Events such as Pearl Harbor and the September 11 attacks are of such an order’ (p. 64). Burkitt (2002), in contrast, argues that emotions are more than an individual experience; they are relational. Emotions are a fundamental ‘part of the relations and interactions between humans’ (Burkitt, 2005, p. 679).

References Albrecht, G. et al, 2007, ‘Solastalgia: the distress caused by environmental change’, Australasian Psychiatry, vol. 15 (1_​suppl), pp. S95–​8. Bail, C.A. 2012, ‘The fringe effect: civil society organizations and the evolution of media discourse about Islam since the September 11th attacks’, American Sociological Review, vol. 77, no. 6, pp. 855–​79. Banerjee, P. and Srivastava, M. 2019, ‘A review of emotional contagion: research propositions’, Journal of Management Research, vol. 19, no. 4, pp. 250–​66. Bar-​Tal, D., Halperin, E. and De Rivera, J. 2007, ‘Collective emotions in conflict situations: societal implications’, Journal of Social Issues, vol. 63, pp. 441–​ 60. Retrieved from: https://​doi.org/​10.1111/​j.1540-​4560.2007.00518.x Best, A.L. 2014, ‘Youth consumers and the fast-​food market: the emotional landscape of micro-​encounters’, Food, Culture and Society, vol. 17, no. 2, pp. 283–​300. boyd, d. 2016, ‘Untangling research and practice: what Facebook’s “emotional contagion” study teaches us’, Research Ethics, vol. 12, no. 1, pp. 4–​13. Brackett, M., Reyes, M.R., Rivers, S.E., Elbertson, N.A. and Salovey, P. 2011, ‘Classroom emotional climate, teacher affiliation, and student conduct’, The Journal of Classroom Interaction, vol. 46, no. 1, pp. 27–​36. Bryant, R.A., Gibbs, L., Gallagher, H.C., Pattison, P., Lusher, D., MacDougall, C., Harms, L., Block, K., Sinnott, V., Ireton, G., Richardson, J. and Forbes, D. 2018, ‘Longitudinal study of changing psychological outcomes following the Victorian Black Saturday bushfires’, Australian & New Zealand Journal of Psychiatry, vol. 52, no. 6, pp. 542–​51. Retrieved from: https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​0004867417714337 85

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Burkitt, I. 2002, ‘Complex emotions: relations, feelings and images in emotional experience’, in J. Barbalet (ed) Emotions and Sociology, Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 151–​67. Burkitt, I. 2005, ‘Powerful emotions: power, government and opposition in the ‘war on terror’’, Sociology, vol. 39, no. 4, pp. 679–95. de Rivera, J. 1992, ‘Emotional climate: social structure and emotional dynamics’, in K.T. Strongman (ed) International Review of Studies on Emotion, vol. 2, Chichester: Wiley, pp. 197–​218. Denzin, N. 1984, On Understanding Emotion, San Francisco: Jossey-​Bass. Didr y, N. and Giannelloni, J.L. 2019, ‘Collective emotional dynamics: perspectives for marketing’, Recherche et Applications En Marketing, vol. 34, no. 4, pp. 99–​124. Retrieved from: https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​ 2051570719887824 Durkheim, E. 2001, The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ford, A. 2020, ‘Emotional landscapes of risk: emotion and culture in American self-​sufficiency movements’, Qualitative Sociology, vol. 44, pp. 125–50. Frihammar, M. and Silverman, H. 2018, Heritage of Death: Landscapes of Emotion, Memory and Practice, Abingdon: Routledge. Guadagno, R.E., Rempala, D.M., Murphy, S. and Okdie, B.M. 2013, ‘What makes a video go viral? An analysis of emotional contagion and internet memes’, Computers in Human Behavior, vol. 29, no. 6, pp. 2312–​9. Hatfield, E., Cacioppo, J. and Rapson, R. 1994, Emotional Contagion, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hitch, G. 2020, ‘Royal commission into bushfire crisis begins hearings with focus on impact of climate change’, 25 May. ABC News Online. Retrieved from: www.abc.net.au/​news/​2020-​05-​25/​bushfire-​royal-​commission-​starts-​ hearings-​evidence-​canberra/​12276968 Hochschild, A. 1983, The Managed Heart, Berkley: University of California Press. Hooper, C, 2018, The Arsonist: A Mind on Fire, Sydney: Penguin Books. Hutchison E. 2014, ‘A global politics of pity? Disaster imagery and the emotional construction of solidarity after the 2004 Asian tsunami’, International Political Sociology, vol. 8, no.1, pp. 1–​19. Kasen, S., Johnson, J. and Cohen, P. 1990, ‘The impact of school emotional climate on student psychopathology’, Journal of Abnormal Child Psychology, vol. 18, pp. 165–​77. Kemper, T. 1978, A Social Interaction Theory of Emotions, New York: Wiley Press. Kemper, T. 2002, ‘Predicting emotions in groups: some lessons from September 11’, The Sociological Review, vol. 50 (2 suppl), pp. 53–​68.

86

Mass Emotional Events

Kramer, A., Guillory, J. and Hancock, J. 2014, ‘Experimental evidence of massive-​scale emotional contagion through social networks’, PNAS: Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the USA, vol. 111, no. 24, pp. 8788–​90. Landivar, L.C., Ruppanner, L., Scarborough, W.J. and Collins, C. 2020, ‘Early signs indicate that COVID-​19 is exacerbating gender inequality in the labor force’, Socius: Sociological Research for a Dynamic World, vol. 6, pp. 1–​3. Le Bon, G. 1895, The Crowd: A Study of the Popular Mind, New York: Macmillan. Liebst, L.S. 2019, ‘Exploring the sources of collective effervescence: a multilevel study’, Sociological Science, vol. 6, pp. 27–​42. Lockie, S. 2020, ‘Sociological responses to the bushfire and climate crises’, Environmental Sociology, vol. 6, no. 1, pp. 1–​5. Looi, J.C., Allison, S., Bastiampillai, T. and Maguire, P. 2020, ‘Fire, disease and fear: effects of the media coverage of 2019–​2020 Australian bushfires and novel coronavirus 2019 on population mental health’, Australian and New Zealand Journal of Psychiatry, vol. 54, no. 9, pp. 938–​9. Lykins, A. 2020, ‘Distress, depression and drug use: young people fear for their future after the bushfires’, The Conversation, 26 October. Retrieved from: https://​theconversation.com/​distress-​depression-​and-​drug-​use-​ young-​people-​fear-​for-​their-​future-​after-​the-​bushfires-​146320 Noble, K., Hurley, P. and Macklin, S. 2020, ‘COVID-​19, employment stress and student vulnerability in Australia’, Mitchell Institute for Education and Health Policy, Victoria University. Olson, E. 2020, ‘As the US COVID-​19 death toll passes 200,000, Americans are acclimatising to perpetual uncertainty’, 23 September. ABC News Online. Retrieved from: www.abc.net.au/​news/​2020-​09-​13/​ us-​coronavirus-​death-​toll-​set-​to-​pass-​200,000/​12658432 Parkinson, B. 2001, ‘Putting appraisal in context’, in K.R. Scherer, A. Schorr and T. Johnstone (eds) Appraisal Processes in Emotion, New York: Oxford University Press, pp. 173–​86. Patulny, R. and Olson, R. 2019, ‘Emotions in late modernity’ in R. Patulny, A. Bellocchi, R. Olson, S. Khorana, J. McKenzie and M. Peterie (eds) Emotions in Late Modernity, London: Routledge, pp. 8–24 Putnam, R. 2006, ‘An interview with Robert Putnam: the future of US civil society: civic engagement after September 11’, Harvard International Review, vol. 28, no. 2, pp. 74–​7. Raikes, H.A. and Thompson, R.A. 2006, ‘Family emotional climate, attachment security and young children’s emotion knowledge in a high risk sample’, British Journal of Developmental Psychology, vol. 24, no. 1, pp. 89–​104. Red Cross 2019, ‘Coping with the emotional impacts of this summer’s bushfire crisis’, Media release. Retrieved from: www.redcross.org.au/​news-​and-​media/​media-​centre/​ media-​releases/​coping-​with-​the-​emotional-​impacts-​summer-​bushfires 87

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Salmela, M. 2012, ‘Shared emotions’, Philosophical Explorations, vol. 15, pp. 33–​46. Sander, T.H. and Putnam, R.D. 2005, ‘Sept. 11 as civics lesson’, The Washington Post, 10 September. Retrieved from: www.washing tonpost.com/​archive/​opinions/​2005/​09/​10/​sept-​11-​as-​civics-​lesson/​ 760d31d7-​36b4-​42fe-​9f6a-​fc251e197ee7 Savage, D.A. and Torgler, B. 2013, ‘The emergence of emotions and religious sentiments during the September 11 disaster’, Motivation and Emotion, vol. 37, no. 3, pp. 586–99. Sim, L., Adrian, M., Zeman, J., Cassano, M. and Friedrich, W.N. 2009, ‘Adolescent deliberate self-​harm: linkages to emotion regulation and family emotional climate’, Journal of Research on Adolescence, vol. 19, no. 1, pp. 75–​91. Steinert, S. 2020, ‘Corona and value change: the role of social media and emotional contagion’, Ethics and Information Technology, early online publication. Stieglitz, S. and Dang-​Xuan, L. 2013, ‘Emotions and information diffusion in social media: sentiment of microblogs and sharing behavior’, Journal of Management Information Systems, vol. 29, no. 4, pp. 217–​48. Stoneman, T. 2003, ‘Technology matters: the challenge of September 11 for historians of technology’, History and Technology, vol. 19, no.1, pp. 49–​54. Sullivan, G.B. 2015, ‘Collective emotions’, Social and Personality Psychology Compass, vol. 9, no. 8, pp. 383–​93. Sullivan, G.B. and Day, C.R. 2019, ‘Collective emotions in celebratory, competitive, and conflictual contexts: exploring the dynamic relations between group-​based and collective pride and shame’, Emotions: History, Culture, Society, vol. 3, no. 2, pp. 202–​22. Underwood, M. and Olson, R. 2019, ‘ “Manly tears explored from my eyes, lets feel together brahs”: emotion and masculinity within an online body building community’, Journal of Sociology, vol. 55, no. 1, pp. 99–​107. Von Scheve, C. and Ismer, S. 2013, ‘Towards a theory of collective emotions’, Emotion Review, vol. 5, no. 4, pp. 406–​13. Von Scheve, C. and Salmela, M. 2014, Collective Emotions: Perspectives from Psychology, Philosophy, and Sociology, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wettergren, A. 2019 ‘Emotive-​c ognitive rationality, background emotions and emotion work’ in R. Patulny, A. Bellocchi, R. Olson, S. Khorana, J. McKenzie and M. Peterie (eds) Emotions in Late Modernity, London: Routledge, pp. 27–40. Wood, C. 2019, ‘From disbelief to dread: the dismal new routine of life in Sydney’s smoke haze’, The Guardian Australia, 7 December. Retrieved from: www.theguardian.com/​australia-​news/2​ 019/d​ ec/0​ 7/f​ rom-d​ isbelief-​ to-​dread-​the-​dismal-​new-​routine-​of-​life-​in-​sydneys-​smoke-​haze

88

5

Between the Nationalists and the Fundamentalists, Still We Have Hope! Kiran Grewal and Hasanah Cegu Isadeen

Introduction In this chapter we will focus on the relationship between affect and utopian and dystopian politics in contemporary post-​war Sri Lanka. We make three main claims: first, that affect plays a crucial role in Sri Lankan politics and this has been underestimated and addressed by many liberal and progressive political actors. Second, the relationship between affect and politics is both locally contextual but also not something that applies only to non-​Western societies that are often treated as having ‘dysfunctional’ or ‘immature’ politics. Third, while the dominant affective landscape feeds a dystopian vision of politics, there are also forms of utopian politics that are building alternative affective communities. These alternatives highlight both the embodied and the concrete nature of utopian political action that refute the characterization of utopianism as abstract and unrealistic. To support these arguments our chapter consists of two core parts. First, in highlighting the importance of engaging with the affective dimension of politics in contemporary Sri Lanka we seek to bring into conversation two separate bodies of literature. First, the anthropological literature that has highlighted the role that ritual and myth have played in grounding and sustaining past political violence in Sri Lanka (Tambiah, 1986; Kapferer, 1988, 2001; Spencer, 2007) and that continue to influence contemporary political discourse (Ambos, 2015; Gunatilleke, 2018). Second, the theoretical work –​focused mainly on the West –​that has sought to trace the role that emotion plays in politics of domination, exclusion, oppression and resistance (Connolly, 2002; Ahmed, 2004; Berlant, 2011). In the process we present 89

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

an account that both expands and adds context to existing political theory that engages with emotion and helps to explain the limits of liberal and progressive political responses to Sri Lanka’s past violence and more recent events like the Easter 2019 bombings and their aftermath. We trace the ways in which emotions of fear, love and hate are articulated and capitalized upon in mainstream political discourse in Sri Lanka in ways that both resonate with but are also distinct from accounts originating in the West. In the second part of the chapter we seek to move beyond this dystopian view of politics and affect. In particular, drawing on activist work that both of us but particularly Cegu Isadeen have been involved in, we seek to contribute to an understanding of the role that affect plays in the creation of utopian politics. Specifically, we document the ways in which embodied and affective practices of friendship, play and imagination have allowed us to cultivate hope as a form of engaged, collective political action (Wright, 2008). In this process we resist the categorization of utopianism as unrealistic and abstract but rather provide examples of how it is being enacted in concrete ways. We argue that while at first glance the socio-​political context of Sri Lanka would reinforce a dystopian reading of the relationship between emotion and politics, our own engagements highlight a small but flourishing space for the enactment of alternative forms of utopian politics. These forms rely heavily on the development of alternative affective communities. Thus, while the overriding public emotions may be of fear, despair and hopelessness –​effectively mobilized by dominant political actors –​there remains a countercurrent that is committed to generating spaces of pleasure and care and these represent perhaps the most important basis for building a radical political alternative in Sri Lanka. This may help push the future direction of progressive left politics both in Sri Lanka and beyond (Gandhi, 2005; Chrostowska, 2016).

Emotions and politics Since the ‘affective turn’ of the 1990s there has been a steadily growing interest in the relationship between emotions and political life. While we share some of the scepticism of Ruth Leys (2011a, 2011b) regarding some political and cultural theorists’ engagement with affect,1 groundbreaking studies such as Sara Ahmed’s The Cultural Politics of Emotion (2004) have provided much-​needed insight into the role that emotion plays in stabilizing particular dominant political discourses and practices. For our purposes we will rely heavily on feminist ‘politics of emotions’ approaches (Ahmed, 2004; Hemmings, 2012; Boler and Zembylas, 2016), steering clear of the more esoteric accounts of affect that draw on neuroscience and in the process demonstrate, ‘a mistaken commitment to the idea of a presumed separation between the affect system on the one hand and signification or meaning or 90

Between the Nationalists and the Fundamentalists

intention on the other’ (Leys, 2011b, p. 800). We also endorse Ahmed’s view regarding, ‘the importance of understanding emotions not as psychological dispositions but as investments in social norms.’ (Ahmed, 2005, p. 56). As Blom and Tawa Lama-​Rewal note: ‘A growing number of scholarly works show that emotions, both negative (such as fear, anger, hatred, disgust, grief, sadness, indignation, shame, guilt and resentment) and positive (such as trust, compassion, love, pride, pleasure and joy) are not only pervasive in political life but also have explanatory power’ (2020, p. 2). At the same time most of the accounts of how emotions and politics interact have been focused on and in the West (Navaro, 2017; Blom and Tawa Lama-​Rewal, 2020). While Blom and Tawa Lama-​Rewal in their recent edited volume provide some much-​needed redress to this –​focusing on the role of emotion in contentious politics in South Asia –​much remains to be said. With this in mind we look to Sri Lanka: a context which empirically if not theoretically has contributed extensively to an understanding of the relationship between particular affects and the politics they might inspire. Even those with a passing familiarity with the South Asian island will know of its history of extreme violence and terror. Thirty years of civil war have been accompanied by horrific outbursts of intra-​communal political violence both in the Sinhalese majority South –​a period known in Sinhalese as ‘the terror’ (Beeshanaya) –​and the Tamil-​dominated North and East. Infamously home of the original suicide bomber, its 40+ year history of engaging in ‘wars of terror’2 mean Sri Lanka should serve as both an example and a warning of what happens to politics when fear is fostered over years. However, while many working in and on Sri Lanka have noted the common sense ways in which terror and fear have affected politics, there have been few attempts to theorize the relationship.3 This seems to mirror the example of subaltern studies in India where ‘if emotions were noticed (often in connection with the religious dimension of the “subaltern consciousness”), commented on and occasionally analysed, their significance was limited to a series of remarks in passing’ (Blom and Tawa Lama-​Rewal, 2020, p. 5). In the context of Sri Lanka, while there is a rich body of scholarship exploring the relationships between politics, violence and ritual they have not had much to say about the role that emotion plays in this process. Meanwhile the studies that have focused on emotional responses to the violence and suffering have rarely sought to connect these to any understanding of political implications.

Narratives of difference, myths of the state: Sri Lanka As we have already noted, the history of post-​colonial Sri Lanka has been one marked by repeated waves of extreme political violence. In popular international discourse this has been explained in terms of ‘ethnic conflict’, however, in reality the various political actors and motivations 91

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

behind the violence are more complex. Numerous scholars (Sivanandan, 1984; Tambiah, 1986; Kapferer, 1994, 2001; Spencer, 2008, 2014) have documented the ways in which economic and political shifts over time have led to the sedimentation of ethnic identity and provided the groundwork for the violence. At the same time Bruce Kapferer (2001) helpfully highlights the structuring and ordering role that both expansive bureaucratization and extreme violence have played in shaping everyday life and social struggles. He insightfully points out: ‘The disorder of violence does not necessarily reflect a disordered world, rather its structuring and creatively organizing movement’ (Kapferer, 2001, p. 64). Organized violence and the terror it generates have been structuring factors of society and politics in Sri Lanka for many decades. So too have these been overlaid with ritual and spiritual dimensions. This takes the form of the reproduction of particular mythical histories that help shore up exclusionary, ethnonationalist and chauvinist politics (Gunatilleke, 2018) and the co-​option of popularly practiced rituals by political elites.4 However while Kapferer (2001) has provided detailed accounts of the role of myth and ritual in this process, there is perhaps more to be said about the role emotion plays. Alongside scholarship exploring the relationship between myth, ritual and politics –​particularly as it impacts on the narratives of nationalist political elites and the state –​there has also been extensive work done on the relationship between people’s responses to trauma and strategies of survival through their engagement with spirit worlds and ritual (Lawrence, 1997, 2000; Perera, 2001; Derges, 2012; Argenti-​Pillen, 2013; Somasundaram, 2014). Yet in general these two fields of study have not been brought together in a way that allows us to understand and explore the interaction between emotion (and in particular the affective legacies of trauma and violence), rituals (as sites of political and social significance) and politics (formal and informal).5 The relevance of this line of inquiry was perhaps all the more foregrounded following the events of April 2019 to which we will now turn.

The 2019 Easter bombings and their aftermath This history of terror, nationalism and violence has remained a challenge to the post-​war state and civil society as they sought to engage in various forms of transitional justice and reconciliation. Indeed there is much to be said about how an engagement with affect theory may also enrich our understanding of these processes but it is beyond the scope of this chapter.6 The affective dimension of politics was instead brought much closer to the present following the events of Easter 2019 when there were a series of bombings across the island perpetrated by self-​proclaimed Islamic militants.7 What followed was an outpouring of panic, fear and rage that manifested itself 92

Between the Nationalists and the Fundamentalists

in various forms including attacks on Muslim communities, the boycotting of Muslim businesses and the targeting –​by both authorities and ordinary members of the public –​of Muslims as outsiders and a major threat to the nation (Gunasingham, 2019). While the standard fiery political rhetoric, mob attacks and passing of discriminatory legislation formed a feature of the Islamophobia that followed the bombings, there was another dimension that was remarked upon but remains to be properly analyzed. Rumours –​some that had been simmering for a while –​flared and circulated wildly that Muslim eateries were adding chemicals to kooththu roti and briyani (two fast-​food staples across the island) that led to sterility in men (Ananthavinayagan, 2020). In Batticaloa there was an additional rumour that a popular Muslim clothes shop sold bras tainted with chemicals that also led to infertility, leading to a complete boycott. There is a now fairly extensive literature on rumour as a form of subaltern political discourse. In this case the rumours that circulated added affective weight to the Islamophobic political rhetoric deployed by Tamil and Sinhalese nationalists alike (Amarasingham, 2019). It also did not influence only audiences already sympathetic to communal political messages but had wide-​reaching effects on popular discourse and imaginaries (as we will return to later). In concrete terms it led to the detention of a Muslim doctor on allegations that he had sterilized thousands of Sinhalese women in a hospital in the provincial city of Kurunegala (Ulmer and Rajarathnam, 2019). Alongside more detailed exploration of how rumour serves to reinforce and disrupt dominant political discourses and imaginaries in Sri Lanka, we also urge for greater attention to the specificity of the images invoked. The highly gendered and embodied nature of the alleged threat and its connection with such intimate areas of life as food and reproduction requires much deeper analysis than we can propose here. However, the affective impact is unquestionable. In the words of Prabha Manuratne, ‘[T]‌he 2019 presidential election in Sri Lanka can be described as one that manipulated grief and fear at unprecedented levels in Sri Lanka’ (2020, p. 4). Commenting on a particularly widely reproduced image of a blood-​ spattered statue of Christ from one of the churches bombed, Manuratne observes that affect was mobilized to both construct a sense of ethno-​religious threat and to produce a bodily feeling of fear and panic: Images such as the [blood-​spattered statue] organize our social imaginary of the political space around the feeling of persecution, fear and panic, which then function as an economic manner of organizing the political. When terror strikes, imagination shrinks and the boundaries of political action become limited to the passive disengagement with politics. (2020, p. 4) 93

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

The specificity of the statue of Christ and the connected ideas of martyrdom and persecution are significant because they are both universally recognizable and tied up with the particular recent history of Sri Lanka and its decades-​ long war. The martyr is a trope that has allowed for both community formation (by the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) in the context of the Tamil community) (Orjuela, 2008) and to a lesser extent for the Sinhalese State through the figure of the Ranaviru (war hero) (De Mel, 2007) and has a very particular history of terror (given that suicide bombing was first developed and used extensively as a tool of war in Sri Lanka). With this context it becomes possible to identify the ways in which mainstream contemporary politics in Sri Lanka makes sense at an affective level that is often missed by commentators and critics. Liberals and progressives alike lament the irrationality of the population, drawn in by rituals, myths and spiritual imagery, depoliticized and render passive by political elites who manipulate them.8 But how might a more thoughtful and serious engagement with the affective dimension help in the development of political responses? As Bruce Kapferer (2001, p. 46) points out, ‘[m]‌yths have force and an emotional power in the spheres of human action because their logic or reasoning connects with the way human beings are already oriented within their realities’. Connected and adding to this, we might draw on Sara Ahmed’s observation that: [i]‌n order to break the seal of the past, in order to move away from attachments that are hurtful, we must first bring them into the realm of political action. Bringing pain into politics requires we give up the fetish of the wound through different kinds of remembrance. The past is living rather than dead; the past lives in the very wounds that remain open in the present. (2004, p. 33) So when Kapferer points out that nationalism and communalism take on meaning through the everyday experiences of villagers being attacked (2001, p. 41), we might add that this history and memory then shapes the affective landscapes within which current political messages ground themselves. In the words of Ahmed: ‘The production [of the object of fear] depends on past histories of association … The movement of fear between signs is what allows the object of fear to be generated in the present … The movement between signs allows others to be attributed with emotional value…’ (2004, pp. 66–​7). To contextualize: in the east of Sri Lanka, waves of massacres by and against Muslims (Amarasingham, 2019) have created a historical memory –​ both personal and collective –​which is all too easily tapped into at an affective level in the current political climate. In the words of William Connolly: ‘When people with such intense collective memories face 94

Between the Nationalists and the Fundamentalists

new circumstances that trigger them, a set of dispositions to perception, feeling, interpretation, and action are called into play’ (Connolly, 2002, p. 35). Scholars have argued in relation to the Holocaust (Connolly, 2002) and 9/​11 (Ó Tuathail, 2003; Holland, 2013) that traumatic memories can invoke a set of ‘gut reactions’ and visceral responses that may bypass some forms of reflection and rational choice making. Even bearing in mind Leys’ (2011a, 2011b) caution (discussed earlier) about reproducing an affect/​reason binary, it seems productive to try and think through how this account may enrich our understandings of how and why certain political narratives resonate. In the context of Sri Lanka it might also help explain why, even as there have been generations of progressive scholars and activists who have sought to discredit and counter the myths and historical narratives of nationalist and communalist forces, they have failed to convince the popular majority. As Kapferer himself noted back in 1988: ‘reasoned corrections of popular Sri Lankan history are excellent examples of the responsible intellectual and scholarly concern to demystify the distortions of myth. While this exercise is essential, it fails to address some of the crucial ways in which myth and cosmic history achieve their emotional potency’ (1988, p. 40, emphasis added). This is where an engagement with some of the recent literature on affect in relation to politics may be helpful. To again quote Ahmed, ‘[e]‌motions may be crucial to showing us why transformations are so difficult (we are invested in what we critique), but also how they are possible (our investments move as we move)’ (2004, p. 172). In highlighting the significant role that emotion plays in Sri Lankan politics we do not wish to suggest that this is somehow extraordinary to Sri Lanka. This orientalist fantasy of the overly emotional east, unfit or too immature in the past for self-​government and in the present for the rationality of (Western) liberal democracy can surely no longer hold sway in a world post-​Brexit and Trump. Rather we wish to argue that paying attention to the role emotion plays in the political is both important to understanding the specificity of Sri Lanka and provides us with insights that may be helpful to theorizing politics and emotion more generally. It is also not that the relation to emotion and politics has been completely undocumented in relation to Sri Lanka. Malathi de Alwis (2009) has evocatively explored the political potential of acts of maternal mourning in her documentation of the Mothers Front movement of mothers of the disappeared. Rather than accepting, as many earlier scholars had (Uyangoda, 1997), that the mother’s grief and lamentation were simply manipulations by the state and the reproduction and depoliticizing of dominant ideologies (ethnic, political, gendered), de Alwis asks, ‘Perhaps the need of the hour rather is to interrogate the “political” via more affectual categories such as grief, injury and suffering’ (2009, p. 88). Indebted to de Alwis’ work (and 95

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

drawing on her mentorship subsequently), we too have returned to this question and in particular the challenge she poses in her engagement with Butler to think about how a politics of reaching outwards may be created through such affects as grief. At the same time we have been attempting to think about how our activities link to feminists’ particular interest in emotion (Ahmed, 2004; Hemmings, 2012; Boler and Zembylas, 2016) and theorizations of utopian radical politics as embodied, grounded in practice and deeply affective (Gandhi, 2005; Wright, 2008; Chrostowska and Ingram, 2016).

Creating alternate affective communities While Grewal’s engagements with Sri Lanka began in 2012 in a scholarly capacity, Cegu Isadeen primarily identifies as an activist. Her work in various feminist and women’s rights collectives led to her introduction to Grewal in 2015. Since then we have worked together, alongside a number of others to experiment with different forms of solidarity and community building beyond the standard activist networks and activities in which Cegu Isadeen also remains deeply embedded. With so many civil society spaces in Sri Lanka organized around productive logics of ‘workshops’ and ‘training’, since 2015 we have collectively sought to establish other informal spaces of gathering for activists and friends.9 Starting with our co-​option of a feminist friend’s house in the provincial, deeply war-​scarred town of Mullaitivu one holiday, we began to simply ‘hang out’: a fluid group –​composed of friends but always open to newcomers, often referred by word of mouth –​began to gather semi-​regularly. Often it would be to discuss the social challenges many were either facing directly or witnessing in their communities (gender inequality, discrimination, poverty, war-​related loss and suffering, disability, disappearance). Sometimes these discussions tried to think of strategies for responding, sometimes they were opportunities to collectively discuss theories that many had heard of but few really understood (feminism, postcolonialism, transitional justice, democracy). And sometimes these spaces were just used as a place of respite from normal routines and familial pressures: places to relax, sleep, eat, do nothing. As a result of both personal investment and the good fortune of receiving fieldwork funding for a large research project, in 2018 we were able to establish our own ‘feminist house’ in the eastern town of Batticaloa where we have been conducting research since 2017. This house has served not only as a base for fieldwork but much more: a semi-​permanent space for all the activities described earlier. In two recent articles on women’s experiences of pleasure and insecurity in public spaces in South Asia (India and Pakistan), Shilpa Phadke (2020) and Nida Kirmani (2020) ask ‘whether the pursuit of fun and enjoyment can be 96

Between the Nationalists and the Fundamentalists

thought of as a political act and whether in particular it can be categorized as “feminist” ’ (Kirmani, 2020, p. 322). In the case of our ‘feminist house’ we would strongly assert the affirmative. While we spend significant time discussing ideas, critically reflecting on the social issues we see around us and strategizing for how we might best respond, we also dedicate extensive time to simply enjoying each other’s company. We sing, we dance, we play silly games. We share secrets and gossip, watch Bollywood movies together, prepare meals, go on boat trips. These are not incidental or tangential to the collective’s political work. Rather we would argue they are integral and essential parts of the creation of the community. We endorse Clare Hemmings’ observation that ‘in order to know differently we have to feel differently’ (2012, p. 150). Apart from providing us with relief and escape from the hard realities many in the group are living on a daily basis (from the personal and familial through to the communal and larger socio-​political contexts), the space we have created also allows us to develop, model and theorize the alternative forms of community we wish to see. We experiment with ways to disagree, to enact democratic decision-​making, to construct communities of care beyond those sanctioned by the conservative, patriarchal, heteronormative contexts within which we are socialized. We expose ourselves and are exposed to radical difference with Others who we have always been told we cannot ever know (Tamil, Muslim, Sinhalese, ‘White’ [meaning here non-​Sri Lankan], urban and rural, queer and straight, married, single, divorced, of different castes and class, language and educational backgrounds and so on). In this sense we may be enacting a form of ‘prefigurative utopianism’ similar to that argued by Ruth Kinna in her reading of the Occupy movement: ‘deliberately putting the political values they enacted in practice ahead of any strategic ends or simply advancing their cause’ (Ingram, 2016, p xxix). Phadke (2020) makes a similar observation in her analysis of a project of women ‘loiterers’ in India: that the mere performance of alternative ways of being may pave the way for change or at least initiate the conversation required to make this happen. Moreover this is not through the formulation of an ideological argument but through embodied practice, a Rancièrian act of dissensus.10 We also further illustrate the point made by various others that the creation of pleasure, joy and hope does not require an absence of fear, insecurity, hardship and suffering (Wright, 2008; Kirmani, 2020; Phadke, 2020). Rather, these can and are cultivated in response and resistance to these dominant affective landscapes within which many of us are positioned. Just as Wright (2008) documents in her study of Filipino farmers’ grassroots activism, the hope we generate is neither individualized nor is it merely wishful thinking. Instead, it ‘draws on connection and on the work of creating and recreating solidarities through the very act of living’ (2008, p. 224). It is grounded 97

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

in practice, sustained through collectivization and involves processes of imagining that are explicitly embodied. Moreover, we see friendship and the building of affective ties (and indeed alternate kinships) as equally important to the creation of political alliances. In this sense our engagements perhaps in some small way mirror those Leela Gandhi seeks to document and valorize in her beautiful 2005 book, Affective Communities. In explaining why she privileges, after Derrida, the trope of friendship in her articulation of a particular form of utopian politics she writes: ‘[Friendship is] the most comprehensive philosophical signifier for all those invisible affective gestures that refuse alignment along the secure axes of filiation to see expression outside, if not against, possessive communities of belonging’ (2005, p. 10). For Gandhi, Derrida ‘recognizes in the unscripted relation of “friendship” an improvisational politics appropriate to communicative, sociable utopianism, investing it with a vision of radical democracy: yet “to come”, “indefinitely perfectible”, “always insufficient and future” ’ (2005, p. 19). In this sense we might read our own endeavours as performing two functions. First, they act as a resistance to the narrow forms of (ethnonationalist, caste-​based, patriarchal and heteronormative) kinship that dominate the existing structures and affects of Sri Lankan society and politics. Second, they form an attempt at articulating alternative structures and affective bases for communities to which we may wish to belong: communities that as Sara Ahmed writes in relation to feminism, are open to others’ anger without defensiveness, are sites of discomfort (requiring constant self-​reflection) but also of wonder (2005, p. 184) and hopefully also of care. In the aftermath of the Easter bombings the importance of this creation of affective communities has become clearer than ever. As one of our group (Thananjan, 2020) has also written about, it was devastating to see how groups of activists who had worked together across ethnic and religious division –​even in the midst of conflict –​were stricken by distrust and fear of each other. She describes a gathering where one woman refused to eat food prepared by a Muslim woman, citing the common rumour circulating at the time about the adulteration of food with sterilizing substances. Another spoke of her fear during her bus ride when a Muslim woman in a burqa came and sat next to her. What these examples show is that fear is not something simply fabricated and manipulated by political elites but is experienced in deeply embodied ways. As we noted earlier, the power of these rumours was the fear and mistrust they tapped into or generated even among those not otherwise aligned with nationalist and communalist causes. To recognize this does not validate or excuse but does require us to take seriously how we might respond. It also highlights the importance of building not just political but affective bonds in our activist networks. These affective bonds provide the basis for trust that allow difficult conversations 98

Between the Nationalists and the Fundamentalists

to take place and also enable different forms of belonging and affinity that might rival dominant versions.

