Organizing at the Margins: Theorizing Organizations of Struggle in the Global South 3031229924, 9783031229923

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NEW PERSPECTIVES IN ORGANIZATIONAL COMMUNICATION

Organizing at the Margins Theorizing Organizations of Struggle in the Global South Edited by Mahuya Pal Joëlle Cruz Debashish Munshi

New Perspectives in Organizational Communication

Series Editors Milton Mayfield, Texas A&M International University, Laredo, TX, USA Jacqueline Mayfield, Texas A&M International University, Laredo, TX, USA

This series will examine current, emerging, and cutting edge approaches to organizational communication. Throughout this series, authors will present new ideas in – and methods for – conducting organizational communication research. The series will present a variety of topics, giving readers an in-depth understanding of the organizational communication field to develop the skills necessary to engage in field research.

Mahuya Pal · Joëlle Cruz · Debashish Munshi Editors

Organizing at the Margins Theorizing Organizations of Struggle in the Global South

Editors Mahuya Pal University of South Florida Tampa, FL, USA

Joëlle Cruz University of Colorado Boulder, USA

Debashish Munshi University of Waikato Hamilton, New Zealand

ISSN 2730-5333 ISSN 2730-5341 (electronic) New Perspectives in Organizational Communication ISBN 978-3-031-22992-3 ISBN 978-3-031-22993-0 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22993-0 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Acknowledgements

The Editors have drawn inspiration from the contributors’ powerful expressions of resistance and hope in this volume on organizing at the margins. We thank each one of them. We also thank the huge number of scholars, activists, and others in the Global South, some cited and many uncited, to pull together a collective effort to theorize alternative approaches to organizing. In particular, we are grateful to several colleagues, too many to name, who provided insights that shaped our arguments, commented constructively on drafts of chapters, and quite simply engaged us in conversations around organizations and organizing. We acknowledge the support of our respective home institutions— University of South Florida at Tampa, USA; University of Colorado at Boulder, USA, and the University of Waikato at Hamilton, New Zealand. We are grateful to Sarah Marshall, a graduate student at University of South Florida, for assisting us in finalizing the manuscript. Finally, we thank Palgrave Macmillan for shepherding the volume right through the early conceptual stages, the reviews, the copyediting, and the various stages of production. We acknowledge especially, the support of Marcus Ballenger and Supraja Yegnaraman.

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Praise for Organizing at the Margins

“Organizing at the Margins: Theorizing Organizations of Struggle in the Global South is a revolutionary book that disrupts the dominance of Eurocentric epistemology by demonstrating the power and value of alternative modes of organizing in the Global South. It is a must read for those who want to move beyond calls for decolonization to realizing the otherwise.” —Stella Nkomo, University of Pretoria, South Africa “The global insights and interventions in this groundbreaking collection contribute to both the knowledge and practices that circulate across political economies and the felt-sensing affects of contested borders, social democracy, distributions of labor, race futures, and international progressive action. The essays are profoundly aspirational and a testament to the beautiful hard-won labor of deep thinking and commitment to intellectual theory and communions of praxis. Read on and experience the purpose and joy across these pages.” —D. Soyini Madison, Professor Emeritus, Northwestern University, Acts of Activism: Human Rights as Radical Performance (Cambridge UP), USA

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Contents

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Organizing Away from the Gaze: Local Knowledges, New Futures Mahuya Pal, Joëlle Cruz, and Debashish Munshi

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Part I Decolonizing Dominant Epistemologies 2

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Decolonizing Knowledge: Cultural Aspirations, Political Self-Determination, and Social Rights in Knowledge Making Linda Tuhiwai Smith and Debashish Munshi For Another Democratic Language: Feminist Action in Latin America and the Reconstruction of the Political Lara Martim Rodrigues Selis and Natalia Maria Felix de Souza

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Hybrid Collective Action Silvio Waisbord

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Alternative Economic Discourses from the Margins: Kenyan Migrant Women’s Informal Childcare Organizing as an Alternative Economic Discourse in the Contemporary U.S. Context Nancy Maingi Ngwu

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Bound(less): Re-storying Entrepreneurship Chigozirim Utah Sodeke

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Part II Dismantling Borders 7

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Reflexivity and Solidarity in Culture-Centered Research with Marginalized Populations Jaime Robb

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The Imagined Freedom: Borders and Exile in the Global South Abdalhadi Alijla

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Border Struggle: Invisible [Hi]story of the Other in Management/Organization Studies J. Miguel Imas

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Part III Deconstructing Structures 10

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Culture-Centered Organizing at the “Margins of the Margins”: Dismantling Structures, Decolonizing Futures Mohan J. Dutta Emotional Communities in the Economy of Emotions: A Study of Discursive Muscularity in Networked Mobilization of Fan Groups in China Zhuo Ban

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Black Lives Matter as Postcolonial Organizing Angela N. Gist-Mackey and Hannah Oliha-Donaldson

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Producing and (Re) Producing? An Ethnographic Narrative of Female Estate and Apparel Workers of Sri Lanka Prajna Seneviratne

Index

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Notes on Contributors

Abdalhadi Alijla is the recipient of the 2021 International Political Science Association Global South Award. He is a co-founder of Palestine Young Academy in 2020. He is an Associate Researcher and the Regional Manager of Varieties of Democracy Institute (Gothenburg University) for Gulf countries. He is a postdoctoral fellow at the Orient Institute in Beirut (OIB). Since 2021, he is an associate fellow within SEPAD, sectarianism, proxies, and de-sectorization at Lancaster University. Abdalhadi has a Ph.D. in political studies from the State University of Milan and an M.A. degree in Public Policy and Governance from Zeppelin UniversityFriedrichshafen, Germany. Zhuo Ban is an Associate Professor in the School of Communication, Film, & Media Studies at University of Cincinnati. Her research takes a global, critical perspective to contemporary issues in Organizational Communication and Public Relations, such as globalized supply chains, offshore labor politics, and corporate social responsibility discourses. Her work has been published in international peer-reviewed journals including Organization, Management Communication Quarterly, Journal of Applied Communication Research, Public Relations Inquiry, and Journal of International and Intercultural Communication. Joëlle Cruz is Associate Professor in the Department of Communication at the University of Colorado Boulder, USA. Her research focuses

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on intersections of alternative organizing (e.g., grassroots, communitybased organizing, and social movements) and culture. A postcolonial and decolonial feminist scholar, Joëlle is interested in rethinking and expanding what constitutes the “margins” in organizational communication. Natalia Maria Felix de Souza is Assistant Professor of International Relations at the Pontifical Catholic University of São Paulo. She is the coordinator of Tibira—Center for International Studies on Gender and Sexuality at PUC-SP. She is currently a co-editor-in-chief of the International Feminist Journal of Politics (IFJP) for the period 2022–2025. Natália holds a Ph.D. in International Relations from the Pontifical Catholic University of Rio de Janeiro. Her research focuses mainly on critical approaches to subjectivity and subject formation, including feminist, post-structural, postcolonial, and decolonial theories; studies on gender violence and feminist resistance in Latin America; and the agenda on decolonizing knowledge production in international relations theory. Mohan J. Dutta is Dean’s Chair Professor of Communication. He is the Director of the Center for Culture-Centered Approach to Research and Evaluation (CARE), developing culturally centered, community-based projects of social change, advocacy, and activism that articulate health as a human right. Mohan Dutta’s research examines the role of advocacy and activism in challenging marginalizing structures, the relationship between poverty and health, political economy of global health policies, the mobilization of cultural tropes for the justification of neo-colonial health development projects, and the ways in which participatory culturecentered processes and strategies of radical democracy serve as axes of global social change. Angela N. Gist-Mackey Ph.D., (she/her(s)) is an Associate Professor of Organizational Communication at the University of Kansas. She is an interpretive critical scholar who researches issues of social mobility and power in organizing. Her program of research explores topics related to social class, stigmatized social identities, and social inequity. Much of Dr. Gist-Mackey’s research is community-engaged scholarship partnering with local non-profit organizations serving marginalized communities, in

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order to improve their services. Her scholarship is published in Organization Studies, Communication Monographs, Journal of Applied Communication Research, Management Communication Quarterly, and Departures in Critical Qualitative Research, among other outlets. J. Miguel Imas is a Senior Lecturer of organizational-social psychology and Director of the Kingston i-lab at the Faculty of Business and Social Science, Kingston University. He has lead research in communities and organizations in Africa and Latina America, focusing on creativity, and entrepreneurial and social innovative practices. His work has been published in prestigious journals like Organization Studies, Gender Work & Organization, and Organization. Nancy Maingi Ngwu is a doctoral student in the Department of Communication at the University of Colorado Boulder. Her research generally engages how African women communicatively organize to manage, resist, and remake oppressive structures. She specializes in qualitative methodologies and her research has appeared in Review of Communication and Kaleidoscope: A Graduate journal of Qualitative Research. Her published research on African feminist organizational communication historiography was awarded the 2022 Outstanding Article Award by the NCA organizational communication division. Her professional background includes an M.A. in Communication Studies and BAs in Political Science and Communication Studies from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. Debashish Munshi is Professor of Management Communication at the University of Waikato, Aotearoa New Zealand. His research interests lie at the intersections of critical communication studies, alternative organizing, diversity, sustainability, social change, and citizenship. Aside from numerous articles in leading peer-reviewed journals, he has authored/edited six books, including most recently Public Relations and Sustainable Citizenship: Representing the Unrepresented (Routledge, 2021), Climate Futures: Reimagining Global Climate Justice (Zed Books/Bloomsbury, 2019), Feminist Futures: Re-imagining Women, Culture, and Development (Zed Books/Bloomsbury, 2016), Handbook of Communication Ethics (Routledge, 2011), On the Edges of Development: Cultural Interventions, (Routledge, 2009), and Reconfiguring Public Relations: Ecology, Equity, and Enterprise (Routledge, 2007).

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Hannah Oliha-Donaldson Ph.D., is the Dean of Arts and Letters at Anoka Ramsey Community College with oversight over a number of academic units including Communication, English, Music, and Philosophy. Prior to this role, she was a teaching professor at the University of Kansas teaching both intercultural and organizational communication courses. She publishes in the area of critical intercultural communication, diversity, and higher education. She is particularly interested in how campuses foster inclusion and equity by harnessing culturally responsive pedagogy and practices centering inclusive excellence. Her work has been published in the Howard Journal of Communications and Women Gender, and Families of Color. Mahuya Pal is Associate Professor in the Department of Communication at the University of South Florida, USA. Her critical organizational communication research explores decolonial politics anchored in organizing of resistance by underprivileged communities against institutional power. She contextualizes her research within the twenty-firstcentury concerns about unbridled growth of transnational corporations. Her scholarship is published in Communication Theory, Communication Monographs, Management Communication Quarterly, and Journal of International and Intercultural Communication, among others. Jaime Robb Ph.D., is an Assistant Professor in the Diederich College of Communication at Marquette University. My research explores inequalities in contemporary society at the intersection of health, rhetoric, and communication surrounding marginalized populations. I use qualitative research methods to examine how the day-to-day health experiences of marginalized populations are impacted by macro-level social forces, such as health policy, economic inequality, and racism. I focus, in particular, on advancing health communication and rhetorical scholarship that engages critically with the experiences of those individuals living at the margins of dominant systems of power. By aiming to be reflexive in my approach to qualitative engagements, my work aims to illuminate the role of communication and media representation in facilitating and reinforcing systems of power that work against marginalized populations. Lara Martim Rodrigues Selis is Professor of the undergraduate and graduate programs of the Institute of Economics and International Relations of UFU, Brazil. She holds a Ph.D. from IRI PUC-Rio, in which she focused on theories of resistance in dialogue with psychoanalysis

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and philosophy. Her work is also engaged with critical approaches to agency, power, and representation, mainly from postcolonial and feminist perspectives and with empirical interest in Latin America. Lara coordinates the Research Group on Gender and IR of UFU, she is Digital Media Editor of the International Feminist Journal of Politics (IFJP) and is one of the founders of MulheRIs. Prajna Seneviratne is a Senior Lecturer in Organization Studies, the Open University of Sri Lanka. She has Ph.D. from the University of Leicester, UK and has over twenty-five years of teaching and research experience. Her research interests are women’s (re) productive labor, Marxist and Post Colonial Feminist Analysis, and Feminist Research Methodologies. Linda Tuhiwai Smith (Ng¯ati Awa, Ng¯ati Porou) is a Distinguished Professor at Te Whare Wananga o Awanuiarangi in Aotearoa New Zealand. An internationally acclaimed Indigenous scholar, Professor Smith is well-known for her seminal book Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples (Zed Books, 1999, 2012, 2021), which critiques Western research methods as instruments of colonization and shows the world of scholarship new socially just ways of doing research based on Indigenous knowledge. She has also written/edited several other influential books, including The Routledge Handbook of Critical Indigenous Studies (Routledge, 2022), Handbook of Indigenous Education (Springer, 2019), Decolonizing Research: Indigenous Storywork as Methodology (Bloomsbury, 2019), and the Handbook of Critical and Indigenous Methodologies (Sage, 2008). Chigozirim Utah Sodeke is an organizational communication scholar and Associate Professor in the School of Communication and Journalism at Eastern Illinois University. She studies how people dialogue and organize across difference, marginal organizing practices, and learner-centered pedagogies. Silvio Waisbord is Director and Professor at the School of Media and Public Affairs at George Washington University, USA. He is the author and editor of eighteen books and articles on journalism, politics, media, and communication for social change. His latest books are El Imperio de la Utopia: Mitos y Realidades de la Sociedad Nortemaericana (Peninsula/Planeta 2020) and The Routledge Companion to Media, Disinformation and Populism (co-edited with Howard Tumber 2021). He served

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as editor-in-chief of the Journal of Communication and the International Journal of Press/Politics. He was elected President of the International Communication Association, of which he is a Fellow. He holds a Ph.D. in sociology from the University of California, San Diego and an undergraduate degree in sociology from the University of Buenos Aires.

