Resisting Gendered Norms: Civil Society, the Juridical and Political Space in Cambodia [1 ed.] 1409434311, 9781409434313

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Resisting Gendered Norms

Gender in a Global/Local World Series Editors: Jane Parpart, Pauline Gardiner Barber and Marianne H. Marchand Gender in a Global/Local World critically explores the uneven and often contradictory ways in which global processes and local identities come together. Much has been and is being written about globalization and responses to it but rarely from a critical, historical, gendered perspective. Yet, these processes are profoundly gendered albeit in different ways in particular contexts and times. The changes in social, cultural, economic and political institutions and practices alter the conditions under which women and men make and remake their lives. New spaces have been created – economic, political, social – and previously silent voices are being heard. North-South dichotomies are being undermined as increasing numbers of people and communities are exposed to international processes through migration, travel, and communication, even as marginalization and poverty intensify for many in all parts of the world. The series features monographs and collections which explore the tensions in a “global/local world,” and includes contributions from all disciplines in recognition that no single approach can capture these complex processes.

Previous titles are listed at the back of the book

Resisting Gendered Norms Civil Society, the Juridical and Political Space in Cambodia

Mona Lilja University of Gothenburg, Sweden

First published 2013 by Ashgate Publishing Published 2016 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017, USA Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business Copyright © 2013 mona Lilja Mona Lilja has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Lilja, Mona. Resisting gendered norms : civil society, the juridical and political space in Cambodia. – (Gender in a global/local world) 1. Civil society–Cambodia. 2. Power (Social sciences)–Cambodia. 3. Women–Cambodia–Social conditions. 4. Women–Crimes against–Cambodia. 5. Women–Political activity–Cambodia. 6. Cambodia–Social conditions. 7. Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia. I. Title II. Series 305.4'2'09596-dc23 The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows: Lilja, Mona. Resisting gendered norms : civil society, the juridical and political space in Cambodia / by Mona Lilja. pages ; cm. – (Gender in a global/local world) Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Women–Cambodia–Social conditions. 2. Women–Cambodia–Politics and government 3. Civil society–Cambodia. I. Title. HV1448.C16L55 2013 305.409596–dc23 2013000261 ISBN 9781409434313 (hbk) ISBN )

For Eva Lilja

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Contents List of Abbreviations   Foreword    Preface   Acknowledgements  

ix xi xiii xv

1

Introduction  

1

2

Theorising Power and Resistance  

13

3

Gender Roles and Practices in Cambodia  

29

Part I: Gender, Resistance and Gender-Based Violence 4

Theorising Practice: Understanding Resistance Against Gender-Based Violence in Cambodia  

41

5

The Construction of a Trauma: Gender-Based Violence Issues in the Extraordinary Court of the Chambers of Cambodia  

55

6

Bearing Witness: Biopower and Resistance in the ECCC  

69

Part II: Gender, Resistance and National Politics 7

Gendering Political Legitimacy Through the Reproduction of Memories and Violent Discourses in Cambodia  

83

8

Globalisation, Women’s Political Participation and the Politics of Legitimacy and Reconstruction in Cambodia  

95

9

Theorising Resistance: Mapping, Concretism and Universalism   103

10

The Gaps of the ‘Linguistic Turn’: Resistance in the Nexus of Representations, the ‘Surplus’ and the Material  

113

11

Concluding Reflections  

123

List of References   Index  

129 145

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List of Abbreviations ADHOC Cambodian Human Rights and Development Association CDP Cambodian Defenders Project CMN Cambodian Men’s Network CNRP Cambodia National Rescue Party CPP Cambodia People Party CSD Center for Social Development CWCC Cambodian Women’s Crisis Centre DED German Development Service DK Democratic Kampuchea ECCC Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia FUNCINPEC Front Uni National pour un Cambodge Indépendant Neutre Pacifique et Coopératif GAD Gender and Development GBV Gender-based violence ICTY International Criminal Tribunal for Yugoslavia KR Khmer Rouge LICADHO Cambodian League for the Promotion and Defense of Human Rights NA National Assembly NGO non-governmental organization PRK People’s Republic of Kampuchea RGC Royal Government of Cambodia SCSL Special Court for Sierra Leone SRP Sam Rainsy Party TPO Transcultural Psychosocial Organisation UNTAC United Nations Transitional Authority in Cambodia VSS Victim Support Service WESU Witness and Expert Support Unit WID Women in Development WMC Women’s Media Centre WRO Women’s Rights Office

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Foreword Mona Lilja’s important volume tackles the changing gendered negotiations associated with self-formation and political practices in contemporary Cambodia. The sites and projects analysed in her field-based study include: different NGOs, many western in outlook, working against gender-based violence; the Extraordinary Court of the Chambers of Cambodia (ECCC) established in 2003 to deal with crimes committed during the Khmer Rouge period; and, women’s political contributions through the activities of the Ministry of Women’s Affairs and from some of the relatively few women politicians elected to public office. Across all of these sites, Lilja investigates the ‘local/global nexus’ of the reshaping of gendered norms. Dominant perceptions of Cambodian gender relations in public media and political discourse are conservative and valorise ‘cultural tradition’. In this context, tradition implies a quietly submissive Cambodian femininity calculated not to challenge male power in any aspect of daily life, from domestic spaces, to civic and political arenas. Yet gender-based violence has become a major concern and Cambodian women remain marginalised relative to their male counterparts. Moreover, dominant portrayals of gender relations remain ideologically stereotyped and bifurcated. Based on carefully crafted fieldwork and discursive analysis across multiple arenas, Lilja’s Resisting Gendered Norms takes issue with historically static constructions of submissive Cambodian women. Her innovative study shows the complex, sometimes subtle ways women and men are challenging traditional gendered practices. Theoretically, Resisting Gendered Norms is also boldly innovative making a significant contribution to several important debates. Most obviously, advancing from Scott’s foundational arguments about more subtle forms of resistance, the volume sets everyday resistance in relation to other forms of power, such as disciplinary power and biopower. Foucault’s theoretical proposition of the potential mutual entanglement of resistance and power such that that resistance feeds power, provides a productive lens for analysing gendered power. Lastly, but not least in her theoretical toolkit, Lilja engages the new feminist literature on materiality to expand her analysis of resistance beyond the discursive realm. The work thus represents a third, more powerful iteration of resistance scholarship. This volume will find its audience amongst inter/disciplinary researchers interested in post-colonial scholarship, development studies, and the dynamics

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of changing gender and political identities in the region and beyond. Activists and policy makers concerned with gendered-based violence will also appreciate the detailed analysis. Pauline Gardiner Barber Dalhousie University, Canada Jane Parpar Visiting Professor, University of Massachusetts, Boston, USA Marianne Marchand Universidad de las Américas Puebla, Mexico

Preface In 2003 my colleague Stellan Vinthagen and I were having lunch at a local watering hole, when we suddenly realised that both of us have one major research interest: the concept of resistance. Given that we had understood our research profiles as highly different from one another, this came as a surprise. While Stellan is a hardcore activist, my interest in discursive resistance – and the discursive resistance I perform on a regular basis – has a more everyday character. Thus, although our research fields are quite diverse and range from organised activism and demonstrations to the usage of different representations, all fits easily under the umbrella concept of resistance. After having defined a common platform, we decided to cooperate with the aim of intensifying the collaboration between those scattered individuals, units or local networks that exist within the area of resistance studies. Among other things, we have developed the cooperation among researchers from all scientific fields and with independent authors, intellectuals and analysts who are interested in understanding practices of resistance and its connections to power and social change. With the help of ICT (information communication technology), networking (mail server lists, wiki, blogs, webpages, peer-to-peer chat, etc.), collaborative conferences, regular seminars, research and publication projects, and thematic education, we started to organise a global research network: the Resistance Studies Network (RSN, www.resistancestudies.org). Over time, the activities of the network have broadened, to include a peer-reviewed, open-access magazine for the studies of resistance and social change: Resistance Studies Magazine (www. rsmag.org). Additionally, a research programme on resistance of civil societies, which is funded by the Swedish Research Council, has been launched and we have a full-semester university course on resistance that runs once per year. Thus, resistance studies have started to take shape as a broad and complex field of study. This book will examine different aspects of resistance and explore how deeply its practices are connected to self-formations and processes of globalisation. Mona Lilja University of Gothenburg, Sweden October 2012

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Acknowledgements I am grateful and deeply indebted to many individuals and institutions for their support and assistance. First of all, I acknowledge with thanks the financial support of the Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency (Sida), which funded the projects ‘Hybrid Democracy and the Processes of Change: the Political Transformation of Installed Democracies’ (2006–2011; project no. SWE-2006-167) and ‘Genderbased Violence: Understanding Change and the Transformation of Gendered Discourses’ (2009; project no. SWE-2008-284). I am grateful also to the Swedish Research Council, which has awarded funds enabling me to undertake research on a programme entitled ‘Globalization of Resistance: Influences on Democracy Advocators in Civil Society in the South’ (2011–2015; project no. 2010-2298). This book is an outcome of all three projects. Over and above this, I would like to acknowledge Stiftelsen Lars Hiertas Minne, which has assisted me by providing various travel grants, and I want to thank my husband Mikael Baaz, for letting me publish chapters 5 and 6, which we have written together. I have also received tremendous support from friends and colleagues. Among others, the Resistance Research Group at the School of Global Studies, and its core members, are at the centre of my life – you share my passion for resistance. Thank you! Warm appreciation goes not only to my dad Bertil Norrlind, but also to the rest of the Norrlind family for their support and loyalty. This book is dedicated to my mum Eva Lilja for her enormous support and for her mostly wise advice. I wish also to acknowledge my children Einar, Iris, Kitty and Vera Lilja, who I love more than anything and who make my life not only bearable but enjoyable and necessary, as well as my research partner and the love of my life, my husband Mikael Baaz. Thank you for being a part of my life! Finally, I am indebted to the many Cambodian women and men who offered their time to share their views and experiences with me. Without them, this book would never have been written. Mona Lilja Göteborg, May 2013

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Chapter 1

Introduction During the last decades resistance theories have come into fashion, as they are of immediate importance to some of the most prominent academic disciplines today. For instance, resistance is a particularly significant concept in post-colonial theory. It refers to the ability and practices of the post-colonial subject in engaging in resistance towards the colonial power. The poststructuralist position on subjectivity has also put resistance back on the agenda. This book will elaborate on and expand the concept of resistance, by theorising the practices of self-formation and negotiation of men and women in Cambodia. The traditional view of Cambodian women prompts them to speak and move quietly, never respond to their husband’s anger and ‘not go around their stove’, instead spending their time caring for their husbands and children. The appropriate norms for sexual behaviour include heterosexuality, chastity before marriage, and fidelity to their husbands (Lilja 2008). In addition, political positions and/or other independent public actions in some senses contradict the ideals of femininity. However, while the traditional role of women is highly prevalent in today’s Cambodia, it is not unchallenged. On the contrary, traditional and conservative ideals of femininity are currently being contested, for example, by contemporary trends of migration and extra-domestic employment that encompasses traditional gender roles. Annuska Derks has observed that, in the Cambodian media, women are represented as ‘symbols of progress and modernity’ (Derks 2008: 13). Moreover, both civil society groups and individual women and men resist and negotiate the different values, roles and possibilities that women and men are assigned in Cambodia. This resistance prepares a path for social change and a negotiation of gendered power relations. While open forms of resistance are highly visible in Cambodia, subtler forms of resistance that are displayed in everyday conversations are of equal relevance in understanding the processes of social change. This book thereby proceeds from James Scott’s idea that, by focusing on grand actions such as organised rebellions or collective action, political scientists easily miss minor but powerful forms of ‘everyday resistance’. By using different practices of representation, men and women attempt to reconceptualise stereotyped gender images while refusing to accept the low rank that is often assigned to Cambodian women. In addition, various memories are (re)constructed in order to negotiate women’s marginalisation and to resist the practice of gender-based violence (GBV). In the same vein, women and men alike occasionally refuse the identity positions that they are expected to assume. This mirrors Foucault’s ‘refusal of becoming’ –

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maybe the target nowadays is not to discover what we are, but to refuse what we are (Foucault in Dreyfus and Rabinow 1982: 212). Scott’s way of conceptualising resistance as anonymous, disguised, opportunistic, cautious, compromised and often unorganised has attracted a lot of recognition as well as criticism. For example, David Butz criticises Scott’s model of everyday resistance, which he argues is too unsubtle and does not provide a base for imagining more ‘hidden’ forms of resistant subaltern subjectivities (Butz 2011).1 Likewise, Mitchell (1990) argues that Scott relies on an understanding of domination as purely coercive. It is the bodies of the peasants that he studies that are forced into subalternity. Simultaneously, however, as their outward behaviours are dominated, their minds remain free and thereby unpersuaded by hegemonic arguments. Scott, in this regard, it is argued, assumes a subjectivity that pre-exists and is maintained despite dominating discourses and persuasions. Moreover, the notion of power, which serves as a point of departure, is believed to function through limiting people’s options, rather than through creating truths and subjectivities (Butz 2011; Mitchell 1990: 562, 564). Through these concepts of power and subjectivity, Scott is able to maintain this coerced body/unpersuaded mind dichotomy. While this book is highly inspired by Scott’s attempt to understand the action and impact of subtler forms of resistance, I shall add to Scott’s research by addressing the practices of everyday resistance in relation to other forms of power, such as disciplinary power and biopower. As explained in subsequent chapters, the resisting subjects – Cambodian women and men – are not autonomous, operating outside discourse. Nor are power and resistance separate practices, since power exists often simultaneously with resistance. In fact, frequently resistance strengthens power, while power nourishes resistance, and often resistance is parasitic on the very discourses of power. Foucault expresses this succinctly: ‘where there is power, there is resistance, and yet, or rather consequently, this resistance is never in a position of exteriority in relation to power’ (Foucault 1976: 95). However, as Butz states when citing Foucault, that does not mean that subaltern subjectivities are only a reaction or rebound, but ‘there must always be points of insubordination at which it is possible not to escape power per se, but to escape the particular strategy of power-relation that directs one’s conduct’ (Butz 2011; Foucault 1976: 96; Simons 1995: 85). Overall, women’s and men’s ability to resist stereotyping operations, hierarchical constructions and low-status identity positions takes place within discourse. Resistance is, therefore, made possible by the ability of the subject to reflect upon prevailing discourses and to create new logics in the nexus of various contradictory discourses and subject positions. As this book will reveal, resistance is produced within the ideological context itself and the concept of 1  In this book, the term subaltern denotes those stereotyped and/or those assigned low status vis-à-vis other groups/categories. In general, subalterns is a term mainly used in postcolonial theory to refer to marginalised groups and the ‘lower classes’. Using the concept, Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (1988) discusses subalterns’ lack of agency.

Introduction

3

agency indicate the possibility of opposing ideological and discursive boundaries (Dissanayake 1996: x). Among other things, Chapter 6 will discuss this in terms of biopower and the resistance it produces within the Extraordinary Court of the Chambers of Cambodia (ECCC). Moreover, this book will depart from the idea that not only discursive forms of power but also material matters must be taken into consideration when analysing resistance. Exploring the existence of a materiality can actually contribute to our understanding of the discursive productions – and the resistance against these – since various aspects of materiality contribute to the development and transformation of discourses (Colebrook 2000; Grosz 1994). Or, in other words, the material is more than a passive social construction, but instead stands out as an agentic force that interacts with, and changes, discourses (Alaimo and Hekman 2008: 4–7). In line with this, chapters 9 and 10 will contribute empirically and theoretically to our understandings of the relationships between material and discursive dimensions of resistance by examining how women and men in Cambodia depart from the nexus between the material and discursive in their attempts to negotiate the discourses that legitimise their continued subordination. In this, the book will contribute theoretically to the new research carried out within the field of gender and materiality. The idea is that the concepts of power and resistance must be more clearly integrated in the theoretical framework(s) of the ‘new materialism’, than is the case today. In order to illustrate women’s and men’s everyday resistance against local discourses of gender, interviews have been conducted with civil society representatives, politicians as well as stakeholders within the judicial system. On reviewing the interviews, power prevails as diverse and multifarious. For example, when analysing the narratives of the witnesses and victims of GBV within the ECCC, the stories must be contextualised and understood in the wider context of sovereign power, the law and law-like regulations and national memory making, biopolitical strategies and state governmentalism. Individual woman politicians on the national level, on the other hand, are exposed to disciplinary strategies of normalisation and homogenisation. If differing from the norm, they are punished in the light of prevailing normalities. The diversity of different power relations, prevalent in the field material, invites me to proceed from a more multilayered concept of power. Therefore, Foucault’s concepts of disciplinary power, biopower and sovereign power will serve as a point of departure for subsequent chapters of the book, developed especially in Chapter 2. Resistance, on the other hand, will be understood as entangled and ‘leaking’ performances that are often carried out in the tension between globalised representations and local ‘truths’, and identity constructions. In the nexus between the local/global, certain words are repeated; certain knowledge is assumed, refused or (re)used; new truths are constructed or deconstructed; and questions are asked in order to challenge prevailing gender ‘scripts’ in Cambodia. Overall, the book analyses practices of resistance, showing in particular how resistance is performed in a globalised world where it takes new forms.

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As will be explored in the chapters that follow, time, memory, globalisation and representations are only some of the concepts that are necessary to use in order to display the discursive challenges that are performed repeatedly in the political sphere, in judicial institutions and by local non-governmental organisations (NGOs). The resistance attempts, and sometimes succeeds, in negotiating the ‘transcripts’ (hidden and public) – that is, the established ways of behaving and speaking that ‘fit’ particular actors in particular social settings (Scott 1985). Or, as expressed in this book, discourses and identities are reconstructed in the course of diverse gendered strategies. Two subjects are analysed in order to illustrate gendered everyday performances of resistance in Cambodia: (1) GBV, and (2) gender and politics. Below I shall provide a brief outline of the fieldworks and interviews forming the very base of this book with regard to these two topics. Two case studies dealing with resistance and GBV will be analysed in the first part of the book. In Cambodia, domestic violence, rape, including gang rape, violence against sex workers and trafficking are major concerns today. Among other things, it is estimated that nearly one in four women experiences violence in the home (LICADHO 2004: 8; Lilja 2010; UNIFEM, WB, ADB, UNDP and DFID/UK 2004: 10). While there are no comprehensive statistics on rape and sexual violence against women and girls in Cambodia, central institutions such as the General-Commissariat of National Police and the Ministry of Women’s Affairs believe that incidences of rape in Cambodia are increasing (Amnesty 2010: 6). This book, therefore, explores how the discourses and identities at the root of GBV are negotiated in today’s Cambodia. Chapter 4 analyses different NGO programmes against GBV in Cambodia in order to understand what notions of power, agency and resistance reside within these programmes. The text draws upon participant observation and in-depth interviews with four different NGOs in Cambodia. What theoretical concepts do we need in order to understand the organisations’ attempts to reduce GBV? Often I found that resistance against GBV entails the making of new identities, both of those working with awarenessraising campaigns and of the ‘clients’ of such campaigns. Resistance then involves both the self-making of the trainers/trained and the individuals who reflect upon themselves and the discourses of gender. This resistance is located in the nexus between traditional norms and ‘new’ globalised gender norms. Many NGOs that resist GBV are funded by Western organisations and frequently come to promote different Western values of gender. The making of new identity positions and gender discourses developed through a number of hands-on practices of resistance. In particular, the organisations emphasised the importance of approaching men in the resistance against GBV. In their approach to Cambodian men, the (male) trainers of the organisations used different strategies. For example, the Cambodian trainers mixed different kinds of (universal and particular) representations in order to negotiate the prevailing masculinity. The men’s argumentations were also deconstructed by the trainers, who exposed the multiple meanings and contradictions that dwelled in the men’s

Introduction

5

claims of a ‘proper’ masculinity. In addition, the organisations attempted to utilise a hegemonic masculinity in negotiating local violent masculinities. In the nexus between different masculinities, the hegemonic masculinity composes a norm, creating a disciplinary process where individual men are forced to adapt to the practices and characteristics of this masculinity. Chapters 5 and 6 critique GBV issues within the ECCC, which has been established to deal with crimes committed during the Khmer Rouge (KR) period. After almost four years of KR rule, followed by a decade of foreign occupation, which was characterised by warfare between the Vietnamese occupiers and KR resistance, peace efforts eventually began in Paris in 1989. The negotiations resulted in comprehensive peace settlement in 1991. As part of the national reconstruction that followed the peace settlement, the Royal Government of Cambodia and the United Nations together signed an agreement establishing a war crimes tribunal, the ECCC, in June 2003. The ECCC held its first hearing on 4 February 2008 and the court delivered its first sentence on 26 July 2010, when Kaing Guek Eav was sentenced to 35 years’ imprisonment. For many people the ECCC and the processes of international criminal justice have been a disappointment and today numerous critical voices are raised against the ‘hybrid’ court. Based on 33 interviews with local stakeholders in the ECCC, chapters 5 and 6 will investigate, among other things, how the victims of GBV have struggled even harder in the Cambodian case than in other cases (for example, the International Criminal Tribunal for Yugoslavia, ICTY, and the Special Court for Sierra Leone, SCSL) to be represented in the court, since they do not fit neatly into the official memory that is currently in construction in the aftermath of the KR trauma (Campbell 2007; Oostervold 2009). For example, Chapter 5 will show how the attempts of the international community and local NGOs to bring in ‘forced marriages’ as a ‘crime against humanity’ has been met with ambivalence. Still, by reconstructing memories, the attempts to highlight GBV issues and put them on the agenda have in some senses succeeded. And this has implications for today’s debates about GBV too. Overall, the respondents in the nexus between local and international norms have reshaped their memories and identities and thereby created a platform from which they promote GBV issues within the ECCC. Chapter 6, on the other hand, foregrounds the implications of the ECCC in terms of biopolitical governance and the resistance played out against various biopolitical practices. In this chapter, Mikael Baaz and I show how different biopolitical strategies – such as mythologisation, medicalisation and disappearance – have been used in order to mould and govern the stories and lives of (mainly) women victims and witnesses. However, the official stories were still challenged by ‘alternative memories’ of ‘forced marriages’ that were promoted by (primarily) women victims and witnesses. While this book sets out with the aim of assessing the importance of resistance in relation to GBV, female politicians and their negotiations of power will also be discussed. This comprises the second theme of the book. Therefore, chapters 7, 8, 9 and 10 are based on interviews with Cambodian politicians, discussing

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resistance strategies of women politicians in Cambodia, where there are many obstacles for women with political aspirations. Women are often stereotyped, given a low rank, or simply fail to correspond to the norms in regard to political actors. With the exception of the Ministry of Women’s Affairs, women’s overall national, provincial and district political representation is currently very low. During the UN-organised ‘free and fair’ election of 1993, only seven women were elected as members of parliament (MPs) from a total of 120 seats and there were no female ministers or secretaries of state, although five women were appointed under-secretaries of state. Fourteen women became members of the National Assembly in 1998 consisting of 122 seats (CEDAW/C/KHM/1–3 2004: 34–5; Secretariat of State for Women’s Affairs 1995). In 2010 Mr Douglas Broderick, UN Resident Coordinator, said in a speech, ‘Women make up 52 percent of Cambodia’s population, and yet represent only 13 percent of the seats in the Senate and 21 percent in the National Assembly. Without adequate representation, women’s voices are simply not being heard’ (UNDP 2010). The low number of women within formal decision making has resulted in protests and various suggestions on how to increase the female share of political positions. However, the proposed quotas of 30 per cent for female political party candidates and the similar quotas for Government were not accepted by the Constitutional Council.2 Thus, Cambodia is still noticeable as a country where strong cultural boundaries and hierarchies act to subjugate women and limit their political opportunities. The exclusion of women from the political spaces is often a result of the separation of women and men into two, mostly stereotyped, binary categories: while Cambodian men correspond to the image of a politician, women fail to convince as political actors and appear more like people of a secondary status with less influence in public decision making. Hierarchical and stereotypical notions then provide the very base for the distribution of power. However, yet another observation is that Cambodian female politicians practise resistance against these power relations by ‘playing’ with their identities and various representations. As will be shown in Chapter 7, women’s and men’s relation to violence and memories of violence create and undermine women’s legitimacy as political leaders. In line with this, women tend to use ‘time’ and their memories of violence in their strategies to increase their political authority. This chapter addresses how discourses on politics rely on notions of a ‘then’ and a ‘now’ of violence and the images of identity that emerge from these. Moreover, it displays how patterns of migration are referenced in the fight for political legitimacy. Chapter 8 discusses the impacts of globalisation from a resistance perspective. In reviewing the interviews, it seems that current ongoing processes of globalisation provide women with a number of means to exert resistance against gender hierarchies. For example, some women have worked hard in order to learn the new technology that has been made available by the globalisation of 2  CAMNEWS 2.

Introduction

7

technological know-how. This, it appears, has created a divide between menwithout-knowledge and women-with-knowledge, thereby reversing the hierarchy between the genders (Lilja 2008). Thus, women have gained a new status due to the rapidity with which they succeed in adapting to new technological conditions. Femininity has been reconstructed to fit the new order. Again, resistance is about negotiating different gendered images of identity. Chapter 9 outlines some examples of how different representations (pictures, statements, images, practices) have different impacts in negotiating power. Those representations that are comprehended as concrete – persons, performances, images, and so on – are seen as evidence and are used to determine whether or not the spoken discourse is true or false. Following this logic, to be trustworthy a discourse must not only consist of statements but also comprise what people interpret as representations that are more ‘real’. The use of words such as ‘evidence’ and ‘demonstration’ in interviews with Cambodian women politicians could then be seen as indications of the importance of concrete representations. And when alternative resisting discourses are strengthened, this might be due to the fact that people ‘map’ their mental representations against what they comprehend as more concrete representations – and generate a match. These concrete representations – for example, women who have assumed a political identity and act successfully from it – can make an alternative discourse trustworthy and the women politicians can then be perceived as a means of resistance. Or, as one of my respondents expressed it herself, ‘It is a fight back’ (interview, former politician, NGO-worker, Phnom Penh, 1999). Chapter 10 discusses the move to the linguistic within feminist studies and concludes that this progress has provided significant advantages showing how differences (for example, with regard to sex, class and race) are indebted to discursive productions rather than to material ‘facts’. However, there are some key issues or areas in which the linguistic turn needs to be further theorised. To problematise the linguistic turn, this chapter proceeds from the interviews with women politicians in Cambodia and opens up new fields of research. The aim is to display different gaps – some areas to develop – within the feminist linguistic stands: (1) the concept of surplus, and (2) the existence of changing representations. Departing from these gaps, new understandings prevail concerning women’s resistance in Cambodia. In addition to this, how the real – matter – informs and influences both power and resistance will be highlighted in this chapter. To summarise the above, this book explores approaches that theorise resistance in the nexus between now and then, the universal and the particular, the global and the local. Thereby, it deepens our understanding of resistance, change, discursive, rhetorical and micro-political practices that facilitate gender equality on an everyday basis. The chapters reveal also how resistance is about self-making and how resistance is facilitated in an increasingly globalised world order. This kind of resistance is, among other things, about utilising and reconstructing memories,

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refusing a certain identity position or negotiating the images of identity that we repeat and/or replicating differently certain identity positions. The chapters mentioned above show how resistance arises from individuals’ attempts to handle different forms of domination. In reviewing the interviews, what appears is that resistance is sometimes to be regarded as conscious strategy, but more often it is composed of non-reflective responses to different gendered hierarchies that occur within ordinary conversation. So, while resistance per se might not have been the original intention, many of these performances may still be labelled and interpreted as resistance since they are a response to power and might work against prevailing stereotypes and hierarchies. Moreover, agents of resistance might simultaneously promote power-loaded discourses, given that they are the bearers of hierarchies and stereotypes as well as of change. Each individual is both the subject and the object of power – the subject is exposed to the ranking and stereotyping at the same time as s/he promotes these repressive ‘truths’. Overall, each and every individual is an agent exercising power and resistance as well as constituting a ‘subaltern’, subjugated and reduced to order by disciplinary strategies (Foucault 1991: 170–94; Foucault 1994: 19–45). Altogether, the above suggests that power and resistance are not the dichotomous concepts that is often implied. By connecting the concept of resistance as concurrent with power, grounded in reflecting subjectivities and a part of the discourses resisted, each of the chapters develops and deepens Scott’s concept of everyday resistance. The Interviews, the Respondents and some Methodological Considerations As stated above, the different chapters of this book build on interviews that were conducted with stakeholders within different arenas in Cambodia (in the civil society, the ECCC and the political sphere) with regard to GBV and politics. It is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore that these two subjects are of special importance to women in Cambodia. Strong gender hierarchies are displayed both within the political arena and within the domestic hierarchies that often result in GBV. These arenas – the NGO sector, the ECCC and the political sphere – are interesting from a number of perspectives. First of all, they are part of an overall public, and often male-dominated, scene in Cambodia. What happens in these arenas is highly visible to others and they tend to affect the general discourses of gender in Cambodia. Secondly, all three are marked by a negotiation of ‘traditional’ gender roles. In the civil society, various resistance practices against the violent masculinity are being analysed. In the ECCC, an ongoing struggle over meaning tends to involve women as both resisters and victims. And, finally, in the political arena, women politicians challenge a political norm that contains various masculine values. Thereby the cases selected and the field studies undertaken are highly relevant, discussing resistance and the negotiation of gender roles.

Introduction

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The point of departure of this book is that each interview reflects, reproduces, produces and/or challenges the discourses of the society; each, thus, might contribute to our understanding of discursive struggles and is to be considered as informed by, as well as forming social practices and ‘truths’ of, the Cambodian society. This approach reflects Foucault’s way of conceptualising narratives and the individual as ‘an effect of power, and at the same time, or precisely to the extent to which it is that effect, it is the element of its articulation. The individual which power has constituted is at the same time its vehicle’ (Foucault 1986: 234). However, it must be added that the subject not only is exposed to power, disciplined by power, but also resists it through a number of discursive performances (which is a fundamental assumption of this book). As claimed above, the respondents are exposed to power-loaded discourses and react with practices of subordination as well as resistance. Or, in other words, power and resistance were entangled within the interviews that were undertaken with women and men within the juridical and political spaces and within the civil society. Addressing the resistance of Cambodian women, theory will be applied to make sense of interviews, while at times I shall use observations and quotations to illustrate theoretical points and develop previous, as well as present, new, theories about resistance. This approach can be described as dialectical, as theory and empirical material are used in a close and continuous dialogue, where the empirical material informs the theoretical development and vice versa. To conduct interviews with stakeholders in juridical and political spaces and within the civil society, various fieldtrips to Cambodia were undertaken from 1995. Research connected with the different arenas/subjects is explained below. Interviews Within the Political Spaces In order to understand the resistance of women politicians, 41 interviews were conducted in 1997, 1999, 2002 and 2007 with politically involved women and men from different political parties: the Front Uni National pour un Cambodge Indépendant Neutre Pacifique et Coopératif (FUNCINPEC), the CPP, the Human Rights Party and the Sam Rainsy Party (the Sam Rainsy Party (SRP) and the Human Rights Party, have recently merged to form the Cambodia National Rescue Party, the CNRP). The selection of the respondents was performed through snowball sampling and includes a whole range of public actors, from MPs and Senate down to grassroots activists. In addition, some other significant people were interviewed: 11 Cambodian NGO workers were questioned concerning the issues of women, female leaders, power, resistance and democracy. Although I conducted a few interviews with female leaders in rural areas (for example, I interviewed two village chiefs), the main body of respondents came from urban Phnom Penh. With a few exceptions, those interviewed were mainly aged 40 or above. In some cases, I met with the same respondent several times. On some occasions I carried out group interviews. This turned out to be a fruitful method. As a dynamic dialogue emerged among the participants, the

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respondents seemed to forget me, providing a wider and more complex picture of various issues as the participants filled in gaps and presented each other with new approaches. However, it was problematic that informal hierarchies seemed to guide the interview, leading to only some of the group members talking while others kept quiet. In contrast to the group interviews, during the separate one-on-one interviews I became a dominating figure, the listener to whom the respondent turned her/his attention. This emphasis on me might have affected the interview answers. Researching Civil Society and GBV Issues To explore the issue of GBV, and the resistance against GBV, within the Cambodian civil society, this book focuses on in-depth interviews with four local NGOs during 2009 and 2010. The selection of organisations was achieved again through snowball sampling and includes the Cambodian Women’s Crisis Centre (CWCC), which was founded in 1997. This organisation works primarily with victims of domestic violence, rape and trafficking, and operates in three locations (Phnom Penh, Banteay Meanchey and Siem Reap) (CWCC 2010). Another organisation chosen is the Cambodian Men’s Network (CMN), which is dedicated to eliminating male violence against women and children. The network has approximately 1,000 members (both individuals and institutions) throughout the country and is facilitated by the male staff of Gender and Development (GAD). Moreover, I conducted interviews at the Cambodian League for the Promotion and Defense of Human Rights (LICADHO), which has a gender section labelled Women’s Rights Office (WRO). It was established in 1994 with the aim of promoting and protecting women’s rights in Cambodia. The activities of the WRO encompass two main areas: (1) education and advocacy, and (2) investigation and assistance (LICADHO/WRO 2010). In addition, I visited GAD itself, which was formed in 1997 and works to shift perceptions of GBV, among other aims (GAD Decade Report 2007). At all four organisations, I met the director (often more than once) as well as a male trainer. At LICADHO I met also with the women’s rights supervisor. In order to get some feedback, I interviewed the director, as well as a former employee, of the local NGO Centre for Social Development (CSD). These interviews will form the base for analysis in Chapter 5, which deals with the negotiation of the discourses and the identity positions that often result in GBV. Centring the ECCC This book also builds upon participant observation and in-depth interviews with all relevant ‘groups’ of stakeholders in the ECCC. In particular, Mikael Baaz and I interviewed women and men concerning the issue of GBV and how it has been dealt with within the ECCC. The positions of the respondents varied, including those who are professionally involved in court proceedings (investigating judges, judges, prosecutors, lawyers, investigators, other court officials, and so on) as well

Introduction

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as witnesses, victims and civil parties (NGOs included). In all, 33 interviews were conducted. The field research was carried out in Cambodia during May–August 2010. In all the above-mentioned fieldworks, interviews were structured loosely. This approach gave the respondents room for airing issues that they identified as important even though most questions were formulated beforehand (Alvesson and Deetz 2000; Holme and Solvang 1991: 111). In most cases, respondents within the legal and/or political field and the civil society are fluent English speakers. However, not all victims, witnesses and civil parties had mastered the English language. Therefore, in some cases, interpreters have been used, which might reduce some of the nuances within quotations. In addition, the presence of an interpreter may have had a restraining effect on the dynamics of the interviews. It is difficult to have a free flow of ideas and information when one has to sit and wait for the translation now and again. Also, some information may have been lost in the translation process. Moreover, the interviews have been lightly edited for clarity. This includes removing repetition, correcting grammar and omitting some fragmented passages that were difficult to understand. Finally, some of the quotations have been slightly adjusted in order not to reveal the identity of any individuals. The content, however, remains unchanged.