Conclusion As Sara Ahmed observes, ‘the question of the future is an affective one; it is a question of hope for what we might yet be, as well as fear for what we could become’ (Ahmed, 2004, p. 184). In this chapter we have outlined the ways in which the future is framed as one of fear within mainstream political discourse –​drawing on both the specific histories of terror and trauma that shape contemporary Sri Lanka and more general populist tendencies that we also observe elsewhere. This has been mobilized in ways that promote and reinforce authoritarian and militaristic forms of governance. Engaging with affect in this context might both help us understand how and why certain discourses resonate in Sri Lanka (something that many scholars and political actors have struggled with) and contribute to ‘actively diversify[ing] the inspirations for affect’ that Navaro (2017) encourages as a way of enriching (and decolonizing) existing theory. At the same time, we have pointed to spaces that are enacting a different form of affective politics: a form that seeks to counteract the role of fear through carefully crafting alternate bonds and to enliven alternate imaginaries on which notions of community might be built. This form of affective politics founds itself on ideas of friendship, pleasure and care and is also explicitly hopeful in a way that is grounded and embodied. Documenting (as well as engaging in) this alternate form of affective politics is meaningful we contest, beyond simply providing a source of support and rejuvenation in difficult, shall we say, dystopian times. On the one hand it serves to counter the general claim that those who assert another world is possible are utopian meaning unrealistic. On the contrary we show that these are embodied, concrete practices that allow us to experiment with and develop possible worlds and relationships in critically self-​reflexive ways. On the other, it resists the more standard progressive political response that urges us to think more strategically and concretely about political platforms and agendas. We argue that these forms of politics perpetuate notions of ‘rationality’ that are not only undermined in theory but remain incapable in practice of properly coming to terms with the affective pull of the violent and exclusionary imaginaries that dominate popular politics. Instead our focus is on cultivating a type of ‘immature politics’ of friendship valorized by Gandhi (2005) in her historiography of anti-​ colonial engagements in 19th-​century Britain. This, Gandhi suggests (and we agree), may allow us to enliven a dormant form of utopian left politics that has been neglected in the 20th century but way be worth revisiting in these dystopian times. 99

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Notes 1

2

3 4

5

6

7

8

9

10

In particular, Leys points to problems with the reproduction of mind/​body splits and preconscious ‘affect’ versus socially and discursively produced significations that she considers to emerge –​implicitly or explicitly –​in the work of cultural theorists such as Brian Massumi and William Connolly. See also Navaro (2017) and Boler and Zembylas (2016) for more critiques. There is insufficient space here to fully detail Sri Lanka’s modern history of political violence and conflict, involving both Tamil separatist movements in the North and East of the island and disaffected Sinhalese youth in the South. For detailed accounts see Uyangoda and Biyanwila (1997); De Votta (2004); Uyangoda (2007). We engage with one of these attempts later in the chapter. Our collaborator Eva Ambos (2015) has documented this in relation to practices of the earlier Rajapakse regime and we all observed this at a ritual performed in 2019 for then President Maithripala Sirisena at the nationally (and significantly inter-​communally) important festival held annually at Kataragama. For a first attempt to think through the relationship between the latter two see Grewal (2019). Our research collaborators Eva Ambos and Kaushalya Ariyaratne have also been exploring the relationship between these three dimensions in their own recent work on healing rituals (Ambos) and transgender performance (Ariyaratne) as part of our British Academy-​funded research project, ‘Building Critical Democratic Communities in Post-​War Sri Lanka’. This is work we are currently engaged in through our British Academy-​funded project, ‘Building Critical Democratic Communities in Post-​War Sri Lanka’. For discussion of this in another post-​conflict context see the work of Jasmina Husanovic (2015). For a detailed breakdown of events see: www.bbc.com/​news/​world-​asia-​48010697 and Amarasingham (2019). This was certainly a resounding theme in a workshop we organized in Colombo in July 2019 on the question of the ‘political’ in post-​Easter 2019 Sri Lanka. In many ways this was inspired by and builds on earlier feminists’ efforts such as those of Poorani and Vallamai in Jaffna and Suriya and Samathai in Batticaloa (documented in Grewal, 2017). For further discussion of Rancière’s account of democratic politics as it might relate to Sri Lanka see Grewal (2017).

References Ahmed, S. 2004, The Cultural Politics of Emotion, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Amarasingham, A. 2019, ‘Terrorism on the Teardrop Island: understanding the Easter 2019 attacks in Sri Lanka’, dbsjeyaraj.com, 31 May. Retrieved from: http://​dbsjeyaraj.com/​dbsj/​archives/​64350 Ambos, E. 2015, Dancing at the Edge: Ritual, Heritage and Politics in Post-​War Sri Lanka, unpublished PhD thesis, University of Heidelberg. Ananthavinayagan, T.V. 2020, ‘The Easter bombings in Sr i Lanka: a reflection one year after’, Open Democracy, 12 April. Retrieved from: www.opendemocracy.net/​en/​the-​easter-​bombings-​in-​sri-​lanka​a-​reflection-​one-​year-​after/​

100

Between the Nationalists and the Fundamentalists

Argenti-​Pillen, A. 2013, Masking Terror: How Women Contain Violence in Southern Sri Lanka, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Berlant, L. 2011, Cruel Optimism, Durham NC and London: Duke University Press. Blom, A. and Tawa Lama-​Rewal, S. (eds) 2020, Emotions, Mobilisations and South Asian Politics, London and New York: Routledge. Boler, M. and Zembylas, M. 2016, ‘Interview with Megan Boler: from “feminist politics of emotions” to the “affective turn” ’, in M. Zembylas and P.A. Schutz (eds) Methodological Advances in Research on Emotion and Education, Cham: Springer International, pp. 17–30. Chrostowska, S.D. and Ingram, J.D. (eds) 2016, Political Uses of Utopia: New Marxist, Anarchist, and Radical Democratic Perspectives, New York and Chichester: Columbia University Press. Connolly, W.E. 2002, Neuropolitics: Thinking, Culture, Speed, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. de Alwis, M. 2009, ‘Interrogating the “political”: feminist peace activism in Sri Lanka’, Feminist Review, vol. 91, pp. 81–​93. De Mel, N. 2007, Militarizing Sri Lanka: Popular Culture, Memory and Narrative in the Armed Conflict, New Delhi: SAGE Publications Ltd. De Votta, N. 2004, Blowback: Linguistic Nationalism, Institutional Decay and Ethnic Conflict in Sri Lanka, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Derges, J. 2012, Ritual and Recovery in Post-​Conflict Sri Lanka, London and New York: Routledge. Gandhi, L. 2005, Affective Communities: Anticolonial Thought and the Politics of Friendship, Durham NC and London: Duke University Press. Grewal, K. 2019, ‘Politics beyond institutions: the creation of new social imaginaries in post-​war Sri Lanka’, Social Alternatives, vol. 37, no. 4, pp. 55–9. Grewal, K. 2017, The Socio-​Political Practice of Human Rights: Between the Universal and the Particular, London and New York: Routledge. Gunasingham, A. 2019, ‘Sri Lanka attacks’, Counter Terrorist Trends and Analyses, vol. 11, no. 6, pp. 8–​13. Gunatilleke, G. 2018, The Chronic and the Entrenched: Ethno-​Religious Violence in Sri Lanka, Colombo: International Centre for Ethnic Studies and Equitas –​International Centre for Human Rights Education. Hemmings, C. 2012, ‘Affective solidarity: feminist reflexivity and political transformation’, Feminist Theory, vol. 13, no. 2, pp. 147–​61. Holland, J. 2013, Selling the War on Terror: Foreign Policy Discourses After 9/​ 11, London and New York: Routledge. Husanovic, J. 2015, ‘Economies of affect and traumatic knowledge: lessons on violence, witnessing and resistance in Bosnia and Herzegovina’, Ethnicity Studies, vol. 2, pp. 19–​35.

101

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Ingram, J.D. 2016, ‘Introduction: utopia and politics’, in S.D. Chrostowska and J.D. Ingram (eds) Political Uses of Utopia: New Marxist, Anarchist, and Radical Democratic Perspectives, New York: Columbia University Press, pp. ix–​xxxiv. Kapferer, B. 1988, Legends of People, Myths of State: Violence, Intolerance, and Political Culture in Sr i Lanka and Australia, Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institute. Kapferer, B. 1994, ‘Remythologizations of power and identity: nationalism and violence in Sri Lanka’, in K. Rupesinghe and M.C. Rubio (eds) The Culture of Violence, Tokyo, New York and Paris: United Nations University Press, pp. 59–​91. Kapferer, B. 2001, ‘Ethnic nationalism and the discourses of violence in Sri Lanka’, Communal/​Plural, vol. 9, no. 1, pp. 33–​67. Kirmani, N. 2020, ‘Can fun be feminist? Gender, space and mobility in Lyari, Karachi’, South Asia: Journal of South Asian Studies, vol. 43, no. 2, pp. 319–​31. Lawrence, P. 1997, ‘The changing Amman: notes on the injury of war in Eastern Sri Lanka’, South Asia: Journal of South Asian Studies, vol. 20, pp. 215–​36. Lawrence, P. 2000, ‘Violence, suffering, Amman: the work of oracles in Sri Lanka’s Eastern war zone’, in V. Das, V.A. Kleinman and M. Ramphele (eds) Violence and Subjectivity, Berkeley: University of California Press, pp. 171–​204. Leys, R. 2011a, ‘The turn to affect: a critique’, Critical Inquiry, vol. 37, pp. 434–​72. Leys, R. 2011b, ‘Critical response II. Affect and intention: a reply to William E. Connolly’, Critical Inquiry, vol. 37, pp. 799–​805. Manuratne, P. 2020, ‘Friends, comrades, martyrs: affect and imagination in activism in Sri Lanka’. Paper presented at the New Social Imaginaries workshop, Goldsmiths College, London, 28–​30 January. Navaro, Y. 2017, ‘Diversifying affect’, Cultural Anthropology, vol. 32, no. 2, pp. 209–​14. Ó Tuathail, G. 2003, ‘ “Just out looking for a fight”: American affect and the invasion of Iraq’, Antipode, vol. 35, pp. 856–​70. Orjuela, C. 2008, The Identity Politics of Peacebuilding: Civil Society in War-​ Torn Sri Lanka, New Delhi: SAGE Publications Ltd. Perera, S. 2001, ‘Spirit possessions and avenging ghosts: stories of supernatural activity as narratives of terror and mechanisms of coping and remembering’, in V. Das, A. Kleinman, M.M. Lock, M. Ramphele and P. Reynolds (eds) Remaking a World: Violence, Social Suffering and Recovery, Berkeley and London: University of California Press, pp. 157–​200. Phadke, S. 2020, ‘Defending frivolous fun: feminist acts of claiming public spaces in South Asia’, South Asia: Journal of South Asian Studies, vol. 43, no. 2, pp. 281–​93. 102

Between the Nationalists and the Fundamentalists

Sivanandan, A. 1984, ‘Sri Lanka: racism and the politics of underdevelopment’, Race & Class, vol. 26, no. 1, pp. 1–​37. Somasundaram, D. 2014, Scarred Communities, New Delhi: SAGE Publications Ltd. Spencer, J. 2007, Anthropology, Politics and the State: Democracy and Violence in South Asia, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Spencer, J. 2008, ‘A nationalism without politics? The illiberal consequences of liberal institutions in Sri Lanka’, Third World Quarterly, vol. 29, no. 3, pp. 611–​29. Spencer, J. 2014, ‘Anthropology, politics, and place in Sri Lanka: South Asian reflections from an island adrift’, Samaj: South Asia Multidisciplinary Academic Journal, vol. 10, pp. 1–​16. Tambiah, S.J. 1986, Sri Lanka: Ethnic Fratricide and the Dismantling of Democracy, London: IB Tauris and Co Ltd. Thananjan, K. 2020, ‘Lived experiences of women activists in Batticaloa district: exploring processes of negotiation and confrontation’, unpublished Master’s thesis, University of Colombo. Ulmer, A. and Rajarathnam, O. 2019, ‘Unsubstantiated claims Muslim doctor sterilized women raise tensions in Sri Lanka’, Reuters, 23 May. Retrieved from: https://​cn.reuters.com/​article/​instant-​article/​idUSKCN1T71HS Uyangoda, J. 1997, ‘Tears and curses’, in J. Uyangoda and J. Biyanwila (eds) Matters of Violence: Reflections on Social and Political Violence in Sri Lanka, Colombo: Social Scientists’ Association, pp. 153–​5. Uyangoda, J. 2007, ‘Ethnic conflict in Sri Lanka: changing dynamics’, Policy Studies 32, Washington, DC: East-​West Center. Retrieved from: https://​scholarspace.manoa.hawaii.edu/​bitstream/​handle/​10125/​ 3508/​PS032.pdf?sequence=1 Uyangoda, J., Biyanwila, J., and Social Scientists Association of Sri Lanka 1997, Matters of Violence: Reflections on Social and Political Violence in Sri Lanka, Colombo: Social Scientists Association of Sri Lanka. Wright, S. 2008, ‘Practising hope: learning from social movement strategies in the Philippines’, in R. Pain and S.J. Smith (eds) Fear: Critical Geopolitics and Everyday Life, Aldershot and Burlington: Ashgate, pp. 223–​4.

103

6

‘The New Economy and the Privilege of Feeling’: Towards a Theory of Emotional Structuration Roger Patulny

Introduction Emotions are becoming central to new economies and labour practices. Going by a variety of descriptive terms (for example Fourth Industrial Revolution, Industry 4.0, Post-​Fordist), ‘new economies’ are characterized by the production of virtual/​digital as much as physical goods and services, and by the use of entrepreneurial, flexible, piecemeal, contract-​based, precarious labour. Their core processes are revealed in the increasing practice of recruiting labour from digital platforms to perform piecemeal gig work, attracting the moniker ‘gig’ or ‘platform’ economies (Olliverre et al, 2017; Berger et al, 2018). These core processes both utilize emotional labour, and increasingly involve the commoditization of emotions. This commoditization is visible in the burgeoning wellbeing industry (Ahmed, 2010; Davies, 2015), in the commercialization of emotional landscapes (Löfgren, 2013) and emotionally laden media content (Patulny et al, 2020a), and in the capture, use and sale of data about emotional preferences (for example likes and preferences; Padios, 2017; Fumagalli et al, 2018). However, while the importance of emotions for new economic activity is clearly growing, it is questionable whether emotional labour and commodification practices will create opportunities for mobility to entrench the class positions of present and future workers into those in elite positions, those undertaking more precarious emotional work and those performing an emotionally challenging intermediary role between the two.

104

‘The New Economy and the PRIVILEGE of Feeling’

Performing and balancing emotionally laden work in the new economy is challenging (Patulny et al, 2020a), as the requirement to manage emotions has probably never been greater. In addition to conventional emotional labour performed in the workplace (Hochschild, 1979), many new economy gig workers manage emotional stress at work and home from juggling piecemeal, often low-​paid jobs to cobble together an income. Such workers are also more likely to experience negative emotions from performing work that is precarious and non-​meaningful (Patulny et al, 2020b). The wellbeing impacts of a substantial increase in required emotional labour within new economies are unknown. Recent studies point to more intensive requirements for different kinds of workers to engage in emotional management (Patulny et al, 2020b), and to a degree of class privilege that this indicates. The purpose of this chapter is to describe the evolving emotional labour landscape in new economies, and present a new theory of ‘emotional structuration’ that predicts how –​if current patterns hold –​changes in emotional labour demands will rework notions of class and reinforce class positions on the basis of emotional capacities and capital. Combining micro-​ interaction theories of emotion management (EM) and emotion regulation (ER) with the macro-​structuring qualities of emotional capital (EC) and other capital forms, it will outline a structuration process (Giddens, 1984; Bourdieu, 1990) that clearly demonstrates the importance of resources to both the requirement and ability to perform emotional labour. It points to the potential emergence of emotional dystopia, based on changing emotional structures and an increasingly uneven distribution of resources, requirements and capacities to manage emotions. I begin this chapter by focusing on how emotions and emotional labour feature in and around work in the new economy: as a precursor to work, as an experience at work, and as a result of work, and points to the need to elaborate on micro-​interactional theories of emotional management to account for these new work dynamics. I then critique existing sociological conceptions of EM (Hochschild, 1979) for lacking detail on the process, strategies and resources for managing emotions, and draws particular attention to the neglected idea of ‘interpersonal emotion management’ (IER) as critical for understanding the interplay of emotions between workers from different class positions. I next proffer James Gross’ psychological conception of ER for demonstrating emotional labour as an interactive process, noting how existing critiques (Von Scheve, 2012) identify the role of resources in earlier situational selection/​modification ER stages, but lack analysis of the impact of resources on other (later) stages, nor discuss how EM and ER recreate the social conditions (and resources) for managing feelings. I account for these omissions by introducing the ideas of structuration and how capital –​ particularly EC (Cottingham, 2016) –​shapes and constrains the EM/​ER capacities of managers and workers and helps entrench class positions. 105

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

I conclude the chapter by extrapolating from these theoretical ideas to paint a potentially dystopian vision of the future, should the increasing inequalities in emotional labour and resourcing identifiable today continue to grow unrestrained. I describe a potential future of work scenario comprised of three interconnected classes of emotion workers: emotional elites, emotional intermediaries and an emotional precariat.

Emotions in the operation of new economies As I have recently argued in describing the work of an ‘emotional economy’, feelings are integral to contemporary labour and economic processes: ‘the increasing centrality of emotional industries, emotional data and emotional labour to work, digital platforms and media-​imagery will likely lead to emotions becoming vital commodities, central to the economies of the future’ (Patulny et al, 2020a, p. 3). Keeping this in mind, I begin by reviewing recent literature on the role of emotions in new economies, organized around observations about how emotions feature at key stages in new economy working conditions and labour prospects: as a precursor to work, as an experience at work, and as a result of work.

Emotions as precursor for new economy work Emotions strongly impact the preconditions for work in the new economy, with an increasing interest in tapping into emotion-​based skill sets. This is not just about training on the job, but about emotional skills becoming central to education systems, future industries and globalized recruitment processes. Padios (2017) describes the international search for emotionally pliable/​complicit workforces, where ‘raw’ EC (see further on) is recruited and trained to suit company needs, as in the case of Filipino workers sought out for call centres because of a ‘discourse of Filipinos as a naturally caring people and therefore well suited to the service labour’ (pp. 212–​13). Advances in digital technology, information and computation form a critical backdrop to such processes. Padios (2017) describes how the global recruitment of emotional labour has been scaled up through the generation and analysis of ‘big’ survey and social media data on emotional differences across cultures; through mobilizing new emotional data and theories from psychology; and through advances in affective computing. This data-​driven approach is matched by an unparalleled system of digital performance-​ assessment and surveillance, through omnipresent work tracking devices, such as RescueTime, Toggl, ATracker and My Minutes (Ahktar and Moore, 2016, p. 106), as well as via personal tablets, phones and wearable devices. Critically, such systems are increasingly combined with AI technology to continuously screen workers before working, and to assign more (or any) 106

‘The New Economy and the PRIVILEGE of Feeling’

work and the best conditions and rewards on the basis of satisfaction ratings, ‘one of the most valuable and evaluated feelings of our time’ (Padios, 2017, p. 212). Marquis et al (2018) describe how satisfaction ratings encourage (or control) Uber drivers to engage in emotional labour, as better ratings equate to favourable work allocations. A track record of good emotional behaviour thus becomes a form of mobility, an ‘emotional footprint’ attracting work and advancement prospects. So how might a worker develop an excellent emotional footprint? Important critiques point to the difficulty of matching emotional performances to distinctive work contexts and industry requirements1 within rapidly changing, flexible work contexts. Such fluid and emotionally opaque work environments might require generic skills in emotional intelligence (EI) and resilience (Grandey and Gabriel, 2015; Sony and Mekoth, 2016). However, Marquis et al (2018) note that the difficulty in interpreting feeling rules and employing EM strategies in complex gig-​work space where the heavy level of technological mediation ‘influences the lack of defined rules and norms regarding in-​person emotional regulation’ (Marquis et al, 2018, p. 2). A likely result is an increase in ‘surface acting’ (Hochschild, 1979), or adherence to a generic global minimum of workplace feeling rules (that is, fixed smiles, pleasant voice scripts) for lack of contextual (that is, culturally or institutionally appropriate) feeling rules to commit to more ‘deeply’. Such workers must absorb the stress and dissatisfaction ratings of poorer-​quality interactions with global customers, less meaningful work and fewer networking and advancement opportunities. The vast majority of Padios’ Filipino call centre workers, for example, are unlikely to escape the treadmill of ‘happy’ call centres, no matter how pleasant their natural or trained emotional dispositions turn out to be. In contrast, those with the resources to work stable and well-​defined professional jobs with discernible feeling rules suited to their emotional temperaments will have a better chance of obtaining meaningful work, good collegial and customer relationships and opportunities to advance.

Emotions at work in new economies The work culture of the new economy is increasingly entrepreneurial and service-​oriented, with workers encouraged (and required) to provide creative and emotional input for their work, often ‘on demand’. In more senior work/​ ownership positions, this creative work can be rewarding both financially and emotionally (Patulny et al, 2020b). However, at less senior levels –​or among many self-​employed gig workers –​the personalization of precarious work and turning labour into ‘identity work’ can generate simultaneous feelings of anxiety and fulfilment (Petriglieri et al, 2018). Entrepreneurial attitudes about ‘setting your own agenda’ are implicit in the rhetoric around gig work and ‘micro-​entrepreneurship’ even as the platforms 107

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

control every aspect of the worker’s experience and interaction with customers (for example, Uber) (Stacey, 2016; Morton, 2018). Sometimes this control is self-​imposed; Harvey et al (2017) point to the way in which the work arrangements of self-​employed personal trainers (SEPT) involve the exploitation of intellectual, aesthetic and emotional labour. The personal investment and inability to emotionally ‘switch off’ in such situations would require a strong degree of EM, though most studies again focus on emotional resilience as a personalized coping mechanism (for example Naring et al, 2006; Yilmaz et al, 2015). Few studies examine contextualized emotional management strategies used for work in entrepreneurial self-​employment in the new economy, nor the resources they require. There are also few studies looking at how such workers manage not only their own emotions, but the emotions of others, particularly customers (but also colleagues and employees), in such contexts.2

Emotional consequences of new economy work In addition to the emotional difficulties of performing precarious and meaningless work (Patulny et al, 2020b), there are added difficulties that come with integrating such labour into non-​working lives. Uber drivers, for example, have reported a ‘trade-​off’ between better life-​satisfaction, but also higher levels of anxiety and stress from precarity (Berger et al, 2018). Similarly, Gross et al (2018) found in their study of musicians and other creative workers that financial stresses from the precarity of their industries needed to be constantly managed in the worker’s own time to avoid depression. Much of this stress is exacerbated at home in response to intrusion of work, and employees’ professional and personal lives merging (Warhurst, 2008). Akhtar and Moore (2016) also cite research suggesting that wide use of surveillance technologies exacerbate these stresses, leading to higher turnover rates, worker tensions and psychosocial violence. Emerging studies point to how the spatially and temporarily fragmented nature of gig work generates isolation and loneliness (Petriglieri et al, 2018; Subramony et al, 2018), and erodes the social networks and formal organizational supports that workers conventionally use to express grievances (Padios, 2017). Gig workers in particular are easily isolated, and often lack the ability to exert collective agency over their labour (for example Graham and Woodcock, 2018; Morton, 2018; Subramony et al, 2018). The demands of managing the emotional balancing act under conditions of increasing isolation may be exacerbated by mental health problems, and substance use solutions to try and cope (alcohol, medical and illicit drugs and so on), or else may result in burnout, withdrawal and social disconnection. These observations clearly point to the need to better understand the process of how emotions are managed in the micro-​interactions of 108

‘The New Economy and the PRIVILEGE of Feeling’

new economy workplaces; the resources that constrain and shape these management attempts; and how the resulting interactions shape the emerging structures of work in turn. I turn now to look at how EM is used to shape one’s own emotions, the emotions of others through Interpersonal Emotion Management (IEM), the overlap of the EM concept with the more process-​ driven idea of ER and the capital resources that underpin such interactions.

A theory of emotional structuration

The interplay between (interpersonal) emotion management (EM/​IEM) and emotion regulation (ER) The study of EM is a core part of the sociology of emotions. This field draws primarily on the work of Arlie Hochschild (1979, 1983) and focuses on the social conditions that require emotions to be managed, such as work, family and so on.3 She notes that emotions are not just constrained but evoked in the workplace, in a process akin to acting (that she takes from Goffman). Hochschild (1979, p. 558) describes forced emotional displays, or a ‘focus on outward demeanor, the constellation of minute expression’ as ‘surface acting’, and a more evocative form where an actor ‘might guide his memories and feelings in such a way as to elicit the corresponding expression’ (p. 558) as deep acting. Studies have found the former to be a more arduous form of labour, linked to more stress and burnout on the job (Naring et al, 2006), and Hochschild (1983) notes that the requirement to perform such acting is unevenly distributed, and falls to women more often in the workplace. An important criticism of Hochschild’s approach is a lack of detail on the process and strategies for managing emotions. Hochschild (1979, p. 562) refers to a limited number of vague techniques for EM, including cognitive (that is, changing images, ideas and thoughts to change feelings); bodily (that is, somatic or bodily effects of an emotion, through such means [for example] as deep breathing) and expressive techniques (that is, an expression to change a feeling [for example] smiling to try and feel good). She does not align these techniques with her surface or deep acting concepts, however, or reflect on the social conditions and resources that might enable or constrain people to undertake one technique or another. Another criticism of the broader field of EM studies is the scant attention given to how workers manage not just their own, but other people’s emotions4 at work. The study of ‘interpersonal emotional management’ or IEM (Lively and Weed, 2014) has expanded from early therapeutic discourses to encompass supportive friendship networks, but has only been applied in a limited way to contemporary work situations, despite its great relevance to emotional labour. Studies by Pierce (1995) and Lively (2000) identify how female para-​legal workers use IEM to emotionally support/​contain their (often rude) male attorney bosses, while at the same time engaging in personal 109

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

and collaborative EM to manage their own frustration and anger from these (often humiliating) interactions. An important distinction by Lois (2003) divides IEM into a short-​term, targeted, ‘tight’ form often employed by men managing stressful or dangerous situations (for example rescue situations or policing), and a more long-​term, generalized and sympathetic ‘loose’ form often employed by women to assist victims and those in need (for example listening and caring roles). These two forms are helpful for understanding manager/​client/​worker relationships in the new economy. Tight IEM involves a degree of command and control. It is an authoritative form of IEM, likely employed by contemporary managers and bosses to affect not just individuals, but whole companies through setting the emotional tone, culture and feeling rules of a workplace, and expectations around managing emotions (including those of the boss through IEM). The listening and caring involved in ‘loose’ IEM on the other hand pertains to a more sympathetic form of IEM, reflective of traditional frontline care, social and teaching work (Cottingham, 2016), and also of entrepreneurial gig workers trying to keep customers happy. Middle managers are in the interesting situation of using both forms; sympathetic IEM upwards to placate and please their bosses (who in turn exercise authoritative IEM back towards them, forming a symbiotic relationship; Lively, 2000), and authoritative IEM downwards to manage lower-​rung workers’ emotions. These issues point to a general weakness in the EM literature in identifying: (i) the specific interactive processes by which emotions are managed at work; (ii) who sets and performs the managing on whose behalf, and (iii) the resources required to do this managing. A more detailed examination of such micro-​processes is revealed in psychological conceptions of ER. Coming from James Gross (2013), ER focuses on regulatory strategies and the sequence (or ‘process model’) by which they are employed. Sheppes and Gross (2012) identify five common methods for regulating emotions outlined in a sequence. The first of these –​(i) situation selection (choosing to enter or avoid a situation), and (ii) situation modification (changing the features of a situation) –​are efficient ‘antecedent’ strategies that Gross (2013) notes require less cognitive effort and energy to enact. Later stages require more energy and are of questionable adaptivity. These include (iii) attention deployment (modifying emotional trajectories through distraction, but also suppression or rumination), (iv) cognitive change (including mindfulness, cognitive therapy and situation reappraisals), and finally, all else failing, at the end of the interaction (v) response modulation (changing the experiential, behavioural or physiological components of an activated emotion, through biofeedback, substance use or acceptance strategies). Gross’ observation that the further along the process model one goes, the more difficult it is to manage fully developed and potentially intense emotions is highly relevant to emotional labour in new economies. Workers may be 110

‘The New Economy and the PRIVILEGE of Feeling’

compelled to undertake undesirable later ER strategies to deal with their own or others’ difficult emotions, if they lack the resources to undertake alternative earlier ER forms. For example, while gig workers might seem well positioned to take advantage of earlier, easier situation avoidance ER techniques –​able to enter and exit work as they please and at times that suit them –​in reality, such workers have little control over how the work is obtained and performed. With few alternatives to such work to make a living, the ‘freedom’ to enter and exit work at will becomes illusory. A senior manager on the other hand is more likely to have the resources to change their working environment, avoid a situation or particular person at work or quit in pursuit of a different kind of job. In a useful analysis, Christian Von Scheve (2012) contrasts the EM and ER concepts. He notes an alignment between ER strategies such as repression or cognitive therapies with Hochschild’s surface and deep acting, respectively, and notes that these need to align with socially prescribed feeling and framing rules, which can vary by context and background (for example age, gender, class and so on). He also (critically) points to how social resources are particularly relevant to the earlier situational selection/​modification stages in the ER process. However, his analysis avoids a detailed unpacking of the kinds of social resources that might impact each of Gross’ five stages of ER. In addition, while he correctly suggests that the micro-​interactions around ER feedback to affect framing and feeling rules, he does not elaborate on the broader impacts on social structure (and in our case, work cultures). A more comprehensive theoretical structure is required to understand the interplay between EM, ER and resources in the modern workplace. It must account for the resources that facilitate each stage, including the cultural, social, educational and class-​based precursor skills which precede entry into a particular job, as well as the resources used to manage emotions on the job. To do this, it is necessary to bring in a discussion of structure and capital –​in particular EC –​and their interaction with the different stages of EM and ER.