CHAPTER 1

Organizing Away from the Gaze: Local Knowledges, New Futures Mahuya Pal, Joëlle Cruz, and Debashish Munshi

The relentless spread of COVID-19 throughout the world has laid bare the gross “inequalities that are written into the neoliberal organizing of political economy” (Dutta et al., 2020, p. 1). Such inequalities were especially exacerbated in the Global South—the poorer, once-colonized, and marginalized areas of the Third World as well as the gendered, racialized,

M. Pal (B) Department of Communication, University of South Florida, Tampa, FL, USA e-mail: [email protected] J. Cruz Department of Communication, University of Colorado, Boulder, CO, USA e-mail: [email protected] D. Munshi Waikato Management School, University of Waikato, Hamilton, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Pal et al. (eds.), Organizing at the Margins, New Perspectives in Organizational Communication, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22993-0_1

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and classed margins of oppression within the so-called First World. As Zanoni and Mir (2022) point out, While the world was losing jobs and lives, the global stock market was outperforming itself: between March 20, 2020 and January 1, 2022, the S&P 500 went up 100%. Markets produced incalculable rewards for those at the top rung of the ladder, with Elon Musk’s net worth now greater than the GDP of Greece, and if Jeff Bezos were a country, he would be the 50th richest nation in the world. These illustrations indicate that whatever economic pain further accrued on account of the pandemic, it was pushed down to the lower rungs of the non-investing class and to the state finances. (p. 371)

It is in resistance to such monstrous inequities exposed by the pandemic that many at the margins of the market-driven, capitalist world order have been leading efforts to challenge the organizational structures of what Dutta et al. (2020) call “neoliberal governmentality” through alternative forms of organizing (Parker et al., 2014). Scholarly accounts of alternative organizing during the outbreak of COVID-19 range from Dutta et al.’s (2020) accounts of community health organizing based on socialist principles in the state of Kerala in India and the exercising of sovereignty over tribal land to set up checkpoints in a part of the Eastern Bay of Plenty in Aotearoa New Zealand to protect vulnerable sections of the population from the pandemic to Zulfiqar’s (2022) depiction of the extraordinary solidarity of poor homeworkers in Pakistan who rallied around to share food, money, and face masks in “agentic acts of survival” (p. 504). Indeed, one of the ways of dismantling the hegemony of powerful global capitalist networks in healthcare is, as Paiva and Miguel (2022) say in their research on the inequities in vaccine distribution in Brazil, is for “actors from the South” to create their own value chains to increase “innovation, production capacity and distribution in low- and middle-income countries, thereby expediting their recovery” (p. 421). It was in the midst of the pandemic and against the backdrop of the struggles of communities at the margins that three of us decided to bring together voices of resistance to explore what it meant to organize at the margins and theorize organizations of struggle in the Global South. The consequences of the pandemic are only symptoms of a larger malaise. We are at a time when organizational accumulation due to specific capitalistic practices has widened social, cultural, and economic disparities across

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the world, bringing in death, destruction and dispossession. The primary victims of this unfolding saga of conflict and violence that started long before the outbreak of COVID-19 are, of course, vulnerable communities in the Global South whose suffering and expulsion have become instrumental to sustaining imperial legacy and neoliberal profiteering. And it is the sheer desperation of the disenfranchized people in the Global South that has sparked widespread resistance movements—often against their own governments, multinational corporations, and international institutions—demanding their sovereignty, rights, and dignity. Comprising multiple forces and objectives, these resistances challenge the colonizing logic of unbridled capitalist interest that have trampled upon basic human rights of people, especially at the margins of the spheres of power.

Situating Ourselves None of us had worked on a project together before but we were drawn to each other’s research endeavors and it was clear to us that although we worked separately, the principal keywords of “Global South”, “Margins”, and “Organizing Resistance” crisscrossed our alternative conceptualizations of organizing and communicating, away from the gaze of mainstream (read Western) scholarship on organizations and communication. Mahuya (with Mohan Dutta) recently co-edited a special issue of Communication Theory in which they curate on-the-ground research from far-flung spaces to explore theorizing from the Global South to recognize “the agentic capacities of peoples, communities, societies that have been and continue to be projected as lacking, backward, and without agency in colonial formations of knowledge production” (Dutta & Pal, 2020, p. 349). The term “Global South”, they note, is “a space constituted geographically and communicatively amidst inequalities in the distribution of power” with “its discursive registers finding continuity from the anticolonial liberation movements and the resistive articulations of decolonizing theory emergent from the 1950s to 1970s” (Dutta & Pal, 2020, pp. 366–367). Joëlle (with Chigorizim Sodeke) extends the idea of agentic capacities by talking about how organizational actors in locations of the South such as Nigeria and Liberia disrupt the grand narratives of organizational communication through decolonizing processes of organization (Cruz & Sodeke, 2021, p. 529). They “conceptualize marginal organizing as moving and shapeshifting in postcolonial landscapes” (Cruz & Sodeke, 2021, p. 529). Debashish (with Priya Kurian)

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focuses on formulating a radical vision of public relations as networks of action to represent the unrepresented through acts of resistance against dominant elite publics responsible for a world defined by exploitation, overconsumption, and sectarianism (Munshi & Kurian, 2021). It is in reading and re-reading each other’s work that brought us together to pay closer attention to organizing in the Global South. We acknowledge that all three of us are based in institutions in the Global North but we are actively involved with the struggles in the South through our fieldwork as well as allegiances to networks of resistance. The Global South, constituted amidst asymmetrical relations of power among nations, is symbolic of a space where colonial modes of development continue to be carried out rendering communities of the Global South killable in many ways—displacement from and dispossession of their land; loss of livelihood; environmental degradation; war zones; exportprocessing zones; police-military violence; poor working conditions—all for servicing networks of capital and sustaining imperial hegemony. Importantly, the Global South is also continuously being produced within the Global North and this is exemplified in Indigenous struggles for land and resources, the refugee crisis, and precarity of migrant workers, among other issues (Dutta & Pal, 2020). Inspired by work of Boaventura De Sousa Santos, Arturo Escobar, and Walter Mignolo, among others, we believe that the legacy of anticolonial struggles of the Global South finds continuity and relevance in the decolonial potential of the present resistance movements in the contemporary economy.

What Can We Learn from the Spaces of Extraction in the South? With the assumption that cultural diversity and intellectual diversity are reciprocally connected (Appadurai, 1996), the theory generated from spaces of lived struggles against global capitalist machinery allow for an understanding of cultural pluralities and identities associated with those knowledges in the Global South. Our book aims to juxtapose such local particularities, embedded in native cultural codes and traditions, with universal organizing principles foregrounded on ideas of capital, Eurocentrism, scientific knowledge, heteronormativity, and patriarchy, among other phenomena. The local ecologies of communities in the Global South, considered incommensurable with the modern social order, offer knowledges anchored in organizing of resistance to the dominant

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economy and culture (Pal, 2016). The book thus recognizes organizing in the Global South as organizations of struggle to extractive capitalism and as valid epistemic spaces. The organizing centered upon local cultural traditions, embodied experiences, and social imaginaries of freedom, equity, and justice becomes a repository of knowledge—what we consider alternative epistemes rooted in emancipatory and liberatory politics. The conceptual categories constituting such alternative epistemes not only illustrate the local interplay between structure and agency but challenge the sovereignty of Western rationality and contribute to decolonial politics. Validating knowledges emerging in organizations of struggle, our book is also an attempt at democratizing knowledge building. The epistemological and empirical investigation of the different forms of organizing in the Global South are accompanied by complex methodological questions. The centrality of a language of rationality and science is the hallmark of the Eurocentric tradition of knowledge production and is pivotal to establishing the latter as the superior form of knowledge. Historically it has positioned itself as the universal epistemic framework colonizing other knowledges rooted in other rationalities. Our book documents methodological challenges, imaginations, and practices for opening up discursive spaces for marginalized voices in the zones of extraction to retrieve the meanings that are constructed by people in and within the cultural politics of their organizing. In making an ontological reference to another world as articulated by people facing the brunt of neoliberal politics and fighting for their rights and dignity, we look at three modes of organizing in the Global South: Decolonizing dominant epistemologies, dismantling borders, and deconstructing structures.

Decolonizing Dominant Epistemologies Decolonizing epistemologies involves a process of unlearning for relearning and reimagining. The process invites us to find knowledge outside of the canons, inhabit and think in the margins, and access a corpus of decolonial thinking in the organizations of struggle (Mignolo, 2012). Decolonizing epistemologies is not possible if the Eurocentric principles of knowledge making and their roles in imperial formations are not called to question. It starts with a critique of modernity/rationality/coloniality to excavate knowledge that is delinked

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from intricate mechanisms of power (Quijano, 2000). Decolonizing epistemologies challenges intellectual imperialism and offers an entry point for epistemic interventions for building a nonimperial and noncapitalist world. Challenging dominant epistemic foundations is fundamental to building a world rooted in the principle of harmony, where values of living in harmony and reciprocity are upheld over living in competition and meritocracy (Mignolo, 2012, p. 25). Our book aims to contribute to decolonizing epistemologies by bringing forth epistemologies from the margins to pay closer attention to production of knowledge in the struggles for creating alternative ways of being and doing (Escobar, 2011). Indigenous scholar Linda Tuhiwai Smith (Chapter 2) shares insights on a range of issues pertaining to decolonizing colonial epistemic foundations in a conversation with Debashish Munshi. She indicates the need for decolonizing even current M¯aori concepts of organizing as they are rooted in colonial experiences and calls for going back to a more authentic Indigenous mode of organizing. Additionally, Smith suggests that delving into intergenerational thinking is necessary for constructing a sustainable way of organizing. Lara Selis and Natalia de Souza (Chapter 3) analyze politics of resistance of feminist movements in Latin America in the twenty-first century and bring articulations of what they call “a new political grammar” from spaces of disruptive performances staged by feminized/female bodies. Also, in the context of Latin America, Silvio Waisbord (Chapter 4) engages with the hybrid character of collective action in the contexts of social movements in the region. He argues that technology increasingly complements traditional forms of organizations of social movements in Latin America, resulting in complex forms of organizing against “anti-extractivism” for the purpose of knowledge building, advocacy, and mobilization. The need for epistemic interventions in the pursuit of decoloniality is highlighted by Nancy Maingi Ngwu in Chapter 5 where she disrupts what she calls the “capitalocentric” assumptions of organizational communication scholarship by showing how people organizing on the margins of neoliberal capitalism communicatively “organize against, within, and beyond capitalism”. She draws on an utu-feminist framework to conceptualize an epistemologically different form of organizing as practiced by women from the Global South living and working in the United States. On a reflexive note, Chigozirim Utah Sodeke (Chapter 6) uses autoethnography to narrate “re-stories” of roadside workers in Lagos, Nigeria, and reveal hidden meanings of their organizational lives. Through creative ways of re-framing, she builds new knowledge on organizing from the Global South.

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Dismantling Borders Production of alternative epistemologies is intricately linked with border thinking (Anzaldua, 2007; Mignolo, 2012) to challenge and transform the hegemonic social order from the perspectives of disenfranchized communities at the margins. Hence, the project of decolonization attempts to simultaneously dismantle borders to disrupt patterns of colonial power from the margins, and invoke borders to empower those who constitute the space and suffer displacement, dispossession and even death. Drawing attention to Fanon’s concluding prayer in Black Skin White Masks (1967): “Oh my body, make of me always a man who questions!” Mignolo (2011) argues that categories of border epistemology are anchored in the body and local histories. Border thinking creates the conditions for linking border epistemology with immigrant experiences and histories (Mignolo, 2011), and consequently, reveal the mechanisms of the Empire for managing the flow of global capital across and through the borders of nation-states (Mohanty, 2006). These invisible mechanisms of the Empire rely on gendered, racial, and sexualized ideologies and mobilize nationalist xenophobia in its identification of internal and external enemies (Mohanty, 2006). Evidently, borders are integral to discourses of empire and imperialism for marking bodies as inferior, deviant, and killable in the dominant imaginary. The idea of dismantling borders interrogates suffering of communities resulting from asymmetrical relations of global power and is foregrounded in global equality and economic justice (Mignolo, 2011). Our book engages with borders in relation to impoverished experiences of disenfranchized communities in a number of contexts in the Global South. Jaime Robb (Chapter 7) examines how knowledge, power, and resistance impact undocumented immigrants’ communication around issues of health in the United States. Centered on analytics of reflexivity and solidarity, this chapter shares the life worlds of a section of undocumented communities, who are often poorly represented in or remain hidden from the mainstream discourses. Abdalhadi Alijla (Chapter 8) writes about the traumatic experiences of crossing the Gaza strip for entering and exiting occupied Palestine. In a powerful testimonio, Alijla describes in vivid detail how the Palestinian borders are controlled and policed, commercialized and securitized, playing with Palestinian people’s longings for imagined freedom. In Chapter 9, Miguel Imas documents

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the [hi]stories of management and organization studies that systematically ignore the traumas of border crossings faced by colonized people of color during the second Industrial Revolution who were dehumanized and displayed in zoos or paraded for entertainment for the sake of emphasizing Western superiority. Imas argues that these erasures are intertwined with present-day dominant management and organizational theories built on similar notions of misplaced superiority.