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Chapter 2

Theorising Power and Resistance The purpose of this chapter is to provide a theoretical background to the more analytical chapters on gendered resistance that follow. Among other things, I shall discuss the power/resistance relation through exploring the concepts of discourse and representation. In addition, materiality as one important component will be entangled in the theoretical discussion. I believe that these concepts will prove to be a helpful base for the analysis of power and resistance in subsequent chapters. Power: Disciplinary, Sovereign and/or Biopower As reflected in much social science research, power is not something simple, easily defined, but rather a word attached to different layers of meaning. Or, as exemplified by Mark Haugaard, there are different (often overlapping) kinds of power: the power of the president; the power which individual A exercises over individual B, the power of love; the power of truth; the power of ideology; and electric power; all have elements in common but there is no single common essence which runs through all of these which can be extended to cover all usages of the concept of power. (Haugaard 1997: 2)

Therefore, this book will proceed from a more complex understanding of power, acknowledging the existence of different relations of power. The multitude of different expressions of power is displayed in Foucault’s reasoning, in which he argues, among other things, that power should be seen not solely as repressive but also as productive (making things happen). Thus, following Foucault, power is both positive and negative (Sharp, Routledge, Philo and Paddison 2000: 3–14). This complexity reflects in Foucault’s concepts of disciplinary power, biopower and sovereign power. Discipline is a mechanism of power that regulates behaviours and is enforced by complex systems of punishments, rewards and surveillance. In short, disciplinary power can be perceived as a system of knowledge that seeks to know the individual in relation to other individuals. S/he becomes an object to be known in relation to others who can be known. In the comparison between different subjects, and the judgments that ensue, some individuals, practices and images are presented as superior in relation to others. The latter, those who deviate from the norm, are defined as abnormal and become the subjects of corrective or

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therapeutic techniques that aim to reform, fix or rehabilitate them (Johnston 1991: 149–69). The idea is that non-conformity to the norm is punishable and to be different is to be inferior (Foucault 1991: 177–84). Thus, in order to obtain status – to be rewarded and to avoid disciplinary punishments – people tend to strive towards the same image of identity and to promote the same knowledge (Lenz Taguchi 2004: 14–15). The modern subject is then one that is subjugated and subordinated, bending to discipline. S/he is put to order by disciplinary strategies: ‘Discipline “makes” individuals; it is the specific technique of power that regards individuals both as objects and as instruments of its exercise’ (Foucault 1991: 170). For Foucault, however, power is not to be equated with discipline. Instead, discipline is simply one way in which power can be exercised. Norms/normalities, truths, hierarchies, punishments and rewards are entangled in the processes of disciplinary power. Resisting disciplinary power then means negotiating these components. For example, norms tend to reduce, essentialise, naturalise and establish ‘true’ knowledge (see, for example, Bhabha 1994; Eriksen 1993: 24; Hall 1997b: 257–9). One way to resist disciplinary power is therefore to display multitude and nuances, deconstructing different norms. In Foucault’s description of disciplinary power, power prevails as at least partly repressive. However, Foucault’s wider exploration of the concept suggests that power is not only negative but also productive in a more positive sense (making things happen, constructing notions of pleasure and pain, achieving outcomes). This reflects in Foucault’s outline of biopower. Foucault argues that biopower is a technology for managing populations, which appeared in the late eighteenth century (Sharp, Routledge, Philo and Paddison 2000: 17). Biopower, in some senses, incorporates certain aspects of disciplinary power (see Chapter 6). However, while disciplinary power is about training the actions of (individual) bodies, biopower is about managing the births, deaths, reproduction and illnesses of a population. Biopower is, according to Foucault, a ‘technology of power’, which organises human subjects as a population. The techniques of biopower function to ‘incite, reinforce, control, monitor, optimize and organize’ (Foucault 1976: 136). It is a power that is ‘taking charge of life’ (Foucault 1976: 143). Foucault describes biopower as existing side by side with the sovereign power. In this sense, he makes a distinction between the repressive legal sovereign power, on the one hand, and the productive, normalising power on the other: ‘The powers of modern society are exercised through, on the basis of, and by virtue of, this very heterogeneity between a public right of sovereignty and a polymorphous disciplinary mechanism’ (Foucault 2001: 74). Foucault presents the sovereign power as legislative, prohibitive and censoring, a power that makes use primarily of the law and law-like regulations (Dean 1999: 105–6; Foucault 1976: 83–5). Following Foucault, there are then different forms of power. These different forms of power overlap, produce each other, and hybridise. For example, Mitchell Dean (1999) emphasises the strong connections between the juridical system

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of sovereignty and the normalising (biopolitical) power. According to Dean, liberalism transforms the role of law in a number of ways. Thereby, the law can no longer be understood simply as an instrument of sovereignty. Instead, it prevails as a component of the liberal technology of government (Dean 1999: 145) Thus, the law turns into one of many regulatory mechanisms governing the population (Dean 1999: 118ff.). In summary, this book acknowledges the biopolitical nature of the Cambodian legal system and liberalism. The multitude of different relations of power, and the accompanying complexity, will be addressed in the next chapters in relation to resistance. Discourses, Power and Representation Power, in its different versions, must be understood through the concept of discourse. The norms, truths and hierarchies that form our subjectivities, our will, and bring us to order are constructed through discourse. As I shall develop below, the concept of discourse provides us with an understanding of the production of shared meanings, which makes people who belong to the same society interpret the world in roughly the same way, and express themselves, their feelings and thoughts, in ways that will be understood by others (Hall 1997a; Lilja 2008). Cultures or discourses are about shared meanings. When stating that two persons belong to the same culture, what is meant is that these persons represent the world in roughly the same way and can express their thoughts and feelings in ways that will be comprehended easily by the other: they are exposed to, and have knowledge about, the same discourses. What we see and hear (different representations) in ‘themselves’ do not have a fixed, single and unchanging meaning. A little, hard, grey piece to be found on the ground can be a stone or a piece of sculpture depending on what meaning we assign to it and how we discuss it with others. A discourse consists of a variety, or a body, of different representations that circulate and create meaning regarding the very same topic. Or, as expressed by Hall, ‘Discourses are ways of referring to or constructing knowledge about a particular topic of practice: a cluster (or formation) of ideas, images and practices, which provide ways of talking about, forms of knowledge and conduct associated with, a particular topic’ (Hall 1997a: 6). Simply put, the concept of discourse is primarily about the production of meaning. Or, in other words, in this book, the concept of discourse refers to different clusters of representations through which meanings, regarding certain topics or objects at certain times, are constructed (Henry and Tator 2002). A discourse could then be conceptualised as temporarily constructed meanings and a reduction and exclusion of other possible meanings. The very base of the discourse theory of Laclau consists of a few structuring notions: discourses are never ‘done’; meaning can never be fixed; and there is a constant battle in regard to the different signs of the discourse. Raised as we are into certain language games, we tend to repeat, reinvent, oppose and redefine the meaning of the signifier. According to Laclau and Mouffe, we try to fix the

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meaning attached to different words in the struggle over meaning. While this is an impossible task – meaning can never be fixed – we can still come to an illusory conclusion that the meanings are simply the natural ones, the true definitions. A discourse is then the temporary fixation of meaning. This implies a provisional reduction and exclusion of other possible meanings (Laclau 1990; Laclau and Mouffe 1985; Winther Jörgensen and Phillips 1999; Lilja 2008). As stated above, discourses are maintained by various representations. According to Hall, representation means ‘using language to say something meaningful about, or to represent, the world meaningfully, to other people’ (Hall 1997a: 15). This, however, is only part of it. To represent involves the use not only of language but also of signs and images that stand for or represent things. In addition, the processes of representation do not simply make meaning present but also construct meaning (Webb 2009: 30). But how do representations relate to meaning? There are different processes happening simultaneously in this regard. First of all, objects, persons, and so on, gain meaning by how we represent them – that is, the stories and words we use about them, the emotions we associate with them, and the images and categories we produce of them (Webb 2009). In part, we give meaning to things ‘out in the world’ (people, objects, and so on) from the ‘cultural order’ – that is, the concepts we use when interpreting the world ‘out there’. But the cultural order is also changed by time, as it is exposed to, among other things, hybridity, resistance, and institutional and/or environmental changes. In addition, how we use things affects how we refer to them. How we use the brush, tap and water when we wash the dishes affects what we feel, think and say about these objects, the practices and the results. So, not only do we create discourses through the use of representations, but we also use discourses to interpret what we hear and see. In this regard, Hall elaborates on different ‘systems of representation’. The first one, for us most important, is a system ‘by which all sorts of objects, people and events are correlated with a set of concepts or mental representations which we carry around in our heads’ (Hall 1997a: 3–17). This means that we use our concepts, or conceptual maps, and interpret the objects we see in the world – that is, people, events, and so on. We then have the mental representations in our heads as well as the things in the world – the people, objects or events – and through constructing a set of correspondences between these ‘things in the world’ and our conceptual maps, we give objects meaning. This implies, to make it more complex, that the ‘things in the world’ are also constructed and interpreted by us. Thus, it is in the nexus of two mental processes that the world becomes meaningful to us. In other words, we construct mental representations, based on which we interpret concrete objects, and map these interpretations with our mental representations. It is in a complex process and relationship between different mental processes in which we construct the things/ persons/feelings that we think relate, correspond or overlap with our mental representations. It follows from the above that we are constantly mapping our

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ideas – our mental representations – with the originals as interpreted by us, in order to assess differences and sameness. Materiality, Discourse and Power The poststructuralist approach, and the turn to the linguistic and discursive, has been enormously productive for social science. This is particularly true in regard to gender studies, where the ‘linguistic turn’ has allowed feminists to understand gender from new perspectives – for example, through the concept of performativity, (re)introduced to the agenda by Judith Butler (Butler 1999; see also Rosenberg 2005: 15). In short, Butler argues, inspired by Derrida’s theory of iterability or citationality, that gender is an identity constituted in time through the repetition of acts (Butler 1999: 178–9). In this, Butler has created a paradigm shift within the history of feminist studies. Indeed, many have convincingly argued that Butler’s performative understanding of subjectivity and identity has become the ‘baseline’ from which subsequent feminist inquiry on gender discourses must proceed (for example, Zalewski in Parpart and Zalewski 2008). Lately, however, the sole focus on discourses has been challenged by the followers of the new ‘material turn’, who take what they experience as the advantages, but primarily the failures, of the linguistic turn as a point of departure: ‘Far from deconstructing the dichotomies of language/reality or culture/nature, they have rejected one side and embraced the other’ (Alaimo and Hekman 2008: 2). Even though many poststructuralist theories grant the existence of a material reality, it is argued that this reality is often thought of as a realm entirely separate from that of language and discourse (Alaimo and Hekman 2008: 3; Guyer 1998). The discussion regarding material and symbolic forces has then entered the agenda as more and more feminist researchers acknowledge the material critique. Literature addressing this, for example, ‘The Longing for the Material’ (Ball 2006) and The Material Theory (Alaimo and Hekman 2008b) surfaces with increasing regularity when searching for the latest within feminist studies. One of the main arguments of the ‘material turn’ is that speeches, intimacy, proximity, moving, caring voices or foot movements exceed the capacity of the linguistic theoretical stance. In other words, we must not forget how the ‘materialities of bodies, structures, landscapes, resources, etc., tend to disappear or take a back seat to practices of representation’ (Ferguson 2007). Similarly, Braidotti (2002) argues that certain aspects of the identification process, such as proximity and interconnection, are impossible to render within language. Yet another critique of the linguistic turn takes the body as a starting point and emphasises gender as a ‘lived social relation’ (McNay 2004) and women as ‘embodied selves’ (Malmström 2009). Women, it is argued, have bodies that feel pain and pleasure, bodily experiences, which in turn interact with prevailing discourses. We have diseases that are subject to medical interventions that may or may not cure bodies (Alaimo and Hekman 2008).

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In conclusion, while acknowledging the linguistic stands, it is argued that we must develop its main points so that it can continue to be a fruitful method of analysis throughout the near future. How far we must go – to what extent we must ‘see’ the material – differs among the views of researchers. However, there seems to be a common view that exploring the existence of a materiality can actually contribute to our understanding of the discursive production, since various aspects of materiality contribute to the development and transformation of discourses (Colebrook 2000; Grosz 1994). The point of departure is that we must not abandon what we have learned from the linguistic turn but acknowledge its advantages and ‘build on’ rather than ‘restart’. The aim is then to develop theories in which the material is more than a passive social construction, instead standing out as an agentic force that interacts with and changes discourse (Alaimo and Hekman 2008: 4–7). The new ‘material turn’ is in some senses dominated by Karen Barad, who promotes a posthumanist concept of performativity that ‘incorporates important material and discursive, social and scientific, human and nonhuman, and natural and cultural factors’ (Barad 2008: 126). Barad introduces the concept of ‘agential realism’, whose core point is that theory has the ability to make certain aspects of reality agentic and that this agency, in turn, has real, material and political consequences (Barad 2008: 120–47; Hekman 2008: 105). Linguistic feminists do not say that the world out there does not exist, but that we hardly can see it ‘as-it-is’ without interpreting it through layers of meaning. In response, Barad argues that nature/material prevails within poststructuralism as a passive being defined in relation to culture. However, nature affects discourses and has political consequences, it is argued. The question then becomes how to conceptualise nature so that it is assigned agency. One follower of this viewpoint is Susan Hekman, who argues, The significance of Barad’s position and its advantages in relation to those of Butler and Foucault are revealed in a pathbreaking article published in differences in 1998. Barad’s article supplies an illustration of how agential realism works in both theory and practice. At the core of agential realism is the thesis that theories make particular aspects of reality agentic and that this agency has real, material – and, most notably – political consequences. (Hekman 2008: 105)

What Hekman asks for is a deeper understanding of reality – of the material – albeit informed by the lesson learnt from the linguistic turn. In her argumentation, among others things, she affirms Bruno Latour’s claim for a ‘second empiricism’ and a return to a realist attitude (Hekman 2008: 88). The new materialism, however, is not without critique. Sara Ahmed, among others, has questioned its innovative character, arguing that the new grows at the expense of past works of feminist biologists and on sidelining the contemporary work of feminist science scholars (Ahmed 2008). Indeed, the new materialism has just begun and we need to further develop and deconstruct the material/discursive

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couplet in order to analyse, synthesise, develop and contribute to the linguistic turn in feminist studies. In this book, I shall discuss how different discourses and the material entangle in relations of power and resistance. In chapters 9 and 10 the relationship between the discursive and the material will be discussed in relation to power and resistance. Among other things, the concept of surplus will be connected to materialism and the power–resistance nexus. Resistance What we believe in and how we interpret the world are, as we shall see in subsequent chapters, probably products of the relationships between various discursive and material forces. Together, the discursive and material intervene to create various ‘truths’ and power relations. But what is the resistance against these relations of power? In line with Hoy’s suggestions, resistance studies are undergoing expansion. There are several reasons why the concept of resistance has enjoyed increased attention during the last years. Firstly, as Hoy argues, the current world order motivates a major rethinking of the rhetoric of resistance. After the collapse of the Berlin Wall and the dissolution of the USSR, where the concept of resistance is heard more often than ‘revolution’, ‘its connotations must be clarified’ (Hoy 2005: 6–7). The current globalisation is a second reason for the renewed interest in the concept of resistance. How power relations are maintained, challenged and resisted has changed as the interaction among people increases globally. For example, with ongoing globalisation, social change happens to an ever-increasing extent (Beck 1998; Beynon and Dunkerley 2000; Castells 1997; Clark 1999; Lechner and Boli 2000). Finally, the new status of resistance studies may be due to the upswing of various poststructuralist perspectives and language/discourses as a point of departure for studying power and social change. This approach often embraces a notion of resistance. Or, as David Couzens Hoy expresses it: ‘From the poststructuralist perspective, a society without resistance would be either a harmless daydream or a terrifying nightmare. Dreaming of a society without resistance is harmless as long as the theorist does not have the power to enforce the dream. However, the poststructuralist concern is that, when backed by force, the dream could become a nightmare’ (Hoy 2004: 11; Lilja and Vinthagen 2008). Resistance can be seen as a response to power and might thereby be considered as shaped by relations of power. This makes resistance a key to power. According to Foucault, we might use resistance as a ‘chemical catalyst so as to bring to light power relations, locate their position, and find out their point of application and the methods used’ (Foucault 1982: 780). However, resistance is not only a response to power, which might display power, but resistance also affects power relations, creating entangled interactions between power and resistance. In addition, resistance and power often exist

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simultaneously and thereby embrace alliances, assertions and accommodations, inviting us to nuance the power–resistance relationship outlined above. Resistance displays an impressive variation: it might be violent or non-violent, confrontational or circumventing, deconstructing or reconstructing, productive or hindering, individual or collective, accommodating or enforcing, materialistic, virtual (as in digital resistance) or ‘nomadic’ (Lilja and Vinthagen 2008). Still, as stated previously, what form it takes depends, at least partly, upon the very shape and site of power. Decision-making power, exercised by power holders, is often met with movements’ continuous experimentation and invention of new forms of resistance. Friendship and surveillance as means of power result in selfsurveillance and create yet another form of resistance. Often different kinds of organised resistance are in focus (Eyerman and Jamison 1996; Singh 2001; Tarrow 1994; Thörn 1997; Wignaraja 1993). However, resistance, as implied above, also includes practices of everyday resistance, which are neither organised nor politically articulated (Scott 1987; Martin 1999). This kind of subtle resistance and social change has been discussed by poststructuralists as well as by post-colonial researchers, for example, in terms of reversed discourses (Butler 1995: 236; Foucault 1986), resistance narratives (Azar 2002; Johansson 1999: 57), the creation of competing discourses within counter-hegemonic blocs (Gills 2000), performativity (Butler 1990), mobile subjectivities (Ferguson 1993), mimicry (Bhabha 1994), irony (Hutcheon 1994), intertextuality (Kristeva 1986; Fairclough 1992), hidden transcripts (Scott 1987), queer (Rosenberg 2000), courage (Gilbert 2002) and deconstruction (Derrida 1997). While all these might be important practices or phenomena of resistance, their relevance and conceptual interrelations are slightly unclear and there is a lack of coherent research discussion on the overall experience of resistance (Lilja 2008; Lilja and Vinthagen 2008). Therefore, this book will approach resistance from different angles in order to examine the multitude and complicated network of resistance practices in a Cambodian context. In particular, resistance will be analysed in order to increase our knowledge about the theoretical means we need to further understand negotiations, confrontations, agency and social change. The Entanglements of Power and Resistance As stated above, resistance can be seen as a reaction against different power relations. Thereby, exercising power probably means both strengthening different power relations at stake as well as setting off the resistance against the very same. Women and ethnic minorities are often constructed as the others, differing from the norm. However, tired of being put in order by disciplinary strategies, and thereby being marginalised from power, these groups often try to negotiate different discursive constructions – likewise the sovereign who exercises direct decision-making power, maintains power relations, but also simultaneously creates reactions against the domination in terms of resistance. Demonstrations, protests

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and riots are all reactions to this form of power-from-above. Biopolitics, as will be further elaborated in the next section, are met similarly by yet other forms of resistance. Thereby, practices of power create power relations and/or resistance, and vice versa. Thus power and resistance at the same time fulfil and work against their purpose, thereby presenting as overlapping and hybrid forms, entangled in different ways for different reasons (Lilja and Vinthagen 2013; Sharp, Routledge, Philo and Paddison 2000: 3, 24). Hybridity is a key word when considering the entanglement of power and resistance. In short, the concept is used to describe a situation where new species, traditions, discourses and social structures evolve from the blending of the originals (Kirkegaard 2004: 26). However, according to Homi Bhabha, the function of hybridity is not to be able to trace two original moments, from which a third emerges. Rather, hybridity represents a ‘third space’, a space of resistance, which enables other positions to develop and new identification processes to transpire (Bhabha 1999: 286). One example of the entanglement of power and resistance, their overlaps and hybrid coexistence, is the way in which indigenous struggles prevail as a complex interplay of power and resistance. Taking an intersectional perspective, indigenous resistance is formed by entanglements of gender, nation, ethnicity and identity, which prompt us to unpack the nexus of power/resistance. In indigenous political cultures the woman’s body – the female indigenous figure – often carries a high symbolic value. Thus, the female indigenous body must be understood in the light of contested notions of what symbolises nation and belonging. Likewise, the wearing of indigenous clothing and other non-state arenas for identity constitution (for example, cuisine and language) arise out of national politics, gender relations and notions of traditions and provide means by which indigenous people may articulate their positioning (Radcliff 2000). Indigenous rural women are marginalised in racial terms as well as in the distinction between the rural/urban, the capital/province, and in regard to various gender relations. However, in the resistance struggle they become primary actors in their capacity as bearers of traditions and icons of the indigenous culture. Thus, the women simultaneously constitute central figures as well as marginalised ‘others’: they are positioned in the interplay of power and resistance (Radcliff 2000). In addition, the indigenous culture often comes to mark a ‘reversed discourse’. While the discourses and practices of the indigenous people are often assigned low value in the mainstream culture, one common resistance strategy of indigenous subalterns is to react by involving the categories and vocabularies of the mainstream, precisely in order to contest it (Butler 1995: 236). Reversed discourses, in this sense, constitute the possibility of a repetition that repeats against its origin (Butler 1997: 93). Foucault writes, ‘Deviancy returns from abjection by deploying just those terms which relegated it to that state in the first place – including “nature” and “essence”’ (Foucault in Parry 1994: 194). Reverse discourse is, hence, about adding new meaning to ‘subaltern’ concepts. This discourse is always parasitic on the ‘dominant discourse’ it contests and resistance appears as the effect of

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power, as a part of power itself (Butler 1995: 237; Lilja 2008). Again, it is a matter of an entanglement of power and resistance, where both exist simultaneously, nourishing each other. Moreover, as tourism expands, the commercialised, indigenously dressed female body is increasingly sought. These bodies represent a heterosexualisation of client–maid interactions, which in one sense resembles the ethicised relations of the ‘servility on the hacienda’ (Radcliff 2000: 175). The indigenous female figure prevails as an exotic alterity to tourists, businessmen and other foreigners. In this, the women are entangled in relations of power that are parasitic on the resistance of the indigenous female body, who seeks to end the domination through expressing her marginalisation and a resisting ‘us’ through indigenous clothing. Here hybridity prevails on several levels. Resistance and power seem to feed each other, existing simultaneously and resulting in new practices. This is an example of resistance that not just emerges as resistance but also serves different power relations (Radcliff 2000). Summing up, resistance is not only parasitic on power: different practices of resistance may undermine power as well as strengthen it. Or in other words, resistance profits on power, providing the very base for resisting strategies, while at the same time strengthening and challenging power. Resistance: Discourses and Power as a Key to Emancipatory Changes Earlier research (Lilja 2008) reveals how the practices of resistance are mainly formulated from two prerequisites, namely the construction of power and the construction of the discourse. This pattern, as the next chapters will illustrate, repeats itself within the political and juridical spaces as well as in the civil society in Cambodia. Below, I shall develop this reasoning. One way to resist power is to negotiate the discourses through which biopower and disciplinary power are constituted. But how might this be done? As argued above, the discourse is built upon the repetition of different representations. Hence, women and men could use different sorts of representations, repeat them often or more seldom, repeat them differently or mix discourses together, in order to change the discourses (and create manifoldness, nuances or upgrade of different images). In addition, as power-loaded discourses frequently are made ‘natural’, yet another strategy of resistance might be to deconstruct these discourses. Some of these practices are discussed by poststructuralist or post-colonial researchers today. For example, according to Butler, failures to repeat ‘correctly’ enable the possibility of transformation (Butler 1999: 179). Bhabha, on the other hand, seeks to describe the construction of cultural authority within conditions of inequity, arguing that, ‘At the point at which the precept attempts to objectify itself as a generalized knowledge or a normalizing, hegemonic practice, the hybrid strategy of discourse opens up a space of negotiation where power is unequal but its articulation may be equivocal’ (Bhabha 1996: 58). In a colonial context,

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hybridity means that concepts that the coloniser brings to the colonised might be interpreted, and thus reborn, in the light of the colonised culture (Childs and Williams 1997: 136). The construction of discourses, thus, as stated above, helps us to understand how social change can be made possible. In addition, the very construction of different power relations is important when trying to understand how to resist power. Sovereign power, for example, is aggressive, forbidding and punishing, stopping and limiting certain behaviours. Sometimes, this form of power involves a dramatic show of force and the use of violent punishment. It creates subordinate subjects thorough its techniques of direct decision making. Since this power is about repressing certain behaviour and/or commanding other behaviour, resistance becomes a matter of breaking such commands or repressions. It might then be about doing what is illegal or doing things for deviant interests and circumventing or undermining the sovereignty of power centres. These forms of resistance are explored and discussed within studies of revolution, social movements and terrorism, and will not be addressed in this book (Lilja, Baaz and Vinthagen 2013). Since disciplinary power is about norms, normalities and hierarchies on the one hand and surveillance, examination, punishments, gratifications and training on the other, resistance to discipline is in part about changing the hierarchical constructions that rank behaviours, identities and images of identity. As disciplinary power assigns different values to different practices, images and identities, ranking one over the others, this power can be disputed by changing the relationship between the practices, images and identities. For example, upgrading the status assigned to subaltern groupings works against the hierarchisation. ‘Reversing the stereotypes’ is what Hall labels this ‘trans-coding’ strategy (Hall 1997b: 270–72). Multiplicity and the introduction of multiple categories and identities may also counteract practices of hierarchisation, dissolving various binary oppositions. In addition, hierarchies might also be altered by reducing the number of images, thus reducing the multiplicity. This is because hierarchies thrive on difference and the existence of several categories, one of which is regarded as superior. This gives rise to a paradox: one of the most frequently criticised effects of the discursive, disciplinary power, which rests upon hierarchisation, is that the multiplicity disappears, as everybody normalises towards one out of many alternative types of individuals. Still, the reduction of multiplicity may also work against disciplinary power. Sameness is thus both an effect of power and a strategy that undermines it (Lilja 2008). Another characteristic of disciplinary power is its relationship to practices of punishments and rewards. As stated previously, punishments and rewards are distributed as different performances are measured in relation to what is considered ‘good’ and ‘bad’. In other words, all conduct falls in the field between a positive pole and a negative pole and is, in line with its positioning, either rewarded or punished. In order to be rewarded (by status, high salaries and appreciation, and so on) and avoid punishments (mockery, low status and shame), we all adjust to certain positions of identity and assume certain ‘what-you-SHOULD-think’ discourses

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(Foucault 1991: 177–83, Lilja 2008). In this process one might simultaneously be disciplined against several, sometimes conflicting, contradictory norms, thereby creating inner tension. Different reward and punishment systems thus serve to socialise us, pushing us to invest in identities and images that are presented to us as the most suitable according to the system. However, it is likely that more people would adopt other variations of identity if the enforcement of punishments and rewards worked differently or disappeared. The hegemonic status of ranked or stereotyped images of identity could then be negotiated through changing an individual relation to the grading systems. Thus, one form of resistance against disciplinary power is to change the grading system or at least the individual’s relationship to it (Lilja 2008). Above, I mentioned some ways in which resistance against discipline might be formulated. In fact, resistance against disciplinary power will be possible in each and every moment of the disciplinary procedure, in the application of each training step, against new behavioural rules or discursive norms. Overall, the power of discipline is met by forms of resistance. These resistance practices challenge through avoiding, rearticulating discourses differently, and/or destabilising the institutional control of behaviour. Here we find types of ‘everyday resistance’, which might be hidden or disguised. The open challenge is hard to sustain once discipline and institutionalised correction systems for those who do not conform are dominant features of society (Lilja, Vinthagen and Baaz 2013). As elaborated previously, biopower is primarily interested in the body of the population (the nation, the members of an organisation, and so on). The biopolitical power is about regulations of life, a governing in which the health, length, energy or vitality, stability and growth of social life comes in focus. What, then, are the characteristics, techniques, means, sites and illustrating examples of resistance to biopower? Resistance against biopower has to be about undermining power’s attempts to establish and administer the will, life and death of the population. Resistance to biopower engages with the main techniques of biopower: the managing of large populations, of life and society, and the managing of huge information databases, surveillance techniques and statistical management. Resistance can be carried out by avoiding the managing of population policies and institutions by cultivating a different set of values, practices and institutions. Resistance can thereby involve presenting alternative ways of living, being and dying (Lilja and Vinthagen 2013). As we shall see in Chapter 6, these kinds of resistance are often punished and met by biopolitical strategies. The creation of a resistance culture might be one alternative form of resistance against biopower (Lilja, Vinthagen and Baaz 2013). Here we find the multitude or resistance population that evolves in history, a heterogeneous body of resistance that materialises without a united subjectivity. This kind of resistance reminds us of how Foucault describes power as capillary and networked, and without a unified subject (Hardt and Negri 2004; Lilja, Vinthagen and Baaz 2013).

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Identities as Means of Resistance Previously, it has been argued that discourses and representations are used to contest power. In this section, I shall discuss how identities and different images of identity can be seen as representations that might challenge different discourses. Often, researchers who depart from the concept of discourse propose strong connections between discourses and how the subject is formed in submission. ‘Subjection’, according to Butler, signifies the process of becoming subordinated by power as well as the process of becoming a subject. For Foucault, the subject is initiated through a primary submission to power entangled in different discursive constructions (Butler 1997: 2). However, as we shall see in subsequent chapters, women and men are not only formed in submission but use their subject positions or ‘identities’, and existing images of identity, in their attempts to shake or negotiate different forms of power or to gain personal status. I shall not try to give a complete picture of the complex processes of identification or the person’s naming of her/his self. Rather, the focus will be on theories of identifications, identities and images of identities that, considering my findings, are relevant for analysing the different practices of resistance. In short, I shall depart from the idea that discourses offer positions, providing images of identity such as subject positions, that humans take up and invest in (Woodward 1997: 14). Or, as Hall expresses it, ‘identities are thus points of temporary attachment to the subject positions, which discursive practices construct for us’ (Hall 1996: 6). In this sense, Hall argues that identities are the result of a successful articulation or ‘chaining’ of the subject into the flow of discourses. This process of becoming is informed by matter that matters; of material bodies, which contributes to different discursive truths. Identification is then the process of articulation, a suturing to a subject position. However, there is never a total match between the articulation and the position (Hall 1996: 3). Still, identity marks the ways in which we are the same as others who share that position, and the ways in which we are different from those who do not (Currie 2004: 2–4; Woodward 1997: 1). An individual may identify with several images that mutually imbue and interact with each other. Still, not only do the positions of identity permeate each other but different performed identities may have conflicting elements. For example, one’s gender, political, religious or sexual identity may be constructed out of contradictory or conflicting discourses, thus making it difficult to gather these identities into a coherent ‘self’. These tensions often become the very base for what we call ‘everyday’ forms of resistance. In addition, in a globalised world order, identity-based politics has become increasingly important. Today many social movements demand political representation and presence of marginalised identities based on class, ethnicity, race or sex. By referring to their identities, subaltern groups stress their social, ethnic or sexual belonging and make identity the basis for political mobilisation

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(Woodward 1997; Phillips 2000). Hall, in his glossary, defines identity politics as follows: Beginning with the feminist and anti-slavery movements of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, identity became politicized as groups of disenfranchised individuals came to reflect on their common experience of oppression. For the first time, the social values ascribed to one’s identity became challengeable and changeable during that time period because they were newly perceived as human constructs. (Hall 2004: 132)

Identity politics thus primarily involve an individual who is claiming his/her identity as a member of an oppressed or marginalised group and as a political point of departure for political mobilisation (Woodward 1997: 24). However, claiming a shared identity appeared to be only one of many ways in which the women and men interviewed use their identities, or the existing images of identity, as resistance. In this book, identity politics are thereby been defined in a broader sense so as to embrace how images of identity and identities are employed while women and men disturb or challenge the ‘truths’ and hierarchies that they experience in the relation between men and women in a Cambodian context. Eduardo Mendieta, among others, argues that ‘we mobilize different images about ourself’ (Mendieta 2003: 408). He also argues that what images are mobilised has to do with the nature of the threat and the aim of the mobilisation. As will be shown in this book, identities or images of identity are created, negotiated, emphasised, exchanged or used as concretising representations in order to resist and negotiate prevailing femininities and masculinities in Cambodia (Lilja 2008). One way in which identities are used as resistance is in the nexus between the universal and particular. Laclau has summarised some historical forms of how the relationship between ‘universalism’ and ‘particularism’ has been outlined throughout the decades (Laclau 1995: 95). For the moment, he argues, the social and political struggles during the 1990s have left us with the proliferation of particularities, while universality, as we knew it, is ‘increasingly put aside as an old-fashioned totalitarian dream’ (Laclau 1995: 99). Still, universalism and particularism compose a nexus from which subject positions are constructed and maintained. Marginalised groups politicise the particular while claiming universal principles, for example the right of everybody to have access to good schools, a decent life, and so on (Laclau 1995). This will be further discussed in Chapter 4. Universalism can often be connected to processes of ‘globalisation’. With a widespread globalisation of values and norms, resistance becomes increasingly possible. Norms of a more universal character are often referenced in order to negotiate local power relations. One example of this is mentioned in Chapter 8, which displays how Cambodian women politicians use the fact that globalisation has drastically improved access to advanced technologies in order to renegotiate the current location of power. The strategy employed is to connect universally

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recognised high-status knowledge (about computers) to the prevailing femininity, thereby changing both the meaning and status associated with ‘women’. Chapter 7, on the other hand, shows how women try to include themselves in various power-loaded identity constructions in order to gain power and status. Women returnees, among other things, try to become ‘real Cambodians’ through referring to their suffering during the KR era. The identity position of ‘real Cambodians’ is often narrowly defined, reducing and excluding many Cambodians from being just ‘Cambodians’. The women returnees, in some senses, negotiate this discourse through trying to include themselves in the category. They thereby use the categories and vocabulary of power in order to position themselves better and engage in resistance. Power and resistance once again become entangled in the construction and repetition of different images of identity. In addition, various masculinities are used as resistance. For example, Raewyn Connell has argued for the existence of a ‘hegemonic masculinity’ that is always constructed in relation to a range of subordinated masculinities and femininities. Chapter 4 discusses how one way of negotiating violent masculinities is to utilise the existence of a hegemonic masculinity. In the nexus between different masculinities, the hegemonic masculinity composes a norm, creating a disciplinary process where individual men are forced to adapt to the practices and characteristics of this masculinity (Hooper 2000: 62). Thus, emphasising the hegemonic masculinity as a non-violent masculinity might convince more men to inhabit a less violent identity position. As a result, men assigned status, power and authority are sought after as non-violent role models to a higher degree than other men. They have, more than others, the ability to change violent discourses by being ‘truth tellers’. In the end, one power relation (between different masculinities) becomes the base for resistance against the power-loaded and violent relationship between men and women. Summing up, identities and images of identity are used to alter various gender roles. Among other things, the next chapters argue that identities could be expressed in a universally recognisable manner in order to have a resisting potential, but also that identity positions might be expressed very concretely (Chapter 9) or be repeated differently (Chapter 10) in order to have an impact on the nexus of power and resistance. This will be further explored.