Emotional interactions, capital and structuration In turning to look at the resources needed to manage emotions, we must connect the micro-​space of emotional interaction and regulation to the macro-​space of social structure. An important body of work which does this to some degree is Randall Collins’ theories on emotionally driven interaction rituals. Collins follows on from Durkheim and Goffman’s work on interaction rituals to describe how ‘collective moods’ and shared emotions arise in ritual contexts. Such feelings originate in everyday micro-​space of improvised interactions, but become formalized and take on a macro-​structural quality with repetition over time, into symbolic ritualized interactions that give 111

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

individual participants emotional energy and self-​esteem. They also bind participants in bonds of solidarity, often at the expense of outsiders, towards whom more negative emotions, such as shame and anger, are directed (Collins, 2004). Collins’ theories are important for explaining how stratification (that is, insiders and outsiders) emerges out of ritual. Collins also grants agents a strategic capacity in recognizing the different ‘symbolic loadings’ (Collins, 1993, p. 208) of differnet interactions, and choosing certain interaction rituals over others in seeking to maximize emotional energy. Collins also notes a cumulative quality to good strategic decisions, whereby: ‘Successful IR’s [interaction rituals] give individuals both emotional energy and collective symbols, which are easily reinvested in producing further IR’s’ (1993, p. 210). But Collins provides little detail on the strategies and resources. However, there are limitations in Collins’ theories for addressing important aspects of work in new economies. Specifically, there is little focus on the capacity for workers to manage their emotions (as opposed to just avoiding or sublimating themselves into an interaction ritual); the reflections and strategies workers use in managing emotions; the resources individual workers are able to bring to bear in choosing and managing emotions; and how such resources accumulate in the hands of a stratified elite to reinforce their position. An alternative concept bridging structure and agency that allows for the reflective capacity of agents is the idea of structuration. This term comes from Anthony Giddens’ (1984) work describing how social agents are shaped and constrained by social structures, but as well-​informed individualized citizens of late modernity, they are aware and can reflexively act outside of these structures. Giddens’ theory is celebrated (with caveats) as a largely successful attempt to span structure and agency (Archer, 1995; Morrison, 2005; Lizardo, 2010). Optimistically, Giddens sees great capacity in agency enacted temporally and reflexively rather than immediately, and argues that agents can change structures –​presumably including economic and labour structures –​slowly over time. Less optimistic accounts (for example Bauman) see reflexive actions and constant reinvention not as an opportunity, but as (yet another) labour requirement forced upon workers and citizens in liquid modernity (McKenzie et al, 2019). Such accounts have been criticized, however, for failing to account for non-​liquid structural power and inertia, or for agential inequalities and tensions in vying for control over working lives. Margaret Archer (2020) employs her ‘morphogenetic’ approach to understand the interplay of structure, agency and culture. She criticizes conceptions of ‘liquid modernity’ for denying the power of structural and cultural conditioning while over-​ emphasizing agency ‘rendered fluid by notions of serial self-​reinvention (Beck and Anthony Giddens)’ (p. 139). She also criticizes the ‘Giddensian notion’ (p. 143) that every agent’s actions contribute equally (or importantly) 112

‘The New Economy and the PRIVILEGE of Feeling’

to maintain a structural whole, whereby some agents’ actions are more relevant than others, and there is constant tension between groups of agents and actions that preserve and change social reality. However, while Archer usefully highlights structural inequalities and agential contests, she does not focus on the specific resources that underpin such inequalities and contests, and how such resources might be accumulated by (and thus empower) either work-​based structures (that is, companies and institutions) or agents (that is, workers). The key theorist in this regard is Pierre Bourdieu, and his critical conceptions of disposition, habitus and capital. Giddens and Bourdieu are often contrasted as presenting competing theories of structuration (Lizardo, 2010). Rather than emphasizing an actor’s reflexive choices (and conscious rationality), Bourdieu describes micro-​interaction as an interplay between disposition and habitus enacted in different fields of human interaction (1990), constrained and empowered by –​and in turn, undermining or reinforcing –​the different forms of capital utilized by agents in that context (1986). While both theories capture structuration as a sticky, temporal and cyclical process, Bourdieu’s (1986) conceptions go beyond homogenous notions of structuration to highlight the unique advantages of different forms of capital in different social situations, and explain the reproduction of privilege over time. Bourdieu (1986) describes several forms of capital –​economic, social, and objectified and institutional cultural capital –​that pertain to the broader material world external to the body and serve as tangible resources that workers and managers can use to secure advantages in their workplace. Social capital or ‘the aggregate of the actual or potential resources which are linked to possession of a durable network’ (1986, p. 21) gives workers access to privileged workplace positions and networks while excluding non-​members. These can be formally institutionalized positions (for example senior management roles) or informal workplace alliances (for example underlying connections that criss-​cross formal positions, clientele and influence). These networks are reinforced by institutionalized forms of cultural capital, meaning they are ‘academically sanctioned by legally guaranteed qualifications, formally independent of the person of their bearer’ (Bourdieu, 1986, p. 20), which confer and legitimate institutionalized positions. They are also reinforced by objectified forms of cultural capital, or culturally significant symbolic objects such as the corporate mantras and brand identity that characterize new economies. Such ‘external’ capital aligns with Von Scheve’s (2012) early-​ER resources. They confer ownership or corporate position, access to big emotional data, and control over workplaces organization and culture. They attract the flow of sympathetic IEM labour from others seeking favour, advancement or (increasingly) because it is part of their emotionally sophisticated job description. They free bosses 113

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

from having to perform anything beyond authoritative IEM; enable more authentic (and sometimes inappropriate, that is, aggressive, narcissistic) emotional expression; and entrench higher-​class positions. They facilitate and constitute the widespread process of what Padios (2017) calls ‘emotional extraction’ within 21st-​century economies, whereby emotional resources are transferred from some (workers) to others (bosses) via the use of predictive ‘emotional knowledge’ (p. 207). In addition to such external forms of capital, Bourdieu (1986) also describes embodied forms of cultural capital which (I argue) are the staple of middle-​ and lower-​rung new economy workers. These include embodied capital, or knowledge and culture ‘inculcated’ and ‘assimilated’ ‘like the acquisition of a muscular physique or a suntan’ (Bourdieu, 1986, p. 18). Employees are thus recruited for already embodying desired aesthetic and physical characteristics (for example physical size for police, fitness for personal trainers and attractiveness for cosmetic industries), as well as ‘correct’ disposition, empathy, style, dress and even voice (Thompson et al, 2001). However, embodied resources also include emotional style and comportment, as captured in the conception of EC. EC represents a set of innate skills in contextualized emotional awareness and management (usually in a care context; Cottingham, 2016), mostly derived from the ‘primary’ socialization of our youth. EC thus reflects and reinforces other class aspects of our upbringing. EC is mirrored in contemporary literature about ‘affective labour’, whereby young workers in the post-​Fordist era of production are expected to invest their ‘embodied subjectivities’ in their labour (for example bar workers contributing to atmospheres of ease and pleasure; Farrugia et al, 2018).5 Together, interlocking forms of ER, EM, IER and their supportive capital structures comprise what I call a process of emotional structuration in new economy contexts. That is, emotional regulation processes are both shaped by social structures (or, from Bourdieu, fields and capital constellations) and also circle back (via emotional interaction) to shape and reinforce those structures, encouraging habits of personal EM (that is, ‘styles’, from psychology), supporting coercive, clientelist systems of IER (that is, ‘habitus’ and ‘EC’, from sociology), and perpetuating social inequalities at all points in the EM/​ER process. The operation of this system –​and the way it entrenches class position through enforcing particular forms of EM/​ER for particular classes of people –​is best shown by theoretically applying these ideas to a projected likely future of work in new economies.

New economies, emotional structuration and the privilege of feeling A theoretical application of emotional structuration to likely work futures is a useful exercise for several reasons, if done with awareness and scepticism about the dangers of technological determinism and overly utopian or 114

‘The New Economy and the PRIVILEGE of Feeling’

dystopian visions of futures dominated by AIs and robots (Patulny et al, 2020a). First, it exemplifies the emotional structuration theory in a future ‘real-​world’ context.6 Second, it provides important warnings about the macro-​sociological and political economy consequences of staying our present course. Third, it fills a gap in sociological imagining of the future of work, and serves as a useful counterweight to purely technological futurist ideas. In applying the theory with these caveats, I predict that emotional structuration will lead to the emergence of different, entrenched and interconnected classes of emotionally privileged persons. I describe each of these likely classes in turn.

Emotional elites As inequalities widen, it is hard not to see an emotional elite emerging; a class of owners, bosses and managers who exercise great control over the EM requirements of themselves and others. They will have institutional access to compiled emotion data about their employees (for example psych assessments, social media profiles) to enact ‘emotional surveillance’. They will secure personal emotional resources to engage in their own deep acting EM if required (for example cognitive ER strategies; counselling, therapy, training, leave and so on). However, by shaping work practices and responsibilities, they will personally avoid most difficult emotional situations (that is, engage in situation avoidance and modification ER) and pass on EM requirements to others (that is, middle managers) to handle (through IER). By being able to shape the conditions and norms of the working environment, emotional elites will hold a kind of ‘feeling rule hegemony’, or ability to shape prevailing corporate feeling rules. This in turn will grant them the privilege of feeling, or the right to experience (authentically) and express any feelings they like with little constraint.7 All this represents a maximalization of emotional extraction (Padios, 2017), in securing favourable EM conditions, data, resources and practices for themselves at the expense of others (middle managers and precariat workers) who are required to perform more difficult forms of EM on their behalf (and quite often to compensate for their lack of restraint).

Emotional intermediaries Emotional elites will increasingly rely on another emerging class that I will call emotional intermediaries, or those who earn their living by mediating and managing the emotions of bosses, workers and clients on behalf of their bosses or the company. They use an abundance of embodied cultural and EC to earn a living and advance their prospects, engaging in IEM and attentional and cognitive ER strategies (that is, deep acting EM) to fully engage with 115

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

the job, keep parent (often large, multinational) companies and/​or their customers/​clients happy, and build a large and positive ‘emotional footprint’ in hopes of accumulating more external capital in future cycles. Three kinds of emotional intermediaries are discernible. The first is the traditional ‘care worker’, who mediates between the clients and the company rules and regulations for how care should be performed (King, 2012). This includes those who regularly perform care as in indirect part of their regular job –​hospital, aged care and social workers, and those with a duty of care, such as teachers (Isenbarger and Zembylas, 2006; Olson et al, 2019). The second kind can be called ‘emotional entrepreneurs’, who work to directly manage other’s emotional needs. Hochschild (2012) captures them in describing the ‘outsourcing’ of emotions in work such as wedding planning, love coaching, care managing (and so on) directly to consumers. They also include the rising ranks of gig-​based creative workers who rely on social, cultural, emotional and embodied capital to produce and sell products and services, freelance writing, programming skills (Christensen, 2017; Wood et al, 2019), artwork (Howcroft et al, 2019) and personal training (Harvey et al, 2017). The final category of intermediary is what I would describe as an ‘emotional devotee’. These middle managers directly mediate between bosses, workers and clients to protect their bosses from unwanted emotional experiences. Rich in ‘raw’ EC, such devotee-​recruits will be selected and trained to deep act and change their feelings into forms appropriate (and loyal) to their company branding, and to their (elite) boss’ (often unrestrained) passions and ambitions. They will be able (and expected) to manage their boss’ emotional behaviours and displays through IEM, as well as deep act away any of their own negative feelings and stresses through cognitive EM/​ER strategies. They will also have to interpersonally manage any emotional conflicts arising between customers and bottom-​end (frontline) precariat workers.

Emotional precariat The final class predicted to emerge from the new economy is what I call the emotional precariat, so called because their typically precarious employment both creates emotional stresses in itself, and mandates prescriptive and cognitively debilitating ‘later-​stage’ EM and ER strategies, because such workers lack most (if not all) forms of capital required to undertake better, alternative forms of EM/​ER. Three categories of emotional precariat can be readily identified here as well. The first is ‘low-​paid gig workers’. These ‘self-​employed and self-​ exploited workers in the developed West’ (Žižek, 2020, p. 23) will increasingly undertake EM while working in piecemeal, low-​paid, algorithmically allocated, high-​surveillance jobs. Most will be non-​aspirational or ill-​suited 116

‘The New Economy and the PRIVILEGE of Feeling’

service workers (for example waiters, sales reps) taking any work they can get, including Uber drivers and other task-​based gig workers fearing low satisfaction ratings and the loss of work, with little to no prospects for advancement (Morton, 2018). Poorly equipped for a new economy dominated by increasingly sophisticated EM requirements, they will be at great risk of becoming the ‘losers’ of socio-​economic transformation, as the ‘emotionally illiterate’ are ‘weeded out’ (Fabian, 2013). The second category is factory workers stripped of the bonds of traditional working-​class solidarity and emotional/​collegial authenticity. These include frontline service staff in low-​end stores, and factory workers in many parts of the Global South (Žižek, 2020, p. 23). They will typically engage in surface-​ acting/​response-​modulation EM/​ER to deal with the boredom and stress of working either in precarious or meaningless jobs (Patulny et al, 2020a). These groups are most likely to suffer debilitating negative emotions, and damaging cognitive dissonance and burnout that comes with surface acting (Naring et al, 2006). The final category is the unemployed. They will include the ranks of the long-​term unemployed in advanced economies, suffering from stigma and isolation (Peterie et al, 2019a), as well as the poor in the Global South. Such groups will be required to engage in EM to the stigma of long-​term unemployment, often through self-​isolation (Peterie et al, 2019a), which can in turn lead to a loss in emotionally supportive friendship networks (and their IEM assistance) who can help with finding jobs (Patulny et al, 2019a). They will also be obliged to perform difficult cognitive attempts to remain positive when searching for jobs (Peterie et al, 2019b), even under conditions where jobs may not be available. This group therefore suffers the debilitating effects of lost income, poverty, isolation and negative stigma; they also suffer the negative effects of surface acting (Naring et al, 2006), with a disproportionate number turning to maladaptive coping techniques (for example alcohol and substance abuse). A graphical depiction of the operation of the emotional structuration model with new/​g ig workers is provided in Figure 6.1.

Conclusion This chapter has presented a new theory of emotional structuration, and demonstrated its application through an analysis of contemporary emotional labour in new economies. It has shown that contemporary emotional labour is underpinned by an increasingly sophisticated set of emotional requirements and needs that are recognized and enacted to serve powerful interests, ranging from the gathering and use of emotional data, the management of one’s own emotions and the interpersonal management of others’ emotions to care, sell, risk, command and obey. 117

newgenrtpdf

Figure 6.1: Full emotional structuration model with new/​g ig worker example

downwards (middle managers)

(9)

Emotional elites

(8) Interpersonal Emotion Management (IEM) (8) Care workers, entrepreneurs and middle managers use sympathetic IER to manage bosses/customers (upwards) and authoritative IER to manage precariat (downwards) Emotional intermediaries Emotional precariat

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

118

(5) Care workers, entrepreneurs and (4) Workplace feeling (1) Bosses use external (2) Framing rules constrain situation capital to avoid/modify modification, but (3) bosses use capital rules mandate deep and middle managers use embodied capital to deep act (with bosses, customers to shape workplace framing and feeling surface acting emotionally unpleasant and sometimes frontline workers) encounters with workers rules (for example, fun, serious, stressful requirements and so on) and customers External capital (6) Low-skill service, gig, Embodied capital Economic (EC), factory workers and (3) Cultural (CC), Physical (PC), (10) Institutional (IC), Social unemployed use limited Emotional (EmC) (10) IEM (SC), Cultural (CC) embodied capital to surface secures more act (with customers, or job (2) Socio-emotional rules (4) capital for (5) (6) providers) Framing bosses and Feeling rules (1) rules reinforces capital/class Deep acting EM Surface acting EM (7) structures (7) Little/no a. b. Situation c. Attention e. Response d. Cognitive f. No ER capital leads to Situation modification deployment modulation change (failure) ER failure, (9) Bosses selection discipline or use (exit, unemployment Attention Appraisal Situation (social) Response (interaction) avoid) authoritative IER to Individual emotionally reacts to and tries to manage a workplace  manage interaction horizontally Interaction feeds back to shape the social situation (repeats in Also shapes broader (top-end capital and class structures cycles, forms interactive habits, and [eventually] norms/habitus) clients) and

‘The New Economy and the PRIVILEGE of Feeling’

Emotional structuration theory predicts that the requirements to perform emotional labour in new economies is strongly underpinned by capital-​based resources. Managers and bosses are likely to wield a large degree of external material resources (economic, social, objectified and institutional capital) to hold onto the ‘privilege of feeling’. They can express themselves and force others to match their emotional style and requirements through controlling emotional resources, data and workplace cultures; avoid challenging situations; and have their emotions interpersonally managed by others. Creatives, entrepreneurs and middle managers with embodied resources (EC) deep act and interpersonally manage emotions both up and down, while those lacking most resources surface act or fall out of the emotional economy altogether.

Capacity for agency? The theory of emotional structuration proposed in this chapter leads us to a fairly pessimistic prediction of a dystopian future. It is potentially suspectable to criticisms of being overly structuralist and (negatively) deterministic in its depictions and weightings. Where is the capacity for agency and optimism? I have two responses to such claims. First, the theory described here should serve as warning of the worst-​case consequences of ignorance and inaction, and a call for further research. The chapter as a whole takes a critical realist approach embedded in ontological realism (Archer, 2020), in moving from several observable social phenomena to an interconnecting theory with more explanatory power. It represents a morphogenetic shift and realignment, a ‘novel situation in which all agents now find themselves’ (Archer, 2020, p. 144) where emotional management is a key recourse and determining factor. The various studies cited around gig work, emotional labour and new economies reveal the real-​world urgency and importance of the issues raised. Theoretical interconnections between emotional regulation, management, capital and the reproduction of emotional inequalities have so far not been recognized or subject to empirical examination. The consequences of ignoring a potential mass unfolding of new inequities and forms of control on the basis of heavily stratified emotions –​and heavily stratified capacities to manage them –​are potentially huge. Second, there is certainly capacity for agency in the theories outlined here. Not all capital accumulates in the hands of a smaller number of bosses, particularly in a fast-​moving and changing globalized digital economy. Gig platforms have potential for mobility as well as class entrenchment. Christensen (2017), for example, sees emancipatory potential in flexible gig work for disenfranchised women entering the workforce, in that it can help women access employment and income in societies where there is still a patriarchal division of labour (Christensen, 2017, p. 4). New economies 119

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

can overturn undesired structural aspects as much as they create new ones. Furthermore, in a movement away from Bourdieu and back towards Giddens, emotional reflexivity (Holmes, 2010) can offer longer-​term prospects for change. At a macro-​level, being reflexively aware of the emotional consequences of entering and exiting different jobs in the new economy can inform collectivized work practices and union-​based enterprise bargaining. At a micro-​level, it can help actors make better informed decisions about what work to choose and which capital to accumulate. The title of this ­chapter –​towards a theory of emotional structuration –​ conveys that the ideas outlined here should not serve as a last word. It is an invitation to further theorize and research the interconnections between emotional regulation, management, capital and the reproduction of emotional inequalities. The dystopian warning inherent in their logical interconnection should not go unheeded, however. It is important to know what we are getting ourselves into, what to build, whether to enter, when to stay and practise deep breathing, and when to exit before we crash and burn out. Notes 1

2 3

4

5

6

7

Or as Hochschild (1979, p. 560) puts it: ‘We assess the “appropriateness” of a feeling by making a comparison between feeling and situation, not by examining the feeling in abstracto.’ This will be discussed later on in considering Interpersonal Emotion Management (IEM). Hochschild refers to the subset of EM performed for paid work as emotional labour; I will use this term interchangeably with emotion management (EM) for most of the chapter, to build on Von Scheve’s comparison of EM and ER, and maintain consistent terminology (2012). This phenomena is observed by Hochschild (1979, p. 562), but subjected to little explicit elaboration. Farrugia et al (2018) explicitly connect Bourdieu’s notions of embodied cultural capital to affective labour, noting how businesses make hiring decisions based on embodied skills, and personal tastes. They further note that this results in a blurring of the boundaries between work and authentic non-​working life and leisure, and the latter is co-​opted into the former. Lizardo (2010, p. 658) notes from Levi-​Strauss that the value in studying social structure is in their examination as models, or methodological devices, to show ‘hitherto unrevealed relationships’. For example, angry outbursts or tirades, condescending ‘mansplaining’, or using the supportive other as a personal emotional crutch. While employees might have official recourse to legal anti-​discrimination, harassment and bullying legislation, bosses can use emotional profiles and data to select the right ‘emotional devotee’ (see later on) to manage such behaviours.

References Ahmed, S. 2010, The Promise of Happiness, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. 120

‘The New Economy and the PRIVILEGE of Feeling’

Akhtar, P. and Moore P. 2016, ‘The psychosocial impacts of technological change in contemporary workplaces, and trade union responses’, International Journal of Labour Research, vol. 8, no.1–​2, pp. 101–​31. Archer, M.S. 1995, Realist Social Theory: The Morphogenetic Approach, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Archer, M.S. 2020, ‘The morphogenetic approach; critical realism’s explanatory framework approach’, in P. Róna and L. Zsolnai (eds) Agency and Causal Explanation in Economics. Virtues and Economics, vol. 5, Cham: Springer. Retrieved from: https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​978-​3-​030-​ 26114-​6_​9 Berger, T., Frey, C.B., Levin, G. and Danda, S.R. 2018, ‘Uber happy? Work and wellbeing in the “gig economy” ’, Working Paper for the 68th Panel Meeting of Economic Policy, October. Bourdieu, P. 1986, ‘The forms of capital’, in J. Richardson (ed) Handbook of Theory and Research for the Sociology of Education, Westport: Greenwood, pp. 241–​58. Bourdieu, P. 1990, The Logic of Practice, Cambridge: Polity. Christensen, L. 2017, ‘Framing the future of work’, World Bank Group, JOBS Notes, no. 6. Collins, R. 1993, ‘Emotional energy as the common denominator of rational action’, Rationality and Society, vol. 5, no. 2, pp. 203–​30. Collins, R. 2004, Interaction ritual chains, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Cottingham, M. 2016, ‘Theorizing emotional capital’, Theory and Society, vol. 45, no. 5, pp. 451–​70. Davies, W. 2015, The Happiness Industry: How the Government and Big Business Sold Us Well-​being, London: Verso. de Rivera, J. 1992, ‘Emotional climate: social structure and emotional dynamics’, in K.T. Strongman (ed) International Review of Studies on Emotion, vol. 2, Chichester: Wiley, pp. 197–​218. Elbasha, T. and Wright, A. 2017, ‘Reconciling structure and agency in strategy-​as-​practice research: towards a strong structuration theory approach’, M@n@gement, vol. 20, no. 2, pp. 107–​28. Farrugia, D. Threadgold, S. and Coffey, J. 2018, ‘Young subjectivities and affective labour in the service economy’, Journal of Youth Studies, vol. 21, no. 3, pp. 272–​87. Fumagalli, A., Lucarelli, S., Musolino, E. and Rocchi, G. 2018, ‘Digital labour in the platform economy: the case of Facebook’, Sustainability, vol. 10, p. 1757. Giddens, A. 1984, The Constitution of Society: Introduction of the Theory of Structuration, Berkeley: University of California Press. Graham, M. and Woodcock, J. 2018, ‘Towards a fairer platform economy: introducing the fairwork foundation’, Alternate Routes, vol. 22, pp. 242–​53. 121

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Grandey, A. and Gabriel, A. 2015, ‘Emotional labor at a crossroads: where do we go from here?’, Annual Review of Organizational Psychology and Organizational Behavior, vol. 2, pp. 323–​49. Gross, J. 2013, ‘Emotion regulation: taking stock and moving forward’, Emotion, vol. 13, pp. 359–​65. Gross, S.A., Musgrave, G. and Jancuite, L. 2018, ‘Wellbeing and mental health in the gig economy: policy perspectives on precarity’, Cambridge Policy Briefs 4, University of Westminster Press. Harvey, G., Rhodes, C., Vachhani, S.J. and Williams, K. 2017, ‘Neo-​villeiny and the service sector: the case of hyper flexible and precarious work in fitness centres’, Work, Employment and Society, vol. 31, no. 1, pp. 19–​35. Hochschild, A.R. 1979, ‘Emotion work, feeling rules, and social structure’, American Journal of Sociology, vol. 85, no. 3, pp. 551–​75. Hochschild, A.R. 1983, The Managed Heart, Berkeley: University of California Press. Hochschild, A.R. 2012, The Outsourced Self: Intimate Life in Market Times, Chicago: Metropolitan Books. Holmes, M. 2010, ‘The emotionalization of reflexivity’, Sociology, vol. 44, no. 1, pp. 139–​54. Howcroft, D. and Bergvall-​Karebon, B. 2019, ‘A typology of crowdwork platforms’, Work, Employment and Society, vol. 33, no. 1, pp. 21–​38. Isenbarger, L. and Zembylas, M. 2006, ‘The emotional labour of caring in teaching’, Teaching and Teacher Education, vol. 22, pp. 120–​34. Kemper, T.D. 1978, A Social Interactional Theory of Emotions, New York: Wiley. King, D. 2012, ‘It’s frustrating! Emotional dissonance in aged care work’, Australian Journal of Social Issues, vol. 47, pp. 51–​70. Lively, K.J. 2000, ‘Reciprocal emotion management: working together to maintain stratification in private law firms’, Work and Occupations, vol. 27, pp. 32–​63, pp. 202–​7. Lizardo, O. 2010, ‘Beyond the antinomies of structure: Levi-​Strauss, Giddens, Bourdieu, and Sewell’, Theory and Society, vol. 39, pp. 651–​88. Löfgren, O. 2013, ‘Changing emotional economies: the case of Sweden 1970–​2010’, Culture and Organization, vol. 19, no. 4, pp. 283–​96. Lois, J. 2003, Heroic Efforts: The Emotional Culture of Search and Rescue Volunteers, New York: New York University Press. Marquis E.B., Kim S., Alahmad, R., Pierce C.S. and Robert L.P. 2018, ‘Impacts of perceived behavior control and emotional labor on gig workers’, Proceeding, CSCW ‘18 Companion of the 2018 ACM Conference on Computer Supported Cooperative Work and Social Computing, pp. 241–​44. McKenzie, J., Olson, R., Patulny, R., Bellocchi, A. and Mills, K. 2019, ‘Emotion management and solidarity in the workplace: a call for a new research agenda’, The Sociological Review, vol. 67, no. 3, pp. 672–​88. 122

‘The New Economy and the PRIVILEGE of Feeling’

Morrison, K. 2005, ‘Structuration theory, habitus and complexity theory: elective affinities or old wine in new bottles?’, British Journal of Sociology of Education, vol. 26, no. 3, pp. 311–​26. Morton, G.F. 2018, ‘Neoliberal eclipse: Donald Trump, corporate monopolism, and the changing face of work’, Dialectical Anthropology, vol. 42, pp. 207–​25. Naring, G., Briet, M. and Brouwers, A. 2006, ‘Beyond demand-​ control: emotional labour and symptoms of burnout in teachers’, Work & Stress, vol. 20, no. 4, pp. 303–​15. Olliverre, R., Younge, L., Robles, D., Guerrero, D., Medhin, A. and Carter, D. 2017, ‘Labor in the gig economy: opportunities for information studies’, iConference 2017 Proceedings, pp. 820–​5. Olson, R., McKenzie, J., Mills, K., Patulny, R. and Bellocchi, A, 2019, ‘Gendered emotion management and teacher outcomes in secondary school teaching: a review’, Teaching and Teacher Education, vol. 80, pp. 128–​44. Padios, J.M. 2017, ‘Mining the mind: emotional extraction productivity and predictability in the 21st century’, Cultural Studies, vol. 31, no. 2–​3, pp. 205–​31. Patulny, R., Ramia, G., Feng, Z., Peterie, M. and Marston, G. 2019a, ‘The strong, the weak and the meaningful: do friends or acquaintances help us get “any” job, or “meaningful” work?’, International Journal of Sociology and Social Policy, vol. 39, no. 5–​6, pp. 376–​94. Patulny, R., Bellocchi, A., McKenzie, J., Olson, R. and Mills, K. 2019b, ‘Happy, stressed and angry: a national study of teachers’ emotions and their management’, Emotions: History, Culture, Society, vol. 3, no. 2, pp. 223–​44. Patulny, R., Lazarevic, N. and Smith, V. 2020a, ‘ “Once more, with feeling”, said the robot: AI, the end of work, and the rise of emotional economies’, Emotions and Society, vol. 2, no. 1, pp. 79–​97. Patulny, R., Mills, K., Olson, R., Bellocchi, A. and McKenzie, J. 2020b, ‘The emotional trade-​off between meaningful and precarious work in new economies’, Journal of Sociology, online first, pp. 1–​22. Peterie, M., Ramia, G., Marston, G. and Patulny, R. 2019a, ‘Social isolation as stigma-​management: explaining long-​term unemployed people’s “failure” to network’, Sociology, online first, pp. 1–​18. Peterie, M., Ramia, G., Marston, G. and Patulny, R. 2019b, ‘Emotional compliance and emotion as resistance: shame and anger among the long-​term unemployed’, Work, Employment and Society, vol. 33, no. 5, pp. 794–​811. Pierce, J.L. 1995, Gender Trials: Emotional Lives in Contemporary Law Firms, Berkeley: University of California Press. Sheppes, G. and Gross, J.J. 2012, ‘Emotion regulation effectiveness: what works when’, in H. Tennen and J. Suls (eds) Handbook of Psychology, Indianapolis: Wiley-​Blackwell, pp. 391–​406. 123

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Sony, M. and Mekoth, N. (2016) ‘The relationship between emotional intelligence, frontline employee adaptability, job satisfaction and job performance’, Journal of Retaining and Consumer Services, vol. 30, pp. 20–​32. Subramony, M., Solnet, D., Groth, M., Yagil, D., Hartley, N., Beomcheol Kim, P. et al, 2018, ‘Service work in 2050: toward a work ecosystems perspective’, Journal of Service Management, vol. 29, no. 5, pp. 956–​74. Thompson, P., Warhurst, C. and Callaghan, G. 2001, ‘Ignorant theory and knowledgeable workers: interrogating the connection between knowledge, skills and services’, Journal of Management Studies, vol. 38, no. 7, pp. 923–​42. Von Scheve, C. 2012, ‘Emotion regulation and emotion work: two sides of the same coin?’, Frontiers in Psychology, vol. 16, November. Retrieved from: https://​doi.org/​10.3389/​fpsyg.2012.00496 Warhurst, C. 2008, ‘The knowledge economy, skills and government labour market intervention’, Policy Studies, vol. 29, no. 1, pp. 71–​86. Wood, A., Graham, M., Lehdonvirta, V. and Hjorth, I. 2019, ‘Good gig, bad gig: autonomy and algorithmic control in the global gig economy’, Work, Employment and Society, vol. 33, no. 1, pp. 56–​75. Yilmaz, K., Altinkurt, Y., Guner, M. and Sen, B. 2015, ‘The relationship between teachers’ emotional labor and burnout level’, Eurasian Journal of Educational Research, vol. 59, pp. 75–​90. Žižek, S. 2020, Pandemic! COVID-​19 Shakes the World, New York and London: OR Books.