Deconstructing Structures Dominant structures have always been instrumental in foreclosing opportunities for engaging with subaltern voices/histories as evidenced in the sections above. Hence, deconstructing dominant structures is one of the goals of decoloniality for creating opportunities for articulation of alternative discourses that challenge oppressive mechanisms of neoliberal governance (Dutta, 2011). Structures refer to the institutions, organizations, and the general social order that enable and constrain access to material resources. Structures produce imperial formations, are responsible for unequal distribution of resources and power imbalances, and are materially experienced by marginal actors in their struggle for survival. Deconstructing structures is imperative for allowing alternative structures. Boaventura de Sousa Santos (2016) writes, “Alternatives are not lacking in the world. What is missing indeed is an alternative thinking of alternatives” (p. 20). de Sousa Santos suggests that progressive transformation of structures may occur in ways inconceivable by Western thinking, even critical Western thinking such as Marxism. Hence, deconstructing structures entails re-envisioning alternative structures based on distinct modes of being and thinking, and collectively organizing a life-reimagining relationship between humans and non-humans that is anti-imperialist and anticapitalist. A number of chapters in our book grapple with the politics of deconstructing structures. Mohan Dutta (Chapter 10) presents ideas of culture-centered organizing to theorize agentic capacities of the subaltern communities as owners of knowledge and concepts for suggesting transformative praxis. Dutta argues that the participation of those in the margins in structural transformation challenges the whiteness of colonialism and capitalism and offers the basis for sustainable democratic futures. In Chapter 12, Angela Gist-Mackey and Hannah OlihaDonaldson offer a postcolonial analysis of the Black Lives Matter (BLM)

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movement and demonstrate BLM’s resistance to white supremacist structures. They situate BLM as a new knowledge system with the potential to decolonize our minds and reorganize structures equitably. They advance postcolonial organizing as a sociomaterial struggle to dismantle antiBlack, Indigenous, & People of Color (anti-BIPOC) racism. The context shifts to China in Chapter 11, in which Zhuo Ban examines how communities at the margins in China’s fan economy work within the dominant structures to subvert the system and mobilize power. The chapter provides an understanding of the dialectical relationship between power and resistance in the realm of alternative organizing in platform societies that are increasingly reliant on digital labor of fan communities. The final chapter moves to work spaces of Sri Lanka from where Prajna Seneviratne (Chapter 13) narrates the stories of women workers in the Global South challenging the oppressive structures of gender, class, and ethnicity within which they have to work, not as mere victims but as agents of proactive struggles. Focusing on the experiences of two different kinds of workers—“tea pluckers” and “sewing girls”, she documents their struggles of attempting to combine their productive and reproductive labor roles.

Concluding Thoughts and Looking to the Future The core vision of our book is grounded in the idea that another world is possible (de Sousa Santos, 2019). The chapters in our book interrogate an intersecting matrix of power relations driven by the project of the Empire, engage with possibilities of resistance on multiple registers, and explore alternative articulations for collectively reorganizing our social and cultural principles. Our fundamental aspiration is to understand the politics of decolonization of dominant organizing principles. We present three imbricated modes of decolonizing—decolonizing epistemologies, dismantling borders, and deconstructing structures—to decolonize our minds and democratize knowledge for creating transformative openings and enabling alternative conceptual frames. Finally, we conclude by acknowledging our complex positionalities and the contested space from where we write and theorize. We recognize that we work at colonizing universities that sit on indigenous land and yet we dream of decolonizing academic practices (paperson, 2017). Following paperson, we argue that universities are an assemblage of machines and not monolithic institutions, and their workings

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can be subverted for decolonizing purposes. This dialectical frame helps us examine the neoliberal agendas of universities while nurturing decolonial desires. We hope projects of decolonization make amends for stolen land, reimagine relations between organization, nature, and polity, and advance local/indigenous/black/queer/other futures.

References Anzaldua, G. (2007). Borderlands/La Frontera: The new mestiza. Aunt Lute Books. Appadurai, A. (1996). Diversity and disciplinarity as cultural artifacts. In C. Nelson & D. Gaonkar (Eds.), Disciplinarity and dissent in cultural studies (pp. 23–36). Routledge. Cruz, J. M., & Sodeke, C. U. (2021). Debunking eurocentrism in organizational communication theory: Marginality and liquidities in postcolonial contexts. Communication Theory, 31, 521–548. de Sousa Santos, B. (2016). Epistemologies of the south. From the European south (pp. 17–29). Routledge. de Sousa Santos, B. (2019). Decolonizing the university. In Knowledges born in the struggle (pp. 219–239). Routledge. Dutta, M. J. (2011). Communication social change: Structure, culture, agency. Taylor & Francis. Dutta, M. J., Elers, C., & Jayan, P. (2020). Culture-centered processes of community organizing in COVID-19 response: Notes from Kerala and Aotearoa New Zealand. Frontiers in Communication, 5(62). https://doi.org/ 10.3389/fcomm.2020.00062 Dutta, M. J., & Pal, M. (2020). Theorizing from the Global South: Dismantling, resisting, and transforming. Communication Theory, 30, 349–369. Escobar, A. (2011). Encountering development: The making and unmaking of the third world (Vol. 1). Princeton University Press. Fanon, F. (1967). Black skin, white masks. Grove Press. Mignolo, W. D. (2011). Geopolitics of sensing and knowing: On (de)coloniality, border thinking and epistemic disobedience. Postcolonial Studies, 14(3), 273– 283. Mignolo, W. D. (2012). Local Histories/Global Designs Coloniality, Subaltern Knowledges, and Border Thinking. Princeton University Press. Mohanty, C. T. (2006). US Empire and the project of women’s studies: Stories of citizenship, complicity and dissent. Gender, Place & Culture, 13(1), 7–20. Munshi, D., & Kurian, P. (2021). Public relations and sustainable citizenship: Representing the unrepresented. Routledge.

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Paiva, E. L., & Miguel, P. L. S. (2022). Overcoming enduring inequalities in Global Value Chains? Interpreting the case of Brazil’s Covid-19 vaccine supply through a chess metaphor. Organization, 29(3), 414–425. Pal, M. (2016). Organization at the margins: Subaltern resistance of Singur. Human Relations, 69(2), 419–438. https://doi.org/10.1177/001872671 5589797 paperson, l. (2017). A third university is possible. University of Minnesota Press. Parker, M., Cheney, G., Fournier, V., & Land, C. (2014). The Routledge companion to alternative organization. Routledge. Quijano, A. (2000). Coloniality of power and Eurocentrism in Latin America. International Sociology, 15(2), 215–232. Zanoni, P., & Mir, R. (2022). COVID-19: Interrogating the capitalist organization of the economy and society through the pandemic. Organization, 29(3), 369–378. Zulfiqar, G. M. (2022). The gendered geographies of dispossession and social reproduction: Homeworkers in the Global South during the COVID-19 pandemic. Organization, 29(3), 502–518.

PART I

Decolonizing Dominant Epistemologies

CHAPTER 2

Decolonizing Knowledge: Cultural Aspirations, Political Self-Determination, and Social Rights in Knowledge Making Linda Tuhiwai Smith and Debashish Munshi

Debashish: T¯en¯a koe Linda. Thank you so much for joining me in this conversation. Let me begin by giving you a brief overview of this volume on Organizing at the Margins—Theorizing Organizations of Struggle in the Global South. As self-labeled alternative scholars, my fellow Editors and I have this radical aspiration to revolutionize and reshape organizational theory. Over the

Linda Tuhiwai Smith in conversation with Debashish Munshi. L. T. Smith Faculty of Humanities, Te Whare W¯ananga o Awanui¯arangi, Whakat¯ane, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Pal et al. (eds.), Organizing at the Margins, New Perspectives in Organizational Communication, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22993-0_2

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years, notions of what it means to organize and what constitutes an organization have been driven largely by ideologies of capitalism. They have also been overwhelmingly West and North facing, imposing colonizing conceptual frameworks on a global landscape, leading to huge disparities of power and control. We believe we can envision a more nuanced, context-specific, and justice-oriented understanding of organizing and organization by drawing inspiration from the rich bodies of knowledge from the Global South that have long been consigned to the margins by colonial and, subsequently, neo-colonial structures of domination. The Global South, of course, at one level refers to locations in Asia, Africa, Latin America, and Oceania that are outside the usual Euro-American dominant frames. But it also refers to marginalized people, especially Indigenous communities, in the so-called developed world. Resistance is central to the Global South project. And resistance involves decolonizing. Our goal is to work with allies to decolonize knowledge as a fundamental step towards organizing for a more just world. Your seminal, high-impact book Decolonizing Methodologies has been a beacon to so many of us and has guided us in our scholarly journeys. Your work has powerfully exposed the continuing colonialism in academic research and knowledge-making processes. Perhaps I’ll get this conversation rolling by asking you to outline what you see as persistent colonizing traits in organizational structures around us in general but, more specifically in the Academy, the so-called laboratories of knowledge. Over to you Linda. Linda: Kia ora Debashish. That’s a big handful. Well, colonialism is a language. It’s in the bowels of academia. It is in the way disciplines have originated and have been framed, constructed, and reproduced across the world. It’s in systems of knowledge and it’s in systems of practice, systems of research, methods and rationale. It’s also in systems of organizing knowledge—not just disciplines and domains but also in the organization of universities, faculties, and departments,

D. Munshi (B) Waikato Management School, University of Waikato, Hamilton, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected]

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especially in the way people in them interact. There’s that people component and the way that we’re trained in our fields and disciplines. Then, it’s the organizations themselves or the institutions in the way they, I guess, try and organize knowledge and organize people. Of course, we’re talking about this in a neoliberal context, but colonialism and racism, and treatment of other knowledges were as bad pre-neoliberalism too. There is this continuity of colonial practice across different paradigms of institutional organization and the way universities have been organized; because they’ve been subject to many reforms. But, they still stay the same and that’s the challenge of trying to change universities—they’re different but they’re the same. I think they’re the same not because of the actual physical structures, or the jurisdictions they’re in, but because of the power of these systems of knowledge and the power of academic language and the norms and values; and the fact that disciplines are supported by networks of publications and scientists who operate in a different kind of organization. You’ve probably got a name for it. It’s not the employing organization but it’s the way scholars organize as communities of power to monitor or manage their territories, and what counts within the system. Some disciplines are really fierce about how they define who is in, and who is out; what’s included and what’s excluded. They can reproduce that pretty much all over the world. I’m not sure if that’s an easy answer, but I just think one of the fascinating things about academia, the academy, and the university is that it’s got multiple systems nestled within it; some of which can control at a specific organizational level and at a jurisdictional level in the country. But, some of it is out of its control. Debashish: You’ve talked about what’s included and what’s excluded—that’s really fundamental to this project as well. One of the things that we see around us in scholarship is that some kinds of knowledge are deemed to be authentic and ‘real’ and others are not. Sometimes, such differentiation is conscious and at other times, it’s unconscious. Colonialism was a conscious project of subjugation. But although sometimes we think that we’ve gone past the colonial phase, we can see that nothing has really changed. Maybe conscious subjugation has moved to more subconscious