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Chapter 3

Gender Roles and Practices in Cambodia This chapter sketches different gender scripts in Cambodia. It addresses male and female images of identity, in addition to the obstacles and the possibilities concerning women’s political participation and how these relate to the (at times) violent history of Cambodia. The final part of the chapter addresses GBV and the discourses of gender connected to the violence. Images of Gender in Cambodia Until the middle of the nineteenth century, women were significant actors in Cambodian political life, with women in the upper echelons of society taking an active role in court politics, leading rebellions and instigating revolts (Jacobsen 2008). According to Trudy Jacobsen, this powerful role of Cambodian women was, however, challenged in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century: new legal reforms placed women in a position of inferiority in relation to men and a new body of literature, mainly written by the conservative elite, promoted a more subaltern role for women (Jacobsen 2008). Among other things, the Cbpap Srei listed what became to be considered correct behaviour for women. According to Katherine Brickell (2011), the Cbpap Srei instructs women ‘to move quietly around the house, be polite, avoid vulgarity, and be careful to preserve the dignity and feelings of her husband despite any indiscretion on his part (verses 12, 115, 117 and 148’. Women are reminded, ‘When you reach the world of human beings, you are to remember that you are the only personal servant of your husband and you should always highly obey your husband’ (Cbpap Srei, Meun Mai, verse 2 – for more on Cbpap Srei see, for example, Derks 1996: 6–7; Ovesen, Trankell and Öjendal 1996: 35–6; Roeun 2004). Cbpap Srei, and other similar texts written during the nineteenth century, have by time come to define what is considered the ‘traditional’ and the proper behaviour for women (Jacobsen 2008). As modernisation began to have an impact on Cambodian society in the 1950s and 1960s, women were expected to live up to this image of a virtuous woman. This changes to some extent during the late 1970s, as Cambodia was run by the government of the KR (1975–1979). During this socialist era, the socialist discourse of the strong, hardworking and brave ‘revolutionary woman’ gained ground. However, even though women were mobilised in the course of patriotic, revolutionary and political activities, women were simultaneously expected to fulfil the role of a ‘traditional woman’. Moreover, during the 1990s the re-establishment of a

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post-war society, and the going back to normality, meant a return to tradition as defined in the Cbpap Srei (Jacobsen 2008). Today, the Cbpap Srei is taught in many schools and girls learn from an early age to suture a subaltern identity (Lilja 2008). In this sense, Cambodian women are charged with the guardianship of the Cambodian past – they are expected to fulfil ‘traditional roles’ that tie them to domestic rather than national concerns (Jacobsen 2008). Men, on the other hand, are often expected to live up to the myth of toughness, power and strength – a masculinity of patriarchal domination – and are expected to discipline their families, with violence if necessary, so not to ‘lose their faces’ (Lilja 2008). Ledgerwood describes the image of ‘the notion of the ideal women’ as follows: ‘Women are to talk slowly and softly, to be so quiet in their movement that one can hear the sound of their silk skirt rustling. While she is shy and must be protected, before marriage ideally never leaving the company of her relatives, she is also industrious’ (Ledgerwood 1992: 4). Ledgerwood argues that Cambodians relate to this image in various ways, either as a point of reference or as a gender symbolism to use in political rhetoric. The ideal woman is the ‘perfectly virtuous woman’ who controls her speech, is silent, or speaks sweetly to her husband, never disputing him even if he is angry and is cursing her (Ledgerwood 1996). Likewise, in interviews, the Cambodian women described themselves as shy, honest, gentle, active, hardworking, humble, economical and unenlightened (Lilja 2008). Thus, over and above honesty and humbleness, traits that are often ascribed to women universally, women in Cambodia are also considered to be very economical and they are in general the holders of their family’s wealth and very active in the economic sector (Frieson 2001: 2; Lilja 2008; Ovesen, Trankell and Öjendal 1996: 58–60). However, their shouldering of economic responsibilities is not reflected in their share of space in the political arena. One respondent stated: Most men don’t want their wives to be politicians […] and they don’t want their wives to be higher than themselves […] Traditionally, in Cambodia family, the husband is the head of the family. The husband is the one who makes the decisions, and the wife just follows the husband; that’s why they mostly have the same political preference. […] In Cambodia, the wife is considered to be the housewife, do housework, and look after the money. The husband goes out and earns money to support the family; that’s why the husband has more power to make decision. (Interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, 2007)

The above quotation can be understood by reading Petre Santry, who has found that most Cambodian women have been ‘subjugated to males … occupying a relatively low status, with many traditional ideas repressing their advancement’ (Santry 2005: 109). By the same token, Santry states that the women she interviewed ‘agreed that in order to find a husband and maintain a marriage they not only needed to honour their parents and be quiet and gentle, but also should be intelligent, advising and assisting their husbands in his endeavours, as well as

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generous and obedient’ (Santry 2005: 57). She concludes that multiple gendered power relations work at different levels of society, imbuing women’s lives and contributing to their low representation in education and public decision making, as well as leading to sexual exploitation and domestic violence (Lilja 2008). However, there are some ambiguities that must be brought out. In present-day Cambodia there is a pattern of keeping the ‘traditional’ gender imagery alive, yet the current gender imagery also contains images and values other than the ‘traditional’ ones. According to Ledgerwood, the ideal woman in contemporary Cambodia can simultaneously be ‘a shy, quiet, and obedient servant and a strong, manipulating, vocal village woman’ (Ledgerwood 1996: 139–51). In addition, there is a well-felt gap between the image of the ‘perfect’ woman and the experiences, knowledge and practices of actual women (Lilja 2008). For example, Frieson (2001: 2–3) argues that ‘the disjuncture between the mythologized female role celebrating temerity and docility on the one hand, and hard-headed business acumen on the other, is a source of social tension and conflict.’ Moreover, the traditional ideals of femininity are also currently contested by contemporary trends of migration and extra-domestic employment, which exceeds the traditional gender roles. Annuska Derks has observed that, in the Cambodian media, women are represented as ‘symbols of progress and modernity’ and that rural women’s perceptions about their own possibilities are increasingly influenced by the media portraits of women who move to Phnom Penh in order to work (Derks 2008: 13). While arguing for the existence of ambivalence, social tension and challenges against more traditional images of women, researchers such as Frieson and Ledgerwood underline that the ‘traditional’ stereotypical image of the perfect woman is highly visible in today’s Cambodia. McGrew, Frieson and Chan (2004), to give an example, state, ‘There is still a prevailing belief in the culture that [Cambodian] women are more gentle and submissive than men’. Another example of this stereotyping is found in a study by Aing Sok Roeun (2004). In the study, 36 Cambodian women are interviewed regarding the traditional as well as the contemporary roles of women. Roeun draws the conclusion that elderly women tend to follow all the codes of Cbpap Srei. Young women also follow Cbpap Srei, but they tend to ignore some of the rules (Roeun 2004: 73). From the above, it appears that the image of female gender in a Cambodian context is often rather stereotypically formulated. Using my interviews as a point of departure, I shall try to show that this ‘stereotyping tends to occur where there are gross inequalities of power’ (Hall 1997b: 258). In other words, what becomes significant from previous studies, as well as from the interviews, is that, while Cambodian women are often described as shy, gentle, uninformed and generally narrow-minded when compared with men, they are assigned a lower status. One woman said: ‘Women in Cambodian society are seen as inferior to men. They are considered mentally weaker. This view is stronger in the rural areas than in the towns. Women are not equals. Men see themselves as the intelligent actors’ (interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, May 1999). This quotation indicates

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that a hierarchy has been established, which is maintained through discourse. Women are exposed to this discourse. At the same time women forward the very same discourse, being active subjects making possible its dissemination. Those who occupy the lowest rank on the hierarchical ladder often play a part in sustaining the discourses that keep them there (Lilja 2008). Gender-Based Violence in Cambodia The discourses of gender in Cambodia sometimes result in GBV. Among the actors attempting to define the concept of GBV, Sida (2007) recasts a definition of GBV that encompasses what is being done to whom and with what effect, including why the violence is being perpetrated: ‘Any harm or suffering that is perpetrated against a woman or girl, man or boy and that has a negative impact on the physical, sexual or psychological health, development or identity of the person. The cause of the violence is founded in gender-based power inequalities and gender-based discrimination’ (Sida 2007: 8). The basic understanding of GBV, in academic as well as policy circles, identifies it as a consequence of ‘unequal power relations’ (Bouta and Frerks 2005; Eliasson 2001; Gordan and Crehan 1999). For example, a UN report (2006) argues that domestic violence ‘is significantly correlated with rigid gender roles that associate masculinity with dominance, toughness, male authority in the home and threats to male authority’ (United Nations 2006a). Hence, it seems, beneath the different forms of GBV there are underlying ideas about masculinity, femininity, sexuality and authority, which play a role in not only creating but also reinforcing this kind of violence (Guedes 2004; United Nations 2006a). Recent studies of masculinity also pinpoint the idealised forms of masculinity as an underlying incentive to violence. As men’s performances are perceived by themselves as incoherent and as a failure to inhabit an idealised notion of manhood, the discord between their embodied experiences of being men and the discourses of masculinity may become a source of frustration and ultimately a trigger of violence (Eriksson Baaz and Stern 2009; Parpart and Zalewski 2008). In Cambodia, as we shall see in the next chapters, the interviews clearly convey how domestic violence is understood as the outcome of particular masculine identifications. However, the explanatory discourse is ‘thicker’ than that. Also, the aggressive imageries and practices that emanate from the country’s violent past, are today associated with the widespread domestic violence. The history of Cambodia carries with it memories of assassinations and destruction. First of all, the country was hit by the US Cambodia bombings, aimed at destroying North Vietnamese troops entering the country from Vietnam. After the Indochina War, the Communist KR seized power in 1975 and forced Cambodians into farming collectives in an attempt to create an agrarian utopia. During this period, the regime enacted policies that resulted in the death of over one and a half million people due to starvation, overwork, diseases, executions, and so on. In 1979,

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however, Vietnam invaded the country in 1979 and ejected the more radical communists from power (Hinton 2005). Thereafter, the country has been, at times, informed by political violence and a struggle between different political fractions. Together, these undertakings have exposed the Cambodians for persistent violence. And there might be, it is argued, a spillover effect of violence, where post-war masculinities most likely are intimately bound to local patterns of GBV. One of the organisations interviewed (Cambodian Women’s Crisis Centre, CWCC), for instance, maintained that years of fighting have created a broken country, with broken people, who lack social norms. This becomes the very base for a violent society and comprehensive domestic violence. A Khmer woman, cited in a report, for example, argues, ‘Men who have witnessed and perpetrated violence during war seem to continually act violently to their families’ (Rehn and Sirleaf 2002: 14). Studies in Cambodia during the mid-1990s indicate that as many as 75 per cent of the female respondents had suffered domestic violence (Rehn and Sirleaf 2002). Even though domestic violence is less common in today’s Cambodia, the post-conflict context probably contributes to its relatively high frequency. Men in post-war Cambodia perform the role of protectors as well as perpetrators and the violent history of the country has produced men as subjects that exercise violence not only within the public arena (the armed forces, the soldiers and the bodyguards) but also within the private sphere (domestic violence, rape, including gang rape, violence against sex workers and trafficking). GBV in Cambodia ranges from sexual harassment to rape to domestic violence to trafficking (Duvvury and Knoess 2005). Despite the international community’s massive attempts to combat GBV, a significant number of Cambodian women believe that violence against women is sometimes acceptable (or even necessary). For example, 46 per cent in a recent report from the Ministry of Women’s Affairs (Mowa 2009) felt that it is justified for a husband to throw something at his wife, push her or grasp her. Moreover, 30 per cent of the respondents indicated that even life-threatening violence could be acceptable (Mowa 2009). The latter group argued that not obeying one’s husband, or questioning his spending of money or his girlfriends, or trying to stop him from visiting sex workers, are reasons that justify violent abuses. Others argued that being late with food or going out without telling one’s husband are acceptable motives for punishing women with violence (Mowa 2009: 12–16). Of the sample, 64 per cent knew a husband who acted violently towards his wife and 22.5 per cent of the female respondents had suffered violence at the hands of their husbands (Mowa 2009: 23). These statistics render women particularly vulnerable, obeying and subaltern – associations that serve as the counterpart to the supposed superiority of masculinity, a pattern that is reflected also in the discourses of sexuality. In Cambodia it is common for men to visit sex workers. Sexuality is strongly gender differentiated, and according to local rationalities, in order to be masculine, a man should have multiple partners and frequent sex; according to CARE International, sexual experiences are even perceived as essential to maintain a man’s physical

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and mental health (CARE International 2001; Derks 2008). In fact, men and boys have reported that a strong peer pressure exists for young men to perform sexually during leisure activities such as drinking, visiting massage parlours and karaoke bars (Duvvury and Knoess 2005). Contrary to the male, the female must protect her family’s honour and status by not losing her virginity before marriage. Cbpab Srei, for example, stresses virginity and sexual innocence among women and girls (Duvvury and Knoess 2005). Overall, the rules describe women as a subaltern group, expected to serve, follow and respect their male partners. However, while men are seen as the final authority in the household, requiring respect and obedience, women often have a certain degree of economic autonomy (for example, an active engagement in entrepreneurial trades) as well as, to an extent, control of the household’s economy (Derks 2008; Lilja 2008). A growing problem is sexual violence against women and children: today, most of the young men know someone who has participated in gang rape or bauk. The usual mode of operation involves five to ten men who engage in forced sex with a sex worker who is often beaten (or payment is denied) if there are protests. Most of the young people interviewed do not see this practice as problematic given that the sex worker is paid. In a study by GAD, only 14 per cent of boys and girls agreed that this practice was rape (GAD 2003). Generally, sex workers have low status within the Cambodian context, often dehumanised and ‘depicted as “loose women” who are behaving in improper, immoral, or nontraditional ways’ (Derks 2008: 11). In addition to sex workers, migrant women also are seen as ‘sexually available’. As stated above, there is a growing number of girls migrating into Phnom Penh. Often they come to take up positions as garment workers, beer girls, karaoke singers and waitresses. Many of these women are thought of as srey kalip (‘modern women’) who do not adhere to the Cbpap Srei and are therefore not seen as respectable but considered accessible sexually. For example, according to an international lawyer interviewed in Phnom Penh in 2010, even the highest police authority in Cambodia has argued that rape is not possible if the woman is not a virgin (interview, international lawyer, Phnom Penh, July 2010). In fact, according to the Ministry of Women’s Affairs, only 50 per cent of the local authorities and the police have indicated that they know that physical violence against women is illegal (Mowa 2009: 23). In the light of this it is not strange that, despite the fact that domestic violence, trafficking, rape and sexual exploitation are all prohibited through national legislation, Cambodia is often criticised for its lack of assuring women’s human rights (FIDH 2007). The impunity and lack of law enforcement may partly explain why few women share with police, relatives or friends that they are being exposed to GBV. In sum, the nexus between the violent history of Cambodia and various gendered norms and identity positions probably fosters domestic violence. As identities and knowledge are constituted within discourse, Cbpap Srei can be seen as productive of identities, performances as well as thoughts. The poem, and the gendered

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norms it represents and in some senses feeds, becomes the very base for men to use violence, according to their logic of intelligibility. Men, it is argued, need to keep children and women disciplined, and violence is one means to maintain the moral codes of the family. Thus, fighting GBV means challenging the discourses forming the basis for practices of violence. But how might this be done? This will be discussed in subsequent chapters, in which various forms of resistance will be analysed. In the above, men have been pictured as perpetrators; next, however, they will primarily be addressed as agents of resistance and discursive change. Women and Politics As indicated above, Cambodian women are extremely active in economic affairs. Yet it has not been considered appropriate for women to be active in politics (Ledgerwood 1992: 15). Frieson, for example, states that, ‘in the political realm, women are publicly submissive to the male hierarchy rather than active and participatory’ (Frieson 2001: 3). During the UN-organised ‘free and fair’ election of 1993, only seven women were elected as MPs for a total of 120 seats. Moreover, there were no female ministers or secretaries of state, although five women were appointed under-secretaries of state. The number of elected women in decisionmaking bodies has increased only slightly since then. As a response to the low number of women in the National Assembly, the UN-initiated Committee on Elimination of Discrimination against Women has expressed the following: [T]he Committee expresses concern about the underrepresentation of women at all levels of political and public life, in particular in Parliament, and the low rate of women’s participation in elections. The Committee is further concerned about the limited participation of women in the public administration and the judiciary at all levels. (CAMNEWS 1)

In the interviews, different norms and stereotypes as well as gender hierarchies were pointed out as contributing causes to the unequal distribution of political power. According to Nanda Pok, director of Women for Prosperity (a Cambodian NGO), Cambodian women and men alike are longing for a strong leader, albeit one with a big heart. According to Pok, the image of a politician is informed by masculinity, as strength is widely regarded as a masculine characteristic, while the stereotypical woman does not accord well with the image of a politician (interviews, Nanda Pok, director of Women for Prosperity, Phnom Penh June, 1997, June 2007). That the image of a politician is often associated with men was also expressed in other ways. For example, at a Phnom Penh-based workshop on the theme of ‘Women and Politics’, the participants attempt to identify the strong points of Cambodian women, agreeing that women ‘have the same capacity as a man’ (Women’s Media Centre 1997). This notion is also reflected in other interviews

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about women and politics. One woman said, ‘You see? We don’t have the same salary. We can do the same work as the men can do, but we don’t get the same salary’ (interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, May 1999). In these quotations men are upheld as the political norm against which women are measured: ‘We can do the same work as the men can do’. Several interviews emphasised that people in general regard men as the optimum in a public setting, while the ranked and stereotyped image of ‘women’ fails to correspond to the image of a politician. They also confirmed the low value often assigned to women. One woman explained why women often fail to become politicians: Women cannot afford to become politicians. It is a part of our culture. We give everything to the men in the family, not to the women. You know, they prefer to invest in the men rather than in the women. It’s just like in education as well. Women are second priority for them, women are second class citizens. (Interview, former politician and NGO worker, Phnom Penh, May 2007)

One male politician said: One problem is that men do not think that women have any capacity. They think women are morally weak. Women should stay home. Politics is the men’s work. […] People in Cambodia don’t believe in women. This is especially the case in politics, also in the National Assembly people do not believe in women politicians. (Interview, male politician, Phnom Penh, November 1997)

One discourse about politics thus defines women as ‘non-political’. As stated above, we humans constantly try to make sense of the world, and in this we share our understandings, thoughts and feelings with one another through language. The concept of discourse denotes the practices of creating meanings – shared meanings – that we reinvent and circulate. In this case, the political sphere often seems to be experienced, by the respondents, as a masculine-coded realm, and politicians appear to be associated with men and with masculinity – naturalised ‘truths’ are what these discourses imply. As indicated above, a discourse consists of several words that are defined in relation to each other: for example, a medical discourse involves ‘skin’, ‘blood’, ‘muscles’, and so on. However, these words have different meaning and status: some signs are more central than others. The discourse is organised around a node, a privileged sign around which other words acquire their meanings (Winther Jörgensen and Phillips 1999). In a medical discourse ‘the body’ is such a node, while within a democratic discourse democracy is the central sign around which others are organised. In Cambodia the democratic discourse seems to be associated and connected with discourse of masculinity. Several respondents argued that democracy is connected to words such as toughness, strength, men, and so on, thus loading the sign democracy with gendered meaning. Women were not considered,

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or were expected to become, politicians. This can be illustrated by quoting a male politician, who himself prevented his highly qualified wife from working: Men do not like their wives to become politicians, as then they would travel too much and spend time away from home. If the women would work away from home they would meet other men and make the husband jealous. If the woman is in politics she cannot take care of old and children. In that case the man does not like her to work. (Interview, male politician, Phnom Penh, November 1997)

This quotation seems to form one representation among others that together constitute a discourse about ‘domestic’ and ‘non-political’ women. However, as we shall see in the next chapter, this pattern is both resisted and negotiated.

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Part I Gender, Resistance and Gender-Based Violence

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Chapter 4

Theorising Practice: Understanding Resistance Against Gender-Based Violence in Cambodia1 The UN report In-depth study on all forms of violence against women, finalised in 2006, states that GBV is a universal problem evoked by ‘sociocultural attitudes and cultures of violence in all parts of the world, and especially by norms about the control of female reproduction and sexuality’ (United Nations 2006a). Although globalised, GBV is neither ahistorical nor universal. Instead, these practices of violence, just like rape, are products of relationships between people, institutions and discourses as well as the result of specific in-the-moment decisions (Enloe 2000: 127; Eriksson Baaz and Stern 2009: 500). Facets of violence in a Cambodian context then resonate with understandings of violence in other global contexts too, still complicating these explanations, in themselves reflecting the particular context of Cambodia. Most research and reports on gender and violence focus on women as victims of sexual violence ‘from the view of women-victims themselves’ (Eriksson Baaz and Stern 2009: 496). In addition, there are today a growing number of ‘best practice’ case studies and reports mostly addressing how to teach men/boys to inhabit a less violent masculinity (see, for example, Dobash et al. 2000; Eliasson 2001; UNFPA 2007a, 2007b). Still, these reports fail to explain how their practices are anchored in any knowledge about social change and how this might be accomplished. Thus, although questions such as ‘What is the engine in social change?’ and ‘What practices of resistance have an impact?’ effectively challenge the validity of some of these reports, little attention has been paid to how we should analyse or theorise the concept of agency and various resistance strategies in the fight against GBV. However, while we should evaluate whether or not different reports, programmes or practices against GBV are well grounded in more theoretical notions of resistance, agency and change, we could also learn about these concepts through analysing the activities of the organisations working against GBV. What can their practices, often formulated from a massive experience, tell us about discursive change and the negotiation of gendered norms? This chapter examines various strategies of resistance used against GBV from two different perspectives: (1) the notions of power, agency and resistance that reside in these strategies, and 1  This chapter consists of texts that have previously been published in different journals. I am grateful to Feminist Review and NORMA for letting me republish the texts.

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(2) the theoretical concepts that we need to consider in order to further understand the organisations’ attempts to reduce GBV. As stated previously, this text is based upon in-depth interviews with four different organisations in Cambodia that deal with GBV, together with their case studies and reports addressing how to negotiate violent masculinities. The chapter is divided into different sections. The first section provides an overview of what meaning GBV is assigned by each of the four organisations. This also entails locating the basic understandings that reside in the way the organisations approach women, men, and the question of GBV. In the rest of the chapter, I analyse the resistance strategies fostered by the organisations. The interviews reveal a number of hands-on practices of resistance against GBV, which will be presented in the text below. Among other things, resistance is carried out in the nexus of universalism and particularism. The Organisations’ Interpretation of Gender-Based Violence The organisations had various interpretations of the causes of, as well as possible strategies against, GBV. To reduce GBV, GAD, LICHADO/WRO, CMN and CWCC had earlier focused mainly on women but had recently changed their programmes to include men. In this, CMN pinpointed that men are not only the predominant perpetrators of violence but also the primary decision makers in economic, political and social arenas. Men are directly affected by the violence against women: they are the witnesses, relatives and perpetrators. And when women are exposed to violence, those who might help – the police, decision makers and legal advisers – are all men (for example, UNESCAP 2003: 24). Therefore, almost all interviews included a statement that men must be addressed for the NGOs to be able to work effectively against GBV. In fact, the organisations’ awarenessraising activities in relation to men and men’s groups often came to dominate the interviews. These activities were run by male trainers or by dedicated villagers who had been trained by the NGOs. In this regard, LICHADO stated that they approach the most active and popular men of the village, hoping that their presence as trainers within the organisation would serve to lessen GBV. GAD argued that only men can talk to other men and receive the proper attention: ‘men more easily accept an argument if the trainer talks from his own experience’ (interview, trainer, GAD, Phnom Penh, July 2009). The organisations used different strategies to address men. GAD stated that it is important to start the meetings by approaching the men as fathers, sons, farmers and husbands, asking some general questions regarding the children, the harvest, and so on. Thereafter, ‘the trainer shares some personal memories and experiences that all the men can relate to’ (interview, trainer, GAD, Phnom Penh, July 2009). CWCC agreed that the trainers should share some experiences as they moderate the conversations within their groups. In addition, CWCC gave very concrete advice to the men they involved in their programmes: ‘When you get angry, do not

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hit your wife. Take a walk, get out into the garden or go to the pagoda to meditate’ (interview, director, CWCC, Phnom Penh, July 2009). Almost all of the organisations explained that the masculinity and the femininity within the intimate relationship between husband and wife must change in order to reduce the GBV. CWCC approached the men with the suggestion, ‘Think of your wife differently. She could be a partner who could give you moral support’ (interview, director, CWCC, Phnom Penh, July 2009). GAD, on the other hand, emphasised how important it is to negotiate prevailing masculinities to become more loving and caring. The organisations’ resistance against GBV was then connected specifically to the production of new subject positions. According to the organisations, there seem to be a significant number of men who have not yet realised that GBV is a violation of the law. Instead, they view it as a necessary disciplinary tool to control their families (for example, Mowa 2009: 5): Men do not know that it is wrong to use violence against women. They consider themselves the head of the household and it is their responsibility to keep women and children disciplined. If the local community is displeased with the woman or the children the man will lose his face. Then he will use violence. (Interview, director, GAD, Phnom Penh, July 2009)

Similarly, CMN stated that many Cambodian men experience ‘that sometimes men must use violence to not lose their face. Men are supposed to be strong, brave, leaders […] some men think that a real man uses violence’ (interview, trainer, CMN, July 2009). This imagery draws directly on hierarchical discourses of masculinity and femininity. It also broadens the feminist research that explains domestic violence by referring to men’s inability and failure to embody the contextually defined hegemonic masculinity. Violence is used by men whose experiences and performances of masculinities are both multiple and incoherent, thus evoking a sense of failure at ever arriving at being ‘masculine’ (Eriksson Baaz and Stern 2009; Parpart and Zalewski 2008). However, in Cambodia, not only the men themselves must behave ‘properly’ in order to live up to being ‘masculine’. As the above quotations indicate, how other family members – women and children – behave within the family matters also. If they fail to recognise and support the man as the ‘head of the household’, he might lose his masculinity. Or in other words, men’s ability to embody current discourses of masculinity is dependent upon the ‘correct’ behaviours of their female counterparts. Women then serve to strengthen and/or threaten to undermine men’s desire to be masculine. If challenged, men must discipline women and children in order to restore their masculinity. Thus, to shun violence, women and children must perform according to local norms. In this regard, Cbpab Srei was repeatedly mentioned as an important framework for how to behave ‘properly’. According to GAD, many of the rules are still seen as the organising principles of the Cambodian society, even though not all rules are followed (interview, trainer, GAD, Phnom Penh, July 2009). LICHADO/WRO stated that the moral codes of Cbpab Srei define

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the ‘normal’ behaviours of men and women and the rules still convey the ideal norm in contrast to the abnormal and deviant (interview, LICHADO/WRO, Phnom Penh, July 2009). In the next sections, the strategies of the NGOs will be further analysed and theorised. Negotiating Prevailing Subject Positions: The Politics of Particularism and Universalism One theme that emerged in the interviews was the usefulness of articulated personal experiences. Trainers at GAD, CWCC and CMN stated that personal experiences are to be seen as important tools to use within the men’s groups. GAD stated that ‘when women talk men defend themselves. But when men talk to men they listen. The male trainers know the key issues. They talk through their experiences. They share the same experiences as the men. Then men listen’ (interview, trainer, GAD, Phnom Penh, July 2009). Such personal experiences were used both to create confidence and trust and to make sense of the rationale behind the GBV. Among other things, the trainers often relayed their own personal experiences of being aggressive, thereby encouraging the men to relax and engage in sharing their experiences and thoughts. By this act, several trainers justified the act of violence, in front of the men’s group, as understandable given the Cambodian context and the ‘natural’ anger of men. However, the trainers’ narratives displayed ambivalence in terms of how the trainers first made violence natural and, in the next moment, agitated against it. Or, in other words: frustration and its violent manifestations were presented as normal and understandable, yet, at the same time, the violence was inscribed as bad and something to control. One trainer stated: I share some personal experiences at the meetings so that the men will relax and open up. I tell them that I used to be really angry before and scream. It is natural to be angry. But it is important to be patient and try to be calm. I encourage men to think about the law when they get angry. If they hit their wives they might go to jail. It is better to take a walk and calm down. (Interview, trainer, CWCC, Phnom Penh, August 2010)

One reading of the narratives of the trainers suggests that they in various ways try to remove the personal responsibility of their violent clients. For example, a former executive assistant of CSD (Center for Social Development, Phnom Penh), a trainer/radio talker within the field of GBV, remarked that violent practices origin from a deep frustration. The reasons for violence, he claimed, lie outside the ‘normal’ character of men, induced by alcohol or the fragile job market, which disallows the fulfilment of the supposed role as ‘men’ and family breadwinners.

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How the trainers used their personal experiences in the men’s groups can be further understood through notions of universalism and particularism. As stated in Chapter 2, Laclau argues that marginalised groups politicise the particular while claiming universal principles – for example, the right of everybody to have access to good schools, a decent life, and so on (Laclau 1995). However, as we shall see below, there are other ways in which universalism and particularism are used for resistance. For instance, to alternate between what can be interpreted as particular statements or subject positions and more universal ones, must be seen as a form of resistance. The above quotations indicate that shared memories and experiences seem to be important in order to create a ‘we’ involving both the trainers and the men: for example, ‘They share the same experiences as the men. Then men listen.’ At GAD, one trainer explained how he tried to negotiate this ‘we’, seemingly by alternating between what might be interpreted as universal ‘truths’ and particular (and alien) ‘truths’ respectively: the latter was presented as logical according to the universal truths. First the trainer argued, ‘We all want to be happy’, a universal statement to which most people can relate. Thereafter he continued, ‘To be happy we must take care of each other’, which might also be interpreted as a universal statement. Next, he added a particular, alien statement: ‘To be happy I must take care of my wife and do her work at home if she is sick. For example, I must do her laundry’ (interview, director, GAD, Phnom Penh, August 2010; Lilja 2012). Laundry is one topic discussed by Katherine Brickell in her article about the conflicts often found between Western notions of rights and traditional Khmer duty-based values and practices. According to Brickell, frequently women experience a heavy pressure from the older generation to behave in accordance with Khmer ‘traditions’. One man, for example, argued that the equal sharing of the task of cooking or women spending more time outside the home must be seen as a violation of men’s rights. He argued that, in Khmer culture, ‘men aren’t allowed to cook and do the laundry’ (Brickell 2011: 448; Lilja 2012). Thus, for male trainers to argue that Cambodian men ought to wash their women’s clothes is an odd argument, which is probably experienced by the participants of the men’s group as an out-of-the-way, particular (not general or universal) statement. So by connecting a universal statement (‘we all want to be happy’) with a particular statement (‘men shall wash’), the trainer attempted to negotiate the gendered discourses of today’s Cambodia. The trick seemed to be to ground what the men considered an odd argument in well-known, more general discourses about happiness. By this strategy, the trainer attempted to present possible household-level changes (such as the sharing of duties and responsibilities) as well as trying to negotiate the prevailing masculinity to become more caring. Seemingly, the aim was to get the alien, particular statement transformed into a universal truth. Or, depending on how we interpret it, maybe the opposite is happening – that is, the universal is negotiated by stressing its particularism. In other words, by mixing the particular with the universal the trainer asserted a new discourse – and/or subject position – that embraced both notions (Lilja 2012).

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This must be read in terms of resistance through strategies of hybridisation (Bhabha 1994). In the process of analysing hybridity as resistance, we must consider not only the type of statement – be it personal, concrete or universal – but also how these representations are mixed and depend upon each other. Not only different representations but also different combinations of representations must then be acknowledged and analysed when considering the possibility of negotiating gendered discourses (Lilja 2012). Negotiating Gender: An Identification Caught Between the ‘Universal’ and the ‘Particular’ In the analysis of ‘universal’ and ‘particular’ images of identity, we might consider Raewyn Connell’s groundbreaking theories about ‘fast-changing masculinities’, considered in Chapter 2 (Connell 1987: 183–8). To maintain a superior position, the hegemonic masculinity must be reconstructed in order to correspond to the new construction of powers, discourses and identities created in a fast-changing era of globalisation (Connell 1987: 183–8; Connell and Messerschmidt 2005). Whatever expression it takes, it composes a norm, which in some senses creates a disciplinary process where individual men are forced to adapt to the practices and characteristics of this masculinity (Hooper 2000: 62). Indeed, the hegemonic character of the dominant masculinity does not mean that it is always universal, deterministic or constant through time: rather, it is constantly moving (Whitehead 2002; Beynon 2002). For example, in the Bretton Woods period, the Anglo-American hegemonic masculinity was marked ambiguously by technical rationality in the shadow of the hyper-masculine myth of toughness, power and strength. However, since the early 1970s, its image appears to have softened, informing the hegemonic masculinity with qualities that were defined previously as feminine: for example, flexibility, interpersonal skills, team working, and so on (Hooper 2000: 63–4). Recent research has problematised how the hegemonic masculinity is interpreted as inescapably Western. In a global world there are complex, often hybridised, relations between various constructions of masculinity (Parpart and Zalewski 2008: 13; see also Reeser 2010). Still, for the Cambodian male trainers, the above-mentioned, universally distributed ‘softer’ masculinity, often advocated by the Western-funded NGOs, seems to have become a norm. For example, the Cambodian trainers seem to struggle with an identification caught between the ‘universal’ subject position promoted and forwarded by international organisations and ‘particular’ local subject positions. One trainer, for example, narrated his personal experiences and the difficulties he experienced as he tried to move beyond Cambodian gender roles and make sense of a non-Cambodian masculinity:

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I too, am gender-blind! When the children wake up during nighttime I am too tired. I let my wife get up. Sex too… what are her feelings and needs? […] In Cambodia, Cambodian women must offer themselves for their man. Women must have sex even if they are sick […] I asked my wife to tell me when she wants to have sex. She refused at first. Cambodian women do not show lust, she said. (Interview, trainer, GAD, Phnom Penh, July 2009)

Based on a generalised, ‘Western’ image of sexuality, this man wanted sex to be equally enjoyable for men and women and he wished also for women to express feelings of desire and lust. However, as soon as his desires were realised, he was filled with ambivalence and jealousy, traditional discourses of sex popping up in the very same moment as he was moving beyond these: ‘Then, when my wife told me she wanted to have sex I was filled with jealousy. I was not used to this’. In the end, the man was in some sense caught up between the local, ‘particular’, discourses of masculinity, which he was expected to inhabit, and the desire to become something else, to match up with the more ‘universal’ norm within the aid discourse. The quotation above demonstrates the ambivalence of the trainer, which seems to emerge in the discord between sutured subject positions and those ‘universal’ positions desired and therefore repeated. This illustrates how individuals might experience what Connell (1987) describes as the existence of several power-loaded, as well as ranked, masculinities. However, with regard to the above, the very concept of universalism must be questioned. While women’s right to experience lust is not a Western construction, this norm claims to compose a Western ‘truth’, in a post-colonial era. Thus, the very tension between the ‘particular’ and ‘universal’ often embraces elements of power as the ‘universal’ makes hegemonic claims at the expense of the ‘particular’. Addressing the ‘Universal’ Through the ‘Particular’ The next sections will discuss how men’s ‘particular’ subject positions might be used as a lens through which they consider ‘universal’ notions of violent masculinities. As stated above, GAD’s staff described how every session of the men’s groups started by acknowledging the men in their identities as ‘husbands’, ‘fathers’, ‘sons’ or ‘farmers’. For example, one (GAD) trainer started the meetings by positioning himself as a son, using this as a shared identity – a common point of departure – for the rest of the session. He told the men: My parents do not want me to do any housework. If I do they blame my wife. However, their son-in-law must look after the children and contribute to the housework. That is a paradox! Do you recognise this pattern? (Interview, trainer, GAD, Phnom Penh, July 2009)

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Among the researchers and practitioners that discuss how men must be addressed, James Lang (2003) suggests that there is potential in appealing to men in their various roles as fathers, sons, husbands and brothers in the process of fighting domestic violence. Lang asserts that ‘[m]en as fathers often express great concern for the safety and well-being of their daughters, as do sons for their mothers. Using these relationships as entry points to talk more broadly about gender roles and violence is a common strategy’ (Lang 2003). The practice of addressing men in their family identities can be interpreted as an attempt to avoid the everyday gender stereotyping and the construction of an ‘us and them’ dichotomy. What Lang indicates is that, when addressing men as (the more ‘universal’ notion of) ‘men’ and talking to them about the more ‘universal’ notion of ‘women’, stereotypical notions of gender are put into play. The stereotyped image is a distant, generalised and impersonalised one that makes it hard for men to feel sympathy for, or even understand, the victims. This stereotyping, however, can be overcome by letting the audience refer to different, yet familiar, identity positions when discussing gender and GBV. The strategy is to play on the audience’s sympathy for their own children and mothers and thereby create feelings of solidarity towards all women. By creating the feeling that the men are not distanced from the victims and their families, the ‘us and them’ dichotomy that often underpins stereotyping and alienation, is eliminated. Instead, the men might experience that changing the prevailing discourses of masculinities is in the interest of themselves and their families. Through men’s particular/individual and universal/collective views of fatherhood, more general discourses about gender and GBV can then be challenged. This is possible as trainers address one identity position – fathers – using this as a lens through which men can view the dominant discourses of gender as they are navigating, relating, resisting or assuming these discourses (for example, Lang 2003). Noteworthy, however, is that, by repeatedly making use of traditional images such as ‘fathers’, local subject positions may also be strengthened (rather than negotiated). The strategy of using ‘particular’ and ‘universal’ images of identity while negotiating prevailing gender roles, embraces the notion of memory. Remembering is a relational and social practice that is influenced by dominant discourses as well as by common practices of remembering (for example, homework, to-do lists, and so on). Still, every memory is also the property of individual minds. Personal memories are thus embedded in social contexts that create a common base, and a possibility for men to communicate and share their different experiences of being ‘fathers’, while still having an individual attachment to the identity position (Misztal 2005: 1321). The construction of memories, as being both ‘universal’/ collective and ‘particular’/individual, enables the negotiation of power-loaded discourses as men move between the personal and the general – the ‘particular’ and the ‘universal’. Personal feelings and memories become the very base for negotiating ‘universal’ impersonal discourses of identity, violent masculinities and subject positions. ‘Particular’ memories thus provide material for extra-discursive experiences and serve as a point of departure for the negotiation of gender.