124

7

Neo-​Villeiny University Geraint Harvey and Simon Williams

Introduction The pressures of neoliberalism on higher education are abundantly clear (Heller, 2016); manifest in the demands not only for outputs, but outputs that are quantifiably valuable, and are increasingly reliant upon precarious forms of work (Slaughter and Leslie, 1997; Lynch, 2006; Zawadski and Jensen, 2020). Max Weber’s (1917) characterization of the American academic as being ‘as precarious as that of any “quasi-​proletarian” ’ is as relevant, if not more relevant, in 2020 as it was a century ago, and is now applicable to many academic systems outside of the United States. The purpose of this chapter is to consider the university of the [not-​too-​distant] future. It is an institution marked by the neo-​villeiny of staff. Commercial contracts rather than traditional employment contracts are the norm for faculty. Remuneration therein is wholly contingent on satisfactory research output and customer (read student under other circumstances) satisfaction. Under such conditions, and as with the neo-​villeins of the fitness industry (Harvey et al, 2017), control of workers is no longer necessary. This is not because of a work environment that inspires organizational commitment and greater levels of effort from staff that perceive some emotional or normative obligation to give more of themselves. Rather, it is one wherein entrepreneurial zeal resolves the indeterminacy of labour power problems (Slaughter and Leslie, 1997). In this chapter, we begin with a brief summary of the concept of neo-​ villeiny: highly precarious work that is marked by an absence of a guaranteed wage, payment of rent, bondage to the organization, and extensive work-​ for-​labour (Harvey et al, 2017). Applying the concept to the contemporary higher education sector we observe aspects of neo-​villeiny such as the rents paid by academic staff currently ranging from the mundane –​for example, car parking –​to the more abstract, for example, in the UK where academic 125

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

outputs (namely academic papers and impact case studies) generate lucrative government funding for ‘their’ institution. Whereas academics aren’t bonded to any single university, their occupational identity is predicated upon association with a seat of learning. One might continue to research and write outside of higher education but just as the fitness industry neo-​villeins lose access to the resources available in the gym so too does the academic lose access to the most recent scholarship that exists behind a paywall. To be sure, at a practical level the researcher’s association with an academic institution affords them access to expensive resources such as academic journals. Increasingly, one also needs institutional resources in order to demonstrate and share one’s intellectual capital. As open access journals proliferate and as universities increasingly require open access publications (for example, in the UK in order to meet the UK’s Research Excellence Framework (REF) requirements), individuals increasingly require institutional money and support in order to publish (and not perish). And finally, the academic’s work is based on far more than the intellectual capital commonly associated with scholarship: an academic’s work-​for-​labour currently involves the exploitation of social, emotional and aesthetic capital (as we discuss later on). Emotional labour (Hochschild, 1979) in particular is gaining importance as there is pressure across the higher education sector for staff to attend to student satisfaction and to demonstrate value-​added service. In this chapter we envisage an institution wherein the management of one’s emotions and reward are directly linked: where a faculty member’s pay is contingent in part at least on the satisfaction of their students. Pay is also contingent upon other areas of performance and output such as publications (plus research grant income) and student outcomes (that is, grades). At this institution faculty are expected to pay a rent (in cash and in kind) that varies on the institution’s prestige, whereby a higher rent is to be expected if social capital is easier to build and grade creep more palatable (at a normative level). Welcome to Neo-​Villeiny University.

The neo-​villein There is no doubting the spread of work precarization (Hürtgen, 2021). Nor is there good reason at present to assume that the situation will improve for workers post-​COVID-​19, with the number of employees in the UK, for example, dropping by around 612,000 between March and May 2020.1 An extreme form of precarization has been labelled neo-​villeiny because characteristics of the relationship between the worker and the organization reflect the core characteristics of medieval villeiny and the relationship between the landlord and the serf (see Harvey et al, 2017). The first of these characteristics is the absence of a guaranteed wage whereby the worker is not necessarily paid for work undertaken. The neo-​villein of the fitness sector, 126

Neo-Villeiny University

for example, engages in work that is of value to the organization in which they operate, ranging from being on site and accessible to the fitness centre clients to undertaking work normally carried out by an employee such as customer service, basic maintenance or cleaning (we return to this later on in work-​for-​labour). This work is often speculative in the hope rather than anticipation of attracting a client. Undertaking tasks such as these provides the fitness industry neo-​villein –​in the form of the SEPT –​with an opportunity to connect with and solicit clients, and promote their services. Second, the fitness industry neo-​villein or SEPT pays a rent in order to operate within a fitness centre for access both to expensive equipment situated in the fitness centre, and to the fitness centre clients who the SEPT hopes to attract. To operate outside of a fitness centre is possible for some who have the financial wherewithal to afford the equipment required to train clients, and who have access to a large and loyal client base. While possible, this is also extremely difficult because of the turnover of clients and the difficulties of attracting new clients when one isn’t based in the fitness centre (see Harvey et al, 2017). For this reason a third characteristic emerges –​bondage to the fitness centre –​whereby the SEPT neo-​villein, unable to operate without access to a large potential client base, that is, fitness centre members, are consequently bound to operate within. Finally, work-​for-​labour is required of the SEPT neo-​villein who engages in multiple tasks that are beneficial to the fitness centre, including but not limited to customer service activities, maintenance, housekeeping and cleaning.

The academic neo-​villein The concept of neo-​villeiny was first presented at a conference in 2013. The presentation concluded with a slide on the academic as a neo-​villein and this was well received in the sense that the audience (which was largely if not entirely comprised of academics) found it entertaining. At that time, the academic neo-​villein was only intended as an engagement device, or hook. Several members of the audience commented after the session that although interesting it was a little contrived. However, in the intervening seven years the concept of the academic neo-​villein has, we would argue, gained traction. As permanent members of academic staff in a UK university we, and many of our colleagues, receive a guaranteed wage. We are in the majority with permanent contracts the norm for faculty in the UK. However, there has been an increase in the use of part-​time teaching fellows/​visiting academics/​ adjunct staff (the reader can select the term they are most familiar with) –​ what is referred to in the US as contingent faculty whose employment relationship is marked by ‘low wages, limited access to benefits and next to no employment security’2 (Tirelli, 1997). The academic precariat are commonly 127

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

paid only for the delivery and assessment of a module (see Flynn, 2020, for an account of ‘being precarious’ in academia; also, Hartung et al, 2017). We also observe rent paid by faculty in the higher education sector. The most common form of rent paid by employees of many institutions is for a parking place. This is a minimal cost offset by, and often taken directly at source from, one’s salary. It is therefore, different in scale and significance to the rent paid by the SEPT, but a form of rent nonetheless. Of a more specific kind is rent in the form of payment for memberships of professional associations (often a desired, if not expected, form of symbolic and social capital to facilitate entry into, and subsequent establishment within, an academic career). This rent may not be payable by all but is certainly payable by some (colleagues in our own institution for example) and may become far more common in the wake of COVID-​19 as institutions in the sector tighten their purse strings (those that still have purse strings to tighten). In the UK we might also highlight academic output as an important aspect of academic rent. The UK’s REF process has monetized academic output whereby academic institutions draw (large) sums of government investment (via the Higher Education Funding Council for Wales (HEFCW) and Research England, for example) based on the quality of academic publications produced and the impact made by research undertaken by its employees. Thus, it is a form of (neoliberal) control and accountability (Olsen, 2015). It is estimated that as a consequence of the REF process, the highest-​quality journal outputs were worth between £5,000 and £25,000 per year to the university. The highest-​calibre impact case studies were worth on average £46,3113 per year of the exercise period for a total of £324,000 (with the most highly rated receiving a possible £90,000 per annum). Therefore, one might interpret academic output as a form of rent in kind. Bondage is an interesting characteristic of the academic neo-​villein. It is unlikely that the scholar is able to monetize their labour without the university. Of course the scholar can write and if they produce popular tomes, which many do not (as Stephen King acerbically points out in Danse Macabre) then they may be able to source an income in that way. Just as the SEPT needs the fitness centre for access to the equipment and to potential clients, so too the academic needs access to academic materials, such as journals whose subscription costs are significant and justified only by the unpaid labour of academics (authors, editors and reviewers). Just as it is unfeasible for many SEPTs to afford the cost of equipment, so is it unfeasible for the academic themselves to pay for the subscriptions for each of the academic sources they need. Furthermore, there are inequalities in access that emerge, depending on the power or prestige of the institution to which the academic is bonded; larger and more prestigious institutions afford greater access to a greater range of academic materials. 128

Neo-Villeiny University

Finally, faculty engage in extensive and varied forms of what Standing (2011) refers to as work-​for-​labour, by which he refers to work that is neither recognized nor rewarded. There are measurable aspects of the job (whether these are appropriate or not is a topic for another paper), but there are also many aspects of the academic’s work that are more elusive. These aspects are more difficult to measure, but nonetheless necessary and crucially undertaken without direct recompense such as the emotional and aesthetic dimensions of the work (see later on). More generally, the employment relationship is necessarily open-​ended and uncertain (Edwards, 2003, p. 4). It is not possible for management to document anywhere near the full range of activities requisite to the academic job, so there is a good deal of work-​for-​labour that goes on in universities undertaken by academic staff. If one were asked to identify the dimension of human capital most clearly linked to the work of the academic, then the obvious selection would be intellectual capital. Academics are, after all, intellectual workers who trade ostensibly on their intellectual capital. We might accept this if we close one eye and look away from the incredible importance that social capital plays in the success of the academic, that is, through collaborations in outputs and academic references. We do not offer an elaborate discussion of the inequities that social capital creates within academia in this chapter (but for more details on inequality and the role of social and cultural capital in faculty hiring, see Burris, 2004; Bedeian et al, 2010; Clauset et al, 2015; Rivera, 2015). Instead, we focus on social capital as work-​for-​labour in the form of network-​building that benefits the institution. Take, for instance, the importance of external examiners. External examiners are critical to the smooth running of the student development and evaluation process and are commonly nominated by staff from within their social network. Criteria for nominations tend to include the credibility of the academic, the credibility of their institution and what is known about them (for example, can they be relied upon to do a decent job as a critical friend and not simply as a critic).4 Then there are those activities that are important and difficult to evaluate in equal measure that reflect other dimensions of human capital. Competent emotional labour (Hochschild, 1979) performed by faculty is of increasing importance to the university. It is a laughable assertion that we as teachers and assessors need only be rigorous in our application of procedural and distributive justice (Folger, 1977) to our wards while they study with us. Far behind us are the times when an assessor might include a comment such as: ‘Your flair in writing does not compensate for a complete lack of knowledge and understanding of the material covered on this course’ –​and yes, one author received words to this effect as feedback to an essay submitted in 1995. In fact, good practice has it that we must include an equal number of positive and negative comments about an assignment in the feedback. In face-​to-​face dealings with students we are duly expected to be not only 129

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

calmly professional, but also sympathetic. Of course, issues such as low attendance at lectures may not simply be a case of low levels of commitment or a lack of engagement on the part of the student –​to imply this without taking into account the myriad factors that explain a student’s attendance at lectures would be inappropriate. We must be understanding of the student’s situation, which can in our experience be genuinely dreadful and deserving of the highest-​calibre support. But this introduces the need for skills one might not automatically associate with an academic who is driven by (and ultimately evaluated upon) objectivity, impartiality and criticality. The skills of sensitivity, subtlety and diplomacy needed in dealing with the student body are very different but no less important to the university. Attendees at the 2013 conference where neo-​villeiny was first discussed were least convinced by the argument concerning our third form of work-​for-​labour: the aesthetic [work-​for-​] labour of faculty. So here is our opportunity to make a more robust pitch. Aesthetic labour understood as ‘looking good and [or] sounding right’ (see Warhurst and Nickson, 2001; Patulny et al, 2020 ) is important to the individual and therefore indirectly for the university. We –​the authors –​are surely not alone in having experienced the terror of the classroom as a ‘newbie’ facing a sea of faces, many looking bored, others unengaged and worst of all, those of brighter students with a warped sense of fun. We are in good company, no doubt, having treaded the water of lecturing as a newly minted academic surrounded by those cerebral sharks sensing the blood of inexperience in the water, circling the arguments espoused, intent on spotting a vulnerability to attack. We are not dismissing the intellectual dimension to this aspect of the job. However, we have noticed over time that as one’s aesthetic gravitas (or confidence in delivery) grows alongside one’s intellectual capability, the cerebral sharks are less likely to attack, and one has the tacit knowledge and ability to fend them off if they do attack. The aesthetic that one develops over time is built on the confidence of knowledge and (possibly or) classroom experience, and is beneficial to the academic for whom the large group lecture becomes less of a fearsome prospect. The university benefits from the confident delivery of lectures by staff who are then more likely to be perceived positively and whose efforts are evaluated more highly by students in a positive evaluation for the National Student Survey, itself contributing to the Teaching Excellence Framework score. There are of course differences between the neo-​villeiny experienced by academics and SEPT workers. Most important of these is the absence of a guaranteed wage (for the SEPT). As permanent faculty, we receive a salary, while contingent faculty receive pay for the core work that they undertake. Contingent faculty are guaranteed pay for the core services they render, whereas the SEPT pays a rent and undertakes work-​for-​labour in the hope of attracting clients. All work is speculative until the client solicits the 130

Neo-Villeiny University

SEPT’s services –​there are no guarantees. In terms of rent for permanent and contingent faculty, professional memberships and car parking represent a small sum comparative to the rent of the SEPT. For the authors, rent in the form of membership and car parking equates to less than £50 per calendar month, while SEPTs operating in the same region of the UK pay significantly more (Harvey et al, 2017). Moreover, rent in kind is an expectation of permanent faculty and not of contingent faculty, although contingent faculty will not be immune to the pressure to publish in order to advance their career and find work as permanent faculty. Contingent faculty, particularly those in teaching-​focused, fixed-​term contracts often find themselves doing considerable additional work-​for-​labour (for example, ad hoc teaching and additional administration) that takes time away from (and is thus detrimental to) those activities (especially research output) that are often prioritized by hiring committees for permanent positions. As such, contingent faculty are often caught between Scylla and Charybdis; the lack of permanent academic positions (relative to the oversupply of newly minted PhDs) means that many early career academics are forced to take fixed-​term positions in order to secure an income. Yet the longer they remain in such positions the less ‘productive’ they become on the research front (or the more they have to work outside of normal working hours) and thus the less competitive they are for permanent positions, particularly in those research-​intensive institutions deemed most prestigious. The hand that feeds also flogs. That academics are not neo-​villeins yet does not mean that they cannot become so.

Organizational neo-​villeiny As we illustrated earlier, while characteristics of neo-​villeiny are applicable to a greater or lesser extent to members of faculty –​less so of permanent faculty, more so of the contingent faculty –​academics are currently some distance away from the ideal type as documented by Harvey et al (2017). Academics are not neo-​villeins in this sense. Well, not at present at least. In this section, we set out the dystopian future for higher education in the form of what we call the Neo-​Villeiny University. In what follows, we explore the extreme but not unrealistic possibilities of work in higher education that adheres more strictly to the characteristics of neo-​villeiny. A useful place to begin is with a discussion of the virtual airline model that offers a blueprint of an operational form wherein highly skilled professionals are organized according to the interests of capital. Characteristics of neo-​villeiny have been observed in the civil aviation industry in the work of airline pilots and cabin crew (Harvey and Turnbull, forthcoming). The move away from traditional employment contracts 131

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

for staff that provide a fundamental service to the airline, such as pilots and cabin crew, and to commercial contracts reflects the influence of the ‘virtual airline’ model of operations. The virtual airline, otherwise known as a subcontracting entrepreneurship (Sull, 1999), allows market forces to drive down a key cost variable cost as independent subcontractors compete with one another for work. The virtual airline operates by hiring staff on an occasional basis, either through ‘wet leasing’ (that is, leasing aircraft and crew to fly its routes as EasyJet did when it began its operations) or by owning aircraft and hiring crews on an occasional basis, through agencies or even as individual subcontractors. The virtual airline is one wherein highly skilled occupational groups of workers who have previously enjoyed secure contracts face uncertainty due to the introduction of a highly transactional and on-​demand relationship with the firm. It is important to point out that no airline has become wholly virtual, although some airlines have moved closer to the ideal type than others. The virtual airline is an adaptation of Atkinson’s (1984) core-​periphery model that stratifies between workers according to both the skills of and contribution made by staff. In the core-​periphery model, a small core of essential workers and managers are retained on traditional employment contracts (offered functional flexibility to increase their knowledge, skills and abilities). The periphery includes all other staff ranging from the low-​ skilled to highly skilled staff whose contribution is not crucial to the day-​ to-​day operation of the firm, for example legal professionals. Workers in the periphery are subjected to numerical and financial flexibility (that is, they are offered temporary contracts and called on as required, and their pay is variable contingent on factors such as performance). The adaptation in the virtual airline is that highly skilled workers whose contribution is core to the operation of the firm –​for example, flight crew (pilots) and cabin crew –​become peripheral workers, called upon as required by the firm. For airlines that have high seasonal variation in demand, it is financially rational to apply numerical flexibility to workers who operate on the aircraft so that labour costs (which are among the greatest variable costs to an airline, see Harvey and Turnbull, 2020) are reduced in periods when the airline is less profitable. How might this transfer to higher education?

Neo-​Villeiny University Whereas universities in the UK and many other countries are, by and large, third sector organizations, they have not been immune to the influence of neoliberalism and managerialism. Thus, the Neo-​Villeiny University model may appeal to senior management across higher education. Neo-​ Villeiny University adopts the basic premise of the virtual airline, whereby 132

Neo-Villeiny University

a small number of administrators –​whose function it is to maintain the technology –​and managers are retained, but all other formally core functions are outsourced. Just as airline pilots and cabin crew who represent the face and fundamental function of an airline –​personnel without whom (currently5) an airline cannot operate –​might be outsourced, so too might be the members of future faculties without whom the university cannot presently operate. What are the consequences for faculty? In the UK, research output in the form of journal articles in particular is a form of rent in kind for current academics, whereby there is an expectation of output (Olsen, 2015). At some institutions, however, output is a formal key performance indicator (KPI), and disciplinary processes are activated when set targets are not met. Herein, the expectation of output is formally set in the employment contract. A logical extension of this formal expectation is to link it directly to the remuneration of subcontractor faculty. To quantify the monetization of output we might subdivide the academic’s salary according to expectations and their worth. For ease, let’s assume the average academic salary of £50,000 per annum. As the maximum contribution of any one member of faculty to REF 2021 is five outputs, let’s assume the expectation of this academic is that they produce five publications evaluated at either three-​ or four-​star quality. We’ll save our opprobrium of the evaluation process for another time and assume that the process is sound. Let’s also assume that this is one of four KPIs (including student grades, student satisfaction and grant capture –​we return to these later on) so that each key performance indictor is worth £12,500 (one quarter of the total £50,000 salary). Each output deemed to be of four-​star quality might be assigned a value of £2,500. Crudely put, if the academic produces five four-​star outputs then they have earned the £12,500 component of their wage. Should they produce three four-​star outputs (and nothing else) then they earn £7,500, or two four-​star publications only then they earn £5,000 and so on. There is ancillary benefit to this approach. Ownership of academic output by UK institutions has been under review (see the Stern Review) with the focus being on which institution ‘owns’ the research output of an academic who moves between institutions during a research exercise period. Therefore, paying according to output resolves two problems. First, it ensures the academic produces quality output, lest they sacrifice all or part (depending on how much they produce and at what quality) of the £12,500 component of their salary. Second, it also guarantees ownership of the output (formally agreed in the employment contract). Any more than five outputs is surplus to the requirements of the institution and so there is, of course, the possibility of ‘gaming the system’ whereby a highly productive (according to REF-​able outputs) academic, with 16 high-​quality outputs might sell 25 per cent of their time to four institutions, securing a full salary for engaging only in research. In so doing the academic ‘publication machine’ creates problems for their colleagues, 133

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

delimiting the possibility of a rounded academic career for others who are contracted (and paid) solely to carry out the other aspects of faculty labour. Where a KPI exists that requires a certain level of student attainment on the modules taught by the academic, for example, two thirds of students receiving grades of 60 or above, then payment can be assigned based on measurable outcomes and adjusted accordingly. If two thirds of students on the modules taught by the academic receive 60 or above, £12,500 is earned. If, however, two thirds of students achieve a grade of 60 or above on only one module, while only one half of students attain the requisite grade on another module, then the academic forfeits a percentage of this component of their salary. If the expected attainment is lower for 16 per cent of students on one module for an academic that teaches two modules then the forfeit of 8 per cent of the £12,500 seems logical (if not reasonable). Thus, the ‘failing teacher’ receives only £11,500 (£12,500 minus 8 per cent) of that component of the pay. Such pressure might have the wholly functional outcome (from the perspective of university management) of the educational equivalent of grade creep (Lewis, 1997), whereby assessment is consistent, but also consistently higher than it should be. There exists then an intra-​university distributive justice of sorts if there is consistency across a cohort where all grades are inflated so that equity exists as ‘different members receive benefits at the same rate proportional to their contributions’ (Folger, 1977, p. 108). There might follow inter-​university distributive justice if other institutions ‘get with the programme’ and likewise inflate grades. As for procedural justice … It is worth noting here that in the United States the ‘adjunctification’ of faculty (or the reliance on adjunct faculty) has been linked to the intensification of grade inflation (Sonner, 2010). In the same vein, a portion of pay might be contingent upon grant capture: where grant capture has a fixed target amount, let’s say £12,500 during a research exercise period for convenience, then success in securing £12,500 or more would guarantee this portion of total pay. We deal with the final KPI identified earlier –​student satisfaction –​later in this section when we discuss work-​for-​labour at Neo-​Villeiny University. To sum up this argument on pay, the subcontractor faculty of Neo-​Villeiny University has the potential to achieve on-​target earnings (for example £50,000), and should they meet their KPIs then they receive full payment. However, for the subcontractor academic who has achieved only 50 per cent of the KPIs then the pay would be £25,000, while the miserable failure who has achieved only 25 per cent of their KPIs receives only £12,500. Whereas such an approach might dissuade an academic from doing more (for example, producing a greater number of articles and securing greater levels of funding), management at Neo-​Villeiny University might respond by increasing the targets in order to meet the ‘needs’ of the institution, that is, the drive to accumulate surplus. The aforementioned process thereby 134

Neo-Villeiny University

transforms surplus labour into necessary labour, creating new opportunities for new precariat academics to enter and compete with the old ones. The earlier discussion introduces a commercial speculative dimension to academic work. As the SEPT must engage in speculative work in order to attract clients, so must the subcontractor faculty at Neo-​Villeiny University engage in work that has become speculative as a consequence of changes to the relationship between institution and academic and the criteria for payment. Academics have always engaged in speculative work –​after all, there is no guarantee that an article lovingly crafted over a period of months or even years will be accepted by a journal. However, as outputs are monetized at Neo-​Villeiny University then rejection not only results in disappointment (with which we and possibly our readers are doubtless familiar) but in a quite severe economic impact also. Here, the work undertaken in writing an academic paper, and indeed a research funding proposal, is more akin to the presenteeism, customer service and maintenance activities of the SEPT carried out so that the SEPT might attract a fee-​paying client. Despite extensive labour if the paper is not accepted then the labour is speculative: it goes unrewarded. The forms of rent at Neo-​Villeiny University would also multiply. To start with, why end with a charge for car parking? Office space is always at a premium. Remote working has been enforced and consequently accepted by all staff as a consequence of COVID-​19. As hot-​ desking is unpopular among academics (Gorgievski et al, 2010), Neo-V ​ illeiny University creates an additional income stream for letting space to academics on a weekly, daily or even hourly basis. Happy to work at home but in need of a private space for a meeting with a colleague or a student, why not lease a room for an hour or two? Also, there is no reason why journal subscriptions should be free for academic staff who financially benefit directly from their use (in terms of outputs and teaching). Neo-​Villeiny University might offer individual subscriptions at a reasonable rate far lower than the cost offered by the publisher. Or maybe not so much lower. Our discussion of bondage for the contemporary academic applies to Neo-​Villeiny University. Moreover, the entirely monetized nature of academic work at Neo-​Villeiny University ensures that academics are bonded to the university more so than they are already in the current context of higher education. Finally, we have touched on the work-​for-​labour of Neo-​Villeiny University’s subcontractor faculty in our discussion of speculative labour (earlier). In elaborating on this important dimension of work at Neo-​ Villeiny University we will focus here on the fourth KPI identified –​ student satisfaction –​and the demands it places on the academic in an increasingly neoliberal higher education marketplace (Ingleby, 2015; Naidoo and Williams, 2015). Whereas one might argue powerfully that student satisfaction is contingent upon outcomes such as degree classification, the 135

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

‘performance’ of staff will inevitably play an important role. As argued earlier, emotional and aesthetic labour already feature in the work of faculty, but these have greater prominence in Neo-​Villeiny University. Grades can creep up only so much before the external examiner asks questions and/​or degrees become meaningless (cf Collins, 1979, 2002). We need only point to the outcry at claims of grade inflation at Harvard University reported in 2013 and the reasons why grade inflation is damaging to the student, summarized in an essay published in The Washington Post: Grade inflation is harmful because it cheats students of the opportunity to understand what they do and don’t do well. It denies them the chance to know how they stack up against what the world demands. It deprives them of experiencing failure and learning how to recover. Grade inflation tells students they do everything very well –​ a continuation of the applause and approbation most have experienced all of their lives. Grade inflation diminishes the ability of colleges to educate. Grade inflation is commonly thought of as a moral or ethical failing; it is in reality an education failing. (Levine and Dean, quoted in Strauss, 2013) If there are limits to grade creep then the secret sauce for student satisfaction is the performance of faculty meeting the (care) needs and (aesthetic) expectations of students. This pressure exists already, but at Neo-​Villeiny University one’s pay may just depend on it.

Conclusion In the words of Private Frazer from the much-​loved UK sitcom Dad’s Army, “We’re doomed. Doomed!” Notes 1 2 3

4 5

www.bbc.co.uk/​news/​business-​53060529 https://global-labour-university.org/fileadmin/GLU_Column/papers/no_301_Gallas.pdf www.fasttrackimpact.com/​post/​2017/​02/​01/​how-​much-​was-​an-​impact-​case-​study- ​ worth-​in-​the-​uk-​research-​excellence-​framework The ordering of these criteria may not reflect the magnitude of importance. We add ‘currently’ here because of the aspiration to crewless flights.

References Atkinson, J. 1984, ‘Manpower strategies for flexible organisations’, Personnel Management, vol. 16, no. 8, pp. 28–31.

136

Neo-Villeiny University

Bedeian, A., Cavazos, D., Hunt, J. and Jauch, L. 2010, ‘Doctoral degree prestige and the academic marketplace: a study of career mobility within the management discipline’, Academy of Management Learning and Education, vol. 9, no.1, pp. 11–​25. Burris, V. 2004, ‘The academic caste system: prestige hierarchies in PhD exchange networks’, American Sociological Review, vol. 69, no. 2, pp. 239–​64. Clauset, A., Arbesman, S. and Larremore, D. 2015, ‘Systematic inequality and hierarchy in faculty hiring networks’, Science Advances, vol. 1, no. 1, p. e1400005. Collins, R. 1979, The Credential Society: An Historical Sociology of Education and Stratification, New York: Academic. Collins, R. 2002, ‘Credential inflation and the future of universities’, in S.G. Brint (ed) The Future of the City of Intellect, Stanford: Stanford University Press, pp. 23–​46. Edwards, P.E. 2003, Industrial Relations: Theory and Practice, London: Blackwell. Flynn, D. 2020, ‘On being precarious’, Irish University Review, vol. 50, no. 1, pp. 51–​4. Folger, R. 1977, ‘Distributive and procedural justice: combined impact of voice and improvement on experienced inequity’, Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, vol. 35, no. 2, p. 108. Gorgievski, M.J., van der Voordt, T.J., van Herpen, S.G. and Akkeren, S.V. 2010, ‘After the fire: new ways of working in an academic setting’, Facilities, vol. 28, no. 3–​4, pp. 206–​24. Hartung, C., Barnes, N., Welch, R., O’Flynn, G., Uptin, J. and McMahon, S. 2017, ‘Beyond the academic precariat: a collective biography of poetic subjectivities in the neoliberal university’, Sport, Education and Society, vol. 22, no. 10, pp. 40–​57. Harvey, G. and Turnbull, P. (forthcoming) ‘Ricardo flies Ryanair: strategic human resource management and competitive advantage in a Single European Aviation Market’, Human Resource Management Journal, vol. 30, no. 4, pp. 553–65. Harvey, G. and Turnbull, P. 2020, ‘Human resource management and industrial relations’, in L. Budd and S. Ison (eds) Air Transport Management: An International Perspective, 2nd edn, Abingdon: Routledge, pp. 307–19. Harvey, G., Rhodes, C., Vachhani, S.J. and Williams, K. 2017, ‘Neo-​villeiny and the service sector: the case of hyper flexible and precarious work in fitness centres’, Work, Employment and Society, vol. 31, no. 1, pp. 19–​35. Heller, H. 2016, The Capitalist University: The Transformations of Higher Education in the United States since 1945, London: Pluto Press. Hochschild, A.R. 1979, ‘Emotion work, feeling rules, and social structure’, American Journal of Sociology, vol. 85, no. 3, pp. 551–​75. 137

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Hürtgen, S. 2021, ‘Precarization of work and employment in the light of competitive Europeanization and the fragmented and flexible regime of European production’, Capital & Class, vol. 45, no. 1, pp. 71–91. Retrieved from: https://doi.org/10.1177/0309816819900123 Ingleby, E. 2015, ‘The house that Jack built: neoliberalism, teaching in higher education and the moral objections’, Teaching in Higher Education, vol. 20, no. 5, pp. 518–29. Lewis, G.B. 1997, ‘Grade creep in the federal service? Another look’, The American Review of Public Administration, vol. 27, no. 1, pp. 4–​21. Lynch, K. 2006, ‘Neo-​Liberalism and marketisation: the implications for higher education’, European Educational Research Journal, vol. 5, no. 1, pp. 1–​17. Naidoo, R. and Williams, J. 2015, ‘The neoliberal regime in English higher education: charters, consumers and the erosion of the public good’, Critical Studies in Education, vol. 56, no. 2, pp. 208–23. Olsen, J.P. 2015, ‘Democratic order, autonomy and accountability’, Governance, vol. 28, pp. 425–40. Patulny, R., Lazarevic, N. and Smith, V. 2020, ‘ “Once more, with feeling”, said the robot: AI, the end of work, and the rise of emotional economies’, Emotions and Society, vol. 2, no. 1, pp. 79–​97. Rivera, L. 2015, Pedigree: How Elite Students Get Elite Jobs, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Slaughter, S. and Leslie, L. 1997, Academic Capitalism: Politics, Policies, and the Entrepreneurial University, Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Sonner, B. 2010, ‘A is for “adjunct”: examining grade inflation in higher education’, Journal of Education for Business, vol. 76, no. 1, pp. 5–​8. Standing, G. 2011, The Precariat: The New Dangerous Class, London: Bloomsbury. Strauss, V. 2013, ‘Why grade inflation (even at Harvard) is a big problem’, The Washington Post, 20 December. Retrieved from: https:// www.washingtonpost.com/news/answer-sheet/wp/2013/12/20/ why-grade-inflation-even-at-harvard-is-a-big-problem/ Sull, D. 1999, ‘EasyJet’s $500 million gamble’, European Management Journal, vol. 17, no. 1, pp. 20–32. Tirelli, V. 1997, ‘Adjuncts and more adjuncts: labor segmentation and the transformation of higher education’, Social Text, vol. 51, pp. 75–​91. Warhurst, C. and Nickson, D. 2001, Looking Good, Sounding Right, London: Industrial Society. Weber, M. 1958 [1917], ‘Science as a vocation’, in H.H. Gerth and C.W. Mills (eds) From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology, New York: Oxford University Press, pp. 129–​56.