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or semiconscious kinds of subjugation. The suppression, indeed wilful subjugation, of knowledge from the Global South, especially Indigenous knowledge, has led to what we describe in the introduction to our volume as “centuries of epistemic violence.” Linda: Yes, I agree. Debashish: So, my question is: What are some of the areas of life and society in which the scars of such violence are most visible? How do these scars manifest themselves? What can we as scholars do to heal these scars? Linda: It’s an interesting metaphor you use when you talk about scars because there can be scars on the body as well as scars on the landscape. Colonialism has scarred Indigenous knowledge in both these dimensions. Our landscape is scarred and our landscape is the reference point for our knowledge; but also our bodies are scarred and our knowledge has been torn apart; it’s been subjected to direct attack, ridicule, and erasure, affecting our physical and spiritual existence. I think these scars run deep, but I also think M¯aori have had enough resistance amongst us over the years, over the decades, to be on this great journey of regenerating and revitalizing our knowledge and putting our knowledge back together again. That’s testament to our M¯aori survival strategies. M¯aori have figured out or are still figuring out how to reaffirm Indigenous knowledge in relation to Western knowledge, in relation to the academy, and in relation to what’s happening in our communities. It’s a tricky project because as I argue, and so do several of my colleagues, our m¯atauranga [traditional M¯aori knowledge] is owned by our people. It’s not owned by the Academy. But, the Academy has the resources and it has people, like genuine M¯aori researchers who are really good at this stuff; so in that sense, the Academy still has this power over knowledge and the power to frame the way m¯atauranga M¯aori has been revitalized. I find that concerning, but at the same time that’s a strategy that’s been used. It’s a type of scaffolding strategy. It’s somehow found legitimation—m¯atauranga in our policies and institutional practices. But, I think there are also risks in it. I think the biggest risk I’ve written about is the ‘academicization’ of m¯atauranga and it being projected as a kind of a science. Parts of it are a science: You can argue parts because it’s a system of knowledge. But then the risk is it becomes mapped onto

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all the different disciplines that already exist that we know are already colonial. There becomes a sociology of m¯atauranga; a psychology of m¯atauranga; an archaeology of m¯atauranga. I just think that this destroys the integrity of m¯atauranga. Debashish: It is so fascinating that you say that, because one of the things we see in Aotearoa New Zealand is how it has come a long way in acknowledging the importance of m¯atauranga, which is a positive of course. But, it still seems to be subsumed, as you’re saying, under the default setting of mainstream academia. You have sections on vision m¯atauranga that are tagged onto every project, but the question is whether it’s just a tokenism or it’s really a serious intervention. Linda: I think M¯aori are taking it seriously and they’re using the best skills they have at hand to do this work. It’s exciting work and they’re good at it. They are piecing it together and they’re writing about it. But, a living knowledge is a knowledge that people live, practice, and feel, and they’re socialized into it. So, it’s not just a knowledge that’s a head knowledge; it’s how our people in our own communities use that knowledge for their own benefit first and foremost. It’s not about making a university get more research grants, or helping someone get promoted. It’s really about who should benefit from the revitalization of M¯aori knowledge first and foremost? It should be M¯aori people; and not M¯aori people as individuals but M¯aori people as collectives. And, that’s the big disconnect. That’s the big challenge. How does flourishing knowledge and flourishing people come together, because I think for our people to flourish our knowledge must flourish. For our knowledge to flourish our people must flourish. I think this grand revitalization journey that we are on, there’s still little disconnects. Also, M¯aori people clearly want to live in the world as it is, and they want a future in that world. They’re engaged in technology and they’re engaged in all kinds of fascinating things in relation to other new knowledges and new sciences. There are multiple pressures in terms of revitalizing what was destroyed and bringing it back to life, and then trying to work with it to engage with the challenges of the future. That’s actually what excites quite a lot of M¯aori scholars. That’s the stuff that really interests them in terms of not just necessarily bringing it back together as it was once, but to bring

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it back so that we can carry it forward into the next generations. I think that is the project that most M¯aori scholars are on and they do see it as making this positive contribution to our communities. As long as we have inequity in society, inequity in education and health, economics, and things like that, then not all M¯aori will be able to benefit from that. That’s the fear I guess I expressed earlier; that it becomes an elite academic kind of exercise and its translation into the wellbeing of our communities just takes too long. I mean, that’s an ‘everything’ challenge: it’s not just the responsibility of scholars in academia. I think it’s part and parcel of M¯aori development aspirations and what’s happening in our iwi [tribes or social units in M¯aori society], and what’s happening in whanau [extended family]. It’s quite curious right now when we’re thinking about all the vaccination stuff going on with the pandemic, and there’s clear disconnect that some M¯aori have with the lack of trust in the health system, lack of trust in science, lack of trust in government. These are significant issues that have to be addressed. Debashish: Let me pick up something from what you just said. Your use of the word ‘flourish’ kind of ties in with the whole sustainability metaphor in terms of regeneration of language and regeneration of the landscape, and that is really important. Very few people, especially in the Western knowledge frame, really link the landscape to the human experience. That’s what we see in this whole discussion around climate change as well. It’s hard to disassociate the human being from the larger ecosystem, including land, that it is really a significant issue. One of the things that would be interesting to hear from you is how the decolonizing project can bring together the landscape and the human in one holistic frame. Linda: Exactly. I think firstly what we’ve had to demonstrate in analyzing colonialism is the way the whole of our world has been fragmented and separated—the people from the land, the people from each other, the people from their history, and the land from itself. It wasn’t just a devastation in terms of people but people and their lands and environments on water, on mountains, and on the philosophies that Indigenous people have held for thousands of years. Colonialism has affected the relationships of people with nature—people with the earth and people with the landscape.

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Understanding how colonialism has destroyed knowledge, values and philosophies is crucial in beginning the decolonizing project—understanding what has to be put back together again, or what has to be reclaimed and recovered. I like to use the metaphor of a smashed eggshell. If you don’t understand what the original egg looked like; you have no clues that it was oval. All you see are fragments of the smashed eggshells. Then, you try to imagine how some of those eggshells have been removed from the picture; how some of them were stolen and some of them were destroyed. How do you reconstruct anything if you have only parts of the whole? You’ve got to imagine what it might have looked like, and then you’ve got to do all these recovery projects to bring things back from museums; you’ve got to resurrect the language; you’ve got to look at all the practitioners to try and resurrect this idea of a whole, and yet the whole has got big chunks missing from it. I think that would be how I would describe a decolonizing project. It’s trying to do all these things, knowing that stuff may never be recovered. There are whole Indigenous peoples who have disappeared, who have been killed off really. Going forward, what does it mean? I think the West and the North needs what we knew and what we know. I think the future of the earth and the future of the planet needs Indigenous knowledge and needs a range of different paradigms for knowing, because basically the Northern and Western science has got us to a point where we’re in danger of collapse at one level. It’s not just a planet collapse or environmental collapse, it’s a knowledge collapse. There’s an end point to some things. Other knowledges are so important and can offer different ways for human beings to be human and to understand their humanity and their responsibility. The trick is, for different knowledges to be able to contribute, they’ve got to be able to flourish, and then we’ve got to have a system—and this is where universities become important—where you don’t just use Western knowledge to gobble up and exploit all these other knowledges, which is their traditional way. That’s why research is important. It’s not about going out and finding what Indigenous people know and then reframing it within the traditional academia; it’s actually working alongside and working with, and actually giving way to making space for these other knowledges to come through and exist equitably in the way decisions are made. They have to come to the table and they have to be treated with respect.

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Debashish: You are a strong advocate for kaupapa M¯aori research methods. Your pathbreaking work has centered the values and lived experiences of M¯aori and prioritized the needs of Indigenous people. What are the contours of kaupapa M¯aori research and what lessons can scholars in the Global South, as indeed elsewhere, learn from kaupapa M¯aori research? Linda: I think one of the critical aspects of kaupapa M¯aori has been its way of framing research and drawing on M¯aori concepts, M¯aori knowledge and M¯aori language and perspectives, so that research becomes at one level incredibly more useful. It answers the questions we actually have. It seeks to solve the problems that we believe that we have framed in the way that we believe. But, more than that, I think it has provided a space in research in which M¯aori researchers can enter into research and begin to draw down on M¯aori knowledge, in a way in which they knew it was going to be protected, but also that it was going to be able to develop. Some people talk about kaupapa M¯aori research as being by M¯aori and for M¯aori. There is certainly that sort of element, but I think that over simplifies the space that kaupapa M¯aori has created. At one level we’ve had to mark out a domain and a domain of doing research that we can stand quite firm on, and that we can begin to make choices, or researchers can begin to have greater control over the methods that they use and why they’re using them, and understand the rationale for that, and be able to create space to theorize drawing on M¯aori perspectives; and not always having to reference the North or the West. That’s necessarily our frame of reference. But, to get to me saying that, there’s been like 30 years of trying to build kaupapa M¯aori research. It’s an evolving kind of process. We talk about it as being both a theory and a methodology, because it’s also about making sense in a critical way, without experiences and without conditions. So, it’s not simply about applying cultural understandings, or cultural metaphors to what we do. That’s one component of it. I think it’s also about critiquing systems of power, critiquing inequality or equity, or whatever the dominant sort of paradigms are. It does have a critical perspective to it, and not just a way of framing methodologies in a cultural metaphor.

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I think while that’s happening and it’s good, it’s insufficient to the bigger project of kaupapa M¯aori, which is to transform our understandings of the world and to lead to better outcomes for M¯aori. Debashish: Lived experience is clearly a big part of this approach. To just go into a slightly personal realm, what are some of your own lived experiences that have shared your theorization of colonization and decolonization? Linda: I’ve traveled a lot, even as a child, so I’ve seen lots of different examples, including Indigenous communities overseas. I went to secondary school in the US and traveled to different native communities there. I’ve had that general experience. I also grew up in an extended family where they talked about the Treaty of Waitangi at the kitchen table all the time, and any changes to legislation that impacted on M¯aori; so that was always debated. I kind of understood implicitly, because my parents were teachers when I was growing up, the role that education and schooling has had on our communities, but also the challenges of trying to change that. My father is a scholar, for example, but he was once a teacher in native M¯aori schools, and he taught M¯aori language in communities that in the 1950s were already beginning to lose their language. But, here he was—he was a native speaker teaching M¯aori to M¯aori children in M¯aori communities, and those children did not speak M¯aori language. That was in the 1950s. He was also an arts educator and was interested in the arts. Eventually he helped co-curate the Te M¯aori Exhibition that went to New York. So, lots of different areas of my life have always been exposed to this kind of knowledge and the impact of colonization on us, on all aspects of our lives. Then I became a K¯ohanga Reo [M¯aori version of a kindergarten] parent. Prior to that I was an activist in Ng¯a Tamatoa, one of the key activist groups in the 1970s. As a university student, I thought I’ll change the world and I’ll become a school teacher. I went on to work in the urban schools in Auckland. I kind of understood the importance of education, but also the challenges of how to shift an education system from being fundamentally assimilationist to one that could support M¯aori students in the first instance to be strong in their culture, to understand and grasp the potential of education to help them realize their aspirations, if you like.

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That then led me into K¯ohanga Reo with a group of M¯aori parents in the Auckland area, and then that led onto Kura Kaupapa M¯aori [M¯aori language immersion schools] and developing that as a parent, and the struggles to really set up a completely different concept of education not based on the existing mainstream models, but one based on our own philosophy, which is why we called it Kura Kaupapa M¯aori, and to get that through legislation. In different ways I’ve had lots of different experiences. I don’t have an idealistic view of what it means to change. I think it’s very nuance-based on a lot of experience about how hard it is to change systems; and how deep you have to go. This balance between people and trying to bring people along with you, and preparing people, but also systems and how important it is to go beyond individuals as human beings to create systems that support them to behave differently, to think differently, or that have different values. They’re just not simple things to do. Debashish: You mentioned traveling and also working with Native American communities. Did you notice, or do you notice any threads that bind nonWestern epistemologies, such as Native American, Aboriginal, Australian, M¯aori of course, Hawaiian, strands of African nations and South American knowledge traditions? Linda: Yes. They’re all diverse. A shared experience is colonialism and racism but that has played out in hugely diverse ways over time, and across different European colonial agendas. We got the UK version of that. There are stories that we share about that. I think there are also some philosophies and ideas that have been emerging in more recent times about other things that we share in common. One is a different relationship to Mother Earth and that has produced multiple understandings of what it means to be a human being, and how human beings relate to other entities; what it means to have different concepts of humanness or humanity and different value systems about that; what it means to live in worlds where the human being is not that exceptional, but has responsibilities to other entities that also have life. I think in the Indigenous world we talk about that as relationality. There are lots of different examples. We might talk about it in [Aotearoa New Zealand] as whanaungatanga [kinship] or whakapapa [geneology]; other peoples will talk about it in their way. There’s a lot of diversity. The

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thing that brought Indigenous peoples internationally or globally was the resistance to colonialism, and that led them to the declaration of rights of Indigenous peoples. But, also they came together on this platform of having a relationship with Mother Earth. Debashish: Resistance, as you say, is really an important word here. For many of us critical scholars, it’s a very significant keyword, alongside words like struggle and solidarity among groups fighting for the survival of their identities, lands, livelihoods, and political rights. Even sovereignty in a variety of contexts. So, the question here is, how can we center cultural aspirations, political self-determination, and social rights in knowledge making? It’s a very broad question of course. Linda: I think they are there, whether you’re conscious of that or not. Even if you pretend those things aren’t there, they are. Power, political systems, and the nature of politics is in everything that we try to do in our work whether it’s curriculum, teaching. It’s awash with relations of power, with social relations. They are always central even if we’re developing cultural responses to things. That’s how I think. I know a lot of people who work in the Indigenous studies, or more in the M¯aori studies area, but are not trained as critical scholars in that sense. One of the tensions even in a M¯aori studies approach has been between those who to one sense are in the language area; and to them it’s about revitalizing the language first and foremost, and they don’t necessarily have a critical consciousness about some of the other aspects. Critical Indigenous studies has emerged internationally as a field of studies and it’s a lot more critical in its approach. It’s not located in the history that came out of anthropology and linguistics, which is how most ethnic studies developed earlier. Once a field comes out of a mother discipline, or a father discipline, it is still shaped by that. Critical Indigenous studies really came out of specifically the decolonizing approach plus seeing the limits of traditional type Indigenous studies, or traditional type M¯aori studies, First Nations, Aboriginal, or Black American studies. It’s a much more critical field of work. I think there are going to be some other iterations. I think that’s one indication of the impact of decolonizing studies, anti-racism studies, and critical cultural studies. Those have kind of pushed even our own understandings of ourselves further along than the traditional ethnic studies