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In addition, GBV is often thought of as something personal and particular, while being of public concern and having a universal reach. However, addressing the connections between the personal and public might bridge this gap. The strategy is then to make GBV accepted as a public ‘universal’ issue (Lang 2003: 10–16). Deconstruction as a Strategy of Resistance Maybe I could wash my family’s laundry but I could never wash my wife’s panties! Yuck!

According to GAD, the strategy of broadening the subject positions of men to include taking care of their families in terms of washing and cleaning was positively received (interview, trainer, GAD, Phnom Penh, July 2009). However, as the quotation above indicates, there were also some sceptical voices. These, with other statements on the same theme, were met by the trainers by various counterarguments that might be understood through the concept of deconstruction (for example, Martin 1990; Spivak 1993). Deconstruction can be viewed as a process, an operation, which shows us that the discourse could have been constructed differently (Laclau 1990: 33–41; Laclau in Winther Jörgensen and Phillips 1999: 44–5, 56). Or, in other words, deconstruction is a strategy that is aimed at unmasking what is taken for granted: ‘deconstruction focuses on suppressed conflicts and multiple interpretations of a text in order to undermine all claims to “objective truths”’ (Martin 1990: 340; Lilja 2008). Deconstruction efforts are reflected in manifold strategies on different levels. For example, Jana Sawicki (1991) points out that Foucault’s theory of power in itself is a practice of deconstruction: by de-familiarising and historicising concepts that are made natural for us and that we take for granted, Foucault opens up a space for social change and agency (Sawicki 1991: 100–101; see also Haugaard 2000: 67). Reading Spivak, we can learn that political narratives often are mediated through practices of deconstruction, with the purpose of revealing various assumptions, strategies and rhetorics. In this, Spivak is interested in how the rhetoric or style of the text itself frequently interrupts and contradicts its own logical or thematic scheme (Lilja 2008; Spivak 1993: 124–41; Spivak in Moore-Gilbert 1997: 74–113). Also, Martin (1990) has similar rules for how to deconstruct a text, suggesting that one should search for binaries, for what is missing or silenced, for interruptions, contradictions, metaphors and double meanings (Martin 1990: 339–59). The deconstructing practices mentioned by Martin and Spivak can help us to understand how violent masculinities are negotiated in Cambodia. Among other things, the trainers repeated that they searched for interruptions and contradictions in the discussions of the men’s groups. Uncovered contradictions provided means, it was argued, to unmask some gendered statements as irrational. For example, discriminating ‘truths’ must be disrupted by showing how they contradict other

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‘truths’ also maintained by the very same men: ‘sometimes the men say something. If we can show them that what they say is not logical and that they contradict themselves then we can make them change their point of view’ (interview, director, GAD, Phnom Penh, July 2009). Let us return to the quotations above, implying how the link between manhood and men’s values, duties, superiority and right to decision making in the family, from their perspectives, prevents them from cleaning their wives’ underwear. The trainer used irony as a tool to display the contradictions within this logic of intelligibility, questioning the statement by asking (while smiling), ‘So, you have never touched your wife’s panties?’ (interview, director, GAD, Phnom Penh, July 2009). The question expressed an ironic ambiguity between what was said and what was meant, while at the same time sliding between what was said and what can be understood (for example, Ferguson 1993: 30). The move made the contradictions within the men’s embodied performances of their masculinities visible. It is a paradox that touching a woman’s underwear sometimes will make you more of a man, while in the next moment the very same act means a failure to repeat the masculine subject position properly. These kinds of contradictions were emphasised by the trainers as opportunities of change, effectively linking deconstructing practices with the aim of altering the prevailing masculinity in favour of less GBV. Similarly, another issue that the trainers often dealt with concerned the fact that practices of GBV are punishable. CMN stated that it was often argued within the men’s groups that for women it is highly unfair that men are put in prison for beating their wives: the women are given a double punishment, as the harsh living conditions make it difficult for them to provide for their families while their husband are in jail. To contradict this logic, the trainer of GAD made sense of this argumentation by asking whether the same ethical deliberations should apply for thieves and other criminals; why should only one group of criminals be punished? GAD’s trainer argued the following during the men’s meetings: ‘Thieves have families too, but we put them in jail. So, why should men’s responsibilities to support their families be an obstacle to put men in jail if they use violence against their wives?’ (interview, trainer, GAD, Phnom Penh, July 2009). These kinds of statements, which are closely linked to the trainers’ deconstruction efforts, effectively challenge the ‘truths’ of the men’s groups and reveal other possible interpretations. In this case, the ‘truth’ that violent men must be spared in order to support their families is disputed by a competing national ‘truth’ about criminals, laws and penalties. Hierarchies as a Tool for the Discursive Above, I try to make sense of the practices of the male trainers. I conclude that their communication within the men’s groups could be interpreted as attempts to negotiate prevailing discourses and identity positions. In order to reorient the

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Cambodians’ gender scripts, practices of deconstruction and hybridisation were employed. However, in order to stipulate a broader, more embracing picture, the notion of hierarchies must be added to my argumentation. Indeed, one strategy that has been productive and has been promoted worldwide is positioning men as role models. For example, UNESCAP suggests that men collectively must show other men how it is a sign of strength and courage, rather than weakness, to fight violence (UNESCAP 2003: 24), while the objectives of Men’s Action for Stopping Violence against Women (MASVAW), India, are to ‘motivate men to shun violence, protest against violence, support survivors and provide new role models’ (MASVAW and Save the Children Sweden 2008: 17). Similarly, the CMN argues that its members must ‘act as effective role models for their children’ (CMN 2009); in their White Ribbon Campaign they invited Prime Minister Hun Sen as a high-ranking politician to contribute to the event, drawing attention to the issues addressed by the organisation. Thus, employing role models was one strategy used to disrupt traditional discourses of gender and make the men responsive towards the new ‘universal’ norm of masculinity, promoted by the NGOs and their donors and accepted by the international community. Both CWCC and GAD used such role models: People who have been trained by CWCC come forward and talk to other men about our programmes. For example, ‘Me and my wife took part in the CWCC programme. Now we are much happier.’ (interview, director, CWCC, Phnom Penh, August 2010). Some men talk about their experiences in front of 200 men: ‘I used to hit my wife when she refused to give me money. But after visiting the meetings I stopped. Now I do not use violence and I get respect by the community and from my wife and children.’ (Interview, director, GAD, Phnom Penh, August 2010)

In order to convince men to become a part of the disciplinary process towards a new masculinity – to suture a more universal ‘peaceful’ male identity – different representations of a ‘new’ masculinity were then exposed in different sites. The regulatory ideals and the disciplinary production of gender were challenged as individually men opened up at different workshops and professed themselves as adherent to a new masculinity. In the terminology of Judith Butler, these men seemingly repeated the Cambodian discourses of gender in a different manner (Butler 1999: 172–3). By their public appearances, the men were expected to make other men follow the agenda of the organisations; they too would confess to a more peaceful masculinity. According to Chris von Borgstede, by observing others, social norms for proper behaviour are perceived and abided as people are in general ‘rule-followers’, adapting to speak the ‘right’ knowledge. On the whole it is important not to repeat those discourses defined as improper (von Borgstede 2002).

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Contributing to these kinds of disciplinary processes is (real or imagined) surveillance, involving the (potential) gaze of the male trainers, role models, international researchers and/or local as well as international organisations. In other words, the fact that men are responsive to the (real or imagined) gaze of the overseers and to the demands of power, might invoke a process of selfsubjectification (Robinson 2000). Not only former perpetrators were selected as role models – LICHADO actively searched for ‘popular men’ to educate to become local trainers (and thereby local role models) against GBV: We have big meetings with many men. During the meeting we pick the most active and popular men and we ask them to join us and work against the men who use violence against women. Popular men in the commune are good because people listen to him. He can educate people. People believe in him. He can spread knowledge. The only thing is that he must be popular and he must want to help the community. (Interview, LICHADO/WRO, Phnom Penh, July 2009)

‘Popular men’ are portrayed, by LICHADO, as those who are listened to and respected. Studying this statement, we might take Connell’s theories about ‘fast changing masculinities’ as a point of departure (Connell 1987: 183–8). Inhabiting subject positions that are attributed a higher value than other positions, the ‘popular’ men, it might be argued, perform what corresponds to a hegemonic masculinity. Selecting these men, the organisation seems to lean upon societal hierarchies in order to influence gendered discourses of violence. Men who perform a hegemonic masculinity compose an optimum for (what is regarded as) subaltern groupings (that is, men who correspond to other Cambodian masculinities with less status). Therefore, it is not odd that LICHADO presented these men as role models for the community. Indeed, as men discipline themselves in line with a hegemonic masculinity, one strategy, as it seems, might be to assert this subject position as non-violent: if the popular men promote a non-violent option, their ‘speakings’ might become a locus of discursive change (Lilja 2008). Paying attention to the interplay between subject positions, hierarchies and discursive change helps us to see how those at the top of the ladder have more influence over the discourse. Thus, the concepts of ‘hierarchy’, ‘hegemonic masculinities’ and ‘discipline’ can be used to understand why men’s ability to act as positive role models is repeatedly emphasised in various research reports as well as on the internet pages of organisations and networks fighting GBV globally (FRONTIERS 2009; Pate 2008). However, we must evaluate the use of hierarchies in the fight against GBV. Ascribing to the men who perform a hegemonic masculinity the role of teachers, assigning them leader positions, does strengthen local hierarchies. This, then, complicates the very simple causal link between the popular, active men and the introduction of a non-violent hegemonic masculinity. As we enter into the logics of disciplinary power, another pattern can be distinguished: women who have

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been trained to analyse GBV – its regulations and causes – draw no attention within the local community. According to the organisations interviewed, measures such as informing women and providing them with knowledge are, in some sense, pointless given that they are in no position to pursue or implement their knowledge neither within the family nor within the community at large: ‘Before we taught the women about GBV. But when they came home, the men did not want to accept what the women had learnt (about laws, and so on). Therefore we turn to men now’ (interview, director, CWCC, July 2009). Similarly, LICHADO stated: ‘To only work with women does not work. The women explain what they have learnt to the men. But they do not listen. They do not accept the things women tell them’ (interview, LICHADO/WRO, Phnom Penh, July 2009). This way of putting the men in focus probably serves to strengthen the image of women as passive, uninformed and marginalised from the centre. Men, on the other side, are perceived as the ‘truth tellers’. This complicates the seemingly cohesive narrative of resistance of the local NGOs. Conclusion This chapter has focused on current efforts made by development practitioners and organisations to work against violence. There seems to be a common understanding within development circles that GBV not only serves to perpetuate male power and control but also is inextricably linked to gender-based inequalities and the expectations on women and girls to be generally subservient (for example, UNFPA 2010). In line with this, many programmes against GBV reflect the change from the Women in Development (WID) framework in development policy to the Gender and Development (GAD) framework, thus dealing with not only traditional development issues but also the subordination of women. Indeed, there seems to be a dividing line, where dealing with primary ‘gender needs’ might be read in terms of ‘doing gender’, while working against domestic violence is rather to be comprehended as ‘doing feminism’ (Cornwall and Coelho Schattan 2007: 6–8; Sardenberg in Cornwall and Schattan 2007: 58–9). This chapter contributes to the current research about GBV by departing from and examining local Cambodian organisations’ ‘doing feminism’ work. It has been argued that new aspects of the resistance against GBV become visible as the concepts of universalism and particularism are put in play. Linking, or alternating between, various ‘universal’ and ‘particular’ representations and identity positions seems to be the underlying tactic of many of the resisting practices applied against GBV. First of all, in the establishment of new discourses the Cambodian trainers referenced and alternated between ‘universal’ and ‘particular’ notions. By mixing ‘particular’ truths with more ‘universal’ statements, the former were made legitimate. In addition, the trainers themselves appeared to lean upon both ‘universal’ and ‘particular’ images of identity. In the above case, the Cambodian man experienced not only room for negotiation but also ambiguity as his

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constructions of his self took place in the struggle between different ‘universal’ and ‘particular’ subject positions. Indeed, change is the result of individual women and men reflecting, navigating and mediating between different governing discourses. Moreover, the interviews show that men’s ‘particular’ subject positions become the very lens through which they might consider ‘universal’ notions of violent masculinities. In this regard, ‘particular’ identity positions (father, son, and so on) are used in order to navigate between, relate to, resist or absorb ‘dominant’ discourses of gender. In sum, the ‘universal’/‘particular’ dichotomy becomes a useful means of understanding how the current resistance against GBV is taking place. Then again, ‘reality’ is never as simple as theory, leaving us with an abundance of resisting practices that can be described as overlapping or contradictory: these exceed what can be explained by the simple conceptualisation of a binary couplet. Thus the alternation between ‘universal’ and ‘particular’ notions should be seen as one of many forms of resistance, a complement to other political gestures that are applied to negotiate seemingly stable constructions of masculinity. For example, the men’s argumentations were also deconstructed by the trainers who exposed the multiple meanings and contradictions inherent in the men’s claim to a ‘proper’ masculinity. In addition to the practice of deconstruction and the use of universal and particular representations, the organisations also attempted to utilise a hegemonic masculinity in negotiating violent masculinities. In the nexus between different masculinities, the hegemonic masculinity composes a norm, creating a disciplinary process where individual men are forced to adapt to the practices and characteristics of this masculinity (Hooper 2000: 62). Thus, emphasising the hegemonic masculinity as a non-violent masculinity might convince more men to adopt a less violent identity position. As a result, men assigned status, power and authority are sought after as non-violent role models to a higher degree than other men. They have, more than others, the ability to change violent discourses by being ‘truth tellers’. In the end, one power relation (between different masculinities) becomes the basis for resistance against the power-loaded and violent relationship between men and women. In the next two chapters, the question of GBV will be further explored. In particular, the chapters discuss GBV crimes committed during the KR era and how these crimes are handled by the ECCC today. The official debate in regard to the ECCC and GBV is interesting as it sets the tone for the official debate around GBV and thereby affects the discourses that encompass it.

Chapter 5

The Construction of a Trauma: Gender-Based Violence Issues in the Extraordinary Court of the Chambers of Cambodia1 Introduction This chapter discusses the construction of memories in the aftermath of the KR period, departing from Jeffrey Alexander’s and Jenny Edkins’s notions of traumatic events. By addressing the construction of memories as a process the chapter analyses both GBV issues during the KR period and how GBV is perceived in the ECCC today. In addition, the chapter reveals how the international community has supported local non-governmental organisations (NGOs) in their attempts to advance ‘forced marriages’ onto the ECCC agenda. Based on 33 in-depth interviews with local stakeholders in the ECCC, the chapter shows how (primarily) female victims of ‘forced marriage’ have struggled hard to get their voices heard, since their memories do not fit neatly into the official memory currently constructed by the ECCC (see further, for example, Campbell 2007; Oostervold 2009). Cambodian women comprise the majority of the surviving victims and witnesses of GBV during the KR period. The GBV crimes that were committed during this period were not primarily rapes. Although there are different viewpoints in regard to this, it seems that, in the wide array of different methods of torture used in prisons all over the country, rapes were not common. Rapes followed by execution did occur, but it is unclear to what extent. The GBV crimes, which did occur to a greater extent, were the practice of ‘forced marriages’. More than 500,000 men and women were forced to marry by the KR organisation (interview, international lawyer, Phnom Penh, August 2010). The specific aim of this chapter is therefore to problematise gender asymmetries in relation to the (re)construction of memories in the aftermath of trauma by analysing in what ways ‘forced marriage’, a crime against humanity, is handled by the ECCC. In the next chapter these findings are further developed, discussing various biopolitical strategies used to discipline the victims and witnesses of GBV.

1  This chapter has been co-authored with Associate Professor Mikael Baaz.

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The Representation of a Trauma: Memories in Construction According to Jenny Edkins, memory is not an add-on to the study of politics. Instead, memory, and the form of temporality that it generally supports, should be seen as a central concept of analysis in regard to the production of political authority (Edkins 2010: 101). In line with this, to understand contemporary Cambodian politics as well as representations of collective memories, it is important to pay attention to the significance of the relationship between traumatic events, memory and power. Jeffrey Alexander (2004: 11) argues that there is a gap between the event and the representations of the event: the ‘representation of trauma depends on constructing a compelling framework of cultural classification’ in the aftermath of the event (Alexander 2004: 12). As he points out, for a trauma to emerge, a ‘carrier group’ makes ‘claims’ about the shape of the social reality. Via these claims, a new master narrative is advanced by the carrier group who ‘are situated in particular places in the social structure, and they have particular discursive talents for articulating their claims – for what might be called “meaning-making”’ (Alexander 2004: 11; cf. Fierke 2005). For example, in Cambodia, the desirability or value of various masculinities, frequently gives men a privileged position when promoting different discourses and/or establishing new truths. In addition, powerful positions are often inhabited by men, which make it easier for them to articulate their discursive claims. According to Alexander, a successful process of collective representation of the traumatic event must develop within a number of themes, such as, for example, the nature of the victim or the attribution of responsibility. The new meaning assigned to the traumatising event could be established in different types of arenas, one of these being the state (Alexander 2004). This argument reflects very well in the Cambodian case, where the state, and now also the ECCC, are powerful actors in the establishment of the memories of the KR in order to reify and reinforce the idea of the nation (Edkins 2003). However, memories of past traumas are not the only means used by the state to secure its position: their contestations are also central. Traumatic memories might provide specific openings for the resistance against state power (Edkins 2010: 101; cf. Koskenniemi 2002). Trauma then becomes the very incentive to question long-held beliefs and dominating discourses about centralised power, political identities, and socio-political orders. This resistance can be practised individually – as everyday resistance – or by opposition groups who use the traumatic events and post-traumatic experiences to challenge political systems that produce violence, war and genocide (Edkins 2003; Vertzberger 2005). In the case of Cambodia, there seems to be a struggle over memory within the ECCC, in which the memories of Cambodian women of GBV has had to make way for the national memories, constructed primarily by male leaders. Not only due to the fact that most leaders in Cambodia are today (as we know) men, but also because more men than women died during the KR period (something that we

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return to below), a situation has arisen wherein more women than men challenge the master narrative of today’s political leadership by advancing personal memories of the past. The History of Cambodia This section sketches the recent history of Cambodia in order to contextualise the next chapters. As stated above, Cambodia’s recent history is marked by the years of internal fighting. Pol Pot and the KR took over the capital of Cambodia, Phnom Penh, on 17 April 1975 after a period of civil war. The KR was a radical political movement that came to power with the intention of establishing a socialist and fully self-sufficient society. The KR was headed by the Angkar (that is, the Organisation or the Party) and in order for it to achieve its primary goal the movement launched a very radical political programme. Among other things, they destroyed existing Cambodian political, economic, social and cultural institutions and forced most of the population into a collective workforce. Both Phnom Penh and other bigger cities were ‘emptied’ shortly after the victory, and the people from the cities, known as ‘new people’ or ‘April 17 people’, were moved compulsorily to the countryside, to newly established rural collectives. During this period, many individuals who were apprehended as threats to the revolution were suppressed brutally, in many cases also killed. Money, private property and religion were all abolished and the KR renamed Cambodia as the Democratic Kampuchea (DK) (see, for example, Becker 1998: 162; Chandler 1999: 236–72 and 2008: 255–76; Ciorciari 2009: 36–9; Kiernan 2002). After almost four years of KR rule that left, according to James A. Tyner, as many as two million people dead (Tyner 2008: 122; cf. Kiernan 2002: 456–60), Cambodia’s historically intricate relations with Vietnam eventually led to the overthrow of the Pol Pot regime. On 7 January 1979, Phnom Penh fell and, in consequence, the KR fled to the northwestern parts of the country. Heng Samrin (a former political commissar and army division commander under the KR, who defected to Vietnam in 1978) was installed as the new head of state in the new People’s Republic of Kampuchea (PRK). In 1985, the former KR battalion commander Hun Sen replaced Heng Samrin and became the most influential political leader in PRK (Chandler 2008: 277–84). The Cold War ended in 1989, and so did the Vietnamese occupation of Cambodia. Economic and social reforms that moved the country some steps away from the authoritarian planned economy were implemented, private ownership was (re)introduced and agriculture de-collectivised, and, as stated earlier, a comprehensive peace settlement was reached in 1991. Among other things, Cambodia was to become a liberal democracy, and discussions about a tribunal to put the KR leadership to trial were initiated. In 1993, a general election was carried out (Chandler 2008: 285–8).

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Ever since the 1993 elections, Hun Sen and his (new) party, the Cambodian People’s Party (CPP), a successor to the PRP, have, directly or indirectly, ruled Cambodia. The CPP is dominated by male leaders with a certain past and certain interests regarding the construction of the historical record of the KR period in general and their own role in this history in particular. The KR regime was formally outlawed and in 1996 the former deputy prime minister and foreign minister of the KR Ieng Sary and some 3000 KR foot soldiers defected to the Cambodian government in Phnom Penh. Ieng Sary was then given a royal pardon and amnesty. The following year, Pol Pot himself was put on trial by the KR for, among other things, killing Son Sen. His former comrades sentenced him to a lifetime under house arrest, where he subsequently died in 1998 (Chandler 2008: 289–90; Ciorciari 2009: 64). As stated earlier, efforts towards reconciliation in Cambodia culminated in the 1991 Paris Agreements, in which UN-sponsored democratic (that is, free and fair) elections were scheduled for 1993 (Hinton 2004). The UN’s Transitional Authority in Cambodia (UNTAC) was established at the end of February 1992 in order to supervise the ceasefire negotiated in Paris and the ensuing scheduled general election (Chandler 2008: 287). When implementing democracy in war-torn, former Communist states such as Cambodia, the population must be introduced to the values and cornerstones of democracy in order for them to share the same democratic discourse. In Cambodia, the democratic discourse that was implemented in 1993 can be understood through the notion of ‘liberal democracy’, a particular hybrid of liberalism and democracy (Bunce 2003; Fatton and Ramazani 2004; Carothers 2002). Liberal democracies in Europe, the US, Canada and Australia all have features such as ‘individualism, elections, majority rule, multiple political parties, a limited government, the autonomy of the civil society … the absence of mediating institutions between the individual and the state, the law as the central means of social regulation’ (Parekh 1993: 166). Likewise, when implementing democracy in Cambodia, one of the UN’s strategies was to change the local norms and values of the society by promoting ideas of human rights and fundamental freedoms (Lilja 2008; Findlay 1995: 28–32; Heder and Ledgerwood 1996: 15; Öjendal 1993: 4–8). The dominant party in Cambodia, the CPP (however, recently challenged by the CNRP), has, since 1993, carried out a rule that has been both ambivalent, upholding constitutionalism, and in some sense democratic. For example, civil liberties have been protected satisfactorily enough to secure continued international support and abuse of human rights has decreased. However, simultaneously the party suffers from a national legitimacy crisis due to, for example, state-led exploitation and widespread corruption (Öjendal and Lilja 2009). In addition, there have been various violations of human rights and political violence, including killings of political activists in the run-up to the election (see, for example, Hinton 2004; Kiernan 1993; Martin 1994). More women than men survived the traumas of the KR period. Fewer women were targeted for execution – they were not constructed as ‘enemies’ to the

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revolution and had, again due to existing gender structures in Cambodia, fewer connections to the old regime. Moreover, women are, generally speaking, better ‘equipped’ to survive conditions of severe malnutrition and are not killed in ‘fighting’ to the same degree as men. In addition, men continued to be drained off from society to go to serve as soldiers during the 1980s and early 1990s, leaving a gender imbalance in many villages. The most commonly quoted figures in the early 1990s show that 64 per cent of the adult population in Cambodia was made up of women (Ledgerwood 2010). The Extraordinary Court of the Chambers of Cambodia (ECCC) International pressure to create the ECCC came primarily from the West. The Western countries were able to influence Cambodia in this regard due to the fact that they accounted for a large share of Cambodia’s foreign aid. Additionally, the West was also a major source of export revenue, tourism and private investment, and had been so since the mid-1990s. Without these important means for creating pressure, it is not obvious that the UN would have been able to secure an agreement for a tribunal at all. However, the Western countries were split regarding the creation of a hybrid or mixed tribunal. Without a clear mandate, the UN negotiators lost some of their credibility and, in consequence, some influence in the negotiations. Being able to (politically) control the ECCC made it more attractive to the CPP, and finally, from the perspective of the CPP, a favourable compromise was reached (Ciorciari 2009: 67–80). According to the agreement between the RGC and the UN, the ECCC operates with a mixture of Cambodian and international staff and law. The aim behind this hybrid construction is to create a balance between the international and the national. Nevertheless, when it comes to balancing gender, no explicit measures have been taken to create a balance. Males dominate the ECCC on all influential levels (see ECCC 2011). On 4 February 2008, the Tribunal held its first hearing, starting the final ‘struggle over memory’ in the aftermath of the KR trauma. However, for many people, the ECCC and the process of international criminal justice in Cambodia have been a disappointment, and today, as indicated previously, several critical voices are raised against the ‘hybrid’ or mixed court, with various problems and aspects pinpointed regarding the discourses surrounding it (Heindel 2009a; Heindel 2009b; Linton 2004: 20; Thomas and Chy 2009; cf. Cryer, Friman, Robinson and Wilmshurst 2010). ‘Arranged Marriages’ and ‘Forced Marriages’ in Cambodia Traditionally in Cambodia, the parents as well as the relatives of a prospective bride and groom arranged the marriages. Even though both men and women had

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little say in the choice of the spouse, given the gender structure of Cambodian society, the women were in a weaker position generally and had less input in determining who would be their future partners (Jain 2008: 1023). Prior to the KR, marriages in Cambodia were very much the union between two extended families. The parents of the prospective couple played a leading role regarding the selection of the candidate and they also conducted different rituals in relation to the wedding process (Heuveline and Poch 2006: 100–102; Jain 2008: 1023). This changed, however, as the KR movement gained power. One of their policies was to destroy the traditional family structure of Cambodia and the role of the families as the unity responsible for arranging marriages. The reason was, almost needless to say, that the traditional family structure of traditional Cambodia threatened the revolution. In order to reorganise Cambodian society, it was necessary to replace any identities that may have competed with the unconditional and absolute loyalty demanded by the Angkar (Becker 1998: 211; Jain 2008: 1023; Kasumi 2008: 16–17). The KR did not have any intentional policy to abolish the nuclear family, but, in practice, most family ties were indeed torn apart due to evacuations and the collectivisation of the work. However, at the same time, there was a deindividualisation of marriage as societal institution. Marriages were transformed into ceremonies in which the groom and the bride made an oath to the Angkar instead of to one another and, by extension, to the two (extended) families involved. In practice, marriages then became impersonal agreements between two people who occasionally had no prior knowledge of each other before the ceremony. To a certain extent, the Angkar replaced the role of the parents as matchmakers. To refuse to marry the one that the Angkar had decided for you could lead to the death penalty, all in the name of the revolution (Heuveline and Poch 2006: 102; Jain 2008: 1024–5; Locard 2004: 252–4). During the KR rule, some 500,000 women and men were forced into marriage and the Cambodian authorities’ surveillance made sure that the marriages were consummated. The old wedding ceremonies were replaced by serious, collective, civil ceremonies under the auspices of the Angkar. At times more than one hundred persons were married at the same time. The couples were ‘married before the people’ and swore loyalty to the Angkar (Jain 2008: 1025; Locard 2004: 257; interview, national judge, Phnom Penh, 4 August 2010). Today there are still Cambodians who remain within the marriages that were assigned to them between 1975 and 1979 (Immigration and Refugee Board of Canada 2003). During the 2010 interviews, we also found out that high court officials were still living in ‘forced marriages’ contracted during the KR era. Forced marriages fell within the Angkar’s line of sexual repression, which affected all levels of the new Cambodian society, perhaps with the exception of the very KR elite, who retained their traditional feudal privileges of ‘deflowering virgins’. By the same token, some men (with good connections) could ask the KR cadre in charge to initiate a marriage. Women, on the other hand, did not have this opportunity. In such cases, the woman was not often consulted and her consent

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was in most cases absolutely irrelevant (Heuveline and Poch 2006: 102; Jain 2008: 1024; Kasumi 2008: 17; Locard 2004: 257). The Struggle Over Meaning in the ECCC: Revisiting ‘Forced Marriage’ and ‘Arranged Marriages’ During the interrogations with the victims of ‘forced marriage’, painful memories were revisited and maintained. According to one international lawyer, the victims of ‘forced marriage’ often experienced the ceremonies of these weddings as fragmented: People sometimes did not even know who they have been married to. At some ceremonies it was dark during the wedding and there were a lot of people. The newly married run around not knowing who they have just been married to. (Interview, international lawyer, Phnom Penh, August 2010)

One victim told us about the pain she experienced when her sisters were exposed to the practice of ‘forced marriages’. She said: My sisters did not want to get married by force. They went to our mother to ask for her advice. She told them to pretend to be ill. She put some mud behind their ears. That is a disease here. But the mud fell off after a while. Then they had to get married. But my sisters refused to get married that day. The others who refused to accept a forced marriage ran into the forest. However, my sisters ran to our parents. Then the Khmer Rouge came and killed them with machetes in front of my parents. (Interview, victim, Phnom Penh, June 2010)

Another respondent expressed a similar feeling of despair, though from a different perspective and from a different experience: I am a third sex. I am neither a woman nor a man. I want to have sex with men, not women. I was forced to marry a woman. I did not want to. I had to have sex with her to survive. The Khmer Rouge forced us to have sex. I only had sex with her twice. Otherwise I would have been killed. […] The difference between forced marriages and arranged marriages is big. If my parents had arranged a marriage for me I would be able to say ‘No’. But if you refused to get married during the KR they killed you. (Interview, victim, Phnom Penh, August 2010)

While many of these stories are painful, due to a mix-up between ‘arranged marriages’ and ‘forced marriages’ the latter has previously not been considered a crime or a trauma. The ‘forced marriages’ during the KR period and the related, traditional practice of ‘arranged marriages’ have a number of characteristics in common, which provide the very base for how they are placed to fit into the

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same category of the social order. For example, instead of the family arranging the marriage, the Angkar took the role of the parents in the matchmaking. In both cases, a superior ‘provider’ set the stage. In line with this, both ‘arranged marriages’ and ‘forced marriages’ have previously been categorised under the same label of ‘arranged marriages’. One of the respondents said: People rarely mentioned forced marriages in their complaints and civil party applications. They did not consider it a crime. […] But they [eventually] realised that forced marriage was a crime when I talked to them. Approximately 90% had either been married by force themselves or had a relative who had been forced to marry. […] I have contributed to putting gender-based violence on the ECCC agenda. (Interview, International Lawyer, Phnom Penh, August 2010)

When the international community raised the issue of ‘forced marriage’, many Cambodians recognised that they themselves had been victims and also found it important that their memories and stories be included in the processes of dealing with the KR trauma. However, not all Cambodians agreed, not even all of those who had been exposed to the practice of ‘forced marriages’. In what follows, we discuss how Cambodian witnesses’ interests, questions and testimonies ‘fit’ into the agenda of local and international actors. As we show below, GBV issues and the memories of sexual violence in the aftermath of the KR era, are often perceived as an open resistance against the ECCC’s agenda. The existence of these ‘deviant’ memories are made possible since trauma is a social construction, not a natural given response to extreme events, which in themselves are inherently traumatic (Alexander 2004). As stated previously, as interpreted through local discourses of weddings, ‘forced marriages’ have not been considered a crime or even an offence. However, in line with the UN Security Council Resolution 1325 (UN/SC/ RES/1325), the international community (international civil society included) has supported local NGOs in their efforts to include GBV issues in the court agenda – organisations involved in Cambodia are the German Development Service (DED), the Cambodian Human Rights and Development Association (ADHOC) and the Cambodian Defenders Project (CDP). These organisations’ attempt to advance GBV on the agenda of the ECCC has created some strong reactions. One international lawyer described the difficulties of addressing ‘forced marriage’ at the ECCC in the following way: ECCC has ignored my attempts to bring up GBV issues in Case 001 […] in other cases people at ECCC have reacted very strongly and many seem to oppose my attempts to discuss GBV issues. For example, one day in July 2009 when I was sitting on the bus [operated by the ECCC to transport court staff between the ECCC and Phnom Penh city centre], one of the highest legal officers under the co-investigating judges sat six rows behind me, talking very loudly, making sure that I could hear him, to a colleague, complaining that he now has to investigate

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forced marriage. He ended by saying, ‘Isn’t it ridiculous that marriages where they are still married would now be considered a forced marriage.’ (Interview, international lawyer, Phnom Penh, 5 August 2010)

In all, the international lawyer had experienced difficulties in having GBV included in the cases and in persuading the interrogators to bring up questions about GBV during the interviews of victims. Additionally, when discussing ‘forced marriages’, the court used an inappropriate classification of the crime: ‘They only used rape and forced marriage as another inhuman act, but it should also be “forced enslavement” as another inhumane act’, the same respondent continued (interview, international lawyer, Phnom Penh, 5 August 2010). In spite of all these obstacles, GBV is now an emerging area of investigation in the ECCC. Thus, the practice of forced marriages is revisited and reconstructed from the perspective of international donors, local NGOs, and their related lawyers. Refiguring the social order, the re-categorisation of forced marriages has transformed the practice from ‘tradition’ to a crime. One international lawyer concluded in the following way: When I interviewed men and women who had been married by force, I realised that they do not realise that a crime has been committed against them. But as I interviewed them, they realised that forced marriage is a crime […]. It means a lot to the victims of GBV to get to know that it is a crime. It raises their awareness. They were right all along! (Interview, international lawyer, Phnom Penh, August 2010)