138

8

Resuscitating the Past: Zygmunt Bauman’s Critical Analysis of the Recent Rise of Retrotopia Michael Hviid Jacobsen

Introduction A spectre is haunting the world –​the spectre of retrotopia. This would be a most fitting description of the message contained in internationally renowned sociologist Zygmunt Bauman’s last book –​Retrotopia –​published right after his death on 9 January 2017. In this book and several others, Bauman, as we shall see throughout this chapter, laid the foundation for a critical sociological diagnosis of the times –​an age by him characterized as ‘liquid modernity’. When Bauman died, he was known to be one of the most widely read and discussed sociologists in the world. Throughout his academic life, Bauman wrote about almost anything and everything related to the field of sociology. The scope of his work is almost unfathomable, the depth not less so. He was a generalist who with a keen iconoclast’s eye observed and diagnosed the changes and transformations taking place in the Western world –​and increasingly on a global scale –​during his own lifetime. His work spanned almost six decades, thus bearing witness not only to social transformation but also personal development and maturation. Despite this long-​stretched period of his writing career, there is an unmistakable consistency and continuity running throughout Bauman’s work, a backbone, as it were, constituted by a strong moral sentiment and a commitment to human values. In the myriad of intellectual labels, epithets and boxes, Bauman can perhaps best be characterized as a humanistic sociologist (Tester, 2004), thus emphasizing that the plight of humans never escaped his attention, and he always imperturbably sided with the suffering human being in his work.

139

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

As mentioned, in his published work Bauman wrote about a mind-​boggling variety of different topics: the working class, capitalism, communism, socialism, critique, culture, the Holocaust, the intellectuals, ambivalence, violence, freedom, ethics, community, communitarianism, modernity, postmodernity, liquid modernity, sexuality, surveillance, individualization, globalization, identity, art, consumerism, fear, love, work, the welfare state, poverty, morality, death, immortality, religion and so on. There was almost no area of our human being-​in-​the-​world that seemed too trivial or irrelevant to him. Throughout his life and career, Bauman also concerned himself with the notion of utopia –​ and even though it remained a continuous yet submerged presence in his writings, at intervals he devoted specific attention to the topic. Even when utopia was widely regarded with ill-​concealed suspicion and widespread contempt within the social sciences, Bauman stuck to it as an important feature for understanding, describing and analyzing human and social life. For almost half a century, utopia –​and with it its perpetual doppelgänger of dystopia –​thus continuously remained a trademark of Bauman’s writings from the early 1970s to his last work published throughout the past few years. In his work, Bauman has critically used utopia/​dystopia as an obscure optical lens (a camera obscura) for understanding the way human and social life is actually lived, organized and imagined. Utopia/​dystopia shows us the dreams, aspirations and hopes as well as the failures, setbacks and defeats of life. Shortly before his death in 2017, Bauman published a small but important book titled Retrotopia that provides a critical view of the way in which nostalgia (or retrotopia) has increasingly become a guiding emotional prism for the way we understand and live life in contemporary society –​individually and collectively (see, for example, Jacobsen, 2019). In Bauman’s perspective, retrotopia may very well inaugurate the dystopia of our times. In this chapter, we will explore the utopian roots of Bauman’s critical diagnosis of contemporary liquid-​modern retrotopia and its different dystopian dimensions. First, we will take a brief look at how utopia and utopianism have been regarded within the social sciences. Then we revisit Bauman’s early work on the ‘Socialist utopia’ as the counter-​culture of capitalism. After this, we move on to his critical diagnosis of contemporary liquid-​modern utopia/​ dystopia. This leads us into a consideration of his understanding of our current ‘interregnum’ governed by a ‘TINA Syndrome’, before turning to his work on ‘retrotopia’ and the reverberation of retrotopia throughout contemporary politics. Finally, we shall summarize Bauman’s main contribution to the understanding of utopia/​dystopia in a sociological context.

Social science against utopia Utopia has been a concern of philosophers for centuries. For most sociologists, however, a preoccupation with this theme has been regarded 140

Resuscitating the Past

as scientifically redundant and as an unnecessary departure from the studies of reality. For them, sociology must deal with what is, not with what could be or ought to be. Thus, neither utopia nor dystopia has been a common or conventional concern among most sociologists. These are topics most often appealing to science fiction writers, futurologists or the odd normatively oriented scholar. We therefore most often find utopian illustrations and sentiments in the literary productions of world-​weary novelists, radical political philosophers or revolutionary writers. Despite this, there is in fact a strong utopian vein running through the discipline of sociology from the work of early pioneers such as Auguste Comte and Karl Marx to more recent and contemporary attempts from within the ranks of, for example, feminism, postmodernism, environmentalism, transhumanism and scholars with a more critical-​normative research agenda. Perhaps we can even glimpse the contours of a ‘new utopianism’ in sociology since the threshold of the millennium that goes beyond idle daydreaming (Jacobsen, 2005). In the 18th and 19th centuries, there were often no Chinese walls between early social science and utopianism (Goodwin, 1978). For example, Comte’s utopian vision was concerned with creating a society governed by ‘positive science’ or ‘positivism’, and Marx’s ditto was interested in bringing about a revolutionary transformation from the ‘realm of necessity’ to the ‘realm of freedom’, from capitalism to communism. So although the doctrine of positivism in common sense understandings is often regarded as almost anti-​ utopian in its worship of value-​neutrality, exactitude, measurement and truth, there was an unmistakable utopian interest within early positivist sociology (and later also in B.F. Skinner’s radical behaviourism/​experimental positivism). And even though Marx’s work is often described as in opposition to the ‘utopian socialists’ of the 18th and 19th centuries (the likes of Charles Fourier, Robert Owen and William Morris), there was nevertheless a fervent utopian sentiment detectable in his work. Many later attempts at utopian thinking within sociology have been concerned with a multitude of different socio-​ political agendas and have often been voiced from outside of the mainstream of the discipline, not least because utopia and utopianism have been regarded as suspiciously at odds with the principle of value-​free social science and with a derailing away from the proper track of science, from description and sober analysis towards proscription and wishful thinking. In fact, for a long time, utopia as a subject matter as well as an orientation (‘utopianism’) was in a rather bad standing within the mainstream of the social sciences, because it was associated with a normative stance generally regarded as unscientific and at odds with the value-​neutral expectation of the scientific enterprise. As Andrew Hacker thus insisted in the mid-​20th century: It is no secret that the Utopian is not a respectable member of the company of political and social theorists. Of course, it must be 141

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

acknowledged that his breed never was numerous. [They have all] been roundly attacked: attacked on the seemingly self-​sufficient ground that the ideas and ideals which they ventured to espouse were ‘Utopian’. (Hacker, 1955, p. 135) There are many reasons why utopia and utopianism have been ‘roundly attacked’, as Hacker states, some relating to the fear of openly expressed normativity within the social sciences, others to the fact that utopia as a phenomenon is empirically untestable, located as it is in the not-​yet known and for all practical intents and purposes unknowable future. Utopia and utopianism is about that which is not right now, a ‘nowhere’ or even a ‘good place’ that may perhaps be brought about sometime in the future (Kumar, 1990, p. 1). It is about what Ernst Bloch (1986) once labelled the ‘not yet’ –​ that which anticipates the coming, but which has itself not yet materialized into tangible structures and concrete schemas of action. This is normally not the stuff of which studies within social science or sociology are made. The utopian emphasis on the ‘not yet’, on hope and on the latent, aligns sociology (and perhaps particularly critical social theory) with the arts more than with the sciences. Indeed, the very conception of what it means to be human, which the arts share with social theory, makes any scientization of human being in the world (for example through a concern with prediction, on statistical probability or through statements of ‘what must be’) one of the obstacles needing to be overcome if humanity is to be possible. This also explains why the critical social theory, which is open about its utopianism (as is the case with Bauman’s work, as we will see), so often uses literature and art as resources for understanding and tends often to operate in near ignorance –​and most certainly relaxed disregard –​of the so-​called behavioural sciences. Such sciences show only the pressures against and limitations of human praxis, not the possibilities. They show only the condition of ‘what must be’, the condition of is-​ness precisely from which it is the job of social theory to help release the not-​yet of human being (Jacobsen and Tester, 2012). Thus, throughout most parts of the history of sociology, utopia/​utopianism has been regarded as a bastard son of the scientific enterprise, as an annoying doppelgänger ceaselessly haunting the discipline, an eerie shadow always present but never fully acknowledged (Žuk, 2020). This has especially been the case ever since the neo-​positivists split the concern of the discipline between the ‘is’ and the ‘ought’, between the real and the possible, between objective description and subjective dreaming, between reality and fiction, always favouring the former to the latter. Utopia, and utopianism, is opposed to that which currently is and is an argument in favour of that which could be, should be or ought to be. Utopia is thus an open invitation to imagine the world differently, and sometimes even proposing how we may arrive there. 142

Resuscitating the Past

The road from utopia to dystopia Throughout his writing career, Zygmunt Bauman was and remained a staunch champion of utopian ideas. He belonged to what could be described as the ‘prophetic stance’ within sociology rather than the ‘priestly stance’ (Friedrichs, 1970). Contrary to the ‘priests’, who are proponents of paradigmatic positions and often represent the mainstream, the ‘prophets’ are critics questioning the things we take for granted (also within the social sciences) and who develop their own iconoclastic perspectives. This prophetic stance provided the basis for Bauman’s utopianism. For Bauman, utopianism was thus not incompatible with the scientific enterprise, but for him rather its necessary precondition. It was the hope of being able to contribute positively to the development of a better world through enhancing understanding that remained a trademark of and a driving force behind his sociology. As he once stated: Sociology cannot correct the shortcomings of the world, but it can help us to understand them in a more complete manner and in so doing, enable us to act upon them for the purpose of human betterment. In this time of globalization we need the knowledge that sociology can provide more than ever before. After all, to understand ourselves in the present enables a hold upon current conditions and relations without which there is no hope of shaping the future. (Bauman and May, 2001, p. 116) In Bauman’s view, sociology –​with the sociologist acting in the role of ‘interpreter’ (mediating and translating between different knowledge claims and life experiences) rather than as a ‘legislator’ (Bauman, 1987) –​should thus fulfil the important role of contributing to critical understanding and, based on this, to change. However, not only as a motif for sociology was utopianism a trademark of his work. The topic of utopia in itself remained a continuous concern for him throughout his academic life (Jacobsen, 2004, 2008). For example, in the early book Socialism: The Active Utopia (1976), Bauman scrutinized the development of the socialist utopia as a counter-​culture to capitalism (with its focus on equality and human dignity), but it also served as a thorn in the side of the obsessive modernist urge to control the world as well as a critique of the so-​called ‘actually existing socialism’ in the Eastern Bloc. In Bauman’s understanding, utopia is not something made into flesh and blood, something static or once-​and-​for-​all-​obtained, but rather a progressive, active and critical force that is bent on exploring the limits of the possible and calls into question everything parading as ‘reality’, ‘truth’ or the ‘right way’ to live one’s life. In this book, and in Bauman’s subsequent writings on 143

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

utopia, he was opposed to what has recently been called respectively ‘real utopias’ and ‘utopias for realists’ (see, for example, Wright, 2013; Bergman, 2017). For him, utopia is not a destination finally to be arrived at (as many of the modernist utopias), but an orientation –​a critical engagement with what ‘is’ in order to pave the way for what ‘ought to be’ or ‘what could be’. To him, utopia –​the ability to think and dream of a different world –​is an inherent part of the human-​being-​in-​the-​world rather than something to be fulfilled or achieved. In this way, Bauman was an ambivalent utopian (Jacobsen, 2016) –​on the one hand defending utopia as a lever for the critical exploration of the possible, but on the other hand concerned with avoiding the ossification of utopia into concrete social experiments, plans or projects: I am now inclined to accept that utopia is an undetachable part of the human condition … I now believe that utopia is one of humanity’s constituents, a ‘constant’ in the human way of being-​in-​the-​world. This does not mean that all utopias are equally good. Utopias may lead to a better life as much as they may mislead and turn away from what a better life would require to be done. (Bauman and Tester, 2001, pp. 48–​50) Bauman’s utopia is thus not of the solid sort or, to use the words of Ernst Bloch, a ‘concrete utopia’ (Aidnik and Jacobsen, 2016). Rather, Bauman’s understanding of utopia is perhaps best described by Italo Calvino –​one of his favourite writers –​who once stated that his utopia was ‘less solid than gaseous: it is a utopia of fine dust, corpuscular, and in suspension’ (Calvino, 1986, pp. 255). It is never spelled out, detailed, specified, proscribed or pressed through –​in short, Bauman’s utopia is something that is always at odds with what currently exists and itself never realized. It is therefore obvious that to Bauman utopia is an integral part of our very human being in the world, but utopia is also dangerous, particularly if it is forced into being by powerful groups or as part of grand ideological or political programmes. Bauman was well aware that utopian dreams when turned into flesh and blood, which was the ambition of many of the modernist-​inspired experiments in social engineering seen in totalitarian regimes throughout the 20th century, often resulted in human misery. As Bauman observed: ‘Modernity was a long march to prison. It never arrived there (though in some places, like Stalin’s Russia, Hitler’s Germany, or Mao’s China, it came quite close), albeit not for lack of trying’ (Bauman, 1992, p. xvii). Thus, in his award-​winning book Modernity and the Holocaust (1989), Bauman had shown how the ‘gardening’ mentality of modern society –​driven by a desire for uprooting ‘the weeds’ and creating the most perfect and beautiful garden (a metaphor for society) –​ culminated in the murder of six million Jews in the concentration camps. He later contended on the inherent dangers of utopia how ‘the urge to 144

Resuscitating the Past

transcend is the most stubbornly present, nearest to universal, and arguably the least destructible attribute of human existence. This cannot be said, however, of its articulation into “projects” ’ (Bauman, 2002a, pp. 222–​3). In Bauman’s view, utopianism is thus an indispensable and life-​giving source of human imagination and action, but if misused it can also lead astray and cause unmentionable atrocities and human suffering.

Liquid modernity and the ‘hunting utopia’ Bauman did not only associate the potential for dystopia with modern society and its incessant drive to create order everywhere and to annihilate everything deemed ambivalent or deviant (Bauman, 1991). In fact, it seems to be the case that dystopia is always a latent possibility, just as utopia is, of any kind of social order. In sociology circles, Bauman is widely known to have coined the notion of ‘liquid modernity’ at the turn of the millennium. In his book Liquid Modernity (2000), he proposed that we need a new lens, as it were, if we are to capture what is going on in contemporary society –​and by doing this, he also definitively dissociated himself from the ‘postmodernist movement’ with which he had been associated throughout the 1990s. It was his impression that the notion of the ‘postmodern’ had already served its purpose and that a new vocabulary was now needed. By proposing the notion of ‘liquid modernity’ (and its concomitant notion of ‘solid modernity’), Bauman’s mood also seemed to begin to shift. The positive potentials and hopes associated with postmodernity throughout the writings of the early 1990s gradually began to fade and were replaced with a much gloomier vision of a liquid-​modern world in which the possibilities of a different world were increasingly coming under pressure. Liquid modernity in many ways inaugurated a dystopian time and age. One can always discuss if there is a certain detectable element of nostalgia in Bauman’s writings, but if so, it would not relate to a desire to return to pre-​modern, solid-​modern or post-​modern society as such but rather to the fact that every society produces its own fair share of problems –​and that we must always consider how to make the most of the possibilities still available (however often hidden or obscured) in any given period of time (Jacobsen, 2020b). Some of the main characteristics of liquid modernity were outlined by Bauman in Liquid Times (2007). Here he described five dimensions of liquid-​ modern society as opposed to its solid-​modern ancestor. First, the overall passage from a solid-​modern to a liquid-​modern phase of modernity, in which all the solids of the past increasingly come under pressure and are liquidized. Second, a separation of power and politics, making the latter less capable of intervening in the world. Third, a gradual but relentless dismantling of state-​sponsored insurance against failure and a dissolution of social solidarity. 145

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Fourth, the collapse of long-​term planning and thinking and a concern with the here-​and-​now instead. Finally, the dissolution of collective and communal responsibility for all the misfortunes, miseries and bad luck in life, with the responsibility now falling back on the shoulders of the hapless individual. No more salvation by society –​in an individualized society, the individual bears his/​her own personal responsibility for what is coming. As is obvious, many of the traits Bauman particularly attributes to liquid-​modern society are regarded as problematic, leading to social dissolution, human despair and a derailing of the hopeful path towards the future. According to Bauman, liquid modernity is thus not a time particularly fertile for utopian thinking –​ if by utopian thinking is understood the hope and aspiration to changing society for the better. In fact, in his view, liquid-​modern society in many respects resembles an Orwellian or Huxleyan nightmare with its relentless dismantling, deregulation, individualization and privatization of everything binding society and humans together (Bauman, 2000, p. 15). Thus, liquid modernity to Bauman is an incarnation of dystopia. This might perhaps lead one to suspect that liquid-​modern society is altogether anti-​utopian. However, as he states: If one hears today phrases like ‘the demise of utopia’, or ‘the end of utopia’, or ‘the fading of utopian imagination’, sprinkled over contemporary debates densely enough to take root in common sense and so be taken as self-​evident, it is because the posture of the gardener is nowadays giving way to that of the hunter. (Bauman, 2007, p. 100) Bauman’s point is that utopia is not dead and buried, but that it has been transformed into something quite different from its pre-​modern, early modern and solid-​modern incarnations. Today, it is a ‘hunting utopia’ rather than a ‘gamekeeping utopia’ (pre-​modernity) or ‘gardening utopia’ (solid modernity) that is the name of the game. This hunting utopia is, in Bauman’s rendition, a world characterized and ruled by consumerism and individualized life-​projects that desperately stay clear of any long-​term commitments or any collective involvement in the running of society as such. This is not about growth, progress, harmony, equality or other ideal intentions or goals as was the case with many modernist utopias, but rather a utopia ‘lived in’ instead of ‘lived towards’ –​a self-​contained and thus static utopia. As Bauman admits: a bizarre utopia indeed, measured by orthodox standards … but a utopia all the same, promising the same unattainable prize brandished by all utopias, namely an ultimate and radical solution to human problems past, present and future, and an ultimate and radical cure for the sorrows and pains of the human condition. (Bauman, 2007, p. 108) 146

Resuscitating the Past

Bauman thus summarizes the current situation of utopia as follows: Is this the end of utopia? In one sense it is: early modern utopia thought was inspired by the desire for a rest from the disabling and fear-​inducing chaos of events –​a dream of reaching the end of an obstacle, race, of unbearable hardships, and a dream of a nirvana lying on the other side of the finishing line, where time stands still and history is denied access. (Bauman, 2011, p. 28) On the other hand, however, the dreams of an end to all the hardship and toil, of something good waiting at the end of the storm, have not disappeared, but they have changed their content. It is now about what is in it for the individual ‘hunter’, perhaps even those ones close by (as ‘hunters’ often hunt in ‘packs’, according to Bauman), but apart from that, there is really no concern for the overall running or direction of society or for the future lying ahead. This is in many ways an endless utopia with no finishing line –​ the case is always only closed until further notice, until the bugle sounds for the next round of hunting (the term ‘shopping’ could reasonably be used instead of ‘hunting’). Besides being custom-​designed to cater for the insatiable consumers of liquid-​modern society and their demands and desires for excitement, thrills and new sensations, utopia is now a short-​term, not a lasting commitment. It is not concerned with bringing about societal improvement, the betterment of the human plight at large or creating hope for a more fulfilling and peaceful tomorrow, but rather a testimony of instant gratification, maximal impact and immediate obsolescence. Nothing is intended to last for long. Compared to the utopias of yore, concerned as they were with forging some future state that encompassed entire communities of people, the contemporary utopian/​dystopian incarnation (depending on your preferences and predilections) is much more privatized and individualized. As Bauman wrote about this kind of utopia, ‘it is utopia’s new, up-​to-​date interpretation, adapted to the demands of our deregulated, individualized society of consumers’ (Bauman, 2011, p. 25). In such a society, he went on, ‘you can no longer seriously entertain any real hope of making the world a nicer place to live in; but you might be tempted to safeguard … at least for a while, that relatively pleasant place which you have managed to carve out for yourself in the world’ (Bauman, 2011, pp. 25–​6). Hunting now becomes a full-​time occupation in a liquid-​modern setting, leaving little or no room for other human concerns or deeper reflections. It is all about the next catch or the new fads. Hunting becomes like a drug, turning first into a habit then into an obsession (Bauman, 2011, p. 28), with the intoxication and the thrill of the chase becoming more important than the safe arrival at a final destination. In such a liquid-​modern hunting utopia, everything that ends, once and for all, reeks and is an unpleasant reminder of death. 147

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

The ‘interregnum’ and the ‘TINA syndrome’ Liquid-​modern times are times of transition. Just as the passage from pre-​ modern times (the l’ancien régime) to solid-​modernity was marked by a period of uncertainty and insecurity about the future, so today –​at the threshold from solid modernity to its liquid-​modern counterpart –​the world once again lives through a limbo, and perhaps a most difficult and tumultuous one as, due to the collapse of long-​term planning, there is no longer any one responsible for steering society through the troubled waters. As Bauman once observed, life in contemporary society can be likened to passengers sitting in an airplane suddenly realizing that there is no one in the cockpit. It is thus Bauman’s contention that the world now finds itself under the auspices of an ‘interregnum’ (Bauman, 2012). An ‘interregnum’ –​a term originally used in Roman Law and later again in different kinds of social theory –​is a time when the certainties of the past are in a process of dilapidation and disintegration and when that which is coming has not yet materialized (see, for example, Theophanidis, 2016). It is, in Antonio Gramsci’s memorable words, a time when the old is dying but the new is not yet born. As Bauman recites Gramsci’s understanding: he [Gramsci] attached it to the extraordinary situations in which the extant legal frame of social order loses its grip and can hold no longer, whereas a new frame, made to the measure of newly emerged conditions responsible for making the old frame useless, is still at the designing stage, has not yet been fully assembled, or is not strong enough to be put in its place. (Bauman, 2012, p. 49) It is an interlude, a liminal phase that in many respects is caught between a past it is unable to escape from and a future that is either nowhere in the offing or which, when glimpses of it are caught, looks scary and intimidating. It is thus a time of uncertainty, but also a time of opportunity if we become aware of and act on the new openings (Bordoni, 2016). In Bauman’s perspective, the current interregnum is more than anything a time when rules no longer can rule (not least due to the uncontrollable and disintegrating forces of globalization and individualization) and when the ruled no longer wish to be ruled (wanting to be left to their own devices, wherever they may take them). In Bauman’s view, liquid-​modern times are also a time of crisis, and the ‘interregnum’ thus spells out a time of almost endemic crisis management, however, with no one really interested in or capable of taking responsibility for what transpires. Not only the most obvious crises such as those related to financial meltdown, international terrorism, mass immigration and more recently the health crisis of the COVID-​19 virus (which Bauman for obvious reasons did not mention), but on a much more deep-​seated level 148

Resuscitating the Past

the world finds itself in a crisis. We now live in gloomy times, in many respects not unlike what was the case in the wake of the Great Depression in the late 1920s. However, the main difference being that today we no longer trust in the capacity of the state to resolve the crisis and to chart a new way forward. In our increasingly individualized and globalized world, states have been stripped of much of their previous power (they are besieged from the inside as well as the outside) to shape the course of events and to make effective political sanctions. Many of our problems are globally produced, whereas the volume of power at the disposal of nation-​states is simply not sufficient enough to cope with the severity and scope of the problems they face –​they are only capable of providing local solutions to local problems, thus leaving the global world in disarray. This aforementioned divorce between power and politics produces a new kind of paralysis, because it undermines the political agency required to tackle the crisis, while sapping citizens’ belief that governments can in fact deliver on their promises (Bauman and Bordoni, 2014). Adding to these types of crisis evident on the institutional and political level, we may also be experiencing an existential crisis: what is the meaning of life when everything is reduced to consumption, and when not even a new hunting fix may heal the growing hole we feel inside? Moreover, we are, as Bauman points out in several of his writings, experiencing a crisis of values, a crisis of solidarity/​humanity, and, not least, a crisis of hope. Besides being a time of ‘the interregnum’, according to Bauman liquid modernity is also a period characterized by the reign of the so-​called ‘TINA Syndrome’ spelling out, loud and clear, that: ‘There Is No Alternative’ (hence the acronym). In his vocabulary, the TINA Syndrome is the name reserved for the neoliberal politics wanting to let the logic of the market determine every single aspect of human and social life. It marks a withdrawal from political responsibility and ultimately an admittance of the utter impotence of politics. The TINA Syndrome is also a resignation of the possibility to imagine the world differently from what it currently is –​it is a defeatist stance satisfied with securing a prober ‘hunting ground’ for the ‘hunters’ now inhabiting the liquid-​modern ‘hunting utopia’. In short, it is an anti-​ utopian stance. As Bauman thus contended, we need to ‘speak up’ against the TINA Syndrome and attempt to ‘restore utopianism’. Contrary to the TINA Syndrome: utopia, on the other hand, is manifestly and self-​consciously stripped of the right to demand obedience; and particularly a blank-​cheque, unquestioning obedience. Utopia aims at setting imagination in motion, inspiring thought and prompting speech. Unlike TINA and the invocation of unshakeable scientific authority, utopia cannot but be an invitation to dialogue. (Bauman, 2002b, pp. 183–​4) 149

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

The question, then, arises if the world is prepared for such a showdown with the TINA Syndrome?

Retrotopia –​into the age of nostalgia Times marked by crisis and uncertainty, lives lived during an interregnum and an age spelling out that ‘there is no alternative’, are perhaps particularly prone to entertaining nostalgic longings –​the recollection (true or imagined) of the certainties and comforts that marked less turbulent times (Jacobsen, 2020a). In such times, the longing for the past often seems to overshadow a concern with how to shape the future. Thus, in one of his last books, Retrotopia (2017), published only two weeks after his death, Bauman speculated about how our age was increasingly an ‘age of nostalgia’ –​an age looking backwards instead of forwards, an age characterized by retrotopia rather than utopia. The book was written in the 500th-​year anniversary of the publication of Sir Thomas More’s classic Utopia. Already in his farewell to postmodernist movement, Postmodernity and Its Discontents, Bauman had stated that ‘with the setting of the universal sun, wrote the schoolboy Karl Marx, moths gather to the light of the domestic lamp’ (Bauman, 1997, p. 79). This prophetic statement –​and also the recourse to Marx –​in many ways captures what Bauman himself is saying about nostalgia/​retrotopia in contemporary society: when the world becomes too insecure, too frightening and too uncontrollable, then people start looking elsewhere for the comfort, warmth and community that seem to have vanished in an age of individualization, globalization and the dissolution of local or national communities. Already in his critique of the communitarian movement had Bauman warned against the sectarian tendency in the arguments for reimagining, re-​inventing and romanticizing notions of past communities so prominent throughout the 1990s, and also against the sheer impossibility of the communitarian ideal of combining individual freedom with the ideal of a moral community pre-​empting the free choices of its members (Bauman, 1997, pp. 186–​98). Moreover, to him global problems require global solutions and resorting to prophylaxes of the past for present-​day problems is an unfeasible and defeatist strategy unlikely to bring about the much-​needed changes to the current Hobbesian/​hunting set-​up of the world. In Retrotopia, Bauman thus attempts to decipher the causes and the consequences of the recent rise of retrotopian sentiments in liquid-​modern society. The notion of ‘retrotopia’ was most likely not invented by Bauman himself –​at least, an article bearing that exact name was published by István Rév in 1998 and a futuristic novel with the same title by John M. Greer was published in December 2016, three months prior to Bauman’s book (but neither are mentioned by him) –​but his use of the notion as a critical description of a social tendency is indeed very original. Leaving the 150

Resuscitating the Past

potential flaws and pitfalls of the book behind (see, for example, Gallix, 2017), Retrotopia offers an insightful diagnosis of the revival of nostalgia in contemporary society. In Bauman’s view, the rise of retrotopia signals a U-​ turn of utopian ideas and aspirations as we have previously known them, now looking backwards instead of forwards, rummaging in the ashes of the ‘Glorious Past’ or the ‘Golden Age’ for something valuable to be retrieved and revived. As Bauman stated in the book: ‘[R]‌etrotopias’ are currently emerging; visions located in the lost/​ stolen/​abandoned but undead past, instead of being tied to the not-​yet-​ unborn and so inexistent future … [F]rom investing public hopes of improvement in the uncertain and ever-​too-​obviously un-​trustworthy future, to re-​reinvesting them in the vaguely remembered past, valued for its assumed stability and so trustworthiness. With such a U-​turn happening, the future is transformed from the natural habitat of hopes and rightful expectations into the site of nightmares. (Bauman, 2017, pp. 5–​6) As compared to the solid-​modern grand designs (political and architectonical), assertive and visionary blueprints of society and confident and hopeful dreams of a better and brighter future or the consumer-​driven liquid-​modern ‘hunting utopia’ searching for momentary glimpses of instant happiness/​ satisfaction, as we saw earlier, retrotopia instead looks backwards to the past –​to that which once (seemingly) was. There is no concern with how the future may be shaped or how we may discover new roads ahead, and in fact there is also not much concern with how the past really was –​what is important is how the past is being reimagined and re-​constructed in order to fit the worries and concerns of today (Bauman, 2017, p. 10). Retrotopia thus means trying to bring back or revive the past –​the ‘good old days’ –​ and making them the new mould for how the present and future is to be shaped and managed. In liquid-​modern times, when the solid moulds of the past have been effectively dismantled and destroyed, a desperate search for something to make the world ‘stick’ commences, and retrotopia is thus a promise of continuity, solidity and direction in a world without a compass. This is particularly evident in what Bauman regards as a new tribalism, concerned with re-​inventing ethnic, national and cultural identity found within various parts of the retrotopian tendency. It is also evident in the aspiration to, once and for all, reuniting the two eternal but most often irreconcilable twins of freedom and security (Bauman, 2017, p. 8). In this way, retrotopia is not only a natural outcome of the liquid-​modern dissolution of all the solids, but also an attempt at stemming the tides of individualization and globalization and to salvage at least something of value from the wreckages of the broken moulds. It is Bauman’s point that if we do 151

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

not reconsider how to confront the problems of the present, instead of trying to resuscitate the ghosts of the past, we are destined to repeat the mistakes of those who went before us and are unable to take responsibility for the future. In the end, as Bauman concluded his book, ‘we face either joining hands, or common graves’ (Bauman, 2017, p. 167). Throughout the book, Bauman thus paints a picture of the retrotopian tendency as a pathological sign of the times, as a misguided response to the present challenges, and he details how retrotopia is now represented within different discourses and sectors of society and not least within the realm of contemporary politics.