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approach, which are more about saving culture—or not even trying to actively save culture, but more about an anthropological look at cultures and understanding and being able to describe them, but not really being engaged in them. Debashish: Way back in 1999, you began your book Decolonizing Methodologies by saying that “the term ‘research’ is inextricably linked to European imperialism and colonialism. The word itself, ‘research’, is probably one of the dirtiest words in the Indigenous world’s vocabulary.” Has much changed in the nearly quarter of a century since then? Linda: It depends where you are. I think you can see changes in New Zealand. I think that’s not just a result of the decolonizing work but also the kura kaupapa and M¯aori regeneration or cultural regeneration. There are M¯aori researchers now… well, there are whole entities of M¯aori researchers doing work with ethnic communities, that communities are asking them to do. That’s a huge turnaround from being the person they look at suspiciously and going, “What are you doing? Why are you here?” I think here it’s been transformed. That’s not true of other contexts in other places. There’s huge capacity coming in Australia with Aboriginal researchers and there are research groups in Canada and the US. There is this blossoming of research, but it’s still contained in a way. I think New Zealand leads the way in terms of policy and I guess the profile that M¯aori researchers have in this system of research, in both the academic system and the science system. I think M¯aori are still kind of pushing the envelope further out. I speak to Indigenous students all around the world, many of whom have fled and are refugees in other countries. They can’t exist as Indigenous people in their own countries. Indigenous activists in some parts of Latin America are still being assassinated. There’s a whole spectrum really of experiences and what it means to be Indigenous in the world. Debashish: As you say, Aotearoa New Zealand has been leading the way. I think for scholars in the Global South there’s a lot to learn and gain inspiration from M¯aori scholars such as you. Your co-edited Handbook of Critical and Indigenous Methodologies highlights Paulo Friere’s statement that “There is hope, however timid, on the street corners, a hope in each and everyone of us…. Hope is an ontological need.” Would you say that the ontological

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need for hope can only be fulfilled by a culturally-nuanced and contextspecific understanding of knowledge? Linda: I think it is an ontological need, attached deeply to a need to survive. There is a level of survival that is pure physical survival—food, shelter, and security, that people around the world are still struggling for. Pure survival. But, to survive as a people you need your culture and you need your sense of what makes you a people. I think ultimately that’s your knowledge of yourselves as a people; your history as a people; your cultural practices as a people. I differentiate what it means to survive as an individual or as a family. You know, we’ve got refugees all around the world who are just trying to survive. But, I think for many Indigenous people who are trying to survive as a people on their own lands that have been taken from them, that’s not just an ontological problem, that’s a huge real material problem and a political problem. But, part of that survival is also the survival of knowledge. If you don’t have that, then you’re missing a big chunk of what it means to be a people and a collective. Knowledge is like a glue that holds you together. It’s the rationale for why you practice what you practice and for why you believe what you believe. I think M¯aori are really good at hope. We’re good at seeing a vision of something better and believing in something better. We’re also good at seeing the hope in ourselves. We don’t need other people, non-M¯aori, to save us. If we have the resources and the tools, we can do this ourselves. That’s the biggest hope. I think what our language revitalization has taught us is that a pretty solid area to start is to hope in ourselves first and foremost. Not hope that someone will come over the horizon and rescue us, but that we can do this ourselves. Debashish: There’s this wonderful passage in your book where you talk about a nineteenth-century prophecy—a M¯aori leader’s prediction that the “struggle of M¯aori against colonialism would go on forever” and therefore resistance too will be perpetual. You say that while: This may appear to be a message without hope, it has become an exhortation to M¯aori that our survival, our humanity, our worldview and language, our imagination and spirit, and our very place in the world, depends on our capacity to act for ourselves, to speak for ourselves, to engage in the

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world and the actions of our colonisers – to face them head on. (Smith, 2021, p. 253)

In a follow-up sentence in the book, you say that “M¯aori struggles for social justice in New Zealand are messy, noisy, simultaneously celebratory, demoralising, hopeful and desperate” (Smith, 2021, p. 253). It would be good to get a sense of an example of that, or some way how this manifests itself—a kind of a very complex combination of being messy and noisy and celebratory, and desperate at the same time. Linda: Look at what’s happening now with these crazy protests around vaccinations. You’ve got the tino rangatiratanga [absolute sovereignty] flag flying alongside Neo-Nazi white supremacy. All the M¯aori activists I know are just appalled. The white supremacists have taken over this movement. One of them threatened to kill Hone Harawira [M¯aori activist and political leader]. We’re all talking to each other, online and by text messages, going, “How come the police don’t go after the person who issued the threat – if one of our activists said something like that it would be seen as a threat of terrorism?” You’ve got these kind of real and genuine political activists who have worked for years in the M¯aori sovereignty space of selfdetermination and who have created this powerful discourse, if you like, and political rhetoric around that. Then you’ve got an anti-vax movement who have taken that to the world of the banal in a sense. Now it’s like how do we reclaim that back into where it belongs? The woman who designed the tino rangatiratanga flag has put out something about the meaning of the flag. There’s constant messaging from activists like Hilda, Hone Harawira, and Tina Ngata, who just kind of restate what the M¯aori political positions are because they don’t want them appropriated and put into something that is grounded in some kind of weird conspiracy theory. My activism is very reality grounded. There’s definitely idealism there, but there’s also a lot of pragmatism about the next steps and where we want to move on. It is always messy. You think we’ve made gains and then we go backwards, and then we go forwards. We think our leaders have let us down because they haven’t been able to sustain it in a way that we expect them to, and we wear our leadership down. It’s a terrible position, I think, to be a M¯aori leader because you’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you don’t. We have new generations coming forward who are really good in some areas, but maybe not prepared for battle in the way that I think old time activists were.

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I think, for example, many of the new leaders have come through really without personal struggle. They’ve had a good pathway that was created for them by struggle. It’s one of the reasons that at Waikato we put in place and changed our curriculum a bit to start. We’re educating our younger students about what it took to develop our language nests, our kura. All of our systems have come out of decades and decades of struggle. I remember some of our students going, “Oh, we didn’t even know.” And, I’m going, “Yeah, we didn’t really want you to experience racism like we did. We wanted you to live in a bubble and be loved and nurtured in our language and culture; but there was always this tension about what happens when you go out to the world, and whether you’ve got the tools to fight in that world.” It’s actually a really hard transition to make. It’s kind of interesting, because even at Waikato, you’ve got students who come through mainstream schools and they know what it means to battle racism; and you’ve got students who come through kura and they’ve been loved and nurtured and all that, and when they get thrown out into this ugly world, it takes them a while to find their feet. Actually we need both sorts of warriors at the moment. Debashish: A word that just came up in the discussion is ‘appropriation’. This is another word that needs to be problematized a lot more now, because we see dominant groups in various international contexts appropriating the discourse of decolonization in some strange ways. Linda: It is. I’m not ill-prepared for that, because in a way a lot of the critiques of neoliberalism have shown us the extent to which neoliberal discourse very quickly was able to insert itself into critiques of the state, especially in New Zealand in the mid-1980s at what has been described as a legitimation crisis that was not just about the economy, but about education, health, and all sorts of things. Political right-wingers were able to insert themselves into that critique and sound like they had the answer, and that it was a better answer than maybe all these dispersed activist groups. So, I think we’ve always got to be prepared for that. I think that’s why that message of our struggle is continuing. It will be continuous because we’re always having to be alert for the next kind of attack, and that attack may come full frontal, but can also come from within and from behind. I just think that’s what we have to live with and that’s what we have to always prepare for.

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Debashish: To go back to where we started this conversation in terms of how the whole notion of organization and organizing has for many years been very West looking or North looking, I just wanted to get a sense from you, off-hand really, if you were to theorize an Indigenous epistemology of organizing, what would it look like? Linda: I think I’ve been informed by some principles that we have about relationships, or relationality, about connections, connectivity to the land, and to other entities and being able to live respectfully within that. I’ve also been informed by values—the value of love or aroha, the love for people, … compassion and respect, and the value of work, or service. A lot of colonial writers thought that all of us Indigenous brown people just laid around in the sun and didn’t do any work, but actually we did have a value of work. We’ve got a lot of metaphors for that in our own language. It was structured differently because it wasn’t capitalist work. But, it was still work. Everyone has a role, a family, and a collective, and that role means work. Spirituality is work, gardening is work, caring for your family is work, being a grandmother is work. It’s a particular value of work. I think there are some principles that you would work from, and that you would try and operationalize into an organization. A lot of M¯aori organizations that exist now, in a way, have had to reproduce governance and management structures because the Crown has made them do that, because you have to do it to be a charitable trust. Or, even with iwi and settlement, they put out the rules of governance for settlement that every tribe has to go through in order to meet that sense of democracy. Whereas, more traditional ways, which we would argue would be more democratic, we are more collective; having greater accountability. I think, honestly, we would have to decolonize even current M¯aori concepts of organizing, because they are so shaped by our colonial experience and by what we have been forced to do; that going back to a more authentic Indigenous tikanga [customs, practices, values] around organizing will take work. I know there are people who are working in this space, trying to pull organizations back more to a more kaupapa M¯aori way of doing things. Some talk about it as values based, whereas I don’t like that term myself. I prefer the term ‘principles’. I think everyone has a different understanding of what value means. I think people get cynical about values.

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Ultimately, it’s this kind of intergenerational thinking that I think will create or help us construct a way of organizing in a sustainable way. I think sustainability of a kaupapa and a vision of wellbeing, or a vision of a positive outcome, is more important than the ways we might mobilize and organize along the way. So, some things might be momentary, for example. Where M¯aori are good is in a crisis: we can come together like that—Boom! But, that’s just a moment. Then some of our longer-term institutions go up and down, sometimes they go to sleep, and sometimes they come alive. One of the longest surviving social institutions is actually the marae. That is something that has come through time. Most marae are either wh¯anau based or hap¯u [sub-tribe] based. That’s the smaller entity. I can speak honestly as someone with my own wh¯anau trying to keep our wh¯anau together, our big wh¯anau, and it’s like a full-time job. It’s really hard. It’s dynamic. At any one time there’s little crises going on. Just as an example, I’ve got at least 96 first cousins on my mother’s side. Some of them were my mother’s age. My mother was the youngest of 12. I know my age group, I don’t know them all. There are now ten living sub-families and we have mokopuna [grandchildren] all over the world, and trying to keep everyone connected and feeling that they belong is huge, and that is work—trying to manage and mediate little issues that emerge; trying to keep everyone focused positively. We do have land. We have a cemetery. We have a bush, if you like, a conservation place. Trying to get everyone to be positive and think like a wh¯anau is really hard. Lots of families are trying to do that. Lots of wh¯anau are trying to reconnect but it’s not an easy task. Note: English translations of M¯aori words are approximations and do not always capture the nuances or the deeper meanings of the original.

Reference Smith, L. T. (2021). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and indigenous peoples (3rd ed.). Zed Books.