As one of the main constructors of the local narratives of GBV, the international and local organisations promoting gender issues in the ECCC in many ways can be seen as ‘carrier groups’, contributing to the construction of a ‘trauma process’ (Alexander 2004). By interpreting both local events taking place during the KR era and the memories of these, through Western notions of ‘slavery’ and ‘rape’, the organisations and their representatives have partly re-evaluated and reconstructed the representations of these events. In the aftermath of violence, and through Western discourses presented and maintained by international lawyers and local NGOs, the victims start to ‘realise’ that they have been exposed to a crime and not to local traditions. Put differently, in Cambodia, diverse NGOs and their lawyers, acting within the ECCC and taking correlated actions of investigation, interviewing, and so on, as well as the media that reflect the court proceedings, together support each other in creating experiences of a trauma, in which husbands and wives together have been part of rape and forced slavery, simultaneously both victims and perpetrators. A Western-influenced carrier group that makes claims within the legal arena, then constitutes the trauma process. However, not all stakeholders accept these new Western ‘truths’. In Cambodia, the struggle over meaning that occurs by introducing ‘forced marriage’ on the court agenda is played out at two interconnected levels. Firstly,

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some of our respondents argued that the subject of GBV does not ‘fit’ in the court, as it deviates from the storyline of the court proceedings and the interest and agenda of the national authorities. It has been pinpointed that the CPP uses the ECCC to construct ‘correct’ memories and thereby gain renewed legitimacy from a court dealing primarily with the massive violence during the KR period. For example, John D. Ciorciari concludes in an article that [t]he ECCC is not as politically ‘transitional’ as processes in many other postconflict countries; the CPP established a solid grip on power well before the proceedings began … the trials appear to be doing the Cambodian government no harm and perhaps modest good. They help reinforce the CPP’s anti-Khmer Rouge legacy and create at least the possibility of a modest diplomatic makeover with the West. (Ciorciari 2010)

Likewise, in the official opening of the trial in Case 002, tough questions were raised by several journalists about how Hun Sen seemed to be dictating the court’s agenda (Giry 2012). Thus, it appears that the CPP strive hard to establish an image of themselves as anti-KR, using the ECCC as a political means. One of our respondents said, ‘The ECCC just cares about the violence and homicide, not about GBV’ (interview, victim, Phnom Penh, July 2010). Yet another critical respondent argued, ‘The ECCC is about Vietnamese-supported Khmer Rouge punishing Chinese-supported Khmer Rouge’ (interview, NGO worker, Phnom Penh, July 2010). In the process of establishing a local trauma, a homicide, and thereby securing the CPP’s sovereign power, GBV issues were becoming marginalised. On preparing the prosecutions, one court official said, ‘the legal concept of “forced marriage” is not the sharpest tool in my toolbox’ (interview, international prosecutor, Phnom Penh, August 2010). Besides, several respondents suggested that national authorities have interests that influence not only the agenda of the ECCC but also the witnesses. One of the respondents, for example, stated the following: People do not want to take part in the ECCC because they are afraid of the government. For example, one woman who is really outspoken, she used to take action and speak publicly during the Angry Day [celebrated in May every year in order to remember the victims of the terror of the KR], she was asked to take part in the ECCC. But she refused. She said she is afraid. (Interview, victim, Phnom Penh, May 2010)

To summarise, ‘forced marriage’ does not fit neatly into the overall script orchestrated by the CPP and the UN. It appears that male leaders construct the nation’s history, while women have been largely excluded from participating in Cambodian politics (which is often imagined as an all-male sphere) (Reeser 2010). This goes hand in hand with the construction of the nation, in which men and women are assigned different roles. As suggested by feminists researching

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nationalism, men are frequently expected to be the representatives and defenders of the nation, sacrificing their interests and strength and, if necessary, their lives. In this regard, men are seen as the main actors on the public and national level, with the main responsibility for writing the nation’s history. Women, on the other hand, are often supposed to take care of the nation’s internal relations (that is, the hidden and the private) (see, for example, Lilja 2008; Enloe 1989; Mendieta 2003; Reeser 2010). However, in the Cambodian case, the roles of men and women within the nation not only complement each other but their different positions become the very base for a struggle over meaning in which victims, primarily women, try to add GBV to the ECCC agenda and to the master narrative of the past, while men, on another level, try to govern the nation. Secondly, how Cambodians react to the attempts by the international community and (Western-funded) NGOs to include ‘forced marriages’ on the agenda seems intimately linked to different subject positions. Thus, GBV issues are sometimes objected on a more personal level and sometimes due to the role one plays within the nation. While some people consider the practice of forced marriages as traumatic, others do not. In particular, those who still remain in a ‘forced marriage’ (and have children within these marriages) are unwilling to discuss these marriages in terms of ‘rape’, ‘force’ and/or ‘slavery’. Thus, while the notion of forced marriages as a ‘crime against humanity’ is revelatory for some, it is threatening to others. In line with this, as ‘forced marriage’ is brought to the agenda, many of the witnesses of these crimes are met by encouragement but also by a kind of denial (Tal 1996: 6). Male Cambodian court staff, some of whom still live in ‘forced marriages’, seemingly obstruct or refuse to admit the existence of trauma, thereby undermining the survivors’ credibility. For example, one of the court staff members who was, according to himself, still happily married in a ‘forced marriage’, considered the concept of ‘forced marriage’ as nothing but another form of ‘arranged marriage’ (interview, national judge, Phnom Penh, August 2010). Another court official, describing his marriage arranged by the KR, asked, ‘If it is a happy marriage how can it be forced?’ (interview, national judge, Phnom Penh, August 2010) This resistance was mirrored during the investigations with women victims, where the interrogators often used an ironic undertone. Among other things, the investigators referred to the KR-supervised intercourse (performed under death threat) within ‘forced marriages’ as ‘making love’ (interview, international lawyer, Phnom Penh, August 2010). Beliefs like the ones described above, do not contribute to successfully addressing the crime of GBV and ‘forced marriage’ at the ECCC. In all, the resistance from the men in power was often substantial against the new victims’ stories of ‘forced marriages’. Again, it is a matter of actors on the public, national level (mostly men) being challenged from beneath, while their ‘stories’ are contested in the light of other truths (primarily women’s). Overall, the ambivalent reactions of the court make some of the witnesses question the constitution of the ECCC in general and their own participation in particular. One of the respondents, for example, said, ‘the ECCC does not care about GBV. People do not care about,

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for example, forced marriage…. [In consequence,] if I knew how to do it I would back out from the ECCC’ (interview, victim, Phnom Penh, August 2010). Generally speaking, the analysis above accords very well with critical legal theory in general, which states that the legal system and the courts are informed by societal power structures although they are falsely promoted as neutral, for example in terms of class and educational background, and feminist legal theory in particular, focusing on power-loaded gender relations. When scrutinised, the legal system and court practices in Cambodia overall, as well as in the ECCC, reveal different power structures, not least gender based (cf. Gunnarsson and Svensson 2009; Levitt and Verchicks 2006; Weisberg 1993). Conclusion(s) The aims of this chapter have been, firstly, to problematise gender asymmetries in relation to the (re)construction of memories in the aftermath of trauma by analysing in what ways ‘forced marriage’, a crime against humanity, is handled by the ECCC, and secondly, to show that the international community and local NGOs have played a significant role in bringing ‘forced marriage’ as a crime against humanity onto the ECCC agenda. The ECCC has profound moral, legal and political significance. It represents the latest stage in a long and difficult process of dealing with the KR trauma. The mandate of the ECCC is a legal one, but the tribunal has great moral and political relevance in other areas as well (see inter alia the discussions in Cambodia Daily and Phnom Penh Post, since at least June 2003). The outcome of the negotiations in the ECCC resulted in a qualified victory for Hun Sen and the CPP, especially if the ECCC is compared with other hybrid courts in which the UN has exercised a far more decisive upper hand (cf. the East Timor Tribunal). In the case of the ECCC, Cambodian nationals are in the majority (Ciorciari 2009: 69). Hereby the CPP has made the ECCC an important site in (subjugating and controlling) the process of remembrance in the aftermath of the KR trauma. However, the analysis displays not only the Cambodian state’s attempts to establish certain memories, but also a struggle over memory. As Edkins (2003) concludes, traumatic memories might provide openings for the resistance against state power and hegemonic memories. This links very well with the specific case of Cambodia, where victims of ‘forced marriage’ are currently negotiating the master narrative, which is being established with the help of the ECCC. GBV does not fit neatly into the official memory, and the victims of GBV, and their spokespersons, have to struggle to have their ‘trauma’ represented on the court agenda. The dominating storyline of the ECCC is the violence/homicide of the KR period, thus bringing legitimacy to the former KR cadres who constitute the national authority today.

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The above-mentioned struggle over memories is taking place in a gendered nation whose vast majority of leaders are men. It is a nation that mirrors the general conclusion of Reeser, namely that ‘men traditionally have built and propagated nations, often to serve their own interests’ (Reeser 2010: 173). The political arena in Cambodia is close to an all-male sphere and only a few women uphold positions of power (Lilja 2008). The victims of GBV, primarily women, who take part in the struggle over memory, are the survivors of a regime eventually being held responsible for its actions. They represent the internal side of the Cambodian nation, still standing up to the national (male) decision makers. Thus, in the Cambodian case, the roles of men and women within the nation not only complement each other but also become the very base for a struggle over meaning. The act of bringing up new issues on the ECCC agenda is then entangled in relations of power and resistance, involving the state power, its male leaders, and women. In addition, the interviews showed that to politicise GBV issues in Cambodia, forcing them into the agenda of the ECCC, there must be certain actors advancing the issues – Western-funded NGOs and specialists working together with Cambodian counterparts. The local population, who are raised into the local discourses, do not always acknowledge these types of crimes. They are considered ‘foreign’ to the Cambodian culture. Therefore, spokespersons based in other discourses are needed to reveal the crimes. However, at the same time as local injustices/events are referred to as ‘traumas’, various ‘victims’ are created who accept (or do not accept) the new ‘truths’. Thus, to ‘adjust’ local memories can be very painful or problematic for those who are the holders of the actual experiences. Different questions then arise: When is it right to impose different reinterpretations that make people ‘victims’? And, how can we legally value events that are traumatic for some but not for others? In the next chapter we continue to discuss GBV issues in relation to the ECCC. In particular, we discuss the role of the witnesses of GBV crimes and how the witnesses are disciplined by biopolitical means in order to construct the ‘right’ national memories.

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Chapter 6

Bearing Witness: Biopower and Resistance in the ECCC1 The previous chapter analysed the international community and its role in putting GBV issues on the agenda of the ECCC. This chapter seeks to display how these attempts were addressed and counteracted by various officials in the ECCC. GBV issues will be explored in relation to the ECCC by focusing on (primarily) female witnesses in the ECCC suggesting that these women are disciplined and governed by biopolitical means yet still practise resistance through maintaining their memories of ‘forced marriages’. In Cambodia both individual memories and the governing of these memories are an outcome of the contestations of multiple actors, meanings and values, such as Cambodian political parties and local and internationalised discourses of justice, education and memory (Hughes 2005). Overall, as will be shown below, the Cambodian population is exposed to certain technologies of power in order to produce memories that motivate a particular liberal way of ‘democratic’ life in the aftermath of the KR period. Various biopolitical strategies are applied to construct certain memories of the KR regime, legitimating current post-war discourses and subjectivities. Or in other words, women and men are normalised through biopolitical methods in order to live the ‘official story’ of the past and the present. Commemorative events, memorial sites, as well as institutions such as the ECCC are used by the political authorities to construct memories of the past as well as the present. The practices of the ECCC can be understood as technologies of power and the institution itself prevails as a part of different national and international biopolitical strategies to govern the Cambodian population. Through analysing the biopolitics – the techniques of governing – of the Cambodian authorities, this chapter shows how such governing is producing discourses, memories and subjectivities in Cambodia. In particular, the chapter argues that pernicious biopolitics is evident in the ways in which the memories of the witnesses in the ECCC are met and their stories received. The female witnesses are governed to ‘fit’ into the normality of a post-war era and victims, witnesses and civil parties are assumed to incorporate certain discourses and subjectivities. However, in the analysis, bearing witness also surface as a resistance strategy against what is emphasised as a hegemonic narrative in Cambodia. The chapter is divided into the following parts. In the first section of the chapter, the practice of bearing witness is discussed. This section is followed by 1  This chapter has been co-authored with Associate Professor Mikael Baaz.

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a short ‘background’, in which some biopolitical practices of governing in postwar Cambodia are outlined. In what ways have post-war memories been shaped and governed? And how do these memories influence subjectivities in present Cambodia? Finally, the nexus between biopolitical strategies and the practice of bearing witness in the ECCC is analysed. The Biopolitical Implications of Bearing Witness In this section, we shall outline some biopolitical strategies, which in different ways form the testimonies of the witnesses, contributing to establishing certain ‘truths’, normalities and practices. As stated in Chapter 2, biopolitics, being a form of politics that is centred on life, involves the construction of memories and the role of memories in governing. In Cambodia the construction of memories has been a part of regulating the population, its subjectivities and will. For example, how memorial places have been constructed has governed the remembering in post-war Cambodia. Memories are often contested in the process of bearing witness to the horror of war, in a contestation and struggle over meaning that might result in national instability and the undermining of a solid ground for national reconstruction. Over and above this, it is possible to identify a tension among the leaders who attempt to create national memories, often males, and the witnesses and survivors of the violence, often females (who in general, in Cambodia, face obstacles in accessing justice). This gender dimension of the construction of collective memories is verified by our reading of the ECCC proceedings over the last years. As we shall see in the analysis below, the memories of the women witnesses are comprehended as being located outside the borders of the traditional juridical discourse and national politics, both of which are dominated by men. Bearing witness is often complicated, as the testimonies are constructed and evaluated in the light of a power-loaded context: ‘[B]earing witness is an aggressive act. It is born out of a refusal to bow to outside pressure to revise or to repress experiences, a decision to embrace conflict rather than conformity … Its goal is change’ (Tal 1996: 7). As a consequence, the act of bearing witness is often met with various technologies of power. In the process of producing new subjectivities/normalities, arranging history and putting it in order, in a postwar era of reconstruction, various biopolitical practices are being undertaken to discipline the witnesses. Kali Tal describes these practices in terms of various strategies of cultural coping with traumatic events – mythologisation, medicalisation and disappearance (Tal in Edkins 2003; Tal 1996: 6). To disarm the resistance of the witnesses against the dominant understandings of the present and the past, advanced by institutions such as the ECCC, mythologisation works by reducing the remembrance of traumatic events into a structured narrative, which is experienced as less disturbing and frightening; mythologisation thereby destroys the ‘truth’. Secondly, through medicalisation

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survivors are rehabilitated and treated as patients suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome with the aim of resumption of normal life. Their testimony is politically undermined and put in question, as being partly or in whole a product of illness. The third strategy is disappearance. This involves a refusal to admit the existence of a trauma and the survivor’s credibility is thereby undermined. Each of these coping strategies, in some regards, lessens the impact of the testimony and the witness loses control over the interpretation of her (or his) testimony (Edkins 2003: 190; Tal 1996; Vertzberger 2005). And, as displayed in the analysis, these coping strategies are highly visible in the Cambodian case and can be viewed as biopolitical tools to regulate what is ‘normal’ and produce post-war subjectivities that ‘fit’ the overall memories of the nation. The Biopolitics of the Cambodian Reconstruction: Regulating Post-War Life In this section we show how the technologies of management in Cambodia have regulated the population to ‘govern themselves’, in the aftermath of the KR period, through different modalities of power, their instruments and objectives. As we argue above, the emergence of a liberal mentality of governance has come to be highly dependent upon biopolitical domains. Simultaneously the role of law has taken new forms and must now be ‘understood no longer as an instrument of sovereignty but as a component of the liberal technology of government’ (Dean 1999: 118). Included in our framework of analysis is the governing of the Cambodian regime, their biopolitical means, and the law as an integrated part of their technology of governance. According to David Chandler there have been several official policies, in regard to the KR regime and the memories of the regime, since the Democratic Kampuchea was overthrown. One policy applied in the 1980s was, according to Chandler, to encourage hostile recollections (Chandler 2008. Among other things, after the KR had defected, different memorial sites were established; the majority of these were constructed during the early 1980s. Their construction was promulgated by the central government but built by local municipal, district or village authorities. Local municipal and provincial officers were encouraged to inspect local genocide sites. This was done in order to prepare statistical data on the sites and create a ‘file of evidence’ on genocidal crimes. Later on, these statistics were reported to the Ministry of Information and Culture. As a part of their job, the officers were also instructed to pursue local people ‘to “carry onward their vengeance” about the “crimes and suffering” by preparing “memorial sites” to “the victims of the Pol Pot–Ieng Sary regime”’ (Hughes 2005: 277–8). The strategy of instructing people to build and respect memorial sites, which are inspected and registered, can be seen as a technology of power that is centred on registering life by constructing memories and forming practices in regard to these memorial sites. A ‘suffered’ identity position was constructed, which people were

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encouraged to suture. Biopolitical instruments of statistics and surveillance were applied to regulate the population (Foucault 1976). By maintaining a mass of human remains in the physical memorials, deaths considered valueless under Pol Pot were reclaimed as artefacts to be ‘known’ by the nation (Hughes 2005). The Vietnamese General Mai Lam, who was a central actor in developing some of the major memorial sites (for example, the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum and the Choeung Ek Genocidal Center), argued that the preservation of human remains was ‘very important for the Cambodian people – it’s the proof’ (Mai Lam quoted in Ledgerwood 1997: 89). This can be interpreted as a biopolitical strategy of measuring, displaying and emphasising the hidden in order to separate ‘then’ from ‘now’. Or in other words, the ‘now’ must be established and normalised by separating it from the past. Repeatedly in our interviews, we encountered the preservation for education of memories, life stories, proofs and historical accounts. Such narratives and artefacts have the potential of unifying the society around knowledge of previous times. The physical horrors of the Pol Pot’s rule and the extreme actions of the ‘Pol Pot clique’ were also referenced in order to legitimise Vietnam’s decision to invade Cambodia in the late 1970s and overthrow the KR movement from power (Hughes 2005). Or in the words of Judy Ledgerwood, ‘the metanarrative of the PRK state, of criminals committing genocide ousted by patriotic revolutionaries, framed and provided an explanation for seemingly incomprehensible events’ (Ledgerwood 1997: 93). What is interesting is that the PRK regime did not distance themselves from the KR regime but merely from the ‘Pol Pot clique’ of the regime or the ‘Pol Pot– Ieng Sary regime’. For example, in 1988 a national conference launched a petition to the United Nations and the World Peace Council, which called on these organisations and the world public to take measures against the universally condemned criminals Pol Pot, Ieng Sary and Khieu Samphan and their associates and denounce the dark schemes of certain countries and forces for giving material support and moral assistance to the genocidal Pol Pot clique in its attempt to return to Kampuchea to massacre the Kampuchean people and undermine the national revival. (SPK [State Press Agency], 18 May 1988: 3, in Hughes 2005: 281).

This way of mentioning the ‘Pol Pot clique’ implies that the PRK did not distance themselves from the KR (of which they themselves had been active members) but only from a small group within the Angkar organisation. Thus, the quotation implies the PRK’s close relationship with the KR organisation. In fact, Prime Minister Hun Sen and his close allies were previously KR cadres (Dicklitch and Malik 2010). Although many of them defected before the invasion of the Vietnamese, the close connection between the political leaders now and then has probably been a motivation for numerous biopolitical strategies to distance now from then, creating a ‘new’ post-war society.

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The blurry borders between the previous regime and the PRK, then made it even more important for the PRK to distance themselves from the previous leadership. This was done not only by memorial sites but also through the construction of a ‘Day of Anger’, which was supposed to be celebrated on 20 May on an annual basis. During the era of the PRK and the State of Cambodia (1989–1991), and some years into the new decennium, the ‘Day of Anger’ was a well-organised national holiday, which aimed at acknowledging the genocide of the ‘Pol Potists’ (Hughes 2005). On this day, schools, hospitals, factories and other enterprises were instructed to expose banners condemning the crimes committed by the Pol Pot regime. Ceremonies involved songs, praying, ritual offerings to the dead, and poetry. Local officials also made speeches at different ceremonies (Chandler 2008). Emphasis was given to the strong ‘we’, the KR enemy and the development of a post-war society, a society in which the population must govern themselves through the ‘practice of revolutionary activities’: Beloved comrades and friends … those who died are reminding us to be vigilant, to strengthen our solidarity and practice revolutionary activities. We must be on the alert against the cruelties and poisonous tricks of the enemy, even though they try to hide themselves in multiple images. (Speech of Comrade Chea Sim, 20 May 1986, in Hughes 2005: 280)

The practices of the memorials, and other practices of remembering, must be seen as a biopolitical instrument that regulates the population and their ‘living’ in a war-torn society under construction: ‘The participation of individuals in local commemorations was thus represented as integral to the reconstruction of a larger revolutionary state’ (Hughes 2005: 280). Moving from the 1980s and into the 1990s, Chandler argues that the Cambodian regime changed their strategy. Rather than remembering the horror of the KR, they moved to promoting a policy of ‘induced amnesia’. To forget the past was considered the best route to national reconciliation. This, however, was not a homogeneous strategy; rather, the CPP performed an ambivalent rule. Although people were encouraged to ‘dig a hole and bury the past’ (as Hun Sen upheld at a press conference in 1998 – see Chandler 2008), the memorial places, mourning days, practices of publically bearing witness or reacting to the killings continued to be present, informing the remembrance of the Cambodian population. For example, even though the celebrations were put on hiatus for a couple of years, the Day of Anger continued to be celebrated within the new ‘democratic society’ post 1993. In 1999, for example, banners at the event expressed, ‘Remember forever the criminal acts of the genocidal Pol Pot regime’ and ‘Long live the Cambodian People’s Party’ (Hughes 2005: 283). And as Cambodia entered the new century, the ceremonies of the Day of Anger still attracted large crowds. For example, on 20 May 2011, the Documentation Center of Cambodia wrote on their homepage that

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According to Chandler, the Cambodian regime changed track again in mid-2000, and from 2005 onwards Hun Sen and the CPP showed a new interest for the past (Chandler 2008). Among other things, and as argued above, the UN-backed ECCC is supported by the regime and must be seen as a biopolitical instrument that informs the remembering of the past, aiming at regulating the population. For example, ECCC representatives were active on 17 April 2011, which is annually marked as the day the KR took over Phnom Penh, pinpointing the importance of remembering the horror of the KR period. Dim Sovannarom, a spokesman for the ECCC, stated: ‘Any activity to remember this day is necessary. And that’s why the [tribunal] is operational under its mission here to bring those responsible to trial’ (Sothanarith 2011). As stated previously, the KR tribunal is a ‘mixed tribunal’ established jointly by the Royal Government of Cambodia and the United Nations. The court process is boosted in the local press (for example, The Cambodia Daily), which discusses everything from women witnesses, the aim of the court, as well as the suspects and their living conditions. Thus, it seems the ECCC is an important actor, shaping the discourse and memories of both the past and the present. Therefore, the institution becomes an interesting locus of analysis. Below, we shall discuss the ECCC and its attempts to govern resisting witnesses during the court proceedings. From a biopolitical perspective these attempts must be viewed as a part of the governing of the lives of the population in general. Biopolitics and Practice of Bearing Witnesses The Cambodian citizens’ everyday conducts, their self-narratives and their memories have been produced under the influence of governmental actions such as the Day of Anger, the court and the creation of various memorial sites. We argue that the ECCC is related to sovereign practices and sovereign forms of power – in terms of legislation and laws – that have biopolitical effects serving to normalise individuals, and their memories, through the juridical discourses and the laws. 2  At http://dccam.org/Projects/Living_Doc/Photos/2011/Day_of_Remembrance_at_ Cheung_Ek_Killing_Field/index.html [accessed: 27 May 2011].

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Within the ECCC, the witnesses are the primary actors in shaping the very ‘truths’ about the present and past. What prevailed in the interviews was that the witnesses of the ECCC were influenced by various biopolitical practices, which in some senses disarmed their testimonies and made them less threatening. The biopolitical practices embraced the ECCC’s denial of the witnesses’ stories as well as the medicalisation and mythologisation that Tal mentions. This reasoning will be developed below. As stated previously, in Cambodia, since more men than women were killed or died during the KR period, many of the witnesses today are women (interview, international lawyer, Phnom Penh, August 2010). When different respondents discussed the character of the women’s testimonies, their accounts were disparate and fragmented: some argued that the female witnesses were being ‘too emotional’ (read unreliable) (for example, interview, national lawyer, Phnom Penh, May 2010), while others remarked that women’s testimonies get more attention as it is so rare to see women talk publically (interview, witness, Phnom Penh, May 2010). Whatever view was promoted, discourses of gender in general coloured the interpretations of the witnesses. As stated above, this is very well illustrated by critical legal theory, which states that the legal system is informed by societal power structures while falsely promoted as gender neutral (Gunnarsson and Svensson 2009; Levit and Verchicks 2006; Weisberg 1993). Many of the respondents described how the political often mixes with the juridical sphere in Cambodia. In line with this, Dicklitch and Malik (2010) argue that the ECCC operates in a context of impunity and injustice. This became notable, as GBV issues were advanced on the court agenda. Apparently, as stated previously, diverse political actors as well as different employees at the ECCC comprehended GBV issues to be non-relevant, or even threatening, in a post-KR era. According to these actors, GBV should not be included in the ECCC agenda when reconstructing the memories of the KR in a post-war context. In line with this, many of the witnesses of these crimes are met by encouragements but also by the kind of denial (or disappearance) that Edkins and Tal elaborate (Tal in Edkins 2003; Tal 1996: 6). Those employees of the ECCC who still live in ‘forced marriages’ and have refused to admit the existence of a trauma, tend especially to undermine the survivors’ credibility. This denial took different expressions. For example, as stated previously, as the witnesses described how they were forced to have sex with their new partner under threat of death, the investigators called this ‘making love’, thereby denying the victims’ interpretations of the events (interview, international lawyer, Phnom Penh, August 2010). This denial of discourses, which seems to lie outside the official agenda, will have biopolitical effects on the population. It is a part of the normalisation processes that govern how the population view their history, themselves and their ‘place’ in society. The denial of witness trauma was also made legitimate by the lack of archival documents. According to Michelle Caswell (2010), during the ECCC trial these documents have been ‘imbued with the power to establish truths’. Through the trial of former Tuol Sleng Prison Chief, Kang Khek Iev (Duch), the written records

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have repeatedly been referred to as the final ‘truths’. The records then have held epistemological authority over the witnesses of the victims, who have been denied their traumatic experiences (Caswell 2010: 32). For example, when Nam Man was bearing witness and testifying that she witnessed Duch beat two of her uncles to death in the Toul Sleng, Duch denied her that trauma by referring to the prison files in which neither Nam Man nor her uncles were registered (Caswell 2010: 33). As victims in general are, the witnesses of GBV were often ‘trained’, by NGOs or the lawyers themselves, in order to speak in the right manner, using the right words in the court (for example, interview, national lawyer, Phnom Penh, May 2010; interview, international lawyer, Phnom Penh, August 2010). This can be understood through Tal, who refers to mythologisation as one strategy of coping with witnesses and testimonies. By reducing the remembrance of traumatic events to a more structured narrative, the event seems less disturbing and frightening. However, this practice comes hand in hand with the destruction of the very ‘truth’ (Tal 1996). One of the reasons for training the witnesses (that was mentioned in the interviews) was that the vocabulary of the interrogators was sometimes experienced as patronising and the witnesses should be provided with some strategies to be able to handle that (interview, international lawyer, Phnom Penh, August 2010). Another reason was that the words used in the testimonies of the victims of sexual violence might not correspond with the narratives requested by the court and the legal system/discourse. Thus, the language of the witnesses seems to be located outside of the legal discourse: The civil parties must be trained in order to speak in the right manner in the Court. The Court wants details and we must inform them about that. In addition, certain words must be mentioned in order to have the crime to be considered to be a GBV crime, for example penetration. (Interview, international lawyer, Phnom Penh, 5 August 2010)

Another lawyer said: The witnesses must be trained so that they only speak the truth. Witnesses are trained in Phnom Penh and in the provinces. How do you speak in front of the ECCC? What information is important? Some speak well and others do not, that is the human nature. (Interview, national lawyer, Phnom Penh, May 2010)

Foucault argues that the discourses are constructed by a number of disciplining procedures and discursive mechanisms of exclusion, that is, the prohibition of certain ideas – the dangerous, the forbidden and the insane. An additional ranking procedure mentioned by Foucault is the separation of the true from the false (Foucault 1993: 7ff). Revisiting the quotations above, it appears that the narratives of the female witnesses are described in terms of being too emotional, different, or failing to articulate the ‘right knowledge’, thus being positioned outside of the

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legal discourse. Not only are women’s appearances rare within the legal arena, thus drawing attention to them, but their linguistic usages are defined as ‘incorrect’, making them ‘fail’ in the court hearings if not ‘trained’ in the proper language. Thus, by reducing, organising or denying the stories of the witnesses, these were put in order and controlled. Over and above this, the witnesses themselves were often described as mentally unstable and unable to testify. According to Tal, this way of approaching witnesses is common in post-war contexts. She addresses the coping strategy of medicalisation and argues that it undermines the credibility of the witnesses. Many of our witnesses complained about mental illness and the emotional problems they experienced as they took part in the court proceedings. One woman witness of GBV (rape) stated: ‘I became mentally ill and therefore I have gained a lot of support from different organisations’ (interview, witness, Phnom Penh, June 2010). One of the organisations that supports witnesses is the Transcultural Psychosocial Organisation (TPO). When the ECCC was established in 2005, the TPO responded by initiating a programme to provide psychological support to those who had been traumatised by the KR regime: On-site psychological support services for witnesses and civil parties aim to reduce anticipatory anxiety through psychological briefing prior to the proceedings, to monitor participants’ emotional state and to offer psychological support during the trial, and to provide debriefings after the proceedings. (TPO 2013)

Witnesses or civil parties in the court’s proceedings are provided with psychological support by the TPO staff. In addition, the TPO further seeks to support professionals who are working within the context of the ECCC. Among other things, they work in close cooperation with the Witness and Expert Support Unit (WESU), the Victim Support Service (VSS) of the ECCC and, also, NGOs that are provided with training sessions, in which more is learned about traumas, their after-effects, and possible coping and self-care strategies. Moreover, in a bi-weekly radio call-in-show the society at large learns of the instability of the victims and witnesses and their psychological problems: The project’s radio call-in-show aims to inform people about trauma and related psychological symptoms, which might resurface when remembering past events. […] The radio show “Past in the Present” is conducted monthly on Friday from 3-4 pm on FM 102 MHz. (TPO Cambodia 2011)

The kind of medical discourse exercised by the TPO, provides a certain kind of power over bodies in the name of health. Through the mechanisms of biopower, the juridico-medical discourse makes the witnesses and the victims of the Khmer Rouge period not only the objects of study but also of intervention. The education of juridical staff, NGO workers, as well as of the population as a whole – through radio programs – can be interpreted as regulatory apparatuses that control the population by establishing certain truths that separate the sane from the insane, and

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the normal from the abnormal. In all, it is about regulatory discourses that govern how the witnesses are comprehended and treated; they regulate the lives of the victims as well as constructing the ‘sane’ part of the population. Moreover, these discourses undermine the testimonies of the witnesses and form ‘our gaze upon the victims of trauma, positing that they suffer from an “illness” that can be “cured” within existing or slightly modified structures of institutionalized medicine and psychiatry’ (Tal 1996). Thereby, a new Cambodian subject position is constructed and promoted more generally, being associated with trauma, insanity, instability, etc., which hails the witnesses into the ‘right’ subject positions. To conclude, the practice of bearing witness is brought to order by biopolitical strategies such as mythologisation, medicalisation and disappearance. The modalities of power have an individualising effect in terms of producing different subjectivities. These subjectivities, however, can be resisted. As Tal states, bearing witness is an aggressive act and it is born out of a refusal to bow to outside pressure. The decision to bear witness embraces resistance rather than conformity (Tal 1996: 7). To refuse the common story of arranged marriages, the victims of GBV have assumed and promote an alternative narrative and a resisting subjectivity. Thus, in line with Foucault’s suggestions, they ‘promote new forms of subjectivity’ (Foucault 1982: 785). As ‘subversive’ citizens, they negotiate their own values, identities and commitments in relation to the way in which they are encouraged and exhorted to act; determine what they consider is the right thing to do in particular circumstances; and challenge or resist the identities that are offered to or imposed in them by government. (Barnes and Prior 2009: 3)

The way of bearing witness about GBV is thus one sort of negotiation. Using the arena of the dominant party to advance their questions, as formulated by the international community, the witnesses obstruct biopolitical strategies and pressure, in order to formulate alternative truths. Conclusions This chapter has considered the question of memory, and how technologies of biopolitics have been used in the creation of collective memory and national trauma. Memories of the KR have been constructed through various practices, artefacts and institutions such as the ECCC. We departed from the basic notion that the law – and the ECCC – are some of many regulatory mechanisms governing the population (Dean 1999: 118–210). In particular, the chapter has focused on the ECCC and the witnesses and how their memories are ‘guided’ by biopolitical practices. In the analysis, we displayed how different biopolitical strategies, such as mythologisation, medicalisation and disappearance, have been used in order to conform and govern the stories and lives of (mainly)

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women victims and witnesses. However, while certain memories were promoted before others by the court and local power holders, these were still challenged by ‘alternative memories’ of ‘forced marriages’ promoted by (primarily) women victims and witnesses.

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Part II Gender, Resistance and National Politics

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Chapter 7

Gendering Political Legitimacy Through the Reproduction of Memories and Violent Discourses in Cambodia1 Previous chapters have discussed matters of power and resistance in relation to GBV, both in the ECCC and in the Cambodian society in general. Next, the book turns to the political arena and the nexus of gender, power and resistance. How is power played out within the political field and how is resistance created by, and parasitic on, power? This chapter starts the discussion by analysing the entanglements of time, memory and power in a political arena. During the last few years, ‘space’ seems to have become a magic word. In feminist discourse the word turns up repeatedly in various titles and contemporary discussions (Kohn 2003; Middleton and Woods 2000). Sometimes it symbolises a space in itself or it appears as a metaphor that may be associated with ‘whatever one may imagine can have some kind of “spatial” meaning – directions, places, centres and margins, houses, caves, oceans’ (Valestrand 2000: 117). However, other currents prevail when one reviews the feminist studies research field. One contrary pattern is seen in the call to ‘revisit’ the concept of time (Braidotti 2006; Grosz 2005; Weston 2002). In the contemporary world, it is forgotten that gender is a social relation imbued with time, not a space to visit or a thing to be understood. While watching the gendered surfaces of bodies in action, we forget to make the temporality visible (Weston 2002). This critique can be expanded to include how we think about political power. Put in a time perspective, it becomes interesting to observe not only how the discourses of legitimacy that frame the political space are created over time, but also what role memories play in the process. How is the legitimacy of male and female politicians built on reconstructed memories of the past? How is gendered discourse of legitimacy informed by (re)constructed normalities? The memory/time/legitimacy nexus becomes even more prevalent when discussing war-torn societies such as Cambodia. As I shall show, Cambodia provides an example of how memories of violence are drawn on in order to construct borders that define legitimate leaders. The political discourses of today evoke memories of the violent period of KR rule, constructing a border between ‘real’ and ‘false’ Cambodians. To be a Cambodian leader one must be a ‘real’ 1  This chapter has previously been published as an article in Asian Perspectives. I am grateful to Asian Perspectives for letting me republish the text.