The politics of retrotopia Bauman’s critical analysis of retrotopia as a reinvigorated source of mobilization and discourse in contemporary society can be useful for analyzing many different tendencies characteristic of our liquid-​modern social and political landscape. There is no doubt that some of the major political campaigns and movements rising to prominence within the past few years have been fuelled exactly by retrotopian sentiments. Just think of Donald Trump’s first presidential campaign playing on the motto of ‘Making America Great Again’, obviously trying to attract those who feel that the American bidding for world authority has been gradually declining. A similar tone of longing and loss was used in the British Brexit campaign slogans: ‘We Want Our Country Back’ and ‘Let’s Take Back Control’, both of which clearly claiming that something was lost on the way to the present state of affairs. We find a similar rhetoric among nationalist regimes in Eastern European countries such as Poland and Hungary, stressing the need to turn back the clock to a time much less complex, much less cosmopolitan and much less uncontrollable. Also in Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s annual rally commemorating the Muslim victory over the Christians in Constantinople in 1453 there is an unmistakable sense of reminiscence and a celebration of the glorious Ottoman past (Karakaya, 2020), and there are many other examples of this type of retrotopian political, ethnic or religious mobilization. Particularly in times of turmoil, there are many votes to be won by celebrating the past or by promising a return to that which once was. Most of these examples are anti-​present, anti-​EU, anti-​globalization and anti-​establishment. They wallow in a past when everything –​at least so the story goes –​was simpler, easier and, not least, better. In many ways, the current retrotopian sentiment coincides with and thrives on the rise of what has been aptly described as the ‘anti-​public sphere’ that: includes discursive spaces and forms such as White supremacist websites, anti-​climate science forums, militant “men’s rights” sites, anti-​immigration Facebook pages, gay hate memes, misogynist trolling, 152

Resuscitating the Past

anti-​Semitic websites, alt-​right websites and “truth” (conspiracy) websites, to name a few, where discussion flouts norms of public debate, rules of argument and requirements for the rational consideration of evidence for its own ends. (Davis, 2020) However, to associate retrotopia/​nostalgia exclusively with radical right-​wing politics would be wrong, even though this is a widespread tendency among many political commentators and pundits, as we also find a retrotopian longings for example in the Ostalgie expressed by many people living in former Communist societies who want to return to the time when ‘the Party’ controlled everything. Despite their many specific political differences, a common thread running through the movements and initiatives thriving on retrotopian sentiments is their call for a ‘return to’ or a ‘back to’ something that was before. As Bauman (2017) hinted at in his book, retrotopians want to return to times when nation-​states dominated the world scene instead of the de-​territorialized global disorder of today, when ethnic, tribal and cultural identities were firmly fixed instead of contemporary multiculturalism and ethnic mixing, when social inequality, gender-​based and class-​based power was the order of the day, and when the deep-​seated loneliness, personal insecurity and existential confusion (aided and abetted by the new information technologies) was the stuff of which only science fiction dystopias were born. All of these tendencies stem from the same source: ‘the scare of the future embedded in the exasperatingly capricious and uncertain present’ (Bauman, 2017, p. 152). In Svetlana Boym’s (2001) useful vocabulary, these movements and initiatives represent a ‘restorative’ type of utopia aiming to revive and revitalize the ideas, institutions, identities and practices of the past, as opposed to a ‘reflective’ utopia interested in dwelling in the memories but also learning from the past. Retrotopia taps into a feeling of dysphoria that all that was previously important is now irretrievably lost, thus creating a deep-​seated sense of despair and meaninglessness (Czarniawska, 2018). Retrotopia may therefore prove to be a stronghold for those who want to stem the flood of mass migration, globalization and the expansion of the European community. It may also prove to serve as a bulwark against those recent counter-​cultural movements such as fourth-​wave feminism, multiculturalism and climate change initiatives that challenge the previously unquestioned and unchallenged privileges, priorities, power-​positions and perspectives so dominant in the past. It will be interesting to see if the current COVID-​19 crisis creates the foundation for the further proliferation of retrotopian ideas as a presumed bulwark against the plagues and problems coming from the ‘world outside’, or if it instead entails the even stronger embrace of global solutions to global problems and of a cosmopolitan consciousness. 153

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

It would undoubtedly have been Bauman’s hope that the latter was the chosen road and not the alluring yet treacherously impassable pathway of the retrotopian sensibility, and as he continuously reminded his readers: there are no local solutions to global problems, just as there are no individual solutions to structural problems. Although retrotopia –​nostalgia in the shape of a utopia for the past –​is not a new invention, its recent revitalization is a clear indication of the unease and uncertainty that characterizes a world in transition, an interregnum. It is perhaps all too early to conclude on the success or failure of the retrotopian sentiment, and as Stewart R. Clegg rightly observed in his extensive review of Retrotopia: ‘At present, no one knows whether there will be a great rebirth resulting in a celebration of nostalgia, a Retrotopia or whether the fading dreams of social democracy might once more trump those that can only imagine backwards, not forwards, into a future perfect’ (Clegg, 2018, p. 362).

Conclusion This chapter has outlined Zygmunt Bauman’s contribution to a critical diagnosis of the times –​a diagnosis concerned with warning against the tendency to seek solace in the past from the problems of the present. This is why Bauman insisted on analyzing and critiquing the dangers associated with the recent retrotopian tendency, as we saw earlier. In Bauman’s view, retrotopian sentiments will be unable –​if not downright detrimental –​to contribute to a positive development of the course of the world. In this way, retrotopia is a peculiar type of utopia devoid of the hope so characteristic of most other utopias of creating a better future. Throughout his career, Bauman was and remained a utopian of sorts –​a man concerned with showing that humanity throughout its history has always entertained ideas of a utopian nature and that humanity has always possessed the ability to change the way it inhabits and organizes the world. To be human is to dream of and hope for something other than that which currently is. The chapter started out by looking into the complicated relationship between social science and utopianism. Then we briefly revisited Bauman’s early ideas of a Socialist utopia –​an ‘active utopia’ as opposed to a stagnant or static utopia, utopia as a counter-​culture not only of capitalism but also of the modern drive to master the world. Following this, we moved on to Bauman’s more recent writings about liquid modernity and saw how he regarded liquid-​modern consumer society as the incarnation of a bizarre new form of utopia –​the ‘hunting utopia’ –​that contains unmistakable dystopian tendencies, not least evident in its obsessive cult of the unencumbered individual and in its consumerist craze. No more ideas about ‘the common good’ or ‘the good society’, but rather the mantra of having one’s own cake and eating it. Towards the end of the chapter, we then looked more closely 154

Resuscitating the Past

at Bauman’s last published book prior to his death, Retrotopia. The book contains, as we have seen, a seething critique of the contemporary retrotopian sentiment that urges us to look back and go back to a presumably safer and more uncomplicated past. On the other hand, however, in line with Bauman’s humanistic perspective, there may (hidden between the lines of his book) perhaps also be some hints of sympathy towards those who feel the desperation and the inability to do anything about the way the world is currently working. Obviously, all analyses have their potentials and their shortcomings. Regarding the latter, Retrotopia paints a rather one-​sided and bleak picture of the nostalgic impulse in contemporary society, thereby overlooking the fact that nostalgia for many people may serve good and noble purposes as other branches of research (such as psychology) have shown. The merits of Bauman’s analysis of retrotopia, however, is that it makes us aware –​ perhaps painfully –​that social life must necessarily be lived forwards and that attempts to retrieve or resuscitate the past, no matter how understandable they may be particularly in times of uncertainty and crisis, do not change the character of the situation in which we currently stand. We need to look ahead for the still untapped potential and the still undiscovered possibilities instead of searching for solutions and remedies from the past. The pains of the present and the frustrations of the future need to be faced head on, always guided by the insistence that nothing is impossible. Many words of wisdom may capture this important insight. For example, Henry Giroux quotes Jacques Derrida for stating: ‘We must do and think the impossible. If only the possible happened, nothing more would happen. If only I did what I can do, I wouldn’t do anything’ (Derrida in Giroux, 2003, p. 105). A similar but somewhat more cryptic view was expressed years ago by Leszek Kołakowski when claiming: ‘It may well be that the impossible at a given moment can become possible only by being stated at a time when it is impossible’ (Kołakowski, 1969, p. 92). Even further back, William Henry Chamberlain stated that ‘it often happens that the absence of something is the best means of teaching a sense of its value’ (Chamberlain, 1937, p. v). And to end this line of utopian quotes, Bauman himself so poignantly captured the same issue by stating that ‘when everything has been already said, something important, perhaps something most important of all, is still missing’ (Bauman, 2002c, p. 2). That ‘something’ still unsaid, perhaps the most important of all, perhaps the unsayable, is the simple fact that the seemingly solid world can always be changed –​it has been done so many times before, and it can be done again, also in liquid-​modern times –​by us humans. Let us thus conclude this chapter with recapitulating the concluding sentences from Zygmunt Bauman’s utopian magnum opus, Socialism: The Active Utopia: 155

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Men climb successive hills only to discover from their tops virgin territories which their never-​appeased spirit of transcendence urges them to explore. Beyond each successive hill they hope to find peacefully the end. What they do find is the excitement of the beginning. Today, as two thousand years ago, ‘hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees?’ (Bauman, 1976, p. 141) This is, still, a most insightful and urgent message. It is only by exploring the limits of the possible, by scanning the vistas sparkling somewhere out there in the far horizon, that we may hope to reach not the end of the road, but a new beginning. Instead of looking backwards in search of truth or comfort, we need to look forwards in order to tackle the towering challenges confronting us. Only by proposing utopia as an open-​ended vision of ‘the good society’ or the ‘common good’ can we escape the iron-​cages of no alternatives, human suffering and precariousness, which Bauman regards as signs of the times, and replace them with a free, autonomous and moral social order based on mutual responsibility and solidarity. References Aidnik, M. and Jacobsen, M.H. 2016, ‘Not yet: probing the potentials and problems in the utopian understandings of Ernst Bloch and Zygmunt Bauman’, in M.H. Jacobsen (ed) Beyond Bauman –​Critical Engagements and Creative Excursions, London: Routledge, pp. 136–​62. Bauman, Z. 1976, Socialism: The Active Utopia, London: Hutchinson. Bauman, Z. 1987, Legislators and Interpreters: On Modernity, Post-​Modernity and Intellectuals, Cambridge: Polity Press. Bauman, Z. 1989, Modernity and the Holocaust, Cambridge: Polity Press. Bauman, Z. 1991, Modernity and Ambivalence, Cambridge: Polity Press. Bauman, Z. 1992, Intimations of Postmodernity, London: Routledge. Bauman, Z. 1997, Postmodernity and Its Discontents, Cambridge: Polity Press. Bauman, Z. 2000, Liquid Modernity, Cambridge: Polity Press. Bauman, Z. 2002a, Society Under Siege, Cambridge: Polity Press. Bauman, Z. 2002b, ‘Pierre Bourdieu or the dialectics of vita contemplativa and vita activa’, Revue Internationale de Philosophie, vol. 220, pp. 179–​93. Bauman, Z. 2002c, Beauty, Or the Dream that Fears Awakening, unpublished manuscript provided by the author. Bauman, Z. 2007, Liquid Times, Cambridge: Polity Press. Bauman, Z. 2011, Culture in a Liquid Modern World, Cambridge: Polity Press. Bauman, Z. 2012, ‘Times of interregnum’, Ethics & Global Politics, vol. 5, no. 1, pp. 49–​56. Bauman, Z. 2017, Retrotopia, Cambridge: Polity Press. Bauman, Z. and May, T. 2001, Thinking Sociology, 2nd edn, Oxford: Blackwell.

156

Resuscitating the Past

Bauman, Z. and Tester, K. 2001, Conversations with Zygmunt Bauman, Cambridge: Polity Press. Bauman, Z. and Bordoni, C. 2014, State of Crisis, Cambridge: Polity Press. Bergman, R. 2017, Utopia for Realists and How to Get There, London: Bloomsbury. Bloch, E. 1986, The Principle of Hope (Three Volumes), Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Bordoni, C. 2016, Interregnum: Beyond Liquid Modernity, Berlin: Transcript-​Verlag. Boym, S. 2001, The Future of Nostalgia, New York: Basic Books. Calvino, I. 1986, The Uses of Literature, New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. Chamberlain, W.H. 1937, A False Utopia: Collectivism in Theory and Practice, London: Duckworth. Clegg, S.R. 2018, ‘Reading Bauman and Retrotopia’, Scandinavian Journal of Management, vol. 34, no. 4, pp. 354–​63. Czarniawska, B. 2018, ‘On retrotopias’, Scandinavian Journal of Management, vol. 34, no.4, pp. 349–​53. Davis, M. 2020, ‘The online anti-​public sphere’, European Journal of Cultural Studies. doi.org/​10.1177/​1367549420902799. Friedrichs, R.W. 1970, A Sociology of Sociology, New York: Free Press. Gallix, A. 2017, ‘Retrotopia review: a heavyweight thinker’s last flawed work’, The Irish Times, 13 May. Retrieved from: https://www.irishtimes.com/ culture/books/retrotopia-review-a-heavyweight-thinker-s-flawed-lastwork-1.3075548 Giroux, H.A. 2003, ‘Utopian thinking under the sign of neoliberalism: towards a critical pedagogy of educated hope’, Democracy & Nature, vol. 9, no. 1, pp. 91–​105. Goodwin, B. 1978, Social Science and Utopia: Nineteenth-​Century Models of Social Harmony, Atlantic Highlands: Humanities Press. Hacker, A. 1955, ‘In defense of utopia’, Ethics, vol. 65, no. 2, pp. 135–​8. Jacobsen, M.H. 2004, ‘From solid modern utopia to liquid modern anti-​ utopia: tracing the utopian strand in the sociology of Zygmunt Bauman’, Utopian Studies, vol. 15, no. 1, pp. 63–​87. Jacobsen, M.H. 2005, ‘Into utopia: towards a reorientation of sociological analysis’, Sosiologisk Årbok/​Yearbook of Sociology, vol. 10, no. 1, pp. 31–​56. Jacobsen, M.H. 2008, ‘Bauman on utopia: welcome to the hunting zone’, in M.H. Jacobsen and P. Poder (eds) The Sociology of Zygmunt Bauman, Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing, pp. 209–​30. Jacobsen, M.H. 2016, ‘Zygmunt Bauman: an ambivalent utopian’, Revue Internationale de Philosophie, vol. 3, no. 277, pp. 347–​64. Jacobsen, M.H. 2019, ‘Liquid-​modern emotions: exploring Zygmunt Bauman’s contribution to the sociology of emotions’, Emotion and Society, vol. 1, no. 1, pp. 99–​116. 157

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Jacobsen, M.H. (ed) 2020a, Nostalgia Now: Cross-​Disciplinary Perspectives on the Past in the Present, London: Routledge. Jacobsen, M.H. 2020b, ‘Retrotopia rising: the topics of utopia, retrotopia and nostalgia in the sociology of Zygmunt Bauman’, in M.H. Jacobsen (ed) Nostalgia Now: Cross-​Disciplinary Perspectives on the Past in the Present, London: Routledge, pp. 78–​98. Jacobsen, M.H. and Tester, K. (eds) 2012, Utopia: Social Theory and the Future, Farnham: Ashgate Publishing. Karakaya, Y. 2020, ‘The political staging of nostalgia: neo-​Ottomanism in contemporary Turkey’, in M.H. Jacobsen (ed) Nostalgia Now: Cross-​ Disciplinary Perspectives on the Past in the Present, London: Routledge, pp. 131–​46. Kołakowski, L. 1969, Marxism and Beyond: On Historical Understanding and Individual Responsibility, London: Pall Mall Press. Kumar, K. 1990, Utopianism, Milton Keynes: Open University Press. Rév, I. 1998, ‘Retrotopia: critical reason turns primitive’, Current Sociology, vol. 46, no. 2, pp. 51–​80. Tester, K. 2004, The Social Thought of Zygmunt Bauman, London: Palgrave Macmillan. Theophanidis, P. 2016, ‘Interregnum as a legal and political concept: a brief contextual survey’, Synthesis, vol. 9, pp. 109–​24. Wright, E.O. 2013, ‘Real utopias’, Politics & Society, vol. 41, no. 2, pp. 167–​69. Žuk, P. 2020, ‘On the role of utopia in social thought and social sciences’, History of European Ideas, vol. 46, no. 8, pp. 1047–​58.

158

9

Hope Out of Stock: Critical and Melancholic Hope in Climate Fiction Briohny Doyle

Emotionally loaded futurity: hope and despair in/​action Hope is a temporally complex emotion. It is cultivated in the present, yet its object is some future outcome. Defined by Lazarus (1999) both as an emotion and a coping strategy, hope mobilizes around desire but includes an assessment of realistic future possibilities. Hope is heralded as giving human lives meaning, motivating action, utopian thinking and even, in some hopeful formulations, as an emotion that makes the future possible by protecting us from its debilitating opposite, despair (Bloch and Plaice, 1986; Lazarus, 1999; Van Hooft, 2014). Van Hooft (2014) writes that hope requires both belief in possible fulfillment and anxiety over the chance this will not occur. Predicated on fear of being thwarted, hope is therefore ‘our existential response to the contingency that is a mark of all our actions and of the world we live in’ (Van Hooft, 2014, p. 32). Presently, hope is also the catch cry of diverse cultural moments and discourses: Barack Obama’s 2008 electoral campaign. The positive thinking sloganeering of popular psychology. The blurbs of countless book club novels and Hollywood films. Against the backdrop of a 24-​hour news cycle featuring climate crisis, police brutality, violence against women, devastating poverty, inequality and global pandemic it’s unsurprising that we crave narratives anchored in hope. But is hope more likely to mollify or motivate? In the case of our ability to imagine and come to terms with future scenarios predicted by climate science, are narratives that prioritize hope important to or compatible with the work of acceptance, grief and adaptation? 159

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

In some conceptions, such as those offered by Bloch and Plaice (1986) hope is necessarily distinct from wishing or optimism. In their readings of Bloch, Moylan and Levitas point to the centrality of ‘educated hope’ for utopian projects that move beyond wishful thinking into ‘will full thinking’ thereby working towards better possible worlds (Levitas, 1990, p. 15; Moylan, 2014). Further, as Browne (2005, p. 75) observes, because ‘the capitalist imaginary has proven a powerful definer and distributor of hope. Hope is therefore far from an intrinsically critical category, it should be viewed instead as an orientation that animates critique’. In this chapter, I consider the project of climate fiction, which although not utopian in scope, frames hope in comparable ways. The novels discussed here use presently available science to willfully imagine worlds less hospitable to human life in its present forms than our own. While they do not attempt to offer wholesale solution to climate crisis –​political or scientific –​they do envisage the ‘expression of hope […] as a directing activity of a cognitive kind’ (Levitas, 1990, p. 14). Here, however, the locus of hope is not improved life, but life changed, lived through and within ongoing catastrophe. Since the 1970s, the environmental movement has shown itself to be in continual conflict between hopeful narratives such as the interconnected globe and the Gaia hypothesis and darker visions of the future (Heise, 2008). Desire for hopeful messaging in the face of painful losses sculpts the imagination of climate change. As Heise (2008) shows, environmental narratives which privilege proximity, both geographical and temporal often also ‘assume that individual existential encounters with nature and engagements with intimately known places can be recuperated intact from the distortions of modernisation’ (Heise, 2008, p. 55). Hope in these configurations often means describing nature as a stable entity which has been corrupted and therefore can also be saved. Visions of futures radically different from our present, in which we relinquish our position of dominance in relation to the natural and nonhuman world, along with practices of contemporary capitalist life, including our insistence on anthropocentric exceptionalism, have been criticized as being negative and disempowering (Bendell, 2018). But storying environmental crisis is too nuanced for this critique. It’s insufficient to simply hope for a remedy by way of techno-​ solution, or escape. It is unrealistic to imagine human social organization continuing recognizably as late stage capitalism, or something similar yet better. While it may be true that a despairing population disinclined to change their behavior is at odds with the goals of climate justice, it’s also true that the idea of individual actions mitigating climate crisis have been largely abandoned by scientific modelling. In 2018 the IPCC stated that a global response to climate catastrophe would necessitate almost all countries to ‘significantly raise their level of ambition’ and ‘require enhanced institutional capabilities in all countries’ (de Coninck et al, 2018). 160

Hope out of Stock

Writing on the need for realistic social and political responses to climate crisis, Bendell (2018, p. 3) argues for an approach in which we accept the data, however grim, allow time for grief, ‘overcome enough of the typical fears we all have, to find meaning in new ways of being and acting’. Modelling this can be daunting and difficult to connect with. Here, Antonia Mehnert (2016, p. 8) argues, climate change fiction (CliFi) plays a crucial role, as it ‘reframes scientific data in a way that provides insight into the intimate aspects of human struggles in altered environments, exposes potential conflicts and is able to create affect’. Further, climate fiction’s production of affect can include formulations of hope, which allow us to focus on positive forms of engagement and interrelationship, while simultaneously coming to terms with the magnitude of the crisis we are living in. Sources of hope that defer responsibility, focus wholly on individual accomplishments, or posit a return to a previous status quo have been critiqued by writers across disciplines. In Hope in the Dark Solnit (2010, p. 101) insists that ‘it’s important to say what hope is not: it is not the belief that everything was, is, or will be fine’, but it is about ‘broad perspectives with specific possibilities, ones that invite or demand that we act’. Wilkinson and Flowers argue that cynicism and despair become excuses for inaction, and call for a formulation of ‘realistic hope’ in the contemporary moment, which would involve a movement from a process of ‘disciplined imagination to action’, and be predicated on ‘five interconnected principles: diversity, dialogue, experimentation, systems thinking, and futures framing’ (Wilkinson and Flowers, 2018, pp. 259, 262). As in Solnit (2010, p. 10), realistic hope ‘must be active in nature, inspirational, and capable of implementing actions that “make a difference” ’. These formulations of hope as always active and engaged are optimistic, however. Lazarus (1999, p. 664) argues that hope is rather ‘often just an outlook about what may happen rather than a clear mobilisation for action’. Further, in a study on the link between hope and motivation for collective action in the context of climate change, it was found that hoping for climate predictions to change for the better is: ‘likely to serve an emotion-​focused coping function that regulates individuals’ emotions, but does not motivate people to act collectively […] Hoping may thus make us feel better, but does not seem to mobilize us to solve what may be the most fundamental collective action problem of all time’ (van Zomeren et al, 2019, p. 7). That is, while hope helps us to endure, it doesn’t necessarily motivate change or action, and as such is likely to contain elements of wishing, or even denial, and cannot be unproblematically opposed to despair. The existence of claims and counter claims about the function of hope suggests the need for attention to the various ideological agendas it can be mobilized by. Working in education, and considering the impact of hope-​ based narratives on marginalized and non-​White North American young 161

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

people, Duncan-​Andrade (2009, p. 184) sketches a taxonomy of hope including ‘deferred hope’, situated in future developments and disengaged with present trajectories, ‘hokey hope’, which ignores structural inequality and ‘mythical hope’, ‘a profoundly ahistorical and depoliticized denial of suffering that is rooted in celebrating individual exceptions’. Against these, he posits an alternative, ‘critical hope’ which audaciously defies the dominant ideology of defense, entitlement, and preservation of privileged bodies at the expense of the policing, disposal, and dispossession of marginalized ‘others’ (Duncan-​Andrade, 2009, p. 188). Critical hope eschews denialism and rhetoric about the power of positive thinking. It refuses to construct a false binary of hope and despair, insisting on the interconnection of grief, collective action, inequality and survival. Because hope is an emotion tethered to the future, its experience is developed via our imaginations as much as by our engagement with present and future realities. An impoverished imagination, which Amitav Ghosh (2018) argues defines contemporary literature’s response to climate crisis, can only picture the present improved or degraded and thereby fails in the task of imagining radical alternatives. However, visions of the future that forgo wholesale solutions and focus on shifting paradigms, resisting human exceptionalism, seeing interconnection across temporal and geographic space, and foregrounding human and nonhuman alliances are important in finding ways to live meaningfully in environments in crisis. Rather than offering emotional solace, literature can formulate critical hope intertwined with fear and acceptance. Elsewhere, I have claimed narratives that focus on the human and nonhuman remnants of capitalism’s various catastrophes, without providing resolution or revelation, engage the post-​apocalyptic imagination and show us possibilities for living on in ruins (Doyle, 2015). Both texts examined here extend this apparatus to imagine the complexities of climate crisis, offering alternatives to denialism while imagining ways to grieve and transform.

Hope without revelation in climate change fiction In literature too, hope can be deferred, hokey or mythical. Hopeful messaging might manifest by way of a happy ending in which characters’ desires are fulfilled, or the suggestion of believable narrative conditions for future fulfillment. Hope might take the form of individual triumph over adversity, the symbolic offering of a wedding, or the birth of a child. Hope can exist within and extend beyond the text into the imagined future of the characters, or by implication into the world of the reader, thereby functioning as ideological messaging. Texts that depict large-​scale catastrophe or disaster, such as those predicted by climate science and explored in climate fiction, sometimes adapt an 162

Hope out of Stock

apocalyptic structure, whereby a world-​ending catastrophe precedes revelation of a new world for an elect. Here, the hope is that human characters caught in a localized iteration of environmental catastrophe are saved, whether through divine intervention, luck or moral rectitude. Examples of this kind of narrative include Hollywood disaster films such as The Day After Tomorrow (2004), and 2012 (2009) where revelation is defined as individual survival, with the wider casualties of disaster backgrounded or even omitted. There are literary examples of this formula too, such as Cormac McCarthy’s 2009 novel The Road, which concludes its bleak descriptions of toxic landscapes and cannibalism with the restoration of the family as protectors of the flickering but not quite snuffed flame of humanity’s future (Kunsa, 2009). These texts may be broadly understood as hopeful but, as Garrard (cited in Mehnert, 2014, p. 30) argues, they deploy apocalyptic rhetoric to ‘polarize responses and conflate a multitude of problems under a general doom scenario of “environmental crisis” ’. Researching forms of hope that arise in the wake of real disasters, Solnit (2010, p. 124) observes how popular disaster narratives ‘are fascinating and depressing for many reasons, not least being the tidy division of the world into us and them. The them that is humanity in the aggregate, the extras, panics, mobs, swarms and fails’. Judith Hess Wright (2003, pp. 41–​2) has shown how Hollywood disaster films work to relieve ‘the fears aroused by a recognition of social and political conflicts’ by presenting a grossly simplified social structure ‘where a few actors assume responsibility for a larger, often invisible, group’. Here, a usually White, heterosexual couple’s survival stands in for the elect of an apocalypse. Further, as we do not see the new world of these texts, revelatory function is speculative, and manifests emotionally in audiences as hope. This vision of hope as interchangeable with revelation might soothe and seduce but does little to engage the reader critically with the realities of climate crisis. In these formulas, writes McMurry (2018, p. 93), ‘the figure of hope, foiled at every turn in the body of the narrative, is reasserted powerfully at the end –​almost as if to say that despite appearances the work was never about hopelessness but about hope’s eternal return on the shoulders of an indomitable humanity’. Examining hope in dystopian texts, Thaler (2019) is sceptical of critiques that insist on ethical responsibility to imagine better worlds, and the false dichotomy of hope and despair. Far from fetishizing submission, loneliness and surrender, Thaler (2019, p. 608) insists critical dystopias ‘pivot around a type of hope that remains sensitive to the catastrophic failures of the past and alert to the immense perils of the present, without, however, foreclosing the prospect of a less oppressive, less violent, and less unequal future’. This kind of hope is ‘melancholic’, because it is ‘interlaced with despair, a peculiar kind of disconsolate optimism’ (Thaler, 2019, p. 615). Thaler’s melancholic hope 163

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

is similar to Duncan-​Andrade’s critical hope in its refusal to ignore our past failures and present inequalities in order to pose an optimistic salve to imminent challenges. This formulation of hope counters the insistence that Moylan (1982, p. 159) identifies in Bloch, that ‘for humanity to develop, we must keep an open faith with the future and guard against the memory which draws us back into the past and the anxiety which consumes us in the present’. Though climate fiction is not necessarily utopian, neither is it dystopian. CliFi may include dystopian tropes such as authoritarian regimes, social breakdown, surveillance and high technology, but it differs crucially by foregrounding environmental catastrophe, which even when framed as nemesis is nonetheless decentralized, multivalent; hard for an individual or group to resist and overcome. While dystopian fiction might ‘problematise naive forms of hoping that come perilously close to wishful thinking’ (Thaler, 2019, p. 610) their melancholic hope leaves room for heroes to overcome oppressive forces and restore order. In CliFi, critical hope cannot be predicated on the journey of an individual and only deferred hope is located off-​world or in techno solutions. Furthermore, the goal of an apocalyptic Edenic return is complicated when the natural world no longer functions metaphorically as innocence or retreat. In CliFi, human and nonhuman agents are transformed and ‘apocalyptic imageries generally based on presenting clear antagonists, may no longer be fitting to grasp the diffuse relation between victim and culprit in contemporary risk scenarios’ (Mehnert, 2016, p. 33). In what follows I examine two recent examples of climate change fiction, James Bradley’s Clade (2015) and Barbara Kingsolver’s Flight Behaviour (2012), through the lens of critical and melancholic hope. In both novels, characters model adaptation, grief and action. Readers are offered alternative visions of social and environmental transformation that do not posit unrealistic or reductive formulations of hope in place of revelation. Here, critical hope means decentering human continuity and exceptionalism, and melancholic hope means working not for a return to the world as it was but for a way to live meaningfully through what remains. While neither novel moves towards a horizon of salvation, this doesn’t equate to nihilism or despair. Rather, hope means emphasizing finitude, interconnection and co-​responsibility between human and nonhuman agents, and their environments.