CHAPTER 3

For Another Democratic Language: Feminist Action in Latin America and the Reconstruction of the Political Lara Martim Rodrigues Selis and Natalia Maria Felix de Souza

Introduction The effort to interpret recent political processes in Latin America in terms of a conservative turn associated with the end of the progressive cycle in the region has been recurrent. In Brazil, the sequence of political events triggered by the impeachment of Dilma Rousseff, which was followed by the rise to power of neoconservative political forces that directly opposed the human rights and social inclusion agendas that guided the

L. M. R. Selis (B) Institute of Economics and International Relations, Federal University of Uberlândia, Uberlândia, Brazil e-mail: [email protected] N. M. F. de Souza Pontifical Catholic University of São Paulo, São Paulo, Brazil

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Pal et al. (eds.), Organizing at the Margins, New Perspectives in Organizational Communication, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22993-0_3

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discourse and political practice of the previous Worker Party’s (PT, in the Portuguese acronym) governments, created a scenario of great insecurity for social and political minorities. The discursive war mobilized by Jair Bolsonaro’s campaign for the presidential election involved direct attacks on indigenous peoples and quilombolas , women, LGBT+ population, and all of those who were actively engaged with the discourse of human rights. As a result, the national political field was swept by a wave of open violence against minorities, exemplified in the episode where a plaque was made in honor and memory of Marielle Franco, a black, lesbian, peripheral deputy who was murdered by political violence, was publicly removed and broken by two candidates for the Chamber of Deputies, known allies of Bolsonaro. This shift in the political scenario found echoes throughout the region, where many left-wing leaders were deposed in the face of worsening national political crises or had their legitimacy threatened by the efforts of neoconservative political elites. It is noteworthy, however, that this rise of policies and discourses against historically marginalized social groups in the region coincided with some of the most expressive transnational social manifestations, largely carried out by feminist and women’s movements. The success of the call for an international women’s strike on March 8, 2017, for example, inaugurated a new moment for the feminist movements of the region, confronting us with the need to interpret some of the complexities behind this alleged “end of the progressive cycle”. For Verónica Gago and Diego Sztulwark (2016), political thought has to overcome a certain analytical desire for general and totalizing explanations that, detached from the practical realities experienced by political subjectivities, end up making invisible the complex web of resistance that is articulated on the regional level. According to the authors, there are a series of overlapping layers in this political system that contradict the equation of the end of a political cycle with electoral defeats, showing its insufficiency. Therefore, in an effort to understand and capture the heterogeneity of these logics that intersect at both regional and national levels, it is imperative to follow the complex materiality of contemporary popular movements. Following this analytical and political search for the complexity of the democratic political scene in Latin America, this chapter seeks to make visible the multiple tensions and potentialities encapsulated in the historical trajectory of feminist articulations in the region. It is clear to us that any effort to create coherence between processes happening in

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different spatialities and temporalities is going to leave out more than it can bring into the analysis. Even so, we understand that this is a necessary effort to allow us to interpret some key dynamics in the construction of the contemporary protagonism of the feminist movement in the popular struggles against the conservative political forces in the region. Hence, the chapter offers an analysis of the politics of resistance of feminist movements in Latin America in the twenty-first century, seeking to understand their articulations with regional and transnational political processes. Despite their plural and sometimes dissonant character, such movements are triggered by similar historical forces, such as the recent wave of conservative reactions, in which religious social forces allied with neoliberal capitalists in the wake of the crisis of the progressive governments in the region. In this scenario, the feminist capacity for collective action and organization should be understood in relation to a wide network of attacks against progressive agendas, among which “gender and sexuality” became a strategic target. In this sense, our objective is to understand how the disruptive performances staged by female/feminized bodies in the region offer an urgent pedagogy to our democratic political horizons. In the following section, we seek to understand the construction of the feminist movement since the late 1980s, a moment marked by both the democratic reconstruction of most Latin American countries and the transversalization of the feminist agenda within the human rights field. At this stage, a new political grammar began to be articulated, as the result of a continued dispute over social meanings. Next, we analyze the role of gender in the context of the “turn to the left”, represented by the rise to power of governments committed to human rights, reduction of inequality, and social inclusion. This scenario becomes central to interpreting feminists’ alliance with the state, its developments, and contradictions. Finally, we turn to recent feminist mobilizations in the region, symbolized by the “massification” of protests and the construction of a field of non-identity solidarities, which has been responsible for some of the main political victories of the progressive field in the region. Along this trajectory, we argue that Latin American feminism presents us today with a discursive field that allows disputing the meanings and senses of democracy, producing a new political grammar. As we revise this chapter for publication, it is important to notice that it was written in 2021 and, consequently, does not discuss 2022 Brazilian elections, which led to the tight presidential victory of Lula da Silva (PT)

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against Jair Bolsonaro (PL). Although an important victory for social movements, including the feminist militancy who worked tirelessly to prevent the re-election of the far-right candidate, the general outcomes of the election, both for the legislative offices and the states’ executive branch—including governors, senators, and national and state deputies— were not so encouraging. The most controversial and radical figures of Bolsonaro’s government managed to get elected, occupying strategic positions to impose obstacles for Lula’s governmentality. This added to a wave of antidemocratic protests following PT’s victory, pointing to a lasting conservative far-right project in the country, which already extrapolates Bolsonaro’s leadership and demonstrates a broad ability to fabricate social bonds. Hence, keeping the historical argument presented here, to understand either the past or ongoing political process in the region, we must avoid the tendency to restrict our lenses to the lines of electoral dynamics. Although relevant for feminist struggles, the public sphere of the State, as the very idea of democracy, as we discuss next, has been constantly target and source of different feminists’ actions of subversion.

Feminist Struggles in Latin America: Contemporary Transformations As argued earlier, understanding Latin American feminist activism, as a theoretical and practical task, requires an irrevocable commitment to its historical dynamics. This engagement is justified, in part, by the need to break with the methodological “silencing” of mainstream perspectives which resort to abstract, stable, and universalizing categories, that do not recognize the inevitably heterogeneous bodily and subjective experiences. Therefore, to grasp the plural experiences of various feminist groups in Latin America, it is necessary to give up on any presumption of cohesion and uniformity. As explained by Alvarez et al. (2003, p. 569, our translation), the dynamic of these movements “does not take place in a vacuum, but on the contrary, it always reflects the context of political and economic changes in which feminisms are developed”. In this sense, we state the political relevance of this situated approach to understand the strategies, alliances, and affinities that make up the current disputes around the idea of democracy in the region. In this regard, we highlight the study of Alvarez et al. (2003) that analyzes twenty years of debate within the Latin American and Caribbean Feminist Encuentros

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[Encounters]. When evaluating the agendas and clashes present in the 1980s and 1990s, the authors draw attention to the complex nature of feminist activism in the region, which forms a dynamic process, marked by cleavages. For that reason, while the authors sustain the existence of a horizon of transnational solidarity among Latin American feminists, they certainly make clear that such process was not devoid of contradictions, exclusions, and internal disputes. The construction of an imagined feminist community in the region, as the authors suggest, proves to be a dynamic process, nonetheless able to mobilize “a common (even if always contested) feminist political grammar” (Alvarez et al., 2003, p. 543, our translation). According to the data collected by Alvarez et al. (2003), the last decades of the twentieth century indicate a central moment of renegotiation and transformation of that grammar, which explains the clashes within the very feminist movements and the consequent rearticulation of their national and international coalitions. Internally, since the late 1980s, the Encuentros became more open for discussions related to race, sexuality, and other social markers of difference. However, it was only in the 1990s that the “discussion of intra-gender differences (that is, among women)” was consolidated as a commitment of feminist movements (Matos, 2010, p. 68). Conceptually, following Mohanty’s explanation, Matos (2010, p. 88) suggests that the regional debates of the 1990s “were marked by the emergence of analytical-theoretical categories that alluded to the multiplicity of differentiations, which, articulating to gender, would permeate the social: among these are, of course, the categories of articulation and intersectionality”. Such transformations take place during the redemocratization processes that reach most Latin American countries during the 1990s, putting an end to previous dictatorial regimes. In addition to intra-gender debates, another theme that will be central for the following decades relates to the methods of producing feminist solidarities, which then centers on the development of advocacy networks. The professionalization of social movements allowed the insertion of feminist agendas in governmental and non-governmental institutional circuits all around the region. This new organizational method received harsh criticism from the autonomist sectors that saw this NGOization or partisanization of struggles as a risky trajectory. For them, both strategies opened the feminist agendas to neoliberal co-option, a tendency already hegemonic between

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those responsible for the democratization of the state apparatus, as well as for the opening of national economies. In any case, we have to recognize that the effort of professionalization of the feminist struggles “provided symbolic and material opportunities for the articulation of feminist policies from within formal institutions”, a type of participation that was not restricted to the “governmental apparatus and parties”, but also advanced to civil society, with the organization of important political lobbies for the consolidation of public policies in the area, especially those against gender violence (Alvarez et al., 2003, p. 551). Furthermore, the organization in networks also brought tactical transformations in the forms of international insertion and coalition building of feminist activism. The 1990s therefore marked the stage of definitive inclusion of gender guidelines in the international system, especially due to the World Women’s Conferences promoted by the UN (Correa, 2018). The Beijing Conference held in 1995 became a landmark for the mainstreaming of gender and the consolidation of sexual and reproductive rights within a human rights framework. According to Matos (2010, p. 87), the incorporation of a gender perspective by the conference headleaders “was based on a view that, gender being an important issue, its specific effects should be approached in the context of all activities related to human rights”. The mainstreaming of human rights was a turning point to Latin American feminism, especially for the Brazilian debate from the 2000s onward. In addition to transnationalizing their struggles, local feminists also pluralized their horizontal axes of action, “broadening the base of social and political mobilizations” (Matos, 2010, p. 87, our translation). For Conway (2012, p. 380), this transnationalization of feminism at the edge of the twenty-first century places it as the most globalized social movement to converge around anti-globalization manifestations. Feminist activists became, at this juncture, the most experienced in building transnational coalitions, precisely by organizing themselves around the many structures of difference and inequality that divide women—in terms of class, race, sexual orientation, religion, and nationality. The inscription of new feminist practices and theories allowed the construction of new alliances with non-feminist social movements engaged in the antiglobalization struggle, leading to a reinterpretation of their models of identification and construction of solidarity. Thus, we are witnessing a transformation of feminist practices previously focused on the construction of intra-movement solidarities between

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women and feminists of different strands, toward the construction of inter-movement solidarities with groups often led by men and distant from conventional themes of feminism. This transformation was sustained by a complex continuum of practices that involve: the discursive recognition of other struggles, support for their demands and campaigns, the construction of collaborative events and actions, the construction of ad hoc dialogues, the elaboration of joint campaigns and mobilizations to build coalitions, reaching, in some cases, stable and lasting alliances between various sectors on different themes (Conway, 2012, p. 381). In these efforts, solidarity becomes an ethical and political horizon to be achieved through a voluntary decision by the groups to fight together (Mohanty in Conway, 2012, p. 382). From this perspective, we follow Alvarez (1998, p. 265) in claiming that, by the turn of the century, Latin American feminisms had started to organize as “a discursive field of action, rather than a social movement in the ‘classic’ sense of the term”. With this idea, the author is not denying the visible and constant nature of feminist collective actions. On the contrary, she is arguing that, beyond their traditional engagement with institutional politics, feminists also had to advance on a terrain of disputes over meanings. In other words, in discursive struggles, in essentially cultural battles - for example, about the meaning of, ‘development’, ‘reproductive health’, and democracy itself, from the multiple points of view of women and from various feminist points of view. (Alvarez, 1998, p. 266, our translation)1

In this context, a critical reinterpretation of democracy becomes circularly bound to any effort for dislocating the patriarchal view of the public field. As we will see, the movement in defense of sexual and reproductive rights that started at the end of the twentieth century by feminists in Latin America enters the current century generating profound changes in the region’s sexuality regime. In particular, by grounding sexuality demands in the field of citizenship, feminists displaced the historical authority of morality (and of moral actors) over that agenda. As a result, the patriarchal

1 In the original: “O sea, en luchas discursivas, en batallas esencialmente culturales - por ejemplo, sobre el significado de la ciudadanía, del ‘desarrollo’, de la ‘salud reproductiva’, y de la própia democracia, desde los múltiples puntos de vista de las mujeres y desde los variados puntos de vista feminista”.

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family, taken as the ontological unity of conservative discourses, was repositioned in the field of Law. Therefore, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, we witnessed an effort by feminists to occupy the public sphere with secular political grammars, less sensitive to the discourses of religious morality. Thus, one of the central antagonisms for the democratic dynamics of the second decade of the twenty-first century is that between the neoconservative agenda (that combines neoliberal individualism with a unitary Christian morality) and the progressive agenda of feminist activism, symbolized by an “ethical pluralism” (Biroli et al., 2020, p. 13).