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Cambodian who has the same experiences as the people, has suffered with the people, and has learned from this suffering. Thus, the discourses about violence, in this case, compose the belief ‘by virtue of which persons exercising authority are lent prestige’ (Weber 1964: 382). This constitutes the very groundwork from which individuals exercise their leadership. And while this reasoning is broadened and put into a gendered perspective, the nexus between time, memory, political legitimacy and the discourses of violence will be elaborated upon in the next sections. Memory and Democracy Recently the connection between memory and democracy has entered the scientific debate. This interest is fuelled by a number of events. To begin with, recent public political apologies for past wrongdoings (for example, the pope’s apologies to Jews and Aborigines, and the Japanese prime minister’s apologies to Korea and China for his country’s World War II crimes) have put memory on the agenda (Misztal 2005). Secondly, new attention has been given to the relationship between trauma, time and memory. Among other things, it has been argued that remembrance does not have to be nationalistic, but it might challenge political systems that produce violence (Edkins 2003). A third reason that memory is increasingly emphasised is due to the post-cold war expansion of a ‘human rights language’ as well as the increased search for identities and authentic cultures. The ‘third wave of democratisation’ has also helped give visibility to the relationship between memory and democracy. The question of how to reconcile with a violent past is part of the public agenda of many newly democratised countries. Since the 1980s many nations have begun to seek justice for past violations through truth commissions or, as in Cambodia, through juridical procedures. One argument for why the concept of memory should have a central position within social science is that collective memories are often seen, as a condition required for sustaining justice in democratic nations. A nation must acknowledge and reconcile past pathologies and crimes so as not to repeat them, censor history, or forget victims. However, remembering may also create rage, desire for revenge and instability, while forgetting implies going beyond anger and hatred, thus offering the democratic system a fresh start. Remembering everything can be a threat to national cohesion and self-image, as the writing of a shared historical narrative necessarily involves the elimination of certain memories (Misztal 2005). Additionally, the use of politicised memories of ethnic or national identities and their narratives of suffering or glorified pasts can easily lead to conflicts between different groups. As elaborated below, this pattern can, to some degree, be spotted within a Cambodian context. Any analysis of remembering must involve the unpacking of the very concept of memory. In this regard, Jenny Edkins concludes in her book Trauma and the Memory of Politics that ‘memory is a performative practice, and inevitably social’

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(Edkins 2003: 54). Personal memories are imbued and formed by dominant discourses as well as practices that make remembering possible (Misztal 2005). Remembering is to be seen simultaneously as an individual and a collective practice, one that is to be connected to political practices as well as political legitimacy; or, as Barbara Misztal (2005) ask:, what kind of memory is compatible with just, pluralist and cohesive democracies? That question becomes even more problematic if one considers the construction of the Cambodian political system as a hybrid – that is, a mix of liberal democracy (as implemented by the United Nations) and ‘traditional’ notions of power and decision making (Kheang 2005; Lilja 2008). Caroline Hughes, for example, states that the Cambodian elites have a tendency to ‘pick and mix’ from a wide range of legitimising discourses (Hughes 2008). Among other things, in order to gain political legitimacy, they draw upon ideologically driven interpretations of history, popular notions of a supposed Khmer ethnic tradition, and interpretations of global discourses about international law, democracy and modernity. This becomes interesting from the standpoint of memory and hybrid democracy. How is legitimacy established within a hybrid democracy where interpretations of what might be traditional versus modern mix and intervene? Are male and female politicians seeking legitimacy within the new ‘liberal democracy’ or are they leaning on reconstructed memories of traditional power sharing and decision making? Women as Leaders While there is some ambivalence and social tension between different images of Cambodian ‘women’, the traditional stereotypical image of the perfect woman is still highly visible in today’s Cambodia. During the 1990s and early 2000s, when some of the interviews referenced in this book were conducted, this image was also connected to various security issues and the notion of women in need of protection (Santry 2005). And, as we shall see, the image of women as fragile has prevented them from engaging in political action. For example, one respondent commented, ‘Women themselves are the biggest obstacle when it comes to their political participation. They do not have the opportunity to learn, they get no schooling and have a lower capacity. They are shy and do not believe in their capability and do not understand the possibilities. Women in politics must be brave, have courage and not feel any fear’ (interview, women politician, Phnom Penh, June 1997). Likewise, the participants in a workshop at the Women’s Media Centre (WMC) discussed some of the obstacles for women’s political participation: ‘Women in politics are easily frightened, are not brave, suffer from much oppression, and can be selfish’ (Women’s Media Centre 1997). This image of the ‘anxious woman’ created difficulties for the women who wanted to become political leaders, since women did not, in such an image, correspond with the idea of a leader and protector. The image of the woman in need of protection seems to have been strengthened in times of fear. Under

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insecure conditions, the increased demand for defence assigns leaders a special responsibility for local and national security issues, in which the defenders – leaders, guards and soldiers – are all men. One female village chief recounted the difficulties of being a woman leader: There is conflict in the village, and sometimes as a woman it’s difficult to organise the guard at night. […] For a male head of village, it’s easier than for a female one, because of transport and security. It’s easier to leave home. Somehow at night, in the daytime. […] And also another family member told me, ‘Please stop, because you’re a woman. Please stay at home at night, do not go around the village.’ (Interview, female village chief, Phnom Penh, May 1999)

It seems that maleness, violence and security issues have been entwined with the image of a leader and politician. This provided women with political obstacles, since it was not considered appropriate for them to handle security issues. Moreover, their freedom of movement was often limited. While men were considered to be the representatives of the outwardly public domain, in spite of the danger, women were assigned another, more passive and timid role. Politics became a matter of gender and the recruitment of women to that arena became problematic. Yet another woman leader emphasised the connections between the role of a leader and that of a guard or a soldier carrying arms. She stated that, for her, it had been difficult to shoulder the responsibilities of protecting her village: At that time, I was appointed by the government at provincial level. They wanted me because of my education, reputation, and how I worked. They wanted to see me become head of the commune, but at that time, as head of a commune, I would have to have a gun in my hand. At that time it was unsafe in my village and all over the commune, but it is not good for me to have a gun in my hand. (Interview, female MP, Phnom Penh, May 1999)

During the late 1990s and early 2000s, women were often seen as vulnerable and not capable of dealing with security issues. This image was repeated by many women, thereby maintaining the prevailing gender dichotomy. Embedded in men and women’s different identifications was the question of how to react to insecurity. As women were considered weak and anxious in relation to physical violence, it was legitimate for them to avoid danger and stay out of politics. Women were not entrusted with the ability to handle security issues: In 1993, there were many women who wanted to be candidates. People in Cambodia do not believe in women’s capacity and therefore they are not selected as candidates. People do not think women can make it in politics. In the CPP, they believe in women as long as they have a lower position than men. The woman is number two if the man is number one. Men and women do not

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believe in the capacity of women to create stability. (Interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, June 1997)

Due to the notion of being in need of protection, the idea of women as protectors became a paradox and women lost political credibility as leaders. However, while women were occasionally addressed as children and stripped of any leadership abilities, in their symbolic force as peace angels they still gain political authority. One woman said: ‘Men have big egos. They can sacrifice innocent people to save their egos if they are afraid to lose their face. More women in the government would create a change – a less violent and a more honest political system. Women behave better’ (interview, female NGO worker, Phnom Penh, May 1999). Thus, women have historically lost authority due to being considered too ‘vulnerable’, with no capability to protect but rather in need of protection and almost childlike. However, at the same time their relation to violence adds to their political trustworthiness because they represent peace and, paradoxically, a sense of security. Women’s relation to violence is interpreted as and related to not only insecurity but also security. Women’s disconnection from violence both reduces as well as increases their political legitimacy. Even though political violence in Cambodia occurs with less frequency today, the above security discourses still, in some senses, remain in Cambodian society. For example, the home page of the Sam Rainsy Party Women’s Wing states: The culture of violence or lawlessness is now a daily part of everyday life of too many Cambodians and not an easy task to deal with as Cambodian leadership still use violence to intimidate their opponents and to suppress outspoken voices. Women and children are most vulnerable to violence and economic and social injustice. (Council of Asian Liberals and Democrats 2012)

Correspondingly, a recent report stated: ‘Countering a culture of violence, women are at the forefront of promoting peaceful resolutions of local disputes’ (McGrew, Frieson and Chan 2004: iv). These quotations indicate that security issues and the current discourses of gender are still entangled in women’s political participation. Below, the discussion will be further developed and connected to various attempts to negotiate present images of women and men in Cambodia. Time and the Image of Women as National Objects The above analysis, closely relates to the concepts of nationalism and nation where the construction of patriotic manhood goes hand in hand with women as the icons of nationalist ideology. This ‘puzzle’ also includes the designation of gendered ‘places’ for men and women. While men are supposed to be the representatives and defenders of the nation, women, in their capacity as the

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mothers and child-raisers of future generations, are viewed as critical to the nation’s future fate. In all of this men are seen as defending not only their freedom, their honour and their homeland, but also their women (for example, see Enloe 1989; Mendieta 2003; Stern 2005). This pattern is illustrated by then Queen Norodom Monineath Sihanouk, who describes Norodom Sihanouk as the protecting father of his daughters: I am very glad about the effort made by government institutions at all levels to enhance the status of Cambodian women regardless of belief, religion, race and class. These committed initiatives are informed by His Majesty’s philosophy that women, whom His Majesty the King regards as his daughters, grand-daughters and great grand-daughters, are of great worth. He believed this in the past (The Royal People Regime) and still believes this today. (Camnet 2002c)

This quotation is to be read through discourses of nationalism that assign men and women to different duties, places and statuses. It must also be understood through the notion of time. How do we view time? The idea that time is linear – the past is separate from the present and comes before it – has been taken for granted in European cultures. Edkins argues, ‘time appears as a succession of “nows”, a sequence of presents, and the existence of something is confirmed by its continuing presence through a series of such moments’ (Edkins 2003: 34). This notion of time affects how we use memories as well as how we remember the ‘nows’. Or, as Maria Stern expresses it, ‘memory (and thus remembering stories) are as much a part of the present as they are a part of the past. They are also shaped by expectations for the future’ (Stern 2005: 62). One common logic drawn from this is that what was true then is true now, and will probably be true in the future. In line with this, the above quotation stretches between the past and the present in order to encourage the political initiative to enhance the status of Cambodian women. Norodom Sihanouk believed in women in the past and thus still believes. The past is used to emphasise the truth of the current belief and the political initiatives that he encourages. This rhetoric was also used by the queen when she portrayed Cambodian women: Women have strived against famine and illiteracy to improve their family’s welfare and increase their participation in national development. Women throughout the ages have achieved greatness and they should be acknowledged and honoured so they become role models for Cambodian women today and in the future. In spite of the above effort, women still face constraints in their lives such as poverty, vulnerability to domestic violence, physical and psychological abuses, trafficking and family economic pressures. These pressures have caused a decrease in women’s and girls’ status, integrity, and hopes and also have caused the breakup of families, ruining their children’s future. (Camnet 2002c)

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In this quotation, the queen uses a linear time perspective to argue for women’s greatness then, now, and therefore, in the future. There is also a veil of national symbolism that portrays women as exemplary mothers and daughters of the nation. However, the picture shows ambivalence between women as active/passive, indispensable, yet still vulnerable. Men Protecting from Men As indicated above, it seems as if different public discourses, resources and practices (state power, nationalism, militarism) are offered, in which diverse roles (armed forces, soldiers, bodyguards) are embedded and mainly constructed for men. In this regard, the violent history of Cambodia has evoked men as subjects who exercise national violence. One former female politician described the image of violent male politicians: Women are emotional, yes. We are emotional. We want to avoid any fighting. We think about the long run. We don’t want to, you know, right away. We see the consequences. They think we are emotional, unlike men, who take steps, right away, who decide right away. […] We turn these emotions into a process of negotiation, into collaboration. We trade with our emotions. You know, we found peace during the emotional process unlike men. They are not emotional. They don’t cry. You don’t see tears in their eyes ever. They are strong and they fight. That’s why this country is fighting all the time, because they don’t have emotions. (Interview, female director of local NGO, Phnom Penh, June 1997, July 2007)

This quotation can be read as resistance towards the prevailing masculinity and as an attempt to make space for women politicians. Male leaders are pictured as ‘dangerous’, uncontrolled and without feelings. However, not only does masculinity relate to violence within the public sphere, but, as stated previously, domestic violence, rape, gang rape, violence against sex workers and trafficking are major concerns in Cambodia and involve a significant number of women. One of the paradoxes that emerge from this is that men are implied as violent, uncontrolled and destructive, while at the same time they are considered the protectors from violence. A declaration of the Ministry of Women’s Affairs states: Cambodian women, 52% of the population, are concerned about violence against women and children and on behalf of all women we would like to appeal to leaders at all levels to … recognize that the elimination of violence and discrimination against women and children is essential to develop a foundation based on respect for women’s and children’s human rights. The elimination of violence is the foundation for development on the basis of equality, equity and peace. (Camnet 2002a)

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Nowhere in the quotation are men referred to as those who practise the violence. Instead, violence is addressed so as to hide the people who exercise or invoke it. The quotation also describes how all women should appeal to the leaders, thus separating the women from the leaders. This indicates that leaders are men, not women. In addition to this, the quotation combines women and children in one category. Women and children are presented as if they were one and the same, in contrast to violence and in need of protection from men (Enloe 1990). The image of the protecting man also appeared in a speech by Mu Sochua (Cambodia’s former minister of women’s affairs), in which she addressed the prime minister as the main guardian in the protection of women: On this occasion, on behalf of the Ministry of Women’s and Veterans’ Affairs and the Cambodian women’s network I also would like to thank you, Samdech Prime Minister, for your intervention, coordination and advice in protecting the rights and worth of women and children as well as striving to eliminate violence against women and children.(Camnet 2002b)

In contemporary Cambodia, men are typically seen as those producing violence, yet also as those protecting from violence. They thereby lose legitimacy due to memories imbued with violence, but in the next moment they gain legitimacy – for the very same memories – in the search for security. This ambivalent perception of men as safe yet threatening might be related to what Edkins describes in Trauma and the Memory of Politics. She argues that it can be difficult, even devastating, when the very power that we are convinced will protect us and gives us security becomes our tormentor. In that moment, when the community in which we entrust our safety turns against us, we have to redefine not only ourselves but also the very social order of which we are a part (Edkins 2003). In this case, the image of the protective men seems to be under negotiation in the light of memories of violence. Women and Family-Oriented Politics The national symbolism of women in combination with memories of a violent past is probably the main reason why the political arena is currently organised along family ties (Lilja 2008). One woman explained how marriages and political affiliation go hand in hand: ‘I don’t see any woman, you know, who is in Sam Rainsy Party, for example, and the husband in Hun Sen Party or something. Both of them, husband and wife, are in the same political party’ (interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, May 1999). Kate Frieson similarly states: ‘Women’s prominence in the economic sphere has no equivalent in politics. As elsewhere in Southeast Asia, high profile political roles for women in Cambodia are rare, occurring only when they dovetail with the careers of male spouses or fathers’ (Frieson 2001: 3).

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There are probably many explanations as to why political participation is a family affair in Cambodia. One may approach the issue by asking in what ways the double identities of female politicians, as women and as politicians, are made sense of in Cambodia (Lilja 2007b). As stated above, women are in one sense disconnected from violence and therefore connected to security. Thereby, the symbolism attached to women (in this case, the politically active wives) may complement and enhance the image of the male politician. Bringing their wives into politics may be a way for husbands to add soft values such as honesty and peacefulness to their image without losing masculinity in the process. This may be one of the key reasons why politicians’ wives and daughters often become politically active (Lilja 2008). One female politician explained why women follow their husbands to become politicians: ‘It’s about the traditions you know. Following […] to be obedient’ (interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, May 1999). The expectation of women is to be passive and loyal and to follow their men to the political field, where they are assumed to occupy various positions. For example, one female politician explained why she became politically involved after the collapse of the Pol Pot regime in 1979: I never wanted to become politically active. I had my children, my life in France. But my husband decided that he should travel to China and join the exile regime. What was I to do? Stay by myself in France? No, we Cambodian women are very family oriented. So I went with him to China and became politically active. (Interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, May 1999)

This woman’s main interest was to stay in her home with her children. However, while her husband decided to join the exile regime, she stayed loyal and docile, went with him, and became politically active against her will. This implies that women have to take on an active role (‘So I went with him to China and became politically active’) in order to gain the status of being passive and obedient. In the end, a paradox prevails: the wives are expected to be docile, assigning the family a central role and following their husbands, and one way to fulfil this role is to become public non-family-oriented political actors (Lilja 2008). The Invention of the ‘Real Cambodian’ One argument that is often promoted in regard to memory and democracy is that nations need memories of a past to establish an idea of a historical continuity of a people, which in turn contributes significantly to national stability and a stable democracy. The construction of collective memories then becomes the basis for democratic practices as well as for statehood (Misztal 2005). These constructions or collective memories, however, are occasionally used to close boundaries of other identities as they accept particular versions of the past as true. This appears to be the strategy of some of my respondents, who argued that only those who

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share the ‘Cambodian’ history, experience and identity are allowed to represent the people politically. As stated above, the KR represented a radical kind of communism and ruled the country for almost four years, during which they emptied the cities, forced inhabitants to work as slaves, and eliminated schools and hospitals. When searching the interviews for frequently promoted ‘truths’, one that is found seems to be that the real Cambodian, who may be seen as a legitimate leader, is someone who has learned from the KR period and knows what ‘we’ have suffered and thus has knowledge about suffering. One woman returnee to Cambodia explained why she experienced some difficulties entering the political stage: ‘Since I lived in France, I missed the Pol Pot period. This makes it harder for me to have a political career. I don’t know how people have suffered. I haven’t suffered like they have’ (interview, lawyer, Phnom Penh, June 1997). This quotation helps us to understand how memories of violence and the construction of the ‘who’ and ‘when’ of violence contribute to the understanding of the ‘who’ of political legitimacy. Political legitimacy is offered to those who experienced the violence; this experience forms, in turn, the base from which the society is reconstructed. Those lacking certain memories – those who were not present in the past – are accused of not having the ‘right’ experience (of violence and war) and thereby being unable to become one of ‘us’. This implies that, in war-torn societies, in the aftermath of violence, the nexus time/space becomes highly relevant. Therefore, those who were not present during the Pol Pot period are not allowed to assume and perform the image of a contemporary Cambodian. Thus, they do not stand a real chance to gain political legitimacy. Within the prior quotation, a boundary is constructed between ‘they’ (the Cambodian people) and the returnee respondent. In this, the very concept of a returnee tells us something not only about space but also about space imbued with time: how a past of repeated journeys is classified as a marker of an important difference. In this, time becomes implicit in space in the same way as when we view the Cambodian memorial tower made of skulls, the images of KR victims soon to be executed, or the stained prison floors of the Toul Sleng Genocide Museum in Phnom Penh (Lilja 2008). Let me draw some conclusions from the discussions above. Gendered power relations may be negotiated and altered in the course of establishing new images and discursive ‘truths’ (and new power relations). In the case above, the respondent highlighted suffering and established a line between ‘real’ and ‘false’ Cambodians instead of differentiating Cambodians along gender lines. By drawing on this discourse, a ‘real’ Cambodian woman should be able to use her identity as one who has ‘suffered’, and thus distance herself from other male and female returnees, in order to legitimise her political presence. And it is not strange that returnees try to include themselves in the category of ‘real’ Cambodians, having suffered truly, in order to position themselves better (Lilja 2008). One woman said:

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So, listening to all these stories make me feel that I was part even though I was not here. My family, my relatives were here during this time. I do not have any family left. My grandmother, my aunt, my uncle are all gone. But I was still decided to come back, because I have good memories from when I was young about Cambodia. I felt that what I was doing in the US I can do here in Cambodia, for my own people. (Interview, female director for local NGO, Phnom Penh, June 1997, May 2007)

This woman has very strong feelings for her nation. The remark about being ‘a part’ of the KR era, the naming of all relatives who became victims as well as the rhetoric of ‘my own people’ articulated in the interview could also be, in one sense, interpreted as the respondent claiming her full membership as a Cambodian. It can also be read via the concept of ‘disciplinary power’ and the fact that those images of identity assigned more value (in this case, that of a ‘real’ Cambodian) easily become an optimum to strive towards. From this perspective, the above quotation can be interpreted as a reaction, a way for the woman to handle the hierarchies and stereotypes that make people judge some politicians as more ‘correct’ than others. However, the quotation can also be read as resistance in the sense that the respondent tries to widen the stereotype of a ‘real’ Cambodian, by claiming her full membership even though she is a returnee (Lilja 2008). Reconstructing Normality by Travelling Through Time Memories, like concrete representations, are often referred to as ‘proofs’ – evidence of what ‘really’ happened (Edkins 2003). Thus, in the aftermath of violence, people draw on memories of violence and normalities when justifying the existing subject positions of the ‘legitimate politician’. In Cambodia, such memories have contributed to the political legitimacy of ‘patrons’ both on a local and on a national level. According to my interviews, some key structures of social organisation were temporarily destroyed during the KR era, among them the traditional patron– client relations. However, in the aftermath of violence, traditional patron–client relations in Cambodia have been evoked and some images of identity related to these relations are today performed and re-performed by women seeking political legitimacy. Overall, the impact of patron–client relations on the democratic system has enabled some women to gain political positions – starting at the village level. During the years that the KR dominated the Cambodian society, many patron families were largely exterminated. In general, more men than women were killed. In the aftermath of the KR period, when people went back to their home villages to restore ‘normality’, a number of women from traditionally dominant upper-class families also returned as the sole survivors of these families. As the patron–client relations were re-established in accordance with what they used to be, some of these women suddenly found themselves expected to assume the position, role

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and ultimately the identity of village leaders. For example, one female politician recalled that she returned to her village to find that, within her family of 40 people, she and her sister were the only ones who were still alive. The villagers’ support became the starting point of her political career at the communal level: ‘I had a better reputation [than the other candidates]. Besides my education, my parents used to help everyone, and those people remembered my parents. When my parents weren’t alive anymore they supported the children instead’ (interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, May 1999). Thus, patron–client relations appear to be highly prevalent within the current political system of Cambodia and some Cambodian female politicians have built their powerbase on the reconstructed ‘client-ness’ of previous eras, leaning heavily on their, and others’, interpretations of pre-KR memories. Women have been called into another identity position in addition to their female one, which is laid aside (but still present) in favour of a patron–leader identity. When it comes to the image of a patron, and the performance of this image, the family connection and reputation of the woman are thus far more important than her sex. Her family identity has been privileged and given priority over her female identity. It is all a matter of the ordering of one’s identities and what this means in terms of political power and legitimacy (Lilja 2008). Conclusion Decades of insecurity, violence and war had shaped a situation where violence and memories of violence create obstacles as well as political possibilities for Cambodian women. The longing for normality and stability have both added to and detracted from the legitimacy of men and women politicians. In addition to this, the movement of time and space turns out to have an impact on the political legitimacy of women in Cambodia. In the end, it is a matter of what political subject positions women are allowed to assume and speak from.

Chapter 8

Globalisation, Women’s Political Participation and the Politics of Legitimacy and Reconstruction in Cambodia1 Cambodia is a country in rapid transformation with an implemented liberal democracy, a relatively new liberal economy, and a high exposure to Western values. In this chapter it is argued that the recent globalisation trend and its impact on the reconstruction of Cambodian society in various ways has contributed to making space for the image of ‘the woman politician’ and the political legitimacy of Cambodian women. In reviewing interviews conducted with female and male politicians as well as NGO workers, it appears that globalisation enhances the political status of women in at least three different ways. First of all, in the globalised era new knowledge is introduced, which might be monopolised by women in order to make its status inform the female gender. Secondly, Westernfunded NGOs spread new images of possible female political identities in the rural areas of Cambodia. Thirdly, in a globalised world order with plural identities and varieties of discourses, prospects are greater for renegotiating relations of power, while ‘old’ and ‘new’ discourses interweave, each influencing the other, thus creating new ‘truths’. In this regard, Cambodian women seem to lean upon more Western discourses in order to make legitimate their political power. This is elaborated on in the sections below. Globalisation in the Cambodian Context According to Jan Aart Scholte, globalisation should be viewed as a respatialisation of social life. Notions of globalisation, it is argued, capture as no other word, the ongoing large-scale growth of transplanetary, and often supraterritorial, connectivity (Scholte 2008: 1499). The process of globalisation involves not only the integration of economies and advances in the area of mass media and telecommunications: the interaction between cultural forces creates new lifestyles and identities as cultures converge. Therefore, to many observers, it is within the cultural sphere that globalisation will create the most revolutionary 1  This chapter has previously been published in Beyond Democracy in Cambodia: Political Reconstruction in a Post-conflict Society, a NIAS Press book. I am grateful to NIAS Press for letting me republish the text.

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changes. A whole range of new patterns of identification has arisen along with the globalisation process. First, globalisation has lead to the homogenisation of identities and experiences, for example the McDonalds-eating and iPod-listening global citizen. Global marketing has thus resulted in a worldwide cultural homogeneity, which in turn ‘lead up to the detachment of identity from community and place’ (Woodward 1997: 16). However, other identities are also created when contacts, relationships and feelings of closeness develop between different populations. A second effect is that globalisation has given rise to paraphrased identities and new weight to ‘old’ discourses. The persistent global culture then leads to the emergence of new national or local identity positions. This identity politics easily becomes a form of resistance performed through the strengthening of local identities (Woodward 1997). Moreover, according to Kathryn Woodward (1997), the increased migration, which is another impact of globalisation, has had a number of effects. One of these effects is the production of plural and contested identities. As people spread across the globe many cities come to offer diversity in culture and identities, and globalisation has in this sense lead to a whole range of communities characterised by the existence of competing and conflicting identities (Woodward 1997: 16), a battle embracing inequalities as some identities are given higher rank than others. Many of the above patterns can be seen in Cambodia, a country to which the concept of globalisation is of special importance. This is because, firstly, the post-war reconstruction of the Cambodian community has been organised on the Western principles of democracy and capitalism, which have in turn transformed the old structures of the society; and secondly, the massive development assistance contributes to a cultural transformation. According to Ovesen, Trankell and Öjendal (1996), Western ideas penetrating Cambodia as a result of the aid inflow seem to run counter to a number of elements of the traditional Khmer worldview. Popular participation in political decision-making processes and relative equality are only two of the ideas promoted by aid programmes that are said to contradict the beliefs ‘inherent’ in the traditional Cambodian culture. A study that covers power structures in rural Cambodia, cannot therefore afford to ignore the fact that development planning and the presence of development agents in the country necessarily have an impact on society (Ovesen, Trankell and Öjendal 1996: 80). In addition to the above-mentioned aspects, Cambodia is increasingly experiencing globalisation because of the impact of returnees from the extensive migration caused by outbreaks of violence, wars and political instability. There are a growing number of returnees within Cambodian society who have been trained abroad, who have gained a wide experience of Western countries, who hold high office in Cambodia, who regularly travel between continents and who thus more or less have assumed the above-mentioned homogenised McDonalds-eating and iPod-listening identity. Internationalised as they are, they represent a Westernised thinking and take on secular rules, norms and practices. Within this stratum of Cambodian society, it is generally accepted that women can work within the

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field of politics. Hence, as elsewhere, globalisation in Cambodia has resulted in a more diverse society where new, Western values are located side by side with and interweaved with more traditional ideas. This division has previously existed within the political sphere and among the members of FUNCINPEC and the CPP. While FUNCINPEC, during the 90s, recruited many of its members among educated exile Khmers, the CPP’s members often originate from rural areas and are generally less educated. Cambodia is thus facing the impact of globalisation. But is the country gaining from this development? There is much research demonstrating the negative consequences of the spreading of the capitalist market economy to many developing countries. Some of these consequences can be seen in Cambodia, where cheap and unskilled labour is one of the few comparative advantages the government can offer to foreign investors. Most of the 300,000 people in the garment labour force work up to 100 hours per week for approximately 50 dollars per month (Salinger 2006). These conditions fall far short of what local labour laws demand. The response has been a new labour movement, in which some of the most prominent leaders have in fact been women. Moreover, other gendered consequences of cultural globalisation can also be seen. According to one respondent, another outcome is the new, Western-influenced objectification of women that appears in commercial advertising in today’s Cambodia (interview, NGO worker, Phnom Penh, June 1997). Following the above reasoning, the recent globalisation of the Cambodian society can be argued to have made matters worse. However, this process, as is elaborated below, has an ambivalent appearance, bringing to Cambodia not only human exploitation but also political possibilities, legitimacy and identities for Cambodian women. Connecting Female Gender to High-Status Knowledge: Getting a Monopoly of Knowledge With growing globalisation, globalisation itself becomes a site for an interpretive struggle, where various parts/characteristics of what is regarded as masculine or feminine are ‘co-opted in new or old configurations to serve particular interests, and particular gendered (and other) identities are consolidated and legitimated or downgraded and devalued’ (Hooper 2000: 60). However, this ‘interpretive struggle’ over what it means to be a woman or a man involves not only the two genders: negotiations also occur within these two groups. As stated in Chapter 2, different groups of men are positioned in relation to each other as the relationship between masculinity and power is articulated and re-articulated (Connell 1987: 183–8). Or, as Anita Göransson states, as the world becomes globalised, maleness repeatedly reconstructs in order to correspond to new constructions of power, for example through new organisations and new knowledge. Thus, men’s power is due to the rapidity with which maleness is able to transform itself, and male gender changes faster than femininity (Göransson, in Romlid 1998: 27–31). From this reasoning there follows the theoretical conclusion that women’s resistance to the

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uneven distribution of power may be applied by redefining femininity faster than masculinity in order to correspond to new fields and organisations. By endowing interesting new and important domains with femininity and associating them with the female gender, women may gain new status and political legitimacy. When reviewing the interviews it became obvious that some Cambodian women politicians use as resistance the fact that globalisation has drastically improved the access to advanced technologies. Technology and globalisation go hand in hand, as the latter unleashes technology and technology helps to make globalisation possible. Technology changes how we do the work and organise it, and in nearly all cases the jobs created by it demand more education and training. From this it follows that many computerised jobs/units are carriers of status, especially in a Cambodian context where education and knowledge are highly ranked. This seems to be used by some Cambodian women who admitted to the monopoly of technological knowledge as a factor in facilitating power (Lilja 2008). Three politically active women at one of the ministries took their afternoon off to talk to me about women and politics. Not only did they reveal their low self-confidence and the obstacles that women experience when they want to become politicians, but they also presented some strategies to gain more status and self-confidence. During the conversation, obtaining access to technological knowledge was presented as a conscious strategy in renegotiating the current location of power. One of the women said: ‘I try to teach all women in my department computer skills. They are going to know more than the men. Then the men will have to ask the women to help them. This will increase their selfconfidence. Then they will enjoy their work and they will be able to get a better job’ (interview, politician, Phnom Penh, June 1997). This quotation tells us that these women consciously move faster than men to get new skills in computer technology in order to position themselves better. Through this strategy, women will be in possession of new important knowledge. Men will have to ask women to assist them. Thus, there will be a divide, with men-without-knowledge and women-with-knowledge reversing the hierarchy between the genders (Lilja 2008). Thus, women’s new status will be due to the rapidity by which they succeed in adapting to new technological conditions. Femininity is reconstructed to fit the new order and to create a superior role. Those interviewed also revealed that this new hierarchy was transmitting itself to other areas as women gained selfconfidence. With the new self-image, a new enjoyment was being achieved and women were, by behaving self-confidently, being able to get important new jobs. Thus, to gain political legitimacy these Cambodian women politicians are playing with their femininity and are using the same strategy as hegemonic masculinity, thus redefining it in order to gain more status. This strategy is enabled by the postwar reconstruction of Cambodian society and the fast-changing roles of men and women in a globalised era. How common this strategy is, however, remains to be seen. Interesting, nevertheless, is that not only power but also resistance work through similar strategies.

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Women’s Discourses in the Light of Globalisation As stated above, one discourse about politics in Cambodia defines women as ‘non-political’ and the political sphere seems to be experienced by many of the respondents as a masculine-coded realm. Politicians also seem to be associated with men and with masculinity. This chapter, however, rests upon the assumption that these kinds of discourses compose ‘truths’ that may change. As seen above, some women mix the female gender with computer know-how, thus creating a new female identity position by merging the traditional with the new. This kind of ‘woven discourse’ might be related to the post-colonial concept of hybridity – that is, cultural mixings and crossovers that are powerfully interruptive and that might serve as a tool to understand the resistance of female politicians to the uneven distribution of power (see Werbner 1997: 1). One way of creating change is thus to weave together different discourses and thereby create a new logics. Such processes of transformation are probably growing in significance as we enter a globalised world order where we get access to different ‘truths’ and possible identity positions (Thörn 2002: 12, 6). As woven discourses are increasingly made possible by the processes of globalisation, it seems as if some female politicians in today’s Cambodia tend to use their image of a Western state in order to legitimise their presence in the political sphere. In their view, an ideal form of governance is typified by a caring state. And a caring state could, according to them, be attained by bringing more women into politics, because a female politician, the argument goes, makes a more compassionate and understanding leader than a man. One woman said: ‘[Women are] capable of sensitising the whole crowd. Better than men, you know. […] I think if Cambodia, I’m sure… if Cambodia is a democratic country like the Western countries, women would be brilliant in politics’ (interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, May 1999). By emphasising an interpretation of a Western discourse concerning state formations, the women have tried to authorise and legitimise the idea that they should play a larger role in the political arena. While arguing in favour of women’s exceptional democratic qualities, the quotation above draws on the idea of a democracy ‘like the Western countries’ and puts it together with a discourse about caring, domestic Cambodian women. Hybridity emerges as different discourses merge into a new argumentation for political legitimacy. Also, the women leaders mentioned above, who have included in their identity technological know-how, have used a Western discourse to negotiate the identity position of being Cambodian women, creating a hybrid version. These kinds of discourses thus form a sort of capital that one may use to accomplish change, and the conclusion is in line with Ferguson’s statement that, when ‘social spaces are remapped, so are resident identities, prevailing subjectivities’ (Ferguson 1993: 177). Or in other words, globalisation provides subaltern groups with discourses from abroad that they can employ to renegotiate power sites, in this case the gender equalities within the public administration.