Strange routes: critical hope in Barbara Kingsolver’s Flight Behaviour Barbara Kingsolver’s 2012 novel Flight Behaviour is a work of climate fiction that is also what Trexler (2015, p. 233) has called ‘Anthropocene Realism’, marking ‘a profound shift in the understanding of climate change itself, from 164

Hope out of Stock

something that ought not to exist to something that already does’. Set against the rural poverty of the Appalachians, the story follows protagonist Dellarobia Turnbow, whose college plans are derailed in adolescence when she becomes pregnant to high school football star, Cub. After a shotgun wedding and hasty installation in a starter home on the sheep farm of overbearing in-​laws, Bear and Hester, Dellarobia finds herself enmired in default domesticity; two beloved yet demanding kids, a passionless marriage and a community she feels continually at odds with. Kingsolver (2012, p. 1) seemingly introduces a critical agenda on page one with Dellarobia’s observation that the feeling of ‘throwing your good life away’ is ‘one part rapture’. This novel, then, will be evaluative via ‘judgements about the possibility and desirability of different aspirations towards the good life’ (Levitas, 1990, p. 25). Dellarobia’s own sense of possibility is suddenly transformed as she trudges towards her tryst, up a degraded hill once logged for Christmas tree plantation. Here, tree trunks are coated in orange growths she first understands as ‘fungus’, then as ‘like a sci-​fi movie’, or ‘a forest fire’ and finally as a divine message instructing her to return to her family (Kingsolver, 2012, pp. 17, 21). The miracle Dellarobia witnesses is actually an errant migration of monarch butterflies, overwintering on the Turnbow farm after a landslide in Mexico displaced their usual roosting habitat. Later, local news footage of pretty Dellarobia surrounded by butterflies –​leading lady in a heavily edited story of human transformation –​becomes a viral image of ‘Butterfly Venus’. This coverage also attracts the attention of Virgin Islands-​born lepidopterist, Ovid Byron, who sets up his laboratory behind Dellarobia’s house and enlists her assistance in research on the monarch species and their imperiled future. The novel performs tensions between perspectives on climate crisis via Dellarobia Turnbow and Ovid Byron’s relationship. The anthropocentric view, held first and firmly by Turnbow and her broader community, reads nature as a message portending human fate. Here, a farming community’s hitherto reliable understanding of weather and seasons is combined with religious conceptions of blessing and punishment, blue skies are a good omen for the sheering season, the lake of fire suggested by the heaving orange butterflies evokes rapture, and seasonless, meaningless years make times seem ‘biblical’ (Kingsolver, 2012, p. 169). Dellarobia knows to ‘be wary’ of climate change while her husband repeats a local shock jock’s invitation for Al Gore to ‘come toast his buns on this’ (Kingsolver, 2012, pp. 202, 360). Kingsolver is careful to unpack the context of these attitudes though. The working poor in North America or globally are not those most responsible for climate change. Rather, as Dellarobia insists, they have already been assigned positions: ‘If you’ve been called the bad girl all your life, you figure you’re already paying the prices, you should go on and use the tickets. If I’m the redneck in the pickup, fine, let me just go and burn some gas’ (Kingsolver, 2012, p. 445). This take on climate change denial is contrasted to the view 165

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

held by Byron, who tries to balance scientific objectivity with very human fear and grief. Flight Behaviour demonstrates the convergence of these views dramatically in key scenes of conflict, focalized through Dellarobia, as she begins to question her understanding of kinship and see how her specific place in the world is globally connected. In various scenes Byron explains climate change and the monarchs’ endangered status to Dellarobia, her children, a group of grade schoolers and a local journalist. His message is ill received –​ it’s not high enough in human interest for the news, and its pessimism and anti-​exceptionalism is hard for Dellarobia to accept as she cares for her two small children. Like the reader, Dellarobia craves a message of hope that Byron steadfastly refuses to provide. Instead he distains human fetishizing of their own survival, being ‘in love with the idea of our persisting’ despite the fact that to ‘a doctor of natural systems […] this looks terminal’ (Kingsolver, 2012, p. 390). Local and global communities are united in a desire to understand the butterflies as a blessing. Dr Byron, however, refuses their positioning as ‘a beautiful sight’, insisting they represent a ‘disordered system’, ‘damage’ wrought by climate change (Kingsolver, 2012, p. 503). The butterflies on the hillside constitute a majority of the north American population, and their likely inability to withstand winter temperatures signals species extinction, a view which Dellarobia hates, preferring ‘the version of the story in which her mountain attracted its visitors through benevolence’ (Kingsolver, 2012, p. 313). Within this dialectic, hope functions in complex ways. Characters such as Dellarobia’s mother-​in-​law and other local women cling to ‘hokey hope’, ignoring structural inequality in the belief that success is a direct result of hard work and perseverance by individuals. Meanwhile, corporate predators circle, ready to exploit what’s left of local resources and leave the town in ruins. While Dellarobia actively dislikes Byron’s terminal diagnosis, she is also sceptical of hokey hope, and provides commentary on instances of it, observing bitterly how her family and friends ‘admired their own steadfast lives. Right up to the day when hope in all its versions went out of stock, including the crummy discount brands, and the heart had just one instruction left: run’ (Kingsolver, 2012, p. 1). For most of the novel her own hopes are narrowed by economic marginalization. She hopes for enough money in the household budget to buy cigarettes, for bargains at the dollar store, suitable clothing at a second-​hand shop, and ways to meet the dwindling desires of her own children. Poverty, here, becomes a rejoinder to the often equally hokey hopes of environmentalists, such as the activist who smugly reads her a climate pledge, able to imagine rural people as ignorant, but not as low polluters. Dellarobia briskly rids him of this illusion with the shocking revelation that she doesn’t eat out, have a computer to turn off overnight, and has never travelled by air. 166

Hope out of Stock

Mythical hope is also critiqued in the text. By contrasting two viral events –​the image of Dellarobia as a ‘Butterfly Venus’, and a YouTube clip of Byron’s altercation with a journalist, in which he demands the media take responsibility for spreading denialism and misinformation regarding climate change –​Kingsolver describes a world where people want truth more than false hope. While sceptical of forms of hope which defer or distort the realities of climate change, the novel is nevertheless critically hopeful in that it describes characters and communities in transformation (if not transcendence), amending entrenched prejudices and world views, and taking up new responsibilities. In Flight Behaviour, sources of critical hope arise out of connections between human and nonhuman, local and global agents in response to climate crisis. The arrival of the Monarchs prompts Dellarobia to consider the world less anthropocentrically. She speculates that the Turnbows’ working dogs ‘would watch, ears up, forepaws planted, patiently bearing with the mess made by undisciplined humans as the world fell down around them’ (Kingsolver, 2012, p. 34). Similarly positioned as both wise and ignorant the lambs ‘would come to terms with their fate in no time flat’ if the forest burned, though they can’t know their economic value as meat ‘already contracted to a grocery chain’ and wool that will ‘go on keeping people warm for years’ (Kingsolver, 2012, p. 37). Animals are part of complicated economic, environmental and social networks. Their fates are intertwined with human behaviours and needs while their labour and bodies have essential economic value. So too weather, which can no longer be understood through maxims and proverbs, can literally shift the ground beneath a family’s feet. By foregrounding these interrelationships, Kingsolver embarks on what Trexler has identified as a project of sophisticated CliFi, beginning to ‘account for the agency of nonhuman things in human affairs. Rather than offering anthropocentric character studies, they capture how geology, geography, and species radically shape human experience’ (Trexler, 2015, p. 171). A prominent example is the monarchs, which, in the novel, are both actual butterflies and symbolic agents. By pushing Dr Byron to talk to the media, Dellarobia hopes global audiences will see them as real more than an extension of human desire and tragedy. They are (as she is) more than beauty or fragility. Rather, they live in a state of critical need which, despite being broadly ignored by human communities, functions in an interdependent network of actions and effects. In Flight Behaviour ‘the edge of extinction is not just a metaphor; system collapse is not a thriller’, but rather disrupted migration and species’ peril are evidence of real, irreversible environmental degradation (Haraway, 2016, p. 102). Kingsolver’s prose also shows how the butterflies’ metaphorical capital can be manipulated, while the species endangerment remains incontrovertible. The monarchs, unawares, are at once a good and bad omen. They are 167

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

both hope and despair as well as a call to action, ‘the shards of a wrecked generation […] charged with resistance’ (Kingsolver, 2012, p. 596). However, as Mehnert (2016, p. 69) observes: Kingsolver’s placing the butterflies at the verge of extinction paradoxically also serves to convey to the reader the agentic power of nature, which interacts with and relates to human existence. In this context, the narrative refrains from a conservationist agenda proposing a human intervention to save the doomed species. The arrival of the butterflies exemplifies how ‘animals, plants, the soil, and humans interact and together form the dynamics of the community, which shape and transform the place Dellarobia calls home’ (Mehnert, 2016, p. 62). The Mexican family who follow the monarchs North (fleeing mudslide damage framed as a likely future for Dellarobia’s home, too, if logging plans go ahead) connect the Turnbows to the plight of poor communities outside of North America. So too, the orange yarn that British activists knit into butterflies symbolically connects the wool of the local economy to globalized flows of labour and capital, and collective hopes for the monarch species’ survival. These connections place the town in a global context, and present possibilities for solidarity ‘emerging on the basis of shared risk exposure, made possible by the internet and modern technologies’ (Mehnert, 2016, p. 67). In this way, the novel dramatizes questions of ‘global connectivity’ such as Heise (2008) enumerates in her critique of environmental localism. Here, knowing where your animal products and Christmas trees come from, what kind of environmental mismanagement arises from threat of financial loss, how people in London know what’s going on in your small town, and why a disaster in Mexico might mean butterflies in the Appalachians, can ‘open the local out into a network of ecological links that span a region, a continent or the world’ (Heise, 2008, p. 56). The perceptual changes that accompany these coalitions are experienced by Dellarobia as fundamental alterations in her ‘sense of things’ (Kingsolver, 2012, p. 162). As such, the novel ‘illustrates how questions of selfhood and identity are not only renegotiated in relation to the non-​human, but also in relation to a large-​scaled phenomenon such as global warming’ (Mehnert, 2016, p. 63). As her perspective broadens, so do Dellarobia’s ideas about the good life. Her high school best friend, Dovey, is ‘a source of hope’ and their relationship is framed as an extra-​familial form of kinship that ultimately leads her to extend her aspirations beyond the heteronormative family, continue her education and find renewed purpose based on a sense of broader connection and environmental responsibility (Kingsolver, 2012, p. 62). These transformations are framed in the novel as hopeful, but they are not posed as revelatory or a substitute for salvation. Rather, the novel ironizes human 168

Hope out of Stock

lust for revelation of new worlds in its final lines where in ‘above the lake of the world, flanked by white mountains, they [the butterflies] flew out to a new earth’ (Kingsolver, 2012, p. 596). This ‘new earth’ is inhospitable, forged through anthropogenic climate change, and certainly not descending, biblically, as a bride from heaven for a faithful elect.

‘Stumbling from one disaster to the next’: melancholic hope in James Bradley’s Clade James Bradley’s Clade (2015) sweeps across decades and continents, staying ‘with the trouble’ more than individual characters, who appear episodically, their fates connected through familial and extra-​familial relationships, and various climate emergencies and aftermaths (Haraway, 2016). In ten parts, spanning 70 years the novel describes ice melt, heatwaves, fires, unstable power grids, high-​tech entertainment, tropical storms in previously temperate areas, flood, sea level rise, climate refugeeism, species die-​off, pandemic, recession, interstellar communication and radically transformed post-​disaster cities. While a list of these events may read as spectacular, by exploring the impact of distributed catastrophe on the everyday lives of a kinship group over three generations, Bradley eschews spectacle for speculative realism and underscores the creativity, alliances and relationships of care that enable life in climate crisis. The events of the novel occur globally, with focal points across Australia, the United Kingdom and China. In this way Bradley addresses the ‘representational, narrative, and strategic challenges’ of what Rob Nixon (2011, pp. 2–​3) has called slow violence, which ‘occurs gradually and out of sight, a violence of delayed destruction that is dispersed across time and space, an attritional violence that is typically not viewed as violence at all’. By guiding the reader through decades defined by catastrophe and anchored in human interrelation, Bradley blocks any desire to read disasters as discrete occurrences with single resolutions, showing Anthropogenic climate change as slow violence, which accretes over time. Clade therefore dramatizes Browne’s (2005, pp. 69–​70) observation that ‘contemporary capitalist nation states’ can be analogous ‘with the experiences of patients who can be healed but not necessarily cured’ because, although our present hope depends on it, it’s nevertheless ‘difficult to precisely or substantively define the conditions that would mean that the future would be better’. The plot of Clade broadens geographically as characters connect, expanding in a way that evokes viral as well as genetic replication. However, as the title suggests, Clade is concerned with lineage and legacy. The novel begins with scientist Adam and his artist girlfriend Ellie undertaking an arduous round of fertility treatments. IVF is exhausting for the couple who are both already professionally and emotionally attuned to the losses of their time. As a scientist, Adam, particularly, finds himself ‘increasingly alarmed’ about the 169

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

future and worries over the prospect of bringing a child into a doomed world (Bradley, 2015, L 164).1 His perspective shifts on an Antarctic expedition when he witnesses ice shift and crack and ‘the entire landscape’ he’d stood on moments before fall towards the sea (Bradley, 2015, L 209). Instead of confirming his dread, however, the incident leaves him surprisingly unafraid, experiencing ‘elation, as if he had been freed somehow’ (Bradley, 2015, L 206). In the final lines of this first narrative, Adam declares a position of resigned steadfastness: ‘they will have the child, or not […] and the world will go on, and they will go on […]For what else is there to do, except hang on, and hope?’ (Bradley, 2015, L 214). It is this grim, resigned determination that catalyzes the rest of the novel. The child Adam and Ellie have does not represent hope for, as Edelman (2004) has described, a future which the present must defer to. Instead the child lives what the reader is given to assume is a lonely and disconsolate life framed by environmental disaster. This description of a future fraught with risk and threat, yet nevertheless inevitable and endurable is repeated at several key points throughout the novel, which, ultimately, locates critical hope in people’s ability to connect with and care for one another, and for other species and places. While Adam and Ellie hang on and hope, the reader encounters their progression in fragments, distributed across long periods of time and sometimes focalized through other characters. Ellie lives her later middle-​age alone in the bush, engaging an artistic project inspired by an endangered colony of bees that connect her to an asylum seeker community. Their daughter, Summer, misspends her adolescence in a not-​so-​distant future Sydney, rimmed by fires and deeply striated along class lines. The reader then encounters Summer briefly in a later chapter, living with her autistic son Noah in a remote squatted property threatened by a tropical storm. Much later in the novel she is dying of cancer, and reaches out to Noah, now a grown astronomer reflecting momentarily on his parentage as he works on a project of interstellar communication. Other storylines presciently describe a global pandemic that spreads from China, and the subsequent economic collapse and burgeoning commercial interest in virtual simulations of the many dead for grieving survivors. Perspective shifts, stories interrelate and the reader’s hopes are necessarily reformulated as environmental and political catastrophe imbricate in the lives of distributed but connected human and nonhuman agents. Like Kingsolver, Bradley expands the definition of ‘kin’ by showing characters connected via extra-​familial connections, including carer-​roles, friendships and connections forged at sites of transformation and emergency. The insistence here follows Haraway’s (2016) insistence that climate catastrophe necessitates expanded alliances and kinship systems. While new forms of kinship, creativity and technology are sources of hope in Clade, Bradley deliberately blocks the reader’s desire to defer, or imagine some future solution that will restore losses, end the challenges described 170

Hope out of Stock

in the novel or save its sympathetic characters. In the penultimate chapter a message received apparently from an extra-​terrestrial intelligence is a source of excitement but not, ultimately, of salvation. Working on a telescope array in Western Australian, Noah points out it will be 500 years before any reply could be received, a period it’s difficult for him to believe that: humanity will survive at all, so violent have the planet’s convulsions become. To the north the ice is gone, the Arctic a gleaming hump of water; to the south the Antarctic ice sheet is collapsing, faster every year; in South America the Amazon is burning. The planet’s crust is shifting, buckling and cracking as the weight of the ice recedes. (Bradley, 2015, L 2497) Here, Noah bookends the novel by listing the phenomena of climate crisis his grandfather, Adam, once worried about. Both men continue in the face of catastrophe, and their achievements are framed in the novel both as included in and peripheral to the continuation of geological history. In a final chapter, a surrogate granddaughter of Adam dances at a silent rave party surrounded by ‘the shimmer’, a beautiful celestial light show caused, perhaps, by ‘a new instability in the Earth’s magnetic fields’ (Bradley, 2015, L 2573). The scene is set in an inundated suburb of Sydney now known as The Floodline, where squatters and refugees live in submerged tower blocks. After a phone call informing her of Adam’s death, she too is given to reflect on what Berger (2006, p. 25) has called the despair ‘without a sense of defeat’ of living in times of crisis. Adam: ‘is one of many, of course, just as she is, just as they all are, part of a movement in time, a river flowing ever on, bearing them away from the past. They have lost so much: Shanghai and Venice, Bangladesh, all those millions of lives’ (Bradley, 2015, L 2580). Here, the novel presents melancholic hope that doesn’t foreclose the future but also refuses to suggest a resolution. As such, it commits to a realistic imagination of climate crisis, which models grief, acceptance and responsibility for the reader. Clade explores the provocation offered by Haraway (2016, p. 100), that the ‘inflection point’ which changes life on earth from everybody and everything is more than climate change but ‘systematically linked patterns that threaten major system collapse after major system collapse’. Through careful descriptions of nonhuman things, including insects, weather, plants, soil and art, Clade shows how: Climate change is not just a ‘theme’ in fiction. It remakes basic narrative operations. It undermines the passivity of place, elevating it to an actor that is itself shaped by world systems. It alters the interactions between characters and introduces entirely new things to fiction. 171

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Finally it mutates the ecological systems that underpin any novel’s world. (Trexler, 2015, p. 233) Clade is driven by a series of catastrophes. Characters bear witness to a transforming world ‘that may be wonderful or terrible or a thousand things in between’ (Bradley, 2015, L 2584). They lose people, places and things. They grieve. They live imperfectly in intervals of crisis and reprieve. Sometimes there is hope, and sometimes despair, but the novel refuses to provide hope that is mythical, deferred or hokey. Hope does not rely on the bettering of trajectories or restoration of losses in individual human lives but, critically, on possibilities for satisfying work and meaningful connections between them.

Conclusion In 2020 the spectacle of disaster is ever tele/​present in human life. Yet the connections between catastrophes are not always visible. The bush fires in Australian rainforests, or along the coast of California and accompanying smoke in capital cities, are linked stories of climate crisis, as is the warm patch of Pacific Ocean, as are record highs worldwide, the COVID-​19 pandemic, and other zoonotic viruses, which connect to habitat destruction, and dislocated species. For environmentalists, calls for governing bodies to declare a climate emergency are, in part, also demands to read these phenomena as part of critically interconnected narratives, ‘part of an inherently catastrophic mode of producing and reproducing social life’ (Lilly et al, 2012, p. 18). While such a reading may not culminate hopefully, rejecting it may render us beyond hope. In the case of climate crisis, hope and despair are a false binary. Hoping for a solution to discrete problems in order to secure a better future is myopic and reductive. Although literature doesn’t inherently possess world-​changing, or action-​ mobilizing properties, it does have a role to play in helping us to see these convergences. Hopeful representations of climate crisis might be emotionally and commercially desirable but literature can also model futures where feared and desired future outcomes exist side by side, and even our all too human hope for a better future is critiqued. In this way, we can spread a ‘rapidly mutating virus of hope, or the less rapidly changing commitment to staying with the trouble’ (Haraway, 2016, p. 114). Writing on the relationship between scientific research and literary speculation, Barbara Kingsolver (2012, p. 598) claims ‘the biotic consequences of climate change tax the descriptive powers, not to mention the courage, of those who know most about it’. When courage and imagination become ethical imperatives, climate fiction no longer deploys environmental disaster as a conceit to add drama to a narrative. Rather, writers can stake their claims on plausible and provocative engagement with our finite, rapidly 172

Hope out of Stock

changing terrestrial realities. This kind of literature reconnects ‘past, present, and future, establishes historical continuity, challenges shifting baselines, and facilitates a critical reflection on the current moment of climate crisis’ (Mehnert, 2016, p. 108). In Clade and Flight Behaviour there is no easy answer, no restoration, redemption, or return to Eden. Human and nonhuman agents continue beyond the limits of the world as we know it. Hope and survival rely on but are not guaranteed by our species’ ability to acknowledge the realities of climate crisis, take responsibility, recognize and grieve losses, adapt, instigate change and find ways to engage meaningfully with what remains. Note 1

Where Kindle editions are provided location numbers (L) are used.

References Bendell, J. 2018, ‘Deep adaptation: a map for navigating climate tragedy’, IFlas Occasional Paper. Retrieved from: https://​jembendell.com/​2019/​05/​ 15/​deep-​adaptation-​versions/​ Berger, J. 2006, ‘Dispatches: undefeated despair’, Race and Class, vol. 48, pp. 23–41. Retrieved from: https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/pdf/ 10.1177/0306396806066645?casa_token=QBYC49zc5HoAAAAA:zy8 BRjhTh_mSKjxcuJAAGPmeKgew8_TD4wR1FCEERLalxhlStAWF2AG5nv1COkQzpJIHfo58mfecA Bloch, E. and Plaice, N. 1986, The Principle of Hope: Volume Three, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Bradley, J. 2015, Clade, Amazon Kindle edition, Sydney: Penguin ebooks. Browne, C. 2005, ‘Hope, critique, and utopia’, Critical Horizons, vol. 6, no. 1, pp. 63–​86. de Coninck, H., Revi, A., Babiker, M., Bertoldi, P., Buckeridge, M., Cartwright, A. et al, 2018, ‘Strengthening and implementing the global response’ in V. Masson-Delmotte, P. Zhai, H.-O. Pörtner, D. Roberts, J. Skea, P.R. Shukla, et al (eds) Global Warming of 1.5°C: An IPCC Special Report on the Impacts of Global Warming of 1.5°C Above Pre-Industrial Levels and Related Global Greenhouse Gas Emission Pathways, in the Context of Strengthening the Global Response to the Threat of Climate Change, Sustainable Development, and Efforts to Eradicate Poverty. Retrieved from: https://www. ipcc.ch/site/assets/uploads/sites/2/2019/02/SR15_Chapter4_Low_Res. pdf [Accessed on 9 September 2021]. Doyle, B. 2015, ‘The postapocalyptic imagination’, Thesis Eleven, vol. 131, no. 1, pp. 99–​113. Duncan-​Andrade, J. 2009, ‘Note to educators: hope required when growing roses in concrete’, Harvard Educational Review, vol. 79, no. 2, pp. 181–​94.

173

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Edelman, L. 2004, No future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Ghosh, A. 2018, The Great Derangement: Climate Change and the Unthinkable, London: Penguin. Haraway, D.J. 2016, Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Heise, U.K. 2008, Sense of Place and Sense of Planet: The Environmental Imagination of the Global, London: Oxford University Press. Hess Wright, J. 2003, ‘Genre films and the status quo’, in Grant, B.K. (ed) Film Genre Reader 3, Houston: University of Texas Press, pp. 41–​9. Kingsolver, B. 2012, Flight Behaviour, Amazon Kindle edition, New York: Faber and Faber. Kunsa, A. 2009, ‘ “Maps of the world in its becoming”: post-​apocalyptic naming in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road’, Journal of Modern Literature, vol. 33, no. 1, pp. 57–​74. Lazarus, R.S. 1999, ‘Hope: an emotion and a vital coping resource against despair’, Social Research, vol. 66, no. 2, pp. 653–​78. Levitas, R. 1990, ‘Educated hope: Ernst Bloch on abstract and concrete utopia’, Utopian Studies, vol. 1, no. 2, pp. 13–​26. Lilly, S., McNally, D., Yuen, E. and Davis, J. (eds) 2012, Catastrophism: The Apocalyptic Politics of Collapse and Rebirth, Oakland: PM Press. McCarthy, C. 2009, The Road, New York: Vintage International. McMurry, A. 2018, Entertaining Futility: Despair and Hope in the Time of Climate Change, Texas: Texas A&M University. Mehnert, A. (2014), ‘Things we didn’t see coming: riskscapes in climate change fiction’, The Anticipation of Catastrophe: Environmental Risk in North American Literature and Culture, Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag, Winter, pp. 59–​78. Mehnert, A. 2016, Climate Change Fictions: Representations of Global Warming in American Literature, Switzerland: Springer. Moylan, T. 1982, ‘The locus of hope: utopia versus ideology (Le lieu de l’espoir: utopie vs idéologie)’, Science Fiction Studies, vol. 9, no. 2, pp. 159–​66. Moylan, T. 2014, ‘Utopia and ideology’, in R. Baccolini, T. Moylan and P. Lang (eds) Demand the Impossible: Science Fiction and the Utopian Imagination, Oxford: Internationaler Verlag der Wissenschaften, pp. 15–​50. Nixon, R. 2011, ‘Slow violence, neoliberalism, and the environmental picaresque’, Slow Violence and the Environmentalism of the Poor, Cambridge, MA; London: Harvard University Press, pp. 45–​67. Solnit, R. 2010, Hope in the Dark, Untold Histories, Wild Possibilities, Amazon Kindle edition, Edinburgh: Canongate Books. Thaler, M. 2019, ‘Bleak dreams, not nightmares: critical dystopias and the necessity of melancholic hope’, Constellations, vol. 26, no. 4, pp. 607–​22. 174

Hope out of Stock

Trexler, A. (2015) Anthropocene Fictions: The Novel in a Time of Climate Change, Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Van Hooft, S. 2014, Hope, New York: Routledge. van Zomeren, M., Pauls, I.L. and Cohen-​Chen, S. 2019, ‘Is hope good for motivating collective action in the context of climate change? Differentiating hope’s emotion-​and problem-​focused coping functions’, Global Environmental Change, vol. 58, p. 101915. Wilkinson, A. and Flowers. B. (eds) 2018, Realistic Hope: Facing Global Challenges, Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press.

175

Conclusion: A Critical Mass of Emotions – Reflexivity, Loneliness and Hope? Roger Patulny and Jordan McKenzie

Introduction It seems opportune to end this book reflecting on the media see-​sawing between utopian and dystopian depictions towards the end of the tumultuous year which was 2020. One brief snippet says much: in the week in which this chapter was drafted, the media was dominated by images of people representing half the population of the US dancing on the streets in masks in a great outpouring celebration of the downfall of the ‘autocrat’ Donald Trump. Meanwhile, the other half raced to fill the feed of social media and conservative websites with protests about election fraud, and claims that even darker times lay ahead under the ‘dictatorship of the deep state’; a few short weeks after this chapter was drafted, some of their number stormed and occupied the US Capitol Building. The emotional maelstrom in which half raged, laughed and cried was brewed in the cauldron of the COVID-​19 pandemic that has (so far) claimed over 700,000 lives in the US alone, with numbers still climbing. In these extraordinary times, utopian and dystopian sentiments seem to have morphed into powerful preoccupations imbuing our thoughts and feelings, and undermining any capacity for reasoned public debate. A considered scepticism about possible futures is being replaced by a powerful bitter-​sweet longing and hope for utopia combined with a genuine fear of a coming dystopia. Are we witnessing the triumph or the end of ambivalence (Burkitt, 2002)? Will fatigue with post-​modern complexities and half-​ measures and an escalation in our collective desire to break through lead to

176

Conclusion

a new, clearer, simpler way of feeling? Or to a Simmelian desire for blasé and deadening of emotional motivation altogether?

Have we reached a critical mass of emotions? What seems most apparent to us is that new, powerful and often simplified emotional and affective sentiments have been raised up as key explanators of much that seems enormously right (utopian) and wrong (dystopian) in contemporary public discourse. Some studies and discourses refer to the role of specific emotions in key situations, for example, anger in US politics (Hochschild, 2016), distress over climate change (Albrecht et al, 2007) or empathy and shame in the ongoing impacts and reactions to colonization (Hutchison, 2014). Others refer to the role of affect in describing numerous cultural and political processes, as part of the affective turn in cultural sociology (Ahmed, 2004). To varying degrees, these explanations capture changes in the underlying emotional dynamics, cultures and climates (de Rivera, 1992) of the societies to which they are connected. It is unclear, though, whether emotions are completely in the driving seat now as we feel our way towards the future, or whether it is just our understanding of them and their influence that has changed and become more suitably complex (Patulny and Olson, 2019). It is simply incorrect to assert that new and powerful emotions have suddenly appeared and taken over public discourse. We have lived with fear, anger and hope in our personal and public lives for much of human history, and such feelings often precede the great and noisy events (elections, pandemics) in surprisingly predictable ways. COVID-​19 has certainly instigated a rise in fear over concerns with health, employment and social cohesion (particularly when threatened by partisan politics). However, it can be argued that much of the COVID-​19 anxiety builds on and intensifies pre-​existing fears over health, work, employment and political representations captured in numerous seminal works, such as Beck’s (1992) risk societies, Bauman’s liquid modernity (2005), Sennett’s work on work-​related social drift (1998), and Habermas’ concerns over the declining public sphere (1990). So does this mean that events such as COVID-​19 represent little more than a temporary spike in the incidence and (media-​driven) curiosity about certain emotions that have always been quietly ticking away ‘in the background’ (Barbalet, 2011) of public discourse? We argue that this is not the case either. As we noted in Chapter 6, COVID-​19 represents a totalizing ‘mass emotional event’, which is likely to have changed the ways in which these emotions are experienced, shared and shape social interaction in potentially fundamental ways. Enforced home confinement may have led to a post-​COVID-​19 permanent shift in the emotional climate, characterized by more future-​ oriented anxiety, and potentially by more anger and frustration, manifest 177

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

in increased mental health problems and aggressive political and personal substance-​abuse coping behaviour. However, greater digital connection and a sense of solidarity in some communities and nations (if not within or between all nations) may also lead to greater hope and empathy. The combined utopian/​dystopian impact on macro-​emotions and emotional climates is not clear, and warrants greater ongoing research attention. A further interesting divergence from past understandings of emotions is that the improved understandings we have of them –​at personal, social, cultural and political levels –​raises their profile and our macro-​reflexive engagement with them (Patulny and Olson, 2019). Emotional dynamics are accelerating and taking on new trajectories as we no longer seek to bury them beneath detached ‘rational scientific’ discourses or rule by trusted experts, institutions, government and politicians, but instead try to reflexively engage with such feelings and their mass experience by citizens. Critical to understanding this is the amplifying and transformative effect of digital media, both in terms of mass media depictions of events and feelings, and in the social media interactions and shared understandings that respond to them. Emotional macro-​reflexivity (Patulny and Olson, 2019) plays a key role here, in helping us understand the perspectives and resources that hyper-​connected and (sometimes mis)informed citizenry can bring to trying to understand, manage, strategically engage with and manipulate such emotions. This can result in the emergence of new inequalities, and dystopian considerations. However, it can also create new narratives and capacities for hope. After all, scholarship on 20th-​century crises (Hobsbawm, 1995) shows how the utopian spirit can be found in every critique of the present, and offers an avenue for reimagining the future (Bloch, 1995). A final point to note is that as we understand and engage with emotions more fully, they often transform into sites of contest, and new inequalities emerge. Some of this is the act of agents contesting EC and power, as noted for example in Chapter 8 about emotional management in the gig work of new ‘emotional economies’ (Patulny et al, 2020). But some of it reflects how emotions are growing to take on a life and logic of their own, becoming self-​empowering, fulfilling and even ‘viral’. This is also an important area deserving much new research. In seeking to make such factors clear –​increased complexity, changed interactions, digital media and hyper-​reflexivity, and new inequalities –​it is useful to consider a subject of relevance to the recent pandemic: loneliness.