The Gender and Sexuality Agenda During the “Pink Tide” In macropolitical terms, the turn to the twenty-first century marked the beginning of the so-called “turn to the left” or “pink tide” in Latin America. Such a phenomenon describes a historical confluence that led to a set of left-wing (or moderated left) electoral victories in the region, especially in South America. In general, those governments were committed to programs for economic justice, social equality, democratic enlargement, autonomous foreign policy, and so on. In terms of political trajectory, most of them came from groups that had fought against the military dictatorships, playing protagonist roles in the following prodemocracy movements. In the cases of left-center governments—such as Lula in Brazil, Kirchner in Argentina, or Bachelet in Chile—what we saw was a new configuration of their social agendas toward human rights issues. This emphasis on a human rights culture at the beginning of the century was an important catalyst for the inclusion of gender and sexuality demands within the institutional debates in the region. In that sense, it is worth recalling that, despite the fact that “the first Latin American feminist and homosexuality movements” were mainly organized around the left resistance against dictatorships during the 1970s, the relation between them was not devoid of “tensions and constraints” (Miskolci & Campana, 2017, p. 731). According to Alvarez (2014, 22 in Miskolci & Campana, 2017, p. 731), the Latin American revolutionary left did not take the feminist agenda as a priority, “relegating the ‘questions of women’ to the status of ‘secondary contradiction’”. In part, such configuration helps us to understand why the sexual revolution of the 1960s and 1970s did not have the same impact in Latin

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American societies as it did in Europe or the United States.2 At the same time, it also explains the loose incorporation of such issues when left-wing movements finally came to power. As pointed out, most of the “pink tide” leaders did not take gender questions as a central concern. Instead, these issues emerge as part of a larger agenda for the advancement of democratic access to individual rights, representing a sort of institutional demand closer to the liberal guidebooks than to the heterogeneous and idiosyncratic vocalization of grassroots social movements. For Friedman and Tabbush (2020), the expectation that pink tide governments would be more committed to advancing the agenda on gender and sexuality is based on their active vocal position in combating historical inequalities through a renewed relationship between state, market, and society. To this end, they mobilized state resources to reduce economic inequalities, sought to include social minorities, in addition to broadly incorporating the language of rights and well-being into their government agendas. However, more complex issues, particularly those that challenged traditional family codes, were systematically ignored by the governments—and their promotion, where and when it took place, was linked to the struggles of grassroots groups. In their study, Friedman and Tabbush (2020) demonstrate that, while, on the one hand, the pink tide governments managed to promote important transformations in the lives of women and the LGBT+ population through economic, political, and legal inclusion, on the other hand, such policies were widely dependent on heteropatriarchal power relations, thus silencing the most challenging issues on the gender and sexuality agenda. After all, most of the political and social projects carried out by the leftwing governments were based on traditional conceptions of gender and sexuality. For that reason, the transformations that they were able to promote, far from being linear and en bloc, reflected specific institutional contexts, as well as the bureaucracy’s ability to organize and act. The authors conclude that the positive results achieved by many leftwing and center-left governments in the region, specially in reducing social inequalities, were largely due to policies of income redistribution

2 […] in Latin American countries the initial impact of this [sexual] revolution was discouraged by the military dictatorships that carried a familiar nationalist morality. The Latin American Sexual Revolution had more success in shaping the experience of the middle and upper classes, failing to achieve the same sexual and reproductive rights as those in the mentioned central countries (Miskolci & Campana, 2017, p. 731).

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that rarely challenged the sexual division of labor (Friedman & Tabbush, 2020). With few exceptions,3 such policies ended up maximizing the use of the unpaid, reproductive, communitarian, and political work of poor women, who largely assumed the role of managing these policies; or else, they reinforced their role as natural intermediaries in the development of their children. Given the different ways in which these policies have affected sectors of women and sexual minorities in these countries, their implementation has, in some cases, hindered the establishment of internal alliances, particularly between grassroots organizations, feminist social movements contrary to heteropatriarchal patterns, and indigenous and peasant women’s movements that question capitalist development models. In this context, alliances between political and religious forces were fundamental for silencing a countercultural agenda capable of challenging traditional social patterns, such as abortion rights, same-sex marriage, and the recognition of gender identity and gender violence in its complexity (Friedman & Tabbush, 2020, pp. 21–22). For Céli Pinto (2003, p. 83), the support offered by segments of the Catholic Church to the leftwing resistance during the dictatorial period limited the advance of a vigorous progressive position on the agendas related to sexual rights. Consequently, “the Brazilian left-wing parties of the post-military regime have been very passive in this regard, with the exception of the feminist sectors, of course, that even when linked to the Catholic Church have played a central role in confronting taboo topics like those”. The normative apparatus against gender violence, for its turn, has been systematically developed in the region, following the agenda of the Convention of Belém do Pará, in 1994. Whereas the first wave of legislation, in the 1990s, sanctioned intrafamily violence without triggering the criminal field—leaving the domain of domestic violence in charge of mediation practices—the second wave, coinciding with the governments of the pink tide, managed to consolidate the institutional protection of women against domestic violence. Both waves were, however, shy in addressing the extent of gender violence inside and outside the “domestic” sphere, leaving unquestioned its relation to heteropatriarchal power.

3 Governments of Chile and Uruguay after 2014. For a more detailed discussion of these policies, see Friedman and Tabbush (2020, pp. 45–46).

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In this sense, even though the leftist governments of the 2000s have subsidized legal victories in the gender and sexuality agenda (abortion legislation, criminalization of homophobia, same-sex marriage, and so on), none of them held on to such agenda in moments of crisis—especially when they encountered incisive resistance from the Catholic and Neo-pentecostal religious forces, or other conservative social segments. As a result, achievements in terms of sexual and reproductive rights in the region remained limited, finding no fertile ground in the discursive field. As we can see, it is hard to state how important the role and status of the feminist agenda was within those governments. As argued by Gago and Sztulwark (2016, 608), the discursive legitimacy of the progressive governments came mostly from their ability to question the military dictatorships and to criticize the redemocratization elites for abiding by the recipes of the Washington Consensus. Hence, they focused their forces on promoting a neo-developmentalist policy, strongly anchored in the rhetoric of economic growth with social inclusion. Although social inclusion has been central to their efforts to strengthen the state, three trends have put a lot of strain on their real capacity for social transformation: i. the search for insertion in the international market through a neo-extractive policy; ii. a micro-politics organized around neoliberal social bonds; and iii. the renewed hegemony of the financial sector. In other words, the coexistence or even complementarity between the neodevelopmentalism of the leftist governments and the neoliberalism of their predecessors shows that the continuities between them were as expressive as the discontinuities. It is precisely the mechanisms of financial exploitation that remained intact during processes of inclusion through consumption mobilized by these governments, as well as the new modes of violence they authorize, that are at the heart of contemporary feminist resistance. In this field, disputes and tensions over the meanings of the “popular” and of the “common” assume diffuse and complex contours (Gago & Sztulwark, 2016), with important openings for questioning and displacing traditional understandings of politics. We thus claim that the possibility of understanding contemporary political resistance in Latin America requires replacing the image of the “end of a cycle” and its modern periodization, by a reading of deep logics that meet and collide in the political system. In this sense, our reading of the feminist struggles that have emerged in recent decades seeks to escape the periodization that linearly separates progressive and conservative governmental cycles in terms of advances and

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backlashes. Following the argument of Gago and Sztulwark (2016), we understand that the intensification of violence against women, catalyzed by neoconservative reactions, reflects complex temporalities with continuities, ruptures, and contradictions that are not solely linked to electoral dynamics. As we have seen, the long trajectory of feminist movements in building transnational and local alliances based on a discursive dispute over the public arena is permeated by contradictions, fractures, victories, and multilevel cleavages. The presence of conservative forces, for example, in particular those of a religious nature, is part of a historical continuity when analyzed in perspective—even if it today presents undeniable renewed tactical alignments. Since the transnational feminist mobilizations motivated by the UN Conferences in the 1990s, we have seen active conservative reactions, especially those rooted in the notion of “gender ideology”. Paradoxically, according to Miskolci and Campana (2017), the consolidation of the notion of “gender ideology” in Latin America found fertile ground precisely at the turn of the millennium as a battle against the Human Rights programs applied by left-wing governments. Such programs have brought questions about gender and sexuality to the public sphere, fueling conservative reactions, but without significantly advancing educational and legal reforms. According to Carrara (2015), the offensive against women and LGBT people is not an isolated fact; rather, gender issues have constituted one of the main pillars of contemporary socio-political transformations, affecting not only moral norms but the very core of social and political rationality. It is a complex political field that, as demonstrated, exceeds a simple dispute in terms of morality. As stated by Biroli et al. (2020, p. 22), religious opposition to gender is a tactical action interested in “repositioning the secular state and the relationship between state authority, paternal authority and individual rights”. Therefore, it is a field of disputes over the meaning of democracy, its possibilities, and its limits, permeated by a set of fluid and sometimes chaotic forces that, depending on the historical configurations, can find more or less coherence. As Miskolci and Campana (2017, p. 742) explain, these “moral entrepreneurs do not form a cohesive group, and their alliance is generally circumstantial”. This means that the field of action against women’s and LGBT rights is not restricted to religious groups. Beyond Catholics and Evangelical segments, other forces compose the political field which led to the rise of conservatism in Latin American societies in recent years. In

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Brazil, for example, although originally mobilized by right-wing parties, the semantic of “gender ideology” found echo in other segments as well. Among them, there are those who were taken by feelings of disbelief in the face of former corruption scandals and national economic crisis, and also neoliberal advocates who were mostly concerned with removing the PT from power. In this sense, crossing over a complex net of interests, the discursive devaluation of women’s struggle for sexual liberation, gender equality, or social justice worked as a form of empty signifier used to bring different groups together around a common enemy. Thus, the partial institutional achievements of the beginning of the century, added to the lingering mechanisms of neoliberal financial and economic exploitation, meet and merge with the temporality of conservative processes and heteropatriarchal structures historically established in the region. Tactically, neoconservative coalitions started to exert renewed degrees of violence against women and LGBT+ populations, including blocking the institutional means by which these groups could organize and advertise their interests in a politically meaningful way. At the same time, feminist movements continue their articulation, renegotiating their terms and proposing new interpretations of the violence they suffer. From this process, a unique field of democratic resistance derives, which repositions the struggles, negotiations, and alliances of progressive forces.

Violences and New Political Grammars As we have sought to demonstrate, the years that follow the end of the pink tide are marked by a new stage in feminist activism in the region— effectively showing that advances in the gender agenda are not guided by states and governments, but emerge from social movements’ resilience and capacity to build alliances. The feminist collective Ni Una Menos, which organized in 2015 in reaction to the increased rates of femicide and other gender-based violence in Argentina, represents a milestone in this rearticulation of a “mass feminism” (Cavallero & Gago, 2017) in Latin America. In our perspective, the collective has been teaching us how to operate a political grammar that refuses the traditional spaces of politics, usually occupied by parties and governments, to make a stand against the capitalist and patriarchal structures that sustain the colonial state. On October 19, 2016, a large online articulation initiated by Ni Una Menos was able to mobilize a protest of national proportions against gender violence and the shocking number of femicides across the country.

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Using the hashtag #MiércolesNegro, the protest was triggered by the brutal murder of a 16-year-old girl, Lucía Pérez, who was raped, tortured, and abandoned in a hospital by her aggressors. Her death by impalement—“a murder that was based on colonial methods” (Gago, 2018, p. 159)—came just days after the 31st National Meeting of Women, which gathered around 70,000 women in Rosario, Argentina, being brutally repressed by the police (Ni Una Menos, 2016, 2017; Souza, 2019). The protest summoned women in all forms of work, including domestic work, for a one-hour strike, followed by a march through the streets of Buenos Aires. For one hour, women involved in all types of occupation stopped Argentina and showed the importance of their unpaid and underpaid work for sustaining capitalism. The protest was immediately replicated in different Latin American cities. On the occasion, the collective released a letter entitled #NosotrasParamos (Ni Una Menos, 2016), which was signed by a large number of organizations— from grassroots collectives to anti-capitalist trade union movements. The letter demanded a pluralized view over male violence against women, which should be connected to other forms of exploitation: from capitalist exploitation and precarious employment to issues related to gender violence and reproductive rights. The letter cuts across the multiple differences that have characterized previous feminist movements, claiming to represent women in their multiplicity. The movement brought together hundreds of thousands of people—from artists to politicians, women, men, and children—and the march received a speedy response from the Federal Supreme Court (Souza, 2019). The great ability to mobilize street marches using digital media was replicated in the organization of the International Women’s Strike on March 8, 2017, which connected a wide network of feminist movements in several countries, displaying a strong transnational feminist articulation. Under the hashtag #8M , the strike was called in repudiation of different forms of gender violence in more than 40 countries (Souza, 2019). The quick and impressive articulation of the strike drew attention to the particularly popular character of contemporary feminist movements, which were characterized as a “feminism for the 99%” (Arruzza et al., 2019). The multiplication of protests following the International Strike draws attention to the importance of feminist movements in Latin America in recent years. For Gago (2018), a “new internationalism” was created at that moment, which connected the streets to social networks, producing a

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new transnational and multilingual imagination. Difference and precarity, previously seen as dividers and conditions of domination, became the cornerstone for the production of new solidarities, alliances and forms of action. In the construction of this new grammar, gender violence was associated to the very structure of capitalist domination, instead of being seen as a private form of violence against women. Articulated in a feminist perspective, the strike becomes an instrument for the politicization of precarity, highlighting the multiple realities that are indispensable for the functioning of labor structures: “we question that the only dignified labor is that which has a wage; we question that the only recognized labor is that which is masculine; we question the idea that the only productive labor is that which takes place outside of the home or the neighborhood” (Ni Una Menos in Mason-Deese, 2020, pp. 9–10). By promoting the encounter between so many different bodies and realities, bounded by their multiple forms of violence, this articulation allowed the creation of spaces for speech and listening that countered forms of victimization and submission to which these bodies are constantly exposed, crafting a political arena of vocalization and collective struggle. Crossing multiple languages and tensions, the strike of March 8th put bodies in the streets, integrating and exceeding their individual demands without losing historical density. The alliances that began to be forged there—in a tense, difficult, but patient way—allow us to reflect on “what it means to act together when the conditions for that action have been devastated” (Gago, 2020, 163, our translation). In other words, what does it mean to act despite devastation and precariousness, but also on the basis of them (McGlazer, 2018, p. 147). At the heart of the innovations promoted by this movement is the connection between the virtual and the face-to-face, the networks, and the streets. The analysis of this process allows us to understand how a hashtag became a transnational movement, a “tide” (Palmeiro, 2020) with the capacity to produce ruptures in some of the basic structures of capitalism, proposing new forms of social relations. In fact, we emphasize that the large virtual and face-to-face manifestations articulated by the collective are only the first of many layers of its importance: more profound than this has been its ability to re-articulate gender violence by linking it to a critique of capital. This turn has brought the debate on gender violence into different social spaces in Latin America: from homes to workspaces, from Universities to bars and concert halls, from the streets to the Congress, from social media to public squares. As a result, feminist