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Western-Funded NGOs Challenging Local Power Structures Above, different resistance strategies of Cambodian women are outlined. However, the low-status female gender has also been negotiated by other actors to increase Cambodian women’s political legitimacy. As will be argued, ‘the development discourse’ prevails as a tool to redefine both prevailing femininities and masculinities. During the 1990s, the discourse of ‘development’ was increasingly accused of being nothing but a tool for the disciplinary power. From this perspective, this discourse, by defining the developed versus the underdeveloped, has given some countries and institutions the ability to control and in many ways even create the ‘Third World’, economically, politically and culturally (Escobar in Braidotti 1994: 21). Escobar has identified different strategies, which have greatly extended the power of the development discourse. First of all, more and more issues are defined as development problems, leading to the emergence of new fields of intervention by development experts. These experts increasingly classify and describe the Third World as well as formulate more and more development interventions that follow the development logic – that is, the Western economic rationale. In the end, the institutionalisation of development on global, national, regional and local levels creates a tight network controlling and implementing development policies down to the local level (Escobar, in Braidotti 1994: 23). Criticism has thus been put forward by researchers who argue that the West’s control over southern countries has increased with globalisation, and as the West’s development discourse dominates, local ways, practices and knowledge are increasingly abandoned (Braidotti 1994). The outline above corresponds to the Cambodian case, where Western-funded organisations penetrate the rural areas, spreading the message of the Western development discourse. While this pattern can be, and should be, critically discussed, in some cases these organisations also seem to have an empowering effect. Some Western-funded NGOs repeatedly go into rural areas to challenge the traditional view of women as being mentally weaker than men by providing women with a new discourse about womanhood. Some female NGO workers described how they went out to the rural areas to present not only political entrances but also new images of women, reversing the dominating gender roles by representing Cambodian women as smart and actually better leaders than men. One NGO worker, who had recently presented the topic of ‘Women and Politics’ to rural women, said: ‘Some women in the provinces have the idea that women are mentally weaker than men. Women don’t think that women can be leaders. When we tell them that women are smarter than men, they say: Ohhh…’ (interview, NGO worker, Phnom Penh, June 1997). By introducing a new ‘truth’, this NGO worker challenged the prevailing discourse and the female identity that regards women as inferior, physically and mentally, to men. Gender dichotomies and the hierarchies that they nourish seem to be repeatedly transmitted and reaffirmed in the ‘speakings’ of Cambodian women. Women are then exposed to different power-loaded discourses while at the same time being

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the ones who forward and maintain these discourses (Lilja 2008). Therefore, in order to upgrade the female identity in general, the subalterns need to revalue their selves. The politicising of the female identity and women’s knowledge is therefore accomplished by ‘making visible’ their capacity for women themselves. This can help us understand the quotation that follows, where one woman leader explains how women may be encouraged to invest in a political identity. She stated: ‘I think the best thing is […] to show them the good points that they already have, so they can feel: oh, this is what I do… and not my husband’ (interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, May 1999). Another politically active woman talked about how to include more women in politics: ‘We need to probably network for them to be able to provide for themselves first so they can see: OK, this is what I can do, this is what I want to provide for my children, you know… and so that way they can see a little bit higher’ (interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, May 1999). Western-funded NGOs, by presenting a new interpretation of female identity, provide the women with a possibility to resist what Hall calls ‘preferred meanings’. Producers of meaning construct ‘truths’ or images that they expect to match generally known discourses. The message conveyed is therefore often comprehended in the way s/he hopes, and the majority will read the message in a very similar way to the preferred meaning. However, there will always be those who resist the preferred meaning and interpret the message differently because of their own knowledge – that is, their experiences in terms of contact with other discourses or positions as subjects (status, identity, and so on). For example, androcentric meanings concerning politics and politicians may be read differently from a feminist discourse. Making visible new ‘truths’ and meanings may thus, as exemplified above, have the impact of opening up a space for other interpretations than the preferred meaning (Skelton 2000: 182). This seems to be the case in the rural areas of Cambodia, where a new discourse about women’s political possibilities and legitimacy is added to the traditional ones in a time of reconstruction. According to some female NGO workers, many women found the possibility of political participation tempting and declared themselves to be interested. The institutionalisation of development mentioned above by Escobar and the implementing of Western development policies down to local level might then contribute to the emancipation of Cambodian women, as hierarchies are negotiated as well as women are provided with the possibility to exercise decisionmaking power. Women may gain new legitimacy as politicians and they may actually choose to become politicians. This mirrors Foucault’s ‘refusal of becoming’ – maybe the target nowadays is not to discover what we are, but to refuse what we are (Foucault in Dreyfus and Rabinow 1982: 212)? However, is it possible for women politicians to refuse being haled into place, to perform the dominant image of a woman? Butler argues that the disciplinary apparatus, and its connected identities, becomes an ‘abiding object of passionate attachment’, and states that such a postulation may raise the question of masochism:

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Certainly, we cannot simply throw off the identities we have become, and Foucault’s call to ‘refuse’ the identities we have become will certainly be met with resistance … how are we to understand not merely the disciplinary production of the subject, but the disciplinary cultivation of an attachment to subjection? (Butler 1995: 243–4)

Thus, whether or not the work of the NGOs will have a lasting impact needs to be further researched. Conclusion Globalisation has contributed to women’s political legitimacy and possibilities and to making a space for a female political identity in at least three senses. The first strategy of resistance used by female politicians in Cambodia was to give women the monopoly of specific technological knowledge, made possible by globalisation, thus in some senses negotiating the hierarchy between the sexes. Secondly, one may speculate that discourses are being more easily transformed now with growing globalisation. When new globalised ‘truths’ are introduced in a Cambodian context, the established as well as the growing discourses are transformed. This is used by women politicians, who draw on ‘Western’ discourses about the caring politician to increase their legitimacy. A third strategy involves bringing more women into politics by introducing new images of female identification and thereby challenging old established ‘truths’ about ‘who is a politician’.

Chapter 9

Theorising Resistance: Mapping, Concretism and Universalism1 This chapter shows how constructions of power and discourses create certain kinds of discursive resistance in Cambodia. By reference especially to the Cambodian case and the interviews, it is argued that social science researchers have not been able to show how different representations (pictures, statements, images and practices) have diverse impacts in negotiating power. Based on poststructuralist discourse theory, the chapter turns to more visual dimensions of discursive meaning making. Much of contemporary politics has visual dimensions. Actors such as national governments, international institutions, NGOs and civil society groups resort to imageries as a way to represent knowledge that they consider significant. Thus, visual representations are part of the political sphere and, therefore, important objects to a thorough inquiry. To illustrate how different types of representations – for example, more visual imageries versus spoken words – have diverse impacts in discursive meaning making, concretism and universalism are promoted as two important concepts. These notions can help us to understand why and how certain representations are more effective than others in resisting gendered power relations in Cambodia and elsewhere (Lilja 2008). As is demonstrated below, spoken statements, sounds, written words or images are different types of representations, conveying to people a range of concepts, ideas or feelings, carrying different meanings and creating diverse effects when they are used for resistance. How do women employ their identities, different practices, words or images in their everyday resistance? And what forms of resistance are then the most effective? Reviewing the interviews with women politicians, it seems that what are read as concrete practices have more impact on the discourse than other representations, such as statements. Still, both seem to be necessary in negotiating the discourses of power. Concrete Representation of Women Politicians The concept of ‘concretism’ is helpful in exploring how practices, as concrete representations, compose means of resistance. Concretism denotes how certain representations are experienced as more concrete – that is, as more applicable, 1  This text has previously been published as an article in Resistance Studies Magazine. I am grateful to Resistance Studies Magazine for letting me republish the text.

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understandable, detailed or practical than others. These representations then enable us to experience the discourses as more graspable and comprehensible, making them easier to relate to or identify with. Among its impacts, concretism can strengthen a discourse by making concrete what is expressed in more abstract terms. For instance, by detailing a historical account through giving it a face, a personal memory, the history becomes more concrete, more comprehensible for the reader, and the discourse may therefore gain in currency. Concretism may also involve the art of making complex matters understandable. This can be illustrated by the way in which maps reduce countries, states, infrastructure and nations into a clear and well-arranged paper image, thus visualising discourses and strengthening them, as well as containing their own stories about time and space (Lilja 2008; Trenter 2000: 50–63). Concretism is, as I show below, a useful concept in analysing performances of resistance of female Cambodian politicians. Some politically active women and men invited me into their homes to tell their narratives about the obstacles and advantages of being Cambodian women politicians. Foremost, they indicated that women suffer from the discourses that do not recognise them as political actors. As stated above, several interviewees repeated that people in general regard men as the optimum in a public setting, while the ranked and stereotyped image of ‘women’ fails to correspond to the image of a politician. According to Bergström and Boréus (2000: 226), discourses not only decide what can be said but also suggest different subject positions – that is, who is allowed to say what. The ‘caring, peaceful woman’ and the ‘strong man’ are only two of the subject positions that Cambodian women and men respectively are assumed to inhabit and speak from (Lilja 2008). In addition, women are generally perceived through the gendered discourses that regard women as ‘mentally weaker’. One woman said: ‘Women in Cambodian society are seen as inferior to men. They are considered mentally weaker. This view is stronger in the rural areas than in the towns. Women are not equals. Men see themselves as the intelligent actors’ (interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, June 1997). The meaning established regarding women’s mental weakness is taken for granted, and few reflect upon how it is constructed. However, discourses are seldom coherent but fragmented, opposed and in conflict with other discourses, and the interviewed women politicians repeatedly resisted the gendered discourses in various ways. Some of the respondents argued in favour of the repetition of new emancipatory ‘truths’ as an effective strategy of resistance – for example, reversing a low-status image of women by restating the notion, ‘Women are good politicians.’ Responsible, capable, good speakers, understanding and brilliant – these were the terms by which the respondents referred to female politicians, with women implied to be active, strong and knowledgeable. For example, one woman said: ‘A good leader is a person with his/her heart in the right place and with an education. If women get an education they are better leaders than men, as they know more than men and have their heart in the right place’ (interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, July 1997). And on the homepage of the Sam Rainsy Party Women’s Wing, the following can be read:

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Women [politicians] have taken the lead to find non-violent solutions to problems, working together and forming coalitions to make their voices heard. The meaningful inclusion of women is integral to vibrant democratic development. Women in office in Cambodia have proven to be more skillful than men to reach negotiations such as collective bargaining for workers, common and agreeable resolutions for land issues and sensitive solutions to cases of gender based violence.(Council of Asian Liberals and Democrats 2012)

Moreover, one NGO report stated: Women in Cambodia have made contributions to good governance by working to: include human rights in the constitution, urge accountability in government, establish government–civil society partnerships, and advance women’s political participation. Historically, politics has been characterized by mistrust, but women are breaking new ground and appealing for cross-party cooperation. Countering a culture of violence, women are at the forefront of promoting peaceful resolution of local disputes … There is growing public support for women’s increased political participation, since they are perceived to be more trustworthy and competent than men. (McGrew, Frieson and Chan 2004: iv)

Likewise, one woman said: ‘[N]owadays, people start to acknowledge the ability of women because women have proved that they are capable of doing things like men. We try to […] make people acknowledge the role and value of women in the society’ (interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, May 2007). From the quotations above, one may trace an image of women as trustworthy politicians, who more clearly understand issues such as poverty and education. Their responsibilities in the home are thus seen as advantageous to their role as politicians. Or in other words, ‘The skills attributed to women in the domestic sphere are considered valuable in rebuilding the nation’ (McGrew, Frieson and Chan 2004: 11). Using discourse theory, an interpretation of the above quotations might then be that the women are trying to negotiate their power relations – different gendered norms/normalities and hierarchies – through the repetition of a new ‘truth’ about women’s capacity. Resistance by repetition involves an ongoing acknowledgment of the existence of an ‘Otherness’ in order to make space for precisely this ‘Otherness’. However, critical respondents occasionally questioned the effectiveness of this strategy vis-à-vis more concrete practices of resistance. When speaking about repetitions as a possible strategy of resistance, one female MP concluded: ‘I do not think it is good to repeat, because if you say something too many times, they kind of ignore it. It is not a good strategy for me. In fact, I will not use that. I just do what I believe’ (interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, May 1999). The argument was that, while the repetition of new emancipatory ‘truths’ may be ignored, visible, more concrete, representations more easily disturb the maintenance of the andocentric social order. Or, as the old fairy tale about the child

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and the wolf expresses it, if you repeat something too many times, people may stop listening. While the child keeps screaming, ‘The wolf is coming!’, eventually nobody reacts. But as soon as people stop listening, the wolf appears. Repetition may thus have the undesired effect of being ignored as ‘just the same old story’. However, this type of cynical distancing may be countered and disrupted by what is interpreted as evidence: concrete representations (Lilja 2008). The MP quoted above talked also about the difference between mere speech and actual practice: [It is] like the case of a woman afraid to get divorced from a man, and the man also says that: ‘Oh! This woman cannot get away from me, you know, she is so submissive and all that.’ [Then] the only thing is to just go, and they believe you. But if you do not go, they do not do anything. They just abuse you more. (Interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, May 1999)

This quotation, through an illustrative metaphor, expresses how ‘abstract’ discourses about women’s political advantages may have more impact if they are made concrete by visible examples. The message is: Do not talk about it. Just show them! Then they believe you! Drawing on the theme of resistance, concretism should be considered a strategy that might be used to alter hierarchical, stereotyping discourses about women’s political abilities. Concrete representations may contradict the spoken discourse to such an extent that the latter must be questioned. This is exemplified when high-ranked, capable female politicians visit rural areas where the dominant discourse describes women as non-political. In the tension between discourse and practice, women’s election speeches come to attract the voters who have had difficulties in conceptualising a woman politician. One female politician said: ‘In one way it is an advantage to be a woman. People just do not believe that women can be politicians. Therefore everyone comes to listen to you. They want to see how a female candidate acts. They think, “Is it possible? Can a woman really be a politician?”’ (interview, female director of local NGO, Phnom Penh, June 1997, May 2007). Likewise, as we have seen in previous chapters, suspicion is cast also upon women who want to bear witness, as women are perceived as either ‘too emotional’ (read unreliable) (for example, interview, national lawyer, Phnom Penh, May 2010) or unable to talk publically (interview, witness, Phnom Penh, May 2010). The insights that emerge from these narratives include how ‘women’ and ‘politicians’ are constructed as two non-overlapping or non-corresponding categories. Indeed, the quotations imply how female politicians in Cambodia, at least in the perception of some, fail to correspond to any of the images of society. To understand this, we can take as a point of departure Mary Douglas’s outline of ambiguous things, the ‘in-betweens’, which fail to fall neatly into any category, instead appearing as a threat as they shake the cultural order (Douglas 1966). However, I would like to take Douglas’s reasoning a step further, in that the women quoted above not only represent something ‘in-between’ (Hall 1997b:

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236). Rather, these women, their existences, directly question and contradict the discourse of women as non-political. We can thereby surmise that divergent representations, from a resistance perspective, inevitably require an exploration. It must be underlined that, while doing discourse analysis, it is not enough to state that a discourse consists of different representations, such as sounds, written words, images, musical notes, statements and body language: one must separate and discuss the different meanings and impacts of these different representations (Lilja 2008). For example, does the representation have a more concrete or a more universal character? The Meaning of Different Representations Before moving on, let us draw some conclusions from the above. Concrete representations might be viewed as discursive ‘counter-evidence’, which might strengthen alternative discourses, thereby challenging hegemonic claims. However, what is a concrete representation? And how might the concept of concretism together with ‘mapping’ be a central site for understanding the nexus of representations and resistance? Let us remember what Hall calls a system of representation – that is, a system ‘by which all sorts of objects, people and events are correlated with a set of concepts or mental representations which we carry around in our heads’ (Hall 1997a: 17). These concepts – which are not only about easily graspable things, such as chairs and tables, but also about war, love or friendship – make us interpret the world meaningfully. Humans map what they hear/see/ experience and make matches between a more abstract mental representation and the factual artefact, movement, and so on. In other words, they recognise or map the thing/person/feeling corresponding to the abstract concept. In the recognition, the factual and the more abstract overlap and support each other. We then have the mental representations as well as the things in the world – the people, objects or events. However, to make it more complex, these ‘things in the world’ are also constructed and interpreted by us. Thus, it is in the nexus of two mental processes that the world becomes meaningful to us. In other words, we construct mental representations based on which we interpret concrete objects and map these interpretations with our mental representations. It is in a complex process and relationship between different mental processes in which we construct the things/persons/feelings that we think relate to, correspond to or overlap with our mental representations. We might form clear concepts of people and places we have never seen but have merely made up, or of fantasy figures such as angels or mermaids (Hall 1997a: 17). However, as these mental representations often do not have what we believe are bodily matches, we are not quite convinced that they actually exist. Again it is about ‘evidences’ and the importance of differing between different types of representations. In other words, we need to separate between two types of representations, first, those that form and maintain the concept (the mental

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representation), and secondly, those that match the concept in such a way that it counts as an actual real-world match. For example, the concept of Santa Claus is maintained not only by sayings, narratives and fairy tales but also by the more concrete false masquerade Santa Clauses. We have never seen what we would consider the ‘real’ Santa. This is because, during the mapping process, when we interpret the masquerade Santa Clauses, there are a number of traits of the ‘false’ Santa that do not match with our ideas of the mental representation of the ‘real’ Santa Claus. As we have never found a perfect match, we do not believe in Santa Clause. There are then representations that form our concept of Santa, and there might be a representation (that we still have not seen) that in the mapping process, and in our interpretation, corresponds to all of our ideas about Santa. When both kinds of representations (the concept and the ‘real’ object) exist in our heads, we believe in the discourse (about Santa, women politicians, and so on). From the above, it follows that we are constantly mapping our ideas – our mental representations – with the originals, as interpreted by us, to assess differences and sameness. This has implications for Cambodian women politicians. As stated previously, dominating discourses of gender in Cambodia regard women as non-political. However, as has also been shown, there exists an opposing discourse reversing this truth. The image of ‘the superior woman politician’ constitutes a new alternative representation that refuses to occupy the lowest rung on the ladder. However, in order to make people believe in the alternative discourse that states that women politicians are brilliant politicians, there must be an actual match between the concept – the mental representation – of a superior woman politician and what we would interpret as a perfect concrete match with that image. In one interview, the following view was expressed: I personally believe that the women become politically involved because they have some yearning, maybe they have been hurt for some reason. They have been what you called discriminated […] Becoming political is a kind of revenge, it is a proof of talent and skill that they are capable, that they are human resources that need to be given a value. So it is a demonstration. It is a fight back. (Interview, female director of local NGO, Phnom Penh, June 1997, May 2007)

The woman talks about visible representations, using ‘proof’ as a key term. The concept of ‘proof’ implies that we believe that certain representations actually have the weight to determine whether or not a discourse is ‘true’. There need to be concrete representations that people can interpret as ‘real’, thereby strengthening the mental representation of brilliant women politicians. In other words, only when people interpret visible representations of different gendered political images as ‘trustworthy’, can more emancipatory gendered discourses be perceived as true. Materialising an unexpected image, the appearance of a competent woman politician can then be interpreted in a way that strengthens a resisting alternative political gendered discourse more than yet another statement ‘that women in

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fact can be politicians’. Resistance, then, must involve not only establishing an alternative, challenging discourse with spoken words, but also confirming this discourse with concrete, matching, objects, practices or bodies. In this regard, more research must be done in order to understand what characteristics of a woman politician must prevail/be visible, in order to convince the readers in the mapping process. As is indicated in Chapter 2, this implies that we must move beyond simple discourse theory and let ourselves be inspired by the material stance. The lived experience of concrete signs – which can be mapped against the mental representation of those signs – is then of vital importance. In this aspect, this text is inspired by Mark Johnson (2007), whose work on the bodily basis of meaning is quite different from the social constructivist approach used in this book. Nevertheless, Johnson’s suggestions in regard to different concepts can be taken as a point of departure in order to comprehend discourses more clearly. One understanding of Johnson’s research might be that both the mental representations we carry round in our heads and the interpretations we make in regard to what we experience as concrete representations are divided into various parts, fields and details that can be mapped against each other. When we find familiarity between many of the parts and pieces of the concrete representation and our mental representation, the latter is proved, or, to use the terminology of Michael Foucault, we believe they are true (Foucault 1975, 1993; Johnson 2007). Thus, resistance is partly dependent upon the interpretation of concrete representations and the mapping process of interpreting these against prevailing discourses and mental representations. However, we should not underestimate the existence of resisting discourses, or of mental representations, constructed to negotiate power (such as ‘the superior woman politician’): if there is no widespread mental representation of ‘a superior woman politician’, there is no image to ‘prove’. Instead, the women, who try hard as politicians, run the risk of being compared with the image of a male politician: each becomes then an inbetween – that is, neither a male politician nor a woman. Thus, concretism, in the analysis above, is about using oneself and one’s body as a means of resistance. Yet a number of researchers have addressed the body as a means of resistance (Butler 1999; Grosz and Probyn 1995). For example, in the edited volume Negotiating at the Margins (Davis and Fisher 1993), the first part, ‘Negotiating the Body and its Adornments’, deals with power struggles by exploring the body as a site of resistance. It shows, among other things, how women make resistance by surgically remaking their body or by using certain clothes either to construct a resisting sexual identity or to negotiate the boundaries of the appropriate dress. These are all examples of concretism that illustrate how the body can be seen as a site for challenging practices, thus letting the body serve as a tool for resistance.

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Universalism Above, the meaning of different kinds of representations is discussed. To understand further the nexus between concretism and resistance and what concrete representation means in terms of resistance, the discussion now introduces the concept of universalism. One might easily assume and identify with universal norms – that is, feelings, situations and destinies presented in more general, universally recognisable manners (Hamilton 1997: 101). While all of us might relate to the unspecified concept of being in love, the unravelling of specific agendas, interests or struggles that might be involved in a love relationship might not be recognised by everybody. To make use of a more universal approach is a strategy sometimes applied by aid organisations engaged in fundraising for the Third World. Folkekirken, the Danish state church, aired a television commercial in which a crying baby was accompanied by a black picture and a voice asking, ‘What do you do when your baby is crying?’ The answer was, ‘You comfort it. Feed it. Give it love’ (Westerdahl in Trenter 2000: 50–63). The strategy was to refer to universal values and feelings by playing on the audience’s sympathy for their own children, thus creating feelings of solidarity. The idea is to provide to the giver a feeling of not being different from the aid receiver and thereby reduce the us/them dichotomy that often underpins stereotypisation and alienation. This was done via a concrete representation that is easy to relate to, in this case the crying baby. Universalism is a simple means for resistance: sameness emerges as the superior part perceives the subalterns and their entangled culture through a new lens. By a simple move, by using simple representations (such as the tears of an infant), difference slides into sameness (Lilja 2008). For women politicians, this implies that an effective role model should play on universalism – that is, act in a way that is understood to be a general female manner, representing the dominating gender, and thus act in a way to which women can relate. Other women must be able to recognise themselves and their female identity in the role model and see how a female ‘self’ can be combined with political activities. Female gender is added to a political image of identity, showing women how to perform like ‘women’ in a slightly different manner. Women are then bargaining with and challenging power-loaded discourses and resisting by using the very same discourse of gender that they oppose. Power and resistance thereby overlap and intertwine, existing simultaneously, inscribed on personal bodyspaces. It is a risk, therefore, when female politicians normalise towards a norm created by what we might consider a Westernised and masculine perspective. At the same time as the female politician distances herself from the dominating female gender, women in general will have problems identifying themselves with her. As she no longer represents a generally held universal image of womanhood capable of creating the potential for identification, an us/them divide is created and her potential as role model is diminished (Lilja 2008).

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Conclusions Above, I use the concepts of concretism and universalism to further develop the concept of everyday resistance. By applying the notion of concretism I show how, in order to strengthen alternative resisting discourses, people must map their mental representations against what they comprehend as more concrete representations – and generate a match. Those representations that are comprehended as concrete – persons, performances, images, and so on – are seen as proof, and are mapped to determine whether or not the spoken discourses and/or our mental representations are true or false. In line with this logic, to be trustworthy a discourse must not only consist of statements but also be composed of what people interpret as more ‘real’ representations. As my interview data suggests, concrete representations – that is, women who have assumed a political identity and act successfully from it – can make an alternative discourse trustworthy. Consequently these women then can be considered as a means of resistance. Or as the above respondents expressed it, ‘It is a fight back.’ Hence, my conclusion is that the manner in which people separate different signifiers of the representations and their interpretations of different representations, as well as how these are mapped against each other, is important in the analysis of resistance. In this respect, the concept of ‘universalism’ might also help us to understand resistance and its impact. Certain concrete representations (for example, infant tears) force us to acknowledge how ‘we’ experience concrete situations and practices in the same way as ‘they’ – thereby these representations invoke sameness rather than difference. The us/them divide, as well as the hierarchies that this binary nourishes, are then dissolved. Women politicians can use the principle of universalism in order to become role models for other women. By leaning on a ‘universal’ image of femininity, they tend both to strengthen this image and to bargain with it, while informing femininity with political know-how. Power and resistance thereby intervene, overlap and hybridise as different images of identity, masculinity and femininity are brought to interface.

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Chapter 10

The Gaps of the ‘Linguistic Turn’: Resistance in the Nexus of Representations, the ‘Surplus’ and the Material In Cambodia, as we have seen, different discourses, images, norms, hierarchies and matter are entangled, creating a subaltern female subject position. Departing from the notions developed in Chapter 2, this chapter continues to consider the interplay between different types of representations and the material and explores their potential in negotiating current images of ‘men’ and ‘women’ in Cambodia. Foremost, the chapter discusses representations in relation to the concept of a ‘surplus’ and how this interplay creates certain gaps that might be used in the negotiation of gender roles. In addition, taking Cambodian gender roles as a point of departure, the chapter aims to expand the conceptual framework of feminist theory by bringing in the concept of ‘changing representations’. This chapter deals with resistance, proceeding from the construction of discourses. Thereby it departs from, and adds to, the linguistic stance within feminism. Despite its weaknesses, most researchers, as stated in Chapter 2, agree that the move to the linguistic has provided significant advantages for many feminist researchers. However, the current chapter advances from the view that there are some key issues or areas within which the linguistic turn that needs to be further theorised. In order to problematise these matters, I examine the issue of ‘changing representation’ and the existence of a ‘surplus’. In addition, the discussion around these concepts is entangled in the question of materiality and the existence of a real, which were discussed in Chapter 2. I proceed from the above concepts to reveal new angles of the resistance of women politicians in Cambodia as well as how images of ‘men’ and ‘women’ are being negotiated. In the first section of this chapter, the concept of a ‘surplus’ is outlined in order to show how this concept, in itself and in relation to the material turn, composes a gap within recent linguistic feminist theory. There is always a gap between the meaning (the descriptive features) assigned to a name and the object named. Or in other words, no woman corresponds entirely to the meaning associated with the name ‘woman’. Indeed, there is never a perfect match, which produces the effect of a non-symbolisable surplus (Edkins 1999: 99). However, what this surplus means and what role it plays in the production of subject positions, and the subversive resistance against these, is not addressed within feminist studies today. As this chapter’s analysis shows, there are different ‘kinds’ of surplus. This is developed and clarified below, in the study of the resistance of Cambodian women leaders.

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Next, the question of ‘changing representations’ is considered. As stated in previous chapters, the concept of representation is broad, sliding and complex, in some senses shrouding in fog the research produced within the linguistic turn. While a wide range of books and articles address various gendered representations (Hall 1997b; Owen, Vande Berg and Stein 2007; Shifrin 2008), the complexity and manifoldness characterising the concept of representation remains strangely under-theorised. Insofar as it discusses changing representations, this section is inspired by Gilles Deleuze’s (1994) thoughts on dynamic repetition and Anne Danielsen’s (2006) findings regarding sound repetitions of funk songs. If we hear the same rhythm over and over again, after a while what we hear is changing. Our listening is automatised and we hear the rhythm in a different, more reluctant way. Thus, the meaning attached to the rhythm changes over time, although it is the very same rhythm over and over again. Departing from this, Danielsen shows us that a rhythmic motif, when it is repeated throughout time, often is changed a little. This change is made in order to make the listener perceive the same rhythmic motif throughout the song. Or in other words, the listener understands the change as a clarification of the original motive (Lilja and Lilja 2011). In a similar way, if we look over and over again at the same picture, our viewing becomes automated, the semantics are emptied, and the significance, the meaning, of the image is changed. Only a modification of the representation could contribute to a clarification of the first meaning that we assigned to the image (Lilja and Lilja 2011). This reasoning can be discussed in terms of resistance. The above implies that practising the same performance of resistance over and over again will change the meaning of the practice. After a few times, the resisting practice may well have less impact than it had the first time. Therefore, Cambodian women must vary their resistance in order to make an impact. This is explored in the last section of the chapter. The Question of ‘Surpluses’ In linguistic theory the question of a surplus is frequently recurring, providing us with important insights as well as a feeling of obscurity (see, for example, Edkins 1999; Ricoeur 1976; Žižek 1989). For Ricoeur, the metaphorical twist becomes the very grounds for explaining the extension of meaning operative in every symbol. Ricoeur argues that the symbol functions as a ‘surplus of signification’, as there is more meaning assigned to the symbol than the literal signification. Or to put it differently, as a poem about a sunrise describes more than a meteorological phenomenon, there is an excess of signification that exceeds the literal signification. Ricoeur explains the two interpretations: Only for an interpretation are there two levels of signification since it is the recognition of the literal meaning that allows us to see that a symbol still contains more meaning. This surplus of meaning is the residue of the literal

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interpretation. Yet for the one who participates in the symbolic signification there are really not two significations, one literal and the other symbolic, but rather a single movement, which transfers him from one level to the other and which assimilates him to the second signification by means of, or through the literal one. (Ricoeur 1976, 49–56)

For Ricoeur, then, adding a symbolic meaning to the literal interpretation leads to the conclusion that there is a surplus of meaning in a symbol. This interpretation of a surplus is somewhat different from the concept of a surplus as described by Slavoj Žižek. In the texts of Žižek the surplus, among other things, emerges as extra-discursive material, which is related to the discourse but still excluded from the very same: The moment we translate class antagonism into the opposition of classes qua positive, existing social groups (bourgeoisie versus working class), there is always, for structural reasons, a surplus, a third element which does not ‘fit’ this opposition (lumpenproletariat, etc.). And of course, it is the same with sexual difference qua real: this, precisely, means that there is always, for structural reasons, a surplus of ‘perverse’ excesses over ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’ as two opposed symbolic identities. (Žižek 2000: 132)

In contrast to Ricoeur, Žižek describes how the construction of binaries produces a surplus of meaning. As fast as an opposition is established there is a surplus, or what Žižek calls ‘a third element’, which does not ‘fit’ – for example, the queer that is neither feminine nor masculine. In Edkins (1999) the question of a surplus makes visible how the construction and categorisation in ‘names’ twist our interpretations of the interpreted. Consider the word ‘famine’. According to Edkins, this name – famine – appears as a signifier connoting ‘a cluster of supposedly effective properties “general and widespread shortages of food, leading to widespread death by starvation”’ (Edkins 1999: 99). Thus, when interpreting and mapping the ‘world out there’, we label these occurrences ‘famine’. However, in the next moment the relation is inverted – people are dying because it is a famine. In addition, the reality sometimes fails to live up to the name – reality does not measure up to the image – because there is, for example, no widespread death. The famine, according to Edkins, is then unattainable – that is, ‘a famine more than famine’ (Edkins 1999: 99). Or in other words, the image that we nourish is more than the real famine, which produces a surplus of meaning. The above outline of names can be understood through Foucault, who argues that the production and maintenance of discourses is organised via a number of procedures. These procedures compose an important discursive system of exclusion. For example, some statements are kept out of the discourse since they represent the dangerous, the forbidden, leaving us with an ‘inside’ and an ‘outside’ of the discourse (Foucault 1993: 7–15; Foucault 1994: 21). For example, we know

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what a ‘woman’ is because of what she is not. Thus, we know what ‘famine’ is because of what it is not. Summing up, processes of exclusion, then, create ‘names’, such as, for example, a ‘woman’, the meaning connected to the name, doings/beings slotted to correspond to the meaning of the names, as well as a ‘surplus’ of meaning. Or in other words, the name ‘woman’ has a certain meaning assigned to it and when we interpret the world we tend to understand women from our interpretations (the stereotype) of a ‘woman’. However, the world is more complex and richer than the name (the stereotype), which leaves us with remainders of reality that lies outside our conceptualisations of the real. There is a non-symbolised real that we fail to capture. Thus, the relationship between the naming and reality is a complex one: The process of naming has produced places within the symbolic order that things occupy. But the real does not neatly fit the symbolic space; slotting things into the symbolic order is necessary but always, according to Lacan, produces this effect of a nonsymbolizable surplus. (Edkins 1999: 99)

There is always a gap between the meaning assigned to a name (for example, the descriptive features ascribed to a ‘woman’) and the object named (the real woman): In Lacan’s version what we experience as ‘reality’ is always already symbolized, constructed, and constituted by the symbolic. But this process of symbolization always fails: There is always a surplus that resists symbolization, that remains of the real – there is always ‘some unsettled, unredeemed symbolic debt.’ Žižek argues that it is this that ‘returns in the guise of spectral apparitions.’ The spectre is the part of reality that cannot be symbolized that remains outside the attempt at complete symbolization. That ‘reality’ is always a fiction, that ‘reality’ is symbolically or socially constructed is a separate notion. The two notions are incompatible, Žižek holds: Reality is never directly ‘itself’, it presents itself only via its incomplete–failed symbolisation, and spectral apparitions emerge in this very gap that forever separates reality from the real …. (Edkins 1999: 119–20)

What Edkins describes are the material facts that are not captured within our discourses. Thereby, she advances yet another interpretation of the concept of surplus. Thus, what the concept of ‘surplus’ embraces is presented ambiguously, refusing the concept of any fixity. The discussion of a ‘surplus’, then, in itself reflects the messiness and leakiness that appears in the discursive production. However, if we try to sort out what ‘surplus’ means, at least three different interpretations of the concept might be advanced: 1. An excess of meaning that exceeds the literal interpretation. Or, as expressed by Ricoeur (1976), there are two levels of signification. This is because we recognise the literal meaning and thereby are able to see that a symbol still contains more meaning (than the literal meaning). For example, a sunrise

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poem describes more than a meteorological phenomenon. This surplus of meaning is the excess of the literal interpretation. 2. A surplus of meaning that does not ‘fit’ nicely into the discourse. In the interpretation of Žižek, the fact that we tend to interpret the world from binary constructs, such as the bourgeoisie versus working class or the ‘masculine’ versus ‘feminine’, creates a surplus, a third element, which does not ‘fit’ this opposition (for example, lumpenproletariatet, and so on) (Žižek 2000: 132). 3. The non-symbolised remains of the real that exist outside what we experience as the ‘real’ (as described by Edkins and Žižek above). This is why the researchers who depart from the linguistic turn argue that objects, people and practices gain meaning within discourse. These three different conceptualisations of a ‘surplus’ relate to feminist studies in several ways. First of all, the surplus of meaning that constitutes a third element, which does not ‘fit’ into the gendered opposition, affects the binary construction of the dichotomy. Thus, one question to advance is, how do subordinated femininities and masculinities affect the very binary construction of men and women often advanced in media? How does a queer-identifying person either strengthen or challenge the heteronormativity based on the binary construct of heterosexual women and men? How does the surplus of ‘perverse’ excesses over the ‘masculine’ and the ‘feminine’ have subversive effects? (Connell 1999, 2005; Butler 1999) Secondly, the above reasoning implies that no woman corresponds entirely to the image, the name, of a ‘woman’. This produces a gap – a surplus – between the name and the subject, because a woman may inhabit various qualities and perform practices that lie outside the symbolisation of woman. A woman is more than the ‘woman’ from which we interpret various women. Thereby, there are remains of the real that exist outside what we experience as the ‘real’ (the woman that is more than the ‘woman’). Moreover, this reasoning can be turned around. The concept of a surplus makes visible the ‘woman’ that is more than a woman. For example, we know that many women sense a feeling of uneasiness as they comprehend that they fail to correspond to the image of a ‘woman’ (Lilja 2008). This feeling might sometimes be the effect of various punishments distributed for the woman’s failure to discipline in accordance with the ‘right’ gender, and sometimes the feeling becomes the very base for resistance against gendered stereotypes. The surplus, in this regard, produces an excess of meaning and a surplus of the real that resists symbolisation. Overall, to further theorise the connections between the discursive and the material, the question of a ‘surplus’ should be included, because there are ‘processes of materialisation’ that exist outside our everyday conceptualisations of ‘reality’. How does this materialisation affect the discourses we live by? What material surplus does the discourses of exclusion produce and what role does this surplus play in constituting the discourse? Or in other words, how does the material