Loneliness pre-​and post-​COVID-​19: from ‘late-​ modern’ detachment to a digitized ‘new normal’? The study of social loneliness has gained great traction in the last decade (much as the related study of social capital did in the decades before it) 178

Conclusion

as concerns over the decline in social interaction and civic society have grown substantially. Loneliness is a debilitating condition distinct from social isolation and lack of contact in that it is associated with an absence or deficit of quality relationships that provide meaningful interaction and support (Weiss, 1973). Loneliness is associated with poor health outcomes such as early mortality (Holt-​Lundstad et al, 2015), cardio-​vascular disease (Kamiya et al, 2010), and mental health problems and depression (Nangle et al, 2003). Importantly, loneliness precedes COVID-​19 as an important social problem. Heightened loneliness is associated with late-​modern transformations in social interaction (Franklin et al, 2019; Hookway et al, 2019; Patulny and Olson, 2019), characterized by more transitory and fluid relationships, and individualized, fragmented, liquid connections (Giddens, 1991; Bauman, 2005), and a long-​term decline in coupled households in favour of single-​ person dwellings (Qu, 2020). COVID-​19 has exacerbated this problem, with initial reports suggesting that lockdown, social distancing and restricted movements have compounded loneliness (Bu et al, 2020). It is unclear what long-​term impacts these measures will have. Emotional loneliness spreads atypically as a collective emotion, through the absence rather than presence of collective contact, yet it still has collective impact and potential to entrench cultures of loneliness. As people unlearn the social habits of physical interaction, COVID-​19-​induced loneliness may see a long-​term change in the emotional climate in Australia, entrenching a less empathic, lonelier and more suspicious and intolerant Australian community life. These risks must be considered in the context of increasingly entrenched habits of digital interaction. Prior research shows a rise in digital connectivity matched by a general social decline in physical face-​to-​face connections (Patulny and Seaman, 2017), and digital media stepping in to enable distance relationships (Holmes, 2006). However, evidence links high social media use to lower levels of loneliness for highly social people, but increased loneliness for those lacking corresponding meaningful physical networks (Sigman, 2009; Nowland et al, 2018). While not embracing dystopian depictions of futures where we all live ‘alone together’ (Turkle, 2011), the easy substitution of physical for digital interaction is questionable at best, particularly given the important salutogenic links between physical connection, touch and health (for example improved cognition, oxytocin release) (Cacioppo and Patrick, 2008). Furthermore, the digital shift creates new inequalities in loneliness, often built on and exacerbating older inequalities. Single-​person households, for example, were among the loneliest in Australia pre-​COVID-​19 (Relationships Australia, 2018), and recent evidence suggests singles are at particular risk of compounded loneliness from COVID-​19 (Bu et al, 2020). This stems not just from ongoing lockdown, social distancing and restricted movements, 179

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

but from a cultural shift away from physical interaction more palatable to partnered people with more regular physical contact. It is also compounded among older singles and widow/​ers in aged care, who not only lack social contact (or are restricted in engaging in it from social distancing), but also often lack the digital competency and skills to engage in compensatory online interaction. Growth in loneliness pre-​and post-​COVID-​19 is not inevitable. Loneliness can be managed by individuals through a range of techniques, including individual, group-​based, assisted, opt-​in, activity/​behavioral, cognitive/​ emotional, physical (public meetings) and digital (for example phone services, video-​conferencing, social media and connective apps). A critical part of loneliness management is being emotionally reflexive. That is, gaining and acting upon an awareness of the issues and impact of loneliness; having access to data, resources and management techniques for loneliness; and being aware of and able to adjust one’s management techniques to prevailing social conditions –​or feeling rules –​embedded in the cultures in which people find themselves (for example, expressing loneliness may be particularly difficult for men embedded in patriarchal heteronormative situations, and require them to engage in different, group/​activity-​oriented interventions, such as Men’s Sheds). Loneliness is also macro-​reflexively managed (Patulny and Olson, 2019) at the larger collective level, by supporting public interventions, media campaigns and changing public attitudes, stigmas and cultural feeling rules towards admitting loneliness.

Looking ahead reflexively: beyond dystopia? In signalling the important role of emotions in the rise and fall of dystopian depictions of the future, this collection is a testament to the complexity of social emotions, and the increasing emotional sophistication and reflexive awareness of socially embedded emotional experiences (McKenzie et al, 2019). The fate of future societies and their emotional fallout remains contested throughout this edited collection as contributors remain split between cautious optimism (Lupton and Southerton; Yang) and dark pessimism (Harvey and Williams; Patulny). Meanwhile, other submissions point towards the numerous interpretations of a ‘new normal’ in the relationship between past, present and future emotions (McKenzie et al; Doyle; Jacobsen). Throughout this collection utopia and dystopia are presented at times as synonymous, polarizing, overplayed and inevitable. As changes in technology and media advance in an unprecedented fashion, the future of emotions remains as important as it is unpredictable; several chapters point to the contested ways in which emotional expressions and interactions co-​evolve with work patterns and political representations in increasingly digitally 180

Conclusion

mediated environments (Lupton and Southerton; Smith; Patulny). Emotions are increasingly reflexive, managed, unequal and unstable, and yet the importance of understanding emotion has never been greater. Even when arguing that some things do change and mass emotional events can occur, the collection steers us away from totalizing depictions of macro-​emotions and emotional climates mutating in a viral fashion as the ultimate explanators of utopian and dystopian realities. It reveals that even in times of deepest crisis –​from pandemics to moral panics –​rapidly changing collective emotions and conditions imbue –​but do not cause or characterize –​notions of utopia/​dystopian, and that digital media representations/​interactions and micro-​and macro-​reflexivity shape the experiences and responses. Elements of utopian and dystopian discourses and imaginaries function as framing and sense-​making tools that are emotional, social and future-​oriented. Emotions might be permanently changed by catastrophic events such as COVID-​19, but they rarely reach a point of critical mass where they bring on utopia or dystopia in themselves. Such instances may now be impossible in a hyper-​reflexive, media-​saturated society that will endlessly pivot to encompass the latest interpretation of how we feel. The challenge herein lies in researching and understanding reflexive capacities to navigate the feeling of dystopia and utopia, and the inequalities, tensions and hopeful possibilities that follow. References Ahmed, S. 2004, Cultural Politics of Emotion, New York: Routledge. Albrecht, G., Sartore, G-​M., Connor, L., Higginbotham, N., Freeman, S., Kelly, B. et al, 2007, ‘Solastalgia: the distress caused by environmental change’, Australasian Psychiatry, vol. 15 (1_​suppl), pp. S95–​8. doi:10.1080/​ 10398560701701288. Barbalet, J. 2011, ‘Emotions beyond regulation: backgrounded emotions in science and trust’, Emotion Review, vol. 3, no. 1, pp. 36–​43. Bauman, Z. 2005, Liquid Life, Cambridge: Polity Press. Beck, U. 1992, Risk Society: Towards a New Modernity, London: Sage Publications Ltd. Bloch, E. 1995, The Principle of Hope: Volume One, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Bu, F., Steptoe, A. and Fancourt, D. 2020, ‘Who is lonely in lockdown? Cross-​cohort analyses of predictors of loneliness before and during the COVID-​19 pandemic’, Public Health, vol. 186, pp. 31–​4. Burkitt, I. 2002, ‘Complex emotions: relations, feelings and images in emotional experience’, in J. Barbalet (ed) Emotions and Sociology, Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 151–​67. Cacioppo J.T. and Patrick, W. 2008, Loneliness: Human Nature and the Need for Social Connection, New York: W.W. Norton. 181

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

de Rivera, J. 1992, ‘Emotional climate: social structure and emotional dynamics’, in K.T. Strongman (ed) International Review of Studies on Emotion, vol. 2, pp. 197–​218. Franklin, A.S., Barbosa Neves, B., Jaworski, K., Hookway, N., Patulny, R. and Tranter, B. 2019, ‘Towards an understanding of loneliness among Australian men: gender cultures, embodied expression and the social bases of belonging’, Journal of Sociology, vol. 55, no. 1, pp. 124–​43. Giddens, A. 1991, Modernity and Self-​identity: Self and Society in Late Modern Age, Cambridge: Polity Press. Habermas, J. 1990, Moral Consciousness and Communicative Action, Cambridge: Polity Press. Hobsbawm, E. 1995, The Age of Extremes, London: Abacus. Hochschild, A.R. 2016, Strangers in their Own Land: Anger and Mourning on the American Right, New York: New Press. Holmes, M. 2006, ‘Love lives at a distance: distance relationships over the lifecourse’, Sociological Research Online, vol. 11, no. 3, pp. 70–80. doi: 10.5153/sro.1423. Holt-​Lundstad, J., Smith, T., Baker, M., Harris, T. and Stephenson, D. 2015, ‘Loneliness and social isolation as risk factors for mortality’, Perspectives on Psychological Science, vol. 10, no. 2, pp. 227–​37. Hookway, N., Barbosa Neves, B., Franklin, A. and Patulny, R. (2019) ‘Loneliness and love in late modernity: sites of tension and resistance’, in R. Patulny, R. Olson, A. Bellochi, S. Khorana, J. McKenzie and M. Peterie (eds) Emotions in Late Modernity, Abingdon: Routledge, pp. 83–97. Kamiya, Y., Whelan, B., Timonen, V. and Kenny, R.A. 2010, ‘The differential impact of subjective and objective aspects of social engagement on cardiovascular risk factors’, BMC Geriatrics, vol. 10, p. 81. McKenzie, J., Olson, R., Patulny, R. and Peterie, M. 2019, ‘Social emotions: a multidisciplinary approach’, Emotions: History, Culture, Society, vol. 3, pp. 187–​201. Nangle, D., Erdley, C., Newman, J., Mason, C. and Carpenter, E. 2003, ‘Popularity, friendship quantity, and friendship quality: interactive influences on children’s loneliness and depression’, Journal of Clinical Child & Adolescent Psychology, vol. 32, no. 4, pp. 546–​55. Nowland, R., Necka, E. and Cacioppo, J. 2018, ‘Loneliness and social internet use: pathways to reconnection in a digital world’, Perspectives on Psychological Science, pp. 1–​18, online first. Patulny, R. and Seaman, C. 2017, ‘ “I’ll just text you”: is face-​to-​face social contact declining in a mediated world?’, Journal of Sociology, vol. 53, no. 2, pp. 285–​302. Patulny, R. and Olson, R. 2019, ‘Emotions in late modernity’, in R. Patulny, R. Olson, A. Bellochi, S. Khorana, J. McKenzie, and M. Peterie (eds) Emotions in Late Modernity, London: Routledge, pp. 8–​24. 182

Conclusion

Patulny, R., Lazarevic, N. and Smith, V. 2020, ‘ “Once more, with feeling”, said the robot: AI, the end of work, and the rise of emotional economies’, Emotions and Society, vol. 2, no. 1, pp. 79–​97. Qu, L. 2020, ‘Households and families’, Australian Institute of Family Studies Report, pp. 1–​14. Relationships Australia 2018, Is Australia Experiencing an Epidemic of Loneliness? Findings from 16 Waves of the Household Income and Labour Dynamics Survey, Working paper, September. Sennett, R. 1998, The Corrosion of Character: The Personal Consequences of Work in the New Capitalism, New York: W.W. Norton & Company. Sigman, A. 2009, ‘The biological implications of social networking’, The Biologist, vol. 56, no. 1, pp. 14–​20. Turkle, S. 2011, Alone Together: Why We Expect More From Technology and Less From Each Other, New York: Basic Books. Weiss, R. 1973, Loneliness: The Experience of Emotional and Social Isolation, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

183

Index References to figures appear in italic type. References to endnotes show both the page number and the note number (231n3). 9/​11  12, 72, 77, 79–​81, 84, 85n1, 95 see also terrorism 20th century  2, 3, 35, 99, 141, 144, 178 24-​hour news cycle  72, 159 A abandonment  27–​8 academic output  128, 133 see also Research Excellence Framework (REF) activism  35, 53, 54, 60, 64–​6, 90, 95–​8, 166, 168 grassroots  97 administration  131, 133 advertising  20, 35, 36, 39, 41–​4, 46–​9 AI  106, 115 alcohol  78, 108, 117 algorithms  39, 76, 116 alt-​r ight  65, 153 Amazon  35 Anthropocene Realism  164 antidisestablishmentarianism  54, 55, 60, 67 anti-​Semitism  153 anxiety  2, 3, 7, 10, 17, 72–​8, 80, 107, 108, 159, 164, 177 apocalypse  4–​7, 13, 82, 83, 162–​4 Apple  35 Australia  4, 12, 36–​9, 72, 78, 79–​84, 169–​72, 179 see also Black Summer bushfires B Bauman, Zygmunt  5, 10, 13, 112, 139–​43, 144–​9, 150–​6, 177, 179 belonging  7, 16, 21, 24, 26–​30, 74, 75, 98, 99 Black Lives Matter  7, 8 Black Summer bushfires  4, 12, 72, 78, 79–​84, 172 Bloch, Ernst  141, 142, 144, 159, 160, 164 blogs  53, 56, 61, 65 borderland emotions  12, 16–​17, 19, 20–​3, 29, 30

Bourdieu, Pierre  12, 105, 113, 114, 120, 120n5 Boxing Day Tsunami  75 Boyle, Danny  6 see also Beach, The Bradley, James  169–​72 see also Clade Brexit  95, 152 Bridgers, Phoebe  6 bullying  12, 54–​5, 58, 60, 63, 67, 120n7 burnout  108, 109, 117 bushfire  see Black Summer bushfires C Cambridge Analytica  36–​7, 39, 40, 44–​7 capitalism  9, 10, 26, 35, 140, 141, 143, 154, 160, 162, 169 surveillance  35 transnational  26 Capitol Building  176 car parking  125, 131, 135 catastrophe  5, 35, 160–​4, 169, 170–​2, 181 charity  78 children  2, 4, 19, 28, 34, 43, 56, 83, 166, 170 China  17, 22–​7, 29, 30, 31n1, 143, 144, 169, 170 civil aviation  131 civil war  91 Clade  169–​72 clan  17–​19, 27, 30 class  8, 16, 18, 20, 22, 26, 79, 81, 97, 104–​6, 111, 114–​17, 118, 119, 140, 153, 170 CliFi  13, 161, 164, 167 climate change  2, 5, 7, 10, 13, 61, 81, 82, 84, 153, 160–​9, 171, 172, 177 collective emotions  71–​9, 81, 84, 85n1, 181 common good  154, 156 communism  62, 140, 141, 153 community  8, 10, 12, 53, 54, 58, 61, 64, 67, 78, 80, 94, 96–​9, 140, 165, 168, 170 Comte, Auguste  141 Confucianism  17, 18, 20

184

Index

conspiracy  2, 4, 5 consumerism  140, 146, 154 coronavirus  see COVID-​19 counter-​culture  140, 143, 153, 154, 160 COVID-​19  2, 4, 12, 13, 30, 71–​3, 77, 78, 79, 84, 85, 126, 128, 135, 148, 153, 172, 176, 177–​81 crime  58, 59, 66–​7 crisis management  148 crowd behaviour  71, 72 cultural geography  72, 74 cyber-​bullying  54–​60, 63 see also trolling cyber-​deviance  12, 53–​5, 58, 64, 68n1 cyber-​warfare  67 D data  12, 23, 34, 36, 39–​45, 47, 48, 104, 106, 113, 115, 117, 119, 161 collection  42, 46 emotional  113, 115, 117 privacy  39, 45, 46 sharing  39 Day After Tomorrow, The  163 death  74, 140, 147 Deleuze, Gilles  38 democracy  20, 36, 63, 95, 96, 98, 154 Denmark  37, 46 de-​politicization  60 Derrida, Jacques  98, 155 despair  90, 146, 153, 159, 161–​4, 168, 172 digital technologies  34, 35, 38, 106 disability  20, 96 disenchantment  9 diversity  40, 161 drugs  78, 108, 178 Durkheim, Émile  8, 73, 77, 78, 111 dystopia  1–​9, 11–​14, 25, 30, 34, 35, 46, 53, 55, 99, 120, 131, 140, 145–​7, 153, 154, 176, 177, 180–​1 online  53–​60, 64, 67 dystopian future  60, 115, 119, 131, 179 dystopian politics  89–​90 dystopian texts  6, 7, 163–​4 E Easter 2019 bombings  89–​96, 98 Eastern Bloc  143 EasyJet  132 echo chamber  65, 81 see also hug box education  20, 25, 27, 37, 40–​4, 62, 79, 97, 106, 125–​8, 131, 135, 161 see also higher education e-​judiciaries  63, 64 election  3, 18, 36, 62, 74, 93, 152, 176, 177 emotional capital (EC)  105 emotional contagion  12, 35, 47, 71–​3, 75–​9, 81 emotional energy  74, 78, 112 emotional entrepreneurs  116

emotional intelligence (EI)  107 emotional intermediaries  106, 115, 116, 118 Emotional reflexivity-​cyber deviance  64 emotional structuration  12, 104, 105, 109, 114, 115, 117, 118, 119–​20 emotion management (EM)  8, 105, 109, 118, 120n2, 120n3 emotion regulation (ER)  105, 109 employment  17, 19, 24–​6, 30, 116, 119, 125, 127, 129–​33, 177 Engels, Friedrich  8 environment  34, 141, 160–​4, 166–​8, 170, 172 see also climate change ethics  5, 36, 39, 76, 83, 136, 140, 163, 172 ethnicity  20, 21, 56, 91–​2, 95, 98, 151–​3 ethnonationalist  92, 98 Europe  152, 153 Extinction Rebellion (XR)  4, 7 F Facebook  12, 23, 34–​49, 53, 56, 57, 61, 63, 66, 74, 76, 152 fake news  37, 54, 60–​2, 67 fear  2, 3, 10, 11, 17, 22, 27, 30, 59, 60, 71, 75, 77, 80–​2, 84 feminism  19, 20–​2, 24, 30, 38, 90, 96–​8, 100n9, 141, 153 Filipino  97, 106, 107 Flight Behaviour  164–​8, 173 Fourth Industrial Revolution  104 free speech  65 friendship  9, 90, 98, 99, 109, 117, 170 fundamentalism  89–​97 gaming  19, 55, 57, 64, 65 G Generation X  6, 65 gender  8, 16, 17–​20, 22–​6, 28, 30, 56, 66, 79, 93, 95, 96, 111, 153 geopolitics  16, 17, 21, 25, 30 Giddens, Anthony  12, 105, 112, 113, 120, 179 gig workers  105–​8, 110, 111, 116, 117, 118 globalization  16, 106, 119, 140, 143, 148–​53, 168 Global North  34 Global South  117 Goffman, Erving  28, 109, 111 Google  35 GPS  83 Gramsci, Antonio  148 Great Depression  2, 149 Green New Deal  4 grief  80, 82, 91, 93, 95, 96, 159, 161, 164, 166, 171 Guattari, Félix  38 H harassment  53–​5, 58, 59, 60–​3, 66, 67, 120n7

185

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Harvard University  136 health  34, 77, 148, 177–​9 heteronormativity  17, 97, 98, 168, 180 higher education  25, 125, 126, 128, 131–​2, 135 Hitler, Adolf  144 Hochschild, Arlie  74, 109–​11, 116, 120n1, 120n3 Hollaback!  65–​6 Hollywood  159, 163 Holocaust  95, 140, 144 hope  3, 5, 7, 11, 12, 13, 26, 30, 71, 81, 88, 90, 97, 99, 140, 146, 149, 159–​69, 170–​3, 176–​8, 181 hopelessness  24, 84, 90, 163 horror  4, 82, 83 hug box  65 humour  41, 54–​6, 76 hunting  145–​9, 151, 154 I immigration  21, 22, 31n1, 148, 152 India  91, 96, 97 inequality  6, 7, 8, 13, 20, 22, 24, 25, 28, 66, 79, 96, 106, 112–​15, 119, 120, 128, 129, 153, 159, 162, 164, 166, 178, 179, 181 interpersonal emotional management (IEM)  109–​11 interregnum  140, 148–​50, 154 intersectionality  16, 17, 20, 22, 30 intimacy  12, 29 IPCC  160 Isadeen, Cegu  12, 90, 96 Islam  92, 93 see also Muslim Islamophobia  93 J journalism  57, 61, 62, 166, 167 justice  92, 96, 129, 134, 160 K Kingsolver, Barbara  164–​9, 170, 172 see also Flight Behaviour Kinmen  12, 16–​20, 21–​9, 30, 31n1 L LGBT  28 Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE)  94 Line  23 liquid-​modern  see liquid modernity liquid modernity  112, 139, 140, 145–​50, 152–​5, 177 London  20, 168 loneliness  5, 78, 85, 108, 153, 163, 176–​80 M marginalization  16–​18, 20, 25, 26, 161, 162, 165 Marxism  6–​8, 141, 150 Marx, Karl  see Marxism masculinity  19, 26, 27

massacre  94 mass emotional event  12, 71–​80, 81–​5, 177, 181 materialism  12, 34, 37–​40 see also sociomaterialism vital  34, 37–​40, 45 media  2, 5, 7, 20, 34–​9, 46, 60–​2, 74, 77–​9, 81, 83, 85, 104–​7, 167, 176–​9, 180–​1 memes  8, 62, 76, 152 mental health  83, 108, 178, 179 Microsoft  35 middle management  110, 115–​16, 118, 119 militarization  17, 19, 60–​2 mimicry  73–​5 see also mirroring Mini-​Three-​Links  17, 25, 26, 31n1 mirroring  73 see also mimicry misogyny  152 modernity  1, 2, 6, 9, 10, 13, 112, 139, 140, 145–​50, 152–​5, 177 modernism  143, 144, 150 More, Thomas  11, 150 morphogenetic  112, 119 Mothers Front  95 multiculturalism  61, 153 Muslim  12, 93–​8, 152 see also Islam myth  58, 65, 89–​92, 162, 167, 172 N nationalism  89, 92–​8, 152 National Student Survey  130 natural disaster  5, 74, 77 neoliberalism  125, 128, 130–​5, 149 neo-​villeiny  125–​7, 134–​6 Neo-​Villeiny University  13, 125, 126, 134–​6 Netflix  5 netiquette  54–​7, 62, 63 New York  72, 78–​81 nostalgia  3, 13, 74, 75, 82, 140, 145, 150–​1, 153, 155 O Obama, Barack  62, 159 Ocasio-​Cortez, Alexandria  4 Occupy movement  7, 97 Onion, The  62 Onion News Network (ONN )  see Onion, The online behaviour  12, 53, 63, 65 see also trolling oppression  89 optimism  5, 17, 21, 22, 27, 29, 30, 119, 160–​3, 180 P Pacific Ocean  172 pandemic  see COVID-​19 patriarchy  17–​19, 24, 27, 30, 97, 98, 119, 180 personal information  37, 39–​44 pessimism  2, 5, 21, 26, 34–​5, 119, 166, 180 PhD  1, 131

186

Index

philosophy  38, 98, 140, 141 police  8, 114, 159 brutality  8, 159 political leader  2, 3, 62, 80, 100n4, 152 politics  3–​4, 16–​18, 21, 23, 81, 89–​99, 100n10, 140, 145, 149, 152–​3, 177 dysfunctional  89 immature  89, 99 radical  4, 13, 90, 96, 98, 141, 153 pollution  34, 166 populism  13, 99 radical political  13 positivism  141–​2 post-​apocalyptic  5, 6, 13, 162 postcolonialism  91, 96, 106 post-​Fordist  104, 114 postmodernity  10, 140, 141, 145, 150 poverty  96, 117, 140, 159, 165–​6 power  59, 60, 65, 71, 76, 91, 98, 112–​13, 119, 125, 128, 145, 149, 153, 168, 172, 178 relations  16, 20 precariat  106, 115, 116, 118, 127, 135 privacy  35–​40, 41–​9 propaganda  54, 60–​1 psychology  72, 73, 75, 77, 106, 114, 155, 159 psychotherapy  26 publication  23, 35, 126, 128, 133, 150 Q queer  21, 97 see also LGBT Quemoy  see Kinmen R race  8, 20, 21, 79, 81, 147 Rancière, Jacques  97, 110n10 rationalist  10 reality television (TV)  4, 5 recession  74, 169 Red Cross  83 religion  9, 56, 73, 91, 93, 98, 140, 152, 165 Republicans  3 reflexivity  55 Research Excellence Framework (REF)  126, 136n3 Retrotopia  13, 139–​40, 150–​5 ritual  17, 18, 81, 89, 92, 94, 100n4, 100n5, 111–​12 Road, The  163 robot  see AI S salary  128, 130, 133, 134 Sanders, Bernie  4 Sartre, Jean-​Paul  5 scandal  35–​7, 39, 40–​9 school  2, 6, 19, 21–​7, 40–​1, 72, 73, 81, 165, 166, 168 see also education

science  9, 13, 35, 38, 90, 140–​3, 152, 159, 160, 162 science fiction  13, 141, 153 self-​censorship  60 self-​control  63 self-​isolation  72, 77, 117 self-​realization  21, 22 SEPT  108, 127, 128, 130, 131, 135 September 11, 2001  see 9/​11 sexism  19, 24, 92 sexuality  16, 20–​3, 27, 30, 140 see also LGBT Simpsons, The  3, 8 Sinhalese  91–​4, 97, 100n2 smartphone  45 social capital  113, 126–​9, 178 social change  7 socialism  6, 8, 140–​1, 143, 154, 155 social media  2, 6–​8, 12, 23, 35–​9, 49, 53–​7, 60–​3, 65–​7, 71, 72–​6, 77, 78, 81, 84, 106, 115, 176, 178–​80 see also Facebook sociology  1, 3, 4, 8, 11, 12, 28, 34, 35, 55, 67, 72–​3, 77, 105, 109, 114–​15, 139–​45, 177 sociomaterialism  38 software  35, 38, 48 solastagia  82 South Asia  90, 91, 96 see also Sri Lanka Sri Lanka  12, 89–​99, 100n2, 100n5, 100n6, 100n8, 100n10 Stalin, Joseph  144 Stern Review  133 subaltern  91, 93 subcontract  13, 132–​5 subculture  74 substance abuse  117, 178 see also alcohol and drugs suffering  29, 82, 91, 95–​8, 117, 144, 145, 156, 162 suicide  5, 59, 60, 91, 94 bombing  91, 94 surveillance  35, 36, 61, 106, 108, 115, 116, 140, 164 capitalism  35 T Taiwan  16–​17, 20, 22, 25, 27–​30, 31n1 see also Kinmen Tamil  91, 93, 94, 97, 100n2 see also Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) techno-​dystopian imaginaries  34, 46 terrorism  12, 13, 61, 72, 74, 77, 79, 80, 84, 148 ISIS/​ISIL  61 TINA Syndrome  140, 148–​50 tourism  17, 19, 20, 26, 30 township  9, 18, 26 trauma  83, 84, 92, 95, 99 trolling  12, 53–​8, 60–​2, 67, 152 HUEHUE  57

187

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

Trump, Donald  3, 4, 95, 152, 176 Turkey  152 Twitter  8, 53, 56, 61, 76 U Uber  107, 108, 117 unemployment  117, 118 unions  120 university  13, 23, 24–​9, 40, 42, 125, 126, 128–​30, 134–​6 urban  9, 27, 97 utopia  2, 3, 6–​8, 11, 113, 34, 40–​9, 89, 96–​9, 150–​6, 160, 164, 176–​9, 181 concrete  144 V vigilantism  46, 66, 67 violence  5, 6, 8, 66, 89–​92, 99, 100n2, 108, 140, 159, 163, 169, 171 W War Zone Administration (WZA) 17–​19  Weber, Max  9, 125

WeChat  23 welfare state  140 wellbeing  36, 104, 105 white supremacy  152 wicked futures  34 witch hunt  64, 66 workforce  22, 106, 119 work-​for-​labour  126–​35 workplace  9, 13, 73, 74, 75, 105–​13, 118, 119 Y young people  5, 6, 16–​20, 21–​30, 34, 59 see also children youth studies  5 YouTube  4, 5, 53, 167 Z Zhu Xi  17 zombies  6 Zuckerberg, Mark  35 see also Facebook

188

Jack Barbalet, Australian National University

“Dystopian Emotions is not a bleak sermon on the end of the world. These essays recognize how an array of emotions can help us navigate or avoid potentially dark futures.” Mary Holmes, University of Edinburgh

Roger Patulny is Associate Professor of Sociology at the University of Wollongong, Australia.

As nations reel from the effects of poverty, inequality, climate change and the aftermath of the COVID-19 pandemic, it feels as though the world has entered a period characterized by pessimism, cynicism and anxiety. This edited collection challenges individualized understandings of emotion, revealing how they relate to cultural, economic and political realities in difficult times. Combining numerous empirical studies and theoretical developments from around the world, the diverse contributors explore how dystopian visions of the future influence, and are influenced by, the emotions of an anxious and precarious present. This is an original investigation into the changing landscape of emotion in dark and uncertain times.

EDITED BY JORDAN MCKENZIE AND ROGER PATULNY

Jordan McKenzie is Senior Lecturer in Sociology at the University of Wollongong, Australia.

DYSTOPIAN EMOTIONS

“By treating emotions through the prism of temporality, and exploring how future visions inform senses of the present and understandings of the past, this important book plots a powerful new research trajectory.”

ISBN 978-1-5292-1454-3

9 781529 214543

B R I S TO L

@BrisUniPress BristolUniversityPress bristoluniversitypress.co.uk

@policypress

DY STO P I AN E M OT I O N S E MOT I ON AL L AN D S C AP E S AN D DARK F U T U RE S E D I TE D BY J O RDA N M C KE N Z I E A N D RO G E R PA TU L N Y