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surplus, that resists symbolisation, constitute the ‘real’ and its power relations? How the discourses fail to overlap with the real and what it means as an engine for social change is under-theorised within feminist studies. Among other things, the gap between the ‘known’ and the felt may well compose a powerful force in (re)constituting or (re)negotiating the discourse. Women who experience and remember things/feelings/happenings that do not correspond with things/feelings/ happening as they prevail in our everyday gendered discourses experience a gap between the felt and the known. From this experience, women might try to negotiate the gendered discourses to include their divergent feelings or memories. Or in other words, memories that cannot be neatly stowed into the matrix provide material for extra-discursive experience, which foments a renegotiation of gender. Thus, the question of different surpluses is highly relevant when analysing gender strategies of women and men in Cambodia. How may different kinds of surplus be used for gendered resistance? Below, I detail the role of different surpluses when negotiating gendered discourses in Cambodia. When conducting interviews about gender in the Siem Reap area during the mid-1990s, the questions I posed regarding women and leaderships appeared to shake the cultural order of the respondents. In a group interview, the respondents asked, at the end of the interview: ‘But how do women and men share the work in your rice fields back in Sweden?’ The quotation implies how the local population – both men and women – interpreted me from local notions of gender while unaware of the material facts comprising the Swedish way of life. There is a material and discursive surplus – that is, material facts and notions of femininity and masculinity – that lies outside the local discourses of gender and livelihood. These material and symbolic surpluses were not rendered in their conceptions and interpretations of me. My questions to the respondent, then, in some senses, deconstructed the prevailing discourses, implying that there are other ways of thinking and acting according to gender. These ‘other ways’ lie outside the dominating discourses of gender, thus constituting material and discursive surpluses. To bring in the surplus means to negotiate local discourses of gender, because, in the light of other discursive and material ‘facts’, local discourses of gender are probably reconstructed in relation to the new ‘Otherness’. The surpluses become the very base for a process of deconstruction. The question of a surplus enables negotiations of gender in politics also. The image of a politician often corresponds to notions of masculinity. Thus, to be accepted as politicians, women are often invited to imitate an image of a male politician. However, in spite of this, women’s mimicry of an outspoken, malerelated political identity may lead to the emergence of new problems. While acknowledging a new image imbued with masculinity, the respondent no longer corresponded to the female gender. Female politicians differing from the image of a woman are often met with scepticism from male colleagues. For example, one female politician incited two reactions while speaking in the NA. According to the politician, her male colleges considered her intelligent, while they were disgusted by her behaviour and would never marry a women like her:

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Sometimes, when you do like this (gesture of speaking), everyone looks at you: ‘So brave, so intelligent, but not so nice to be around.’ […] Are you single too; no one will ask you to marry. ‘Oh I’m scared of a woman like that.’ (Interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, June 1997)

It appears that this female politician was compared with the images of a politician. In the mapping process, some aspects of her acting were found to be in accordance with the image of politicians. In this regard, the woman was acknowledged and rewarded. However, as the men moved on with the mapping process, there was certainly a surplus, some behaviours/characteristics that did not ‘fit’ with their image of a (male) politician. There is a surplus (emanating from her body) that is not possible to mould or cut to make the woman fit with the image of a politician. Probably it is a material surplus that makes the woman fail to correspond completely to the image of a (male) politician. Or, at least, there are some interpretations of the woman (such as having breasts, a vagina, and so on) that do not fit with the mental image of a politician (smuggled into various aspects of a hegemonic masculinity). As stated above, the surplus, whether symbolic or material, is entangled in relations of power and resistance. The (male) politician, who is a woman, shakes and negotiates the cultural order and the strongly separated categories of ‘politicians’, ‘men’ and ‘women’. In this sense, she performs resistance against gendered norms. However, the very same act is also the result of the local hierarchies that place, male -politician at the top, forcing individual women to adapt to a masculine norm in order to gain political power. In addition, the woman is punished for her inability to correspond entirely with the (masculine) norm of a politician. Thus, the woman’s body becomes an act of resistance, a result of power and an object of disciplinary strategies. In this way, the surplus tells us something, not only about power but also about entangled relations of power and resistance. The concept of a surplus may well explain why another respondent, a women politician, seemingly alternated between two images of identity, that of a ‘woman’ and that of a ‘politician’. The woman politician first stated that female politicians ought to behave in a ‘proper’ female manner: ‘[A] good female politician must be strong but flexible. But she must also act as a Cambodian woman: being gentle and so on […] She must keep her word. She must be brave and have competence’ (interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, June 1997). Later on, however, the same woman pointed out that [w]omen are quiet because they are shy. Men do not like when women are ‘chatty’. Women are raised to respect men and be quiet. This is the case with women in the National Assembly. Women in the National Assembly never use their rights or their ability 100 per cent. (Interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, June 1997)

This woman seems torn between different values and images of identity. While first stating that a female politician must act as a Cambodian woman, ‘being

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gentle’, in the next moment she implies that this means that the female MPs never use ‘their ability 100 per cent’ (Lilja 2008: 103). Among other things, this is most likely a way of trying to handle the fact that different surpluses make it impossible for the woman to correspond entirely to a political image of identity. In the end, it creates confusion and it will probably shake the cultural order. The Questions of Representations In this section the concept of ‘changing representations’ will be discussed. The point of departure is that a representation does not have to be repeated differently to gain a different meaning. On the contrary, if we look again and again at the same picture our viewing is automatised, the semantics are emptied, and the image’s meaning is changed. And every time we hear the same message, we interpret it differently. For example, our perception of a warning sign for moose changes each time was pass it. While at first, we think that a moose might show up, once countless signs have been passed and no moose has appeared, our comprehension of the sign has changed. To retain the same meaning, the representation must change or another representation must complement the first sign – for example, an expert on the car radio warning for moose. Or in other words, to retain the meaning assigned to the sign, there must be new representations that support the first representation (sign). This is an interesting observation that might help us to understand the resistance of Cambodian woman politicians. As stated in previous chapters, one resistance strategy in Cambodia was to repeat that women make better politicians than men, in order, it seems, to establish a new discourse about women’s superiority. Women politicians and NGO workers repeated that women politicians are emotional and understand the needs and feelings of others – a unique ability in their role as politicians. Using discourse theory, one reading might be that the women are trying to negotiate their power relations – different gendered norms/normalities and hierarchies – by the repetition of a new ‘truth’. This was reflected also in other interviews, where repetition was mentioned occasionally as an important means to make space for women within political parties. For example, a woman politician said: ‘I keep reminding them: in every activity, if no women, the activity cannot work, because there are 60 per cent women in Cambodia’ (interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, May 1999). Yet another woman politician relayed a similar account, arguing that ‘the strategy is that we keep talking about how women are also human resources’ (interview, NGO worker, Phnom Penh, May 1999). This quotation also resonates in the above strategy of repeating (‘keep talking about’) as a practice to make space for women by upgrading women’s status as politicians. Thus, to enhance space for women, their ability and importance were constantly repeated. However, as I have shown above, this strategy, of repeating and reminding, was contested by yet other respondents, who questioned the effectiveness of the

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repetition of emancipatory statements. Some respondents argued that, if women keep repeating that women are good politicians, in the end no one will believe them. Instead of speech repetition, the women promoted action as a more practical way of highlighting their capacity. One women politician said: ‘I have the impression that men are so used to dominate that they think that women are not really active like they are. So I think we have to show them, you know, we can do something. In action, so they can see’ (interview, female politician, Phnom Penh, May 1999). This quotation can be interpreted in different ways. One conclusion is that the meaning attached to the repeated representations that ‘women are good politicians’ changes when the representation is repeated. The statement that ‘women are good politicians’ might be an eye-opener at first. However, taking Danielsen’s theory about rhythm as a point of departure, it becomes clear that the meaning connected to a statement, such as ‘women are good politicians’, changes as the statement is repeated. In order to regain its original meaning, there must be another representation that supports the first one. Alternatively, the representation must change in order to be convincing. The change could be accomplished if the statement is repeated from another subject position. For example, an expert that repeats the very same statement about the superiority of women leaders, could probably make the message trustworthy again. Or, as the woman above suggests, more concrete representations that disarm the automatised reading of the statement must be added. Thus, to interrupt, to be innovative and to surprise are important strategies of resistance against passive, automatised or tired readings of different discourses. It is in the light of this that we should evaluate the respondents’ alternation between many, sometimes contradictory, strategies of resistance. The practices of normalisation and the construction of a new, superior, Cambodian female political identity, the construction of memories, the usage of concrete and/or universal representations are strategies that run parallel to one another, possibly undermining each other. Ambivalence and inconsistency may damage women’s credibility. A more coherent resistance strategy, used by all women, might be more effective in gaining power or status. However, as implied above, the contrary may well be more likely, that manifold strategies, contradictory statements and multiple identities may confuse the opponent and shake the cultural order, as well as previously ‘solid’ categories. This may create a richer world with fewer firmly rooted images regarding label and rank, interrupting the old order and creating new effects. Globalisation plays a role here. While the world gets smaller, in a global village new discourses and representations spread across the globe and diversify the resistance. Concluding Reflections Above, this chapter takes as a point of departure that the linguistic turn within feminism needs to be developed. Doing this means taking the linguistic perspective

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as a base and from this base considering what specific questions need to be addressed. One issue that needs further consideration is the question of the surplus, which has been under-theorised within feminist studies to date. There are always different surpluses in the nexus of the name, the meaning associated with the name, other related but not included meanings, and the real (which is interpreted, mapped or moulded in order to correspond to the name). These disparities between, first, different layers of meaning and, second, the name, the meaning assigned to the name and the real, create diverse real and discursive surpluses. These surpluses probably play a crucial role for the construction of power-loaded gendered discourses and subject positions as well as for the resistance against the very same. However, to what extent and in what way we must address the nexus between the meaning, the real and the matter of surpluses (real and discursive) must be further researched within feminist theory. In addition, we need to have a more profound discussion of the meaning and impact of different representations as well as of different combinations of representations. For example, to explore gendered discourses we must consider how the meaning attached to a representation changes as the representation is repeated. In this, our interpretations of various representations – of the real – are most certainly informed by an agentic real, which contributes to our interpretations. The question is, how can we develop theories in which nature and the material stand out as agentic forces? In this, it is important to display how the discursive and the material interact in the constitution of bodies (Alaimo and Hekman 2008: 7). The agentic real is also an interesting concept when we try to understand why some differences are constructed as important (for example, the difference between ‘men’ and ‘women’) while other differences are interpreted as less important (for example, the difference between blue-eyed or green-eyed people). Acknowledging the need for theorising the material, we must start with discussing how we shall be able to ‘see’ the material. How can the real be included in our theories? The real is always understood through layers of meaning, and until now feminist linguistics, among other disciplines, has argued that the real is beyond what we can understand. Recognising that there is a real that matters, we must try to involve it in our thinking. It may be difficult to measure or ‘see’ the real, but we cannot pretend that it does not exist.

Chapter 11

Concluding Reflections Resistance: Strengthening Power; Resisting Power As stated in Chapter 1, this book provides a broader exploration of the ‘countless’ practices of discursive resistance in relation to power that operate in ways that shape women’s and men’s possibilities, identities and practices. In focus are microrelations of power and resistance that appear as discursive occurrences in everyday conversations. In particular, this book allows for diverse ‘stories’ of contestations where resistance profits on, creates, and/or challenges power. Power is primarily addressed in terms of disciplinary power and ‘biopower’, which is considered as a means of fostering the population as a whole. In addition, sovereign power is entangled in other discursive forms of domination. Moreover, in the analysis I connect the resistance against these forms of power to the question of the real and the agency of matter. The agency of matter and how matter is related to different discursive constructions, forces us to acknowledge the complex interactions through which the social and the biological emerge, persist, and transform in close juxtaposition. Power is then to be seen as different discursive constructions, which are intertwined in the real and our bodily matter. Thereby, resistance must also be discussed in relation to the real. In addition, power is entangled not only in matter and the construction of discourses but also in different constructions of identity. Individuals use their bodies to perform images of identity and to suture subject positions that are produced within discourses. They can thereby be considered as effects of these discourses. Moreover, women and men acting from certain images of identity become representations that strengthen or challenge different discourses. In the end, the nexus of power, identity matter and discourse becomes an interesting area to explore when looking for resistance. In addition, when reviewing the interviews, memories seem to be entangled significantly in relations of power and resistance. In their different strategies, the respondents seemed to lean upon constructed or reconstructed memories of past events. Moreover, both biopower and different disciplinary strategies seemed to rest upon constructions of time and memory. Among other things, memories were reconstructed in the light of new discourses and experiences. Or in other words, memories were, on different occasions, reconstructed and thereafter drawn upon in order to give meaning to and to explain different practices and feelings. One example of this is the victims’ advancing of the issue of GBV in the ECCC. In this case, globalisation and the time–space compression, which brings the universal to meet the particular, became the very base for resistance. As discussed previously, ‘Western’ discourses about rape

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and slavery became the starting point for Western-funded local NGOs to include GBV issues on the ECCC agenda. For some, there was a (re)categorisation of the ‘arranged marriages’ of the KR. These marriages were placed in the category of ‘forced marriages’. For some, this reconstruction of memories became a relief. For others, however, who are still happily married in a ‘forced marriage’, to label this marriage slavery and to address the closeness between husbands and wives in terms of rape became threatening and absurd. The NGOs’ attempts to bring in ‘forced marriages’ as a crime against humanity appeared to be interpreted differently from diverse subject positions. As a result, there is a struggle over memory, where the ‘grand story’, advanced in the ECCC by the ruling elite, is somewhat threatened or at least fragmented. In this process, memories and various images of identity feed each other. For example, the ‘witness’ of GBV is constructed by drawing upon various memories of the KR era, while the witnesses are also a part of the constructing of these memories. By analysing the practices of these witnesses, Foucault’s theories of biopower were brought into conversation with the literature on memories and narratives of remembrance. The witnesses practise in a context where various biopolitical strategies are applied in order to construct certain memories of the KR regime, seemingly legitimating current post-war discourses and subjectivities. The female witnesses and victims in the ECCC, however, are not only disciplined and governed by various biopolitical strategies (mythologisation, medicalisation and disappearance), but also resist through maintaining their memories of GBV. By constructing and maintaining alternative truths, informed by Western notions of human rights, these witnesses do not homogenise, discipline and keep in order; rather, they create complexity, fragmenting and thereby undermining various biopolitical strategies. Another pattern that prevailed was how Cambodians were valued and categorised in line with which memories they were assumed to possess or not to possess. Memories prevailed at the core of political struggle. The importance of holding the ‘right’ memories in order to gain political power became obvious when discussing the identity construction of those who returned to Cambodia after having migrated. In this case, the memories became the very base for a construction of ‘us and them’. The discourse about the returnees included the notion that the migrated Khmers, who are Cambodians, are not really Cambodians due to the fact that they lack certain memories of the past – they were not there. In this case, space and time interacts and fuels relations of power and resistance. Memories are used as a means of power to exclude, rank and stereotype. However, as the ‘truths’ lay on the table, the construction of the discourse was also used as a tool of resistance. By negotiating the discourse about who is ‘us’ and by claiming their pain, some women attempted to qualify as a ‘real’ Cambodian after all. Moreover, memories were drawn upon in order to explain ‘now’ as well as the future. By defining ‘then’, ‘now’ could be negotiated to correspond to the past. In this logic, what was true then will be true now and into the future. Thus, by reconstructing ‘then’ the present can also be (re)constructed to correspond to the

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past. This was reflected in the queen’s speech on 8 March 2002. The reasoning in the speech pursued the following logic: Cambodian women were grand then, thus they are grand now and will also be that in the future. Reconstructing memories in order to legitimise a certain utopia and possible policies to reach this utopia is seen as a strategy of resistance. In the above example, various disciplinary norms were negotiated while raising the status of women and redefining the dominating gender roles. Overall, memories are significantly entangled in relations of power and resistance. This entanglement is highly influenced by the increased connectivity described by the notion of globalisation – a respatialisation of social life. Moreover, another conclusion from the previous chapters is that the relationships between different types of representations, and the entanglement of representations and matter, must be further explored in order to understand resistance. For example, a recurring pattern was how universal (often Western), globalised representations and discourses were brought in to negotiate the local and particular. This was done in the ECCC but to a larger extent by the organisations that worked against GBV on the local level. These organisations leaned on an image of non-violent and caring men, which contradicts the local image of men and the dominating notions of masculinity for many. Overall, one strategy of resistance against the prevailing discourses of violent masculinities was to alternate between, and hybridise, representations with a more universal character and those with a more particular character. Among other things, men compared themselves and their stories with a hegemonic masculinity. The local, particular image of men was then examined in the light of other masculine norms. In this process, some individual men – for example, one of the trainers of a local NGO – tried to adapt to the more universally recognised image of the ‘caring man’. However, universal and particular representations were also used in other ways to negotiate local discourses of gender. For example, Cambodian trainers appeared to alternate between what might be interpreted as universal ‘truths’ and particular (and alien) ‘truths’ respectively. The particular statement is presented as logical according to the universal truths. Thereby, the particular statement is strengthened in argument. The trick seems to be to ground ‘odd’ arguments in well-known, more general discourses. Thus, by connecting different types of representations, the trainers attempted to negotiate the gendered discourses of today’s Cambodia. The alternation between the universal and the particular was seemingly a key strategy to resist stereotyped, ranked and violent images of identity. Thereby, considering the nexus between matter and different representations and their possibility for resistance, the form of the representation (as well as how often it is repeated) must be analysed. Another example, which strengthens the above assumption, is the practice of alternating between universal truths and more concrete representations. As it turned out, more concrete representations are seen as ‘proofs’ that strengthen discourses that are of a more general character. For example, the discourse that ‘women are good politicians’ might be ‘proved’ by more concrete representations, such as

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women politicians who act in a way that is interpreted as ‘good’. Thus, in order for resistance to have an impact, there must be discourses and representations of a more universal, general character as well as representations that are comprehended as more concrete and that prove the discourse. In addition to this, how representations are repeated matters in the nexus between power and resistance. A message that is frequently repeated might imply that the discourse is well established and therefore often recurrent. However, when it comes to resistance, repetition might have a negative effect. This is because the meaning that is attached to a representation changes each time the representation is repeated. In the moment of surprise, new messages might have a substantial impact on the resisting of various disciplinary norms. In that moment, the news has the charm of novelty. However, when repeated, the message acquires another, more passive meaning. For example, the first time the statement ‘women are good politicians’ prevails, it is new and exciting. When it is repeated its first effects fade out, the listening automates, and other representations become necessary to support the first one in order to get a new reaction. For resistance to have an impact, we cannot repeat the very same discourses over and over again in a similar manner – we must vary our repertoire. To be able to establish new alternative discourses, we must use different kinds of representations and speak from different subject positions, and so on. Here, globalisation might play a role by bringing in new statements, expressions and truths to the local level, thus facilitating discursive change. This is about using the hybrid relationship between matter and discourse in new, manifold ways, in order to resist both biopower and other disciplinary strategies. Moreover, as stated above, the surplus, whether symbolic or material, is entangled in relations of power and resistance. According to Ricoeur, for instance, a symbol often contains more meaning than the literal meaning, leaving us with a surplus of meaning. Furthermore, binary constructs are often challenged by a third element that does not ‘fit’ this opposition (for example, ‘lumpenproletariatet’, and so on) (Žižek 2000: 132). This too constitutes a surplus, created in the tension between different attempts of meaning making. Finally, the concept of ‘surplus’ can be used to illustrate the existence of non-symbolised remains of the real that exist outside what we experience as the ‘real’. When different surpluses are created, the tension between different discourses and matter might become a locus of social change. Here we must explore resistance in relation to different representations and in terms of how it interacts with both meaning and matter. How are different ‘gaps’ entangled in relations of power and resistance? Overall, to understand resistance we must continue to discuss the workings of representations in relation to the ‘real’. Concluding from the above, the interviews show that there is a general leakiness, overlie or ambivalence between different performances of resistance. In the end, the assumption is that resistance is always multiple, ‘messy’, sliding, overlapping or contradictory. Furthermore, resistance and power mostly exist together and different practices of resistance undermine power as well as strengthen it. Or in other words, resistance profits from power, providing the very

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base for resisting strategies, while simultaneously strengthening and challenging power. For example, emphasising an image of a unique, superior, female political actor, who gained her ability from domestic experiences, might strengthen the stereotypical divide between the sexes that the hierarchy rests upon. However, it might also upgrade the female image, by negotiating the female image, challenging the hierarchies, and constructing alternatives to the existing female stereotype. The double effect of many resistance strategies may be due to the fact that they sometimes constitute resistance by mere chance. This is because many ‘strategies’ of resistance seem to be about ‘accidental’ resistance – they are just by-products and unintended spin-off effects of different ways of acting. In many cases, the practices of the respondents seem to be mere adjustments connected with performing in order to survive in a male environment. However, these actions appear to have unintended effects of resistance. For example, the victims of the ECCC, who have accepted the discourses advanced by local NGOs (supported by international organisations) and who, in some senses, negotiate or fragmentise the official story of the ECCC, may not have considered themselves as subjects of resistance. Being unaware of the biopolitical strategies played out in the ECCC, they suddenly found themselves in the position of ‘resisters’. In this work, the concept of resistance is thus used in a broad sense, including all practices that might have an emancipatory effect when considering the definition of power.

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Index

ADHOC (Cambodian Human Rights and Development Association) 62 ‘agential realism’ 18 Ahmed, Sara 18 Alexander, Jeffrey 55, 56 Angkar 57, 60, 72 apologies, political 84 arranged marriages 59–60, 61–2, 65 see also forced marriages Baaz, Mikael 5, 10, 55–67, 69–79 Barad, Karen 18 bauk see gang rape Bhaba, Homi 21, 22 binary constructs 25, 115, 117 biopolitics 5, 15, 21 of bearing witness 70–71 of Cambodian reconstruction 71–4 and the ECCC 69–70, 74–9 biopower 2, 3, 13, 14, 22, 24, 123, 124 and medicalisation 77–8 see also biopolitics body, the: as a means of resistance 109, 119 women’s 17, 21–2 Braidotti, R. 17 Brickell, Katherine 29, 45 Broderick, Douglas 6 Butler, Judith 17, 22, 25, 51, 101–2 Butz, David 2 Cambodia: biopolitics of reconstruction 71–4 and globalisation 95–7, 100, 102 history of 57–9 political system 83, 85, 89–90, 93–4 Cambodian Defenders Project (CDP) 62 Cambodian Human Rights and Development Association (ADHOC) 62

Cambodian League for the Promotion and Defense of Human Rights (LICADHO) 10, 42, 43–4, 52, 53 Cambodian Men’s Network (CMN) 10, 42, 43, 44, 50, 51 Cambodian People’s Party (CPP) 9, 58, 64, 66, 73, 74, 97 Cambodian Women’s Crisis Centre (CWCC) 10, 33, 42–3, 44, 51, 53 capitalism, and Cambodia 96, 97 ‘carrier groups’ 56, 63 Caswell, Michelle 75 Cbpap Srei 29–30, 31, 34–5, 43–4 CDP (Cambodian Defenders Project) 62 Centre for Social Development (CSD) 10, 44 Chan, S. 31 Chandler, David 71, 73, 74 Choeung Ek Genocidal Center 72 Ciorciari, John D. 64 CMN (Cambodian Men’s Network) 10, 42, 43, 44, 50, 51 Committee on Elimination of Discrimination against Women 35 concretism 7, 103–7, 111, 125–6 Connell, Raewyn 27, 46, 52 CPP (Cambodian People’s Party) 9, 58, 64, 66, 73, 74, 97 crimes against humanity see forced marriage; genocide CSD (Centre for Social Development) 10, 44 culture 15 and globalisation 95–6 CWCC (Cambodian Women’s Crisis Centre) 10, 33, 42–3, 44, 51, 53 Danielsen, Anne 114, 121 ‘Day of Anger’ 73 Dean, Mitchell 14–15

146

Resisting Gendered Norms

deconstruction 49–50, 51, 54 DED (German Development Service) 62 Deleuze, Gilles 114 democracy: in Cambodia 58 and memory 84–5 Democratic Kampuchea (DK) 57, 71 ‘demonstration’ 7 Derks, Annuska 1, 31 Derrida, J. 17 development assistance 96 Dicklitch, S. 75 disappearance 5, 71, 78, 124 disciplinary power 2, 3, 13–14, 22, 23–4, 93, 100, 123 discourse 2–3, 76 of development 100 and emancipatory change 22–4 power and materiality 17–19 power and representation 15–17 production and meaning of 115–16 woven 99 DK (Democratic Kampuchea) 57, 71 documentation 75–6 domestic violence 4, 10, 32–3 see also GBV Douglas, Mary 106–7 Duch (Kaing Guek Eav/Kang Khev Iev) 5, 75–6 ECCC (Extraordinary Court of the Chambers of Cambodia) 3, 8, 10, 59, 74 and forced marriages 56–7, 61–6, 69, 74–8, 123–4, 125, 127 Edkins, Jenny 55, 56, 66, 75, 84–5, 88, 90, 115, 116, 117 employment, of women 31 ethnic minorities 20 everyday resistance 1, 2, 8, 20, 24 ‘evidence’ 7 exclusion 116 Extraordinary Court of the Chambers of Cambodia see ECCC family-oriented politics 90–91 famine 115, 116

feminist theory: linguistic turn in 7, 17–18, 19, 113, 114, 121–2 and surplus 117 and time 83 Folkenkien 110 forced marriages 5, 55, 60–61 and ECCC (Extraordinary Court of the Chambers of Cambodia) 56–7, 61–6, 69, 74–9, 123–4, 126, 127 see also arranged marriages Foucault, M. 1–2, 3, 9, 13, 14, 19, 21, 24, 25, 49, 76, 78, 101–2, 115–16, 124 Frieson, Kate 31, 35, 90 FUNCINPEC (Front Uni National pour un Cambodge Indépendant Neutre Pacifique et Coopératif) 9, 97 GAD (Gender and Development) 10, 34, 42, 43, 44, 45, 47, 49, 51, 53 gang rape 4, 34 see also GBV garment industry 97 GBV (gender-based violence) 1–2, 4–5, 32–5, 89 and the ECCC 3, 5, 62–3, 64, 65, 66–7, 74–8, 123–4, 125, 127 interview methodology 8, 10 and medicalisation 77–8 NGOs’ interpretations of 42–4 punishability of 50 resistance strategies against 41–2, 44–54 gender: images of in Cambodia 29–32 and materiality 3 and nationalism 64–5, 87–9 and politics 4, 5–6, 118–19 Gender and Development (GAD) 10, 34, 42, 43, 44, 45, 47, 49, 51, 53 gender studies, linguistic turn in 7, 17–18, 19 gender-based violence see GBV genocide, memorials of 71–4 German Development Service (DED) 62 globalisation 4, 6–7, 19, 26–7, 98, 125, 126 and Cambodia 95–7, 100, 102

Index

147

Hall, S. 15, 16, 25, 26, 107 Haugaard, Mark 13 Hekman, Susan 18 Heng Samrin 57 hierarchies, and resistance to GBV 50–53 hierarchisation 23 housework, men’s attitudes towards 45, 49 Hoy, David Couzens 19 Hughes, Caroline 85 human remains, preservation of 72 human rights 58, 84 Hun Sen 57, 58, 64, 66, 72, 73, 74 hybrid democracy 85 hybridity 21, 22, 23, 46, 51, 99

leadership: and gender 104–5 and men 89–90 village leaders 9, 86, 94 and women 85–7 see also women, and politics Ledgerwood, Judy 30, 31, 72 legitimacy, political 83, 92, 100 liberal democracy 58, 85 liberalism 15 LICADHO (Cambodian League for the Promotion and Defense of Human Rights) 10, 42, 43–4, 52, 53 linguistic turn, in feminist theory 7, 17–18, 19, 113, 114, 121–2

identities 123, 124 and gender 46–7, 54 and globalisation 96 and resistance 25–7 identity-based politics 25–6 Ieng Sary 58, 71, 72 In-depth study on all forms of violence against women (UN) 41 indigenous resistance 21–2 ‘induced amnesia’ policy 73 International Criminal Tribunal for Yugoslavia (ICTY) 5 interpreters, in research 11 interview methodology 8–11

McGrew, L. 31 Mai Lam 72 Malik, A. 75 Martin, J. 49 masculinity: and GBV 5, 32 hegemonic 46, 52, 54 and politics 36–7 and resistance 27 and role models 51–3 violent 8, 27, 41, 42, 43, 49, 54, 89, 125 masochism 101–2 material turn 17–18 materiality 3, 113, 117–18, 122, 123 discourse and power 17–19 meaning 15–16 medicalisation 5, 70–71, 77–8, 124 memory 4, 6, 83, 88, 93, 123–5 biopolitics of 69–71 and Cambodian reconstruction 71–4 and democracy 84–5 and the ECCC (Extraordinary Court of the Chambers of Cambodia) 56–7, 61–6, 69, 74–9 and identity 48 and ‘real Cambodians’ 91–2 of traumatic events 55, 56–7, 63, 66–7 men: gender roles in Cambodia 30 identities 46, 47–8, 54

Johnson, Mark 109 Kaing Guek Eav (Duch) 5 Kang Khev Iev (Duch) 75–6 KR (Khmer Rouge) 5, 29, 32–3, 57, 58, 92, 93, 124 memorials of genocide 71–4 labour movement 97 Lacan, J. 116 Laclau, E. 15–16, 26, 45 Lang, James 48 language, and witnesses 76–7 Latour, Bruno 18 laundry, men’s attitudes towards 45, 49 law, and power 15

148

Resisting Gendered Norms

and leadership 89–90 and power 97 protecting role of 88, 89–90 and resistance to GBV 4–5, 41, 42–3, 44–54 and role models 51–3 see also masculinity Mendieta, Eduardo 26 Men’s Action for Stopping Violence against Women (MASVAW), India 51 methodology 8–11 migration 31, 34, 96 Ministry of Women’s Affairs 89 Misztal, Barbara 85 Mitchell, T. 2 Mouffe, C. 15–16 mythologisation 5, 70, 76, 78, 124

and women 4, 5–6, 8, 9–10, 35–7, 85–7, 90–91, 96–7, 98, 100–109, 110, 111, 118–21, 125–7 post-colonial theory 1, 20, 22–3 post-traumatic stress syndrome 71 poststructuralism 17, 19, 20, 22, 103 power: differing types of 13–15 discourse and representation 15–17 and emancipatory change 22–4 materiality and discourse 17–19 political 83–4 and resistance 2, 8, 19–22 ‘preferred meanings’ 101 PRK (People’s Republic of Kampuchea) 57, 72, 73 psychological treatment 77 punishments, and rewards 23–4

Nam Man 76 naming 115–16 narratives 76 National Assembly 6, 35, 118, 119 nationalism, and gender 64–5, 87–9 nature 18 NGOs: and GBV 8, 10 and women’s political legitimacy 95, 100–102 normality, reconstruction of 93–4

rape 4, 10, 34, 55 see also GBV ‘real Cambodians’ 27, 83–4, 91–3, 124 ‘refusal of becoming’ 1–2, 101–2 repetition 105–6, 120–21, 126 representations 4, 123 changing 113, 120–21, 122 concrete 103–7, 111 discourse and power 15–17 meaning of different 107–9 and power 7 and the surplus 113, 114–20, 122 visual 103 resistance 1, 24, 114, 123–7 and deconstruction 49–50, 51, 54 and the ECCC (Extraordinary Court of the Chambers of Cambodia) 56–7, 61–6, 69, 74–9 and emancipatory change 22–4 and identities 25–7 and power 2, 8, 19–22 and women politicians 104–7, 109, 110, 111, 119, 120–21 returnees 92, 96–7 ‘reversed discourse’ 21–2 rewards, and punishments 23–4 rhythm 114, 121 Ricoeur, P. 114–15, 116–17, 126 Roeun, Aing Sok 31

Őjendal, J. 96 Ovesen, J. 96 particularism 26, 42, 45–9, 53–4 patron-client relations 93–4 People’s Republic of Kampuchea (PKK) 57, 72, 73 performativity 17, 18 Pok, Nanda 35 Pol Pot 57, 58, 71, 72 see also KR politics: family-oriented 90–91 and gender 118–19 identity-based 25–6 patron-client relations 93–4 political legitimacy 83, 92, 100

Index role models, men as 51–3 Royal Government of Cambodia 5, 74 Sam Raisy Party (SRP) 9, 87, 104–5 Santry, Petre 30–31 Sawicki, Jana 49 Scholte, Jan Aart 95 Scott, James 1, 2, 8 security issues 86–7 sex workers: violence against 4, 33–4 see also GBV sexuality: female 1, 34 male 33–4 ‘Western’ image of 47 Sida 32 signification 114–15, 116–17 Sihanouk, Norodom 88 Sihanouk, Norodom Monineath 88–9 sovereign power 3, 13, 14–15, 23, 74, 123 space 83 Special Court for Sierra Leone (SCSL) 5 Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty 2n1, 49 SRP (Sam Raisy Party) 9, 87, 104–5 stereotypes 14 of Cambodian women 29–32 and gender 1, 48 Stern, Maria 88 subalterns 2, 8, 21 and identity-based politics 25–6 subjectivity 2 submission 25 surplus 7, 19, 113, 114–20, 122, 126 Tal, Kali 70, 75, 76, 78 technology, women’s mastery of 6–7, 26–7, 97–8, 99 time 4, 6, 83–4, 123 and image of women as national objects 87–9 and reconstructing normality 93–4 tourism, and indigenous women’s bodies 22 trafficking 4, 10 see also GBV Trankell, I. 96

149

Transcultural Psychosocial Organisation (TPO) 77 trauma: denial of 75 and memory 55, 56–7, 64, 66–7 Tuol Sleng Prison/Genocide Museum 72, 75–6, 92 Tyner, James A. 57 UNESCAP 51 United Nations 5, 74 In-depth study on all forms of violence against women 41 Transitional Authority in Cambodia (UNTAC) 58 universalism 26, 42, 45–9, 53–4, 110, 111, 125 Victim Support Service (VSS) 77 village leaders 9, 86, 94 visual representations 103 von Borgstede, Chris 51 Witness and Expert Support Unit (WESU) 77 witnesses: biopolitics of bearing witness 70–71 and the ECCC 74–9 women: gender roles 1, 8, 29–32 and globalisation 99 hybridity 99 image of as national objects 87–9 indigenous 21–2 mastery of technology 6–7, 26–7, 97–8, 99 naming of 116 and NGOs 100–102 as other 20 and politics 4, 5–6, 8, 9–10, 35–7, 85–7, 96–7, 98, 100–2, 108–9, 110, 111, 118–21 concrete representations of 103–7, 125–7 family-oriented politics 90–91 and resistance to GBV 52–3 returnees to Cambodia 27 and surplus 117–18

150

Resisting Gendered Norms

survival of KR period 58–9 Women in Development (WID) 53 Women for Prosperity 35 Women’s Media Centre (WMC) 85 Woodward, Kathryn 96

woven discourses 99 WRO (Women’s Rights Office) 10, 42, 43–4 Žižek, Slavoj 115, 116, 117, 126

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