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collectives have managed to politicize issues related to social reproduction, questioning the classic distinction between public and private spaces and themes; and opening up multiple spaces for questioning and political reimaginations (Mason-Deese, 2020, p. 2). By sharing their stories—denouncing hierarchies and inequalities in the workspace, problematizing the sexual division of domestic labor, documenting first experiences of violence, and making visible their experiences of political invisibility—women in all spaces, who occupy different social and racial positions, began to politicize their personal experiences together. In these cases, social networks have served to create a more horizontal recognition among these women, a form of solidarity that makes their voices a collective refusal: refusal of violence, refusal of victimization, refusal of domination. This policy of refusal unavoidably serves to denaturalize largely sedimented social practices. As Mason-Deese (2020) argues, this recognition arises not from a theoretical or abstract idea of what it means to be a woman, but from conflicts and bodily experiences, whose encounter allows the construction of common understandings and subjectivities. An articulation that does not start, therefore, from primordial identities, but from a political act of reclaiming forms of subjectivation that allow political action. In addition to networks, assemblies become the space in which the very construction of political collectivity takes shape: the assembly is itself a practice of investigation and production of collective subjectivities. General assemblies, as a methodological and ontological principle of this feminist practice, take different forms and courses depending on the bodies that make them up. Heterogeneous bodies come to these spaces for different reasons, with different experiences of activism, and with different political and ideological formations. Therefore, assemblies are spaces for disagreement, debate, and opposition as much as they are spaces of agreement and consensus (Mason-Deese, 2020, p. 6). Its results cannot be predicted, but ensue from the process of building a collective grammar. The many temporalities of the demands and refusals found in the assembly do not allow the production of a single political agenda, but open the door to multiple alliances with different objectives. For Gago (2018, p. 160), Far from being organized only virtually or through calls on social media, the strike came together through the framework of the meeting, through its obstinate repetitions and its different scales, which remind us of the

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hard work of the face to face and the body to body, of permanent conflict, of the lived effort to map divergent experiences, concrete and unyielding dissidences. Such a way of sharing space, of listening patiently to others’ interventions, and, finally, of sustaining the tension that continuously produces innovative thought without necessarily being productive of consensus—all of this shows that heterogeneity is not only a matter of discourse.

In her political analysis of assemblies, Judith Butler (2015) precisely highlights the power and effects of embodied forms of performativity in questioning hegemonic understandings of the political. For her, the prevailing conceptions of the public sphere presuppose the exclusion of bodies in the name of a universal model of subjectivity and political agency. On the other hand, and following Hannah Arendt’s thinking, she understands the public sphere as a field of performative appearance of bodies, a space whose materiality is conditioned to its claim, and not as a pre-defined field that authorizes certain bodies to engage in political disputes, while excluding others to the realm of the house, the periphery, of necessity. In this understanding, political action is conditioned to be a collective exercise in which different bodies appear to one another: “the action emerges from the ‘between,’ a spatial figure for a relation that both binds and differentiates” (Butler, 2015, p. 77). Political agency does not presuppose a previous legitimacy, but the ability to affect other bodies, creating a performative spatiality of “in between bodies”, in which differences, vulnerabilities and interdependencies are not proscribed or silenced, but become the condition of possibility for recognition and, therefore, for affection. It is social precariousness that exposes bodies to the need of forming alliances, no longer based on identities, but on the shared social and economic conditions that affect them. Embodied action concerns not only the linguistic performativity of public speech, but forms of bodily performativity that are always means for demonstrating precarity: “gathering, gesturing, standing still, all of the component parts of “assembly” that are not quickly assimilated to verbal speech – can signify principles of freedom and equality” (Butler, 2015, p. 48). In this sense, appearance is understood as a morphological moment in which the body not only speaks or acts, but suffers and moves and engages with other bodies (human and nonhuman). According to Butler, the concerted embodied action, as seen in public

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assemblies, carries the possibility of producing a crack within the sphere of appearance, by which the recreation of democratic politics can emerge. Besides, acting in concert becomes a way not only of (re)creating the public space, by interrupting its rhythm, disrupting its logics, and reconfiguring its materiality, but also of (re)creating the very people who claim this space. For, “if the plural subject is constituted in the course of its performative action, then it is not already constituted; whatever form it has prior to its performative exercise is not the same as the form it takes as it acts, and after it has acted” (Butler, 2015, p. 178).

Final Remarks In light of what has been said, we emphasize the disruptive and (re)creative power performed by contemporary feminist manifestations, in which bodies in alliance have been produced, while also allowing the reconstruction of a new democratic political grammar. According to Palmeiro (2020), the collective strength that emanates from the new language coming from the activism of Ni Una Menos could be captured in the idea of a political translation. Emerging from the poetic force of Susana Chávez (Mason-Deese, 2020), the hashtag #NiUnaMenos spontaneously and collectively went viral through verbal and visual languages, in national and regional languages, repeated by widely read newspapers and academic journals, poems and social media, public speeches and embodied languages of protest. Thus, the functioning of network activism incorporates and produces a political translation that is not limited to a viral hashtag, naming an entire social movement, a demand, an utopia, a password and a keyword, a declaration of solidarity and, not least, a battle cry (Palmeiro, 2020, p. 2). This dynamic of political translation, which seeks to articulate desire and discourse, is not exclusive to #NiUnaMenos and to feminist strikes, but can be identified in different contemporary mobilizations carried out by women in Latin America, such as the #Elenão, in Brazil, and the performance El violador eres tu, initiated in Chile. In all of them, we witness a complex network of temporalities, disputes, and renegotiations that, at the same time, produce and are produced by new common grammars and collective political horizons, which remain open to occupation and contestation:

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Poetics is crucial for this movement in that it allows for the articulation of desire and expression (that is, it allows for the power of a new political language) as that articulation nurtures the creation of utopian images, stimulating the collective imagination to conceive and put into practice the world we want to live in, thus emancipating creative forces from the artistic field, diverting them towards the construction of a different society. (Palmeiro, 2020, p. 6)

It is due to this horizontal logic behind the functioning of contemporary feminist movements, in which all assemblies, demonstrations and documents are built by many hands and between multiple desires, that the expressive power of this new political language allows connecting the many forms of violence and resistance of the bodies that produce, inhabit, and translate them. Once it connects bodies, discourses, desires, and collective impulses, this new political language is capable of translating mourning and struggle, pain and strength, a central condition for a radical transformation of society.

References Alvarez, S. E. (1998). Feminismos Latinoamericanos. Revista Estudos Feministas, 6(2), 265–285. Alvarez, S. E., et al. (2003, julho–dezembro). Encontrando os Feminismos Latino-americanos e Caribenhos. Estudos Feministas, 11(2), 360. Arruzza, C., Bhattacharya, T., & Fraser, N. (2019). Feminism for the 99%: A manifesto. Verso. Biroli, F., Vaggione, J. M., & Machado, M. d. D. C. (2020). Gênero, neoconservadorismo e democracia: disputas e retrocessos na América Latina (1st ed.). Boitempo. Butler, J. (2015). Notes towards a performative theory of assembly. Harvard University Press. Carrara, S. (2015). Moralidades, Racionalidades e Políticas sexuais no Brasil Contemporâneo. Mana, 21(2), 323–345. Cavallero, L., & Gago, V. (2017, July 3). Argentina’s life-or-death women’s movement. Jacobin. https://jacobin.com/2017/03/argentina-ni-una-menosfemicides-women-strike/. Accessed on May 15th, 2023. Conway, J. (2012). Transnational feminisms building anti-globalization solidarities. Globalizations, 9(3), 379–393.

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Correa, S. (2018, June 11). A “política do gênero”: um comentário genealógico. Cadernos Pagu (53), e185301. https://doi.org/10.1590/180944492018 00530001. http://www.scielo.br/scielo.php?script=sci_arttext&pid=S010483332018000200401&lng=en&nrm=iso. Accessed on 3 April 2021. Friedman, E. J., & Tabbush, C. (2020). Introducción. Disputas en la marea rosa: una mirada desde el género y la sexualidad. In E. Friedman & C. Tabbush (Eds.), Género, sexualidad e izquierdas latinoamericanas: el reclamo de derechos durante la marea rosa (1st ed.). Clacso. Gago, V. (2018). The earth trembles. Critical Times, 1(1), 158–164. Gago, V. (2020). A Potência Feminista, ou o desejo de transformar tudo. Elefante. Gago, V., & Diego, S. (2016). The temporality of social struggle at the end of the “progressive” cycle in Latin America. The South Atlantic Quarterly, 115(3), 606–614. Mason-Deese, L. (2020). Not one woman less: From hashtag to strike. Spheres: Journal for Digital Cultures, 6, 1–15. Matos, M. (2010). Moviemnto e teoria feminista: É possível reconstruir a teoria feminista a partir do sul global? Revista de Sociologia e Política, 18(36), 67–92. Mcglazer, R. (2018). Special section: Transnational feminist strikes and solidarities. Introduction. Critical Times, 1(1), 146–148. Miskolci, R., & Campana, M. (2017). “Ideologia de gênero”: notas para a genealogia de um pânico moral contemporâneo. Revista Sociedade e Estado, 32(3). Ni Una Menos. (2016, October 20). Nosotras Paramos. Facebook. https:// www.facebook.com/notes/ni-una-menos/nosotras-paramos/544964935 694693. Accessed on 7 February 2018. Ni Una Menos. (2017, February 16). How was the March 8 international women’s strike woven together? Viewpoint Magazine. https://www.viewpo intmag.com/2017/02/16/how-was-the-march-8-international-womens-str ike-woven-together/. Accessed on 7 February 2018. Palmeiro, C. (2020). Ni Una Menos and the politics of translation. Spheres: Journal for Digital Cultures, 6, 1–7. Pinto, C. (2003). Uma história do feminismo no Brasil. Fundação Perseu Abramo. Souza, N. M. F. (2019). When the body speaks (to) the political: Feminist activism in Latin America and the quest for alternative democratic futures. Contexto Internacional, 41(1), 89–111.

CHAPTER 4

Hybrid Collective Action Silvio Waisbord

How do Global South theorizing and analysis contribute to the study of communication and collective action and contentious politics? Dewesternizing disciplines entails an epistemological shift—a critical examination of Western scholarship and conclusions through an analytical focus that foregrounds cases, frameworks, and voices from the Global South. This shift remains necessary in the analysis of communication, media and collective action, a fertile field of study at the intersection of various disciplines. For the past decade, much of the discussion has focused on the ways digital technologies and practices not only reshape collective action, but also lead to different outcomes. Remarkable interest on this topic was reflected in the coinage of novel concepts that tried to capture changing forms of public participation and social protest, such as “information activism” (Stein et al., 2012), “ICT activism” (Hintz, 2012) as well as

S. Waisbord (B) School of Media and Public Affairs, George Washington University, Washington, D.C, USA e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Pal et al. (eds.), Organizing at the Margins, New Perspectives in Organizational Communication, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22993-0_4

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“revolutions” attached to corporate brand names, such as Facebook and Twitter (for a review, see Treré, E., & Kaun, A., 2021). A decade ago, bright-eyed enthusiasm about the revolutionary possibilities of digital mobilization dominated the literature. Hopeful, optimistic visions about the so-called Arab Spring. Occupy, the Indignados and other protest movements around the world reflect the view of digital technologies as harbingers of radically new forms of collective action, packed with democratic premises. This position continued the Promethean tradition in Western thought of seeing technology as a master innovator. Such a position displaced granular sociological analysis while overlooking the ways communities engage with public matters, as if digital technology would erase traditions of collective mobilization and particular political junctures. Presently, we have confirmed what voices from the South have long argued: the evolution, the success, and the failures of myriad movements are more complex than techno-optimistic speculations allowed for. Technology-centric analysis runs the risk of missing contextual, material, historical, organizational, and strategic aspects that shape collective action. Unfortunately, dazzling digital organization and communication directed attention to the new possibilities of connectivity away from those factors. The fate of social movements, including protest actions, policy advocacy and others, can only be understood from a holistic perspective. The study of digital organizing only makes sense within comprehensive studies of collective action. The concept of “hybrid collective action” is an important corrective to the obsession with digital action (Caren et al., 2020). It suggests that, although digital organizing may be important and even decisive in certain instances, we should still pay attention to traditional forms of organization and non-digital communication. At a time of hybrid media and journalism, it should not be surprising that collective action, too, integrates different elements. Hybridity reminds us that we should not set up false dichotomies regarding organizational preferences and communicative choices in collective movements. Rather than subscribing to single forms of organization, communication and tactics, movements exhibit flexibility, adaptation, and pragmatism, depending on goals, resources, and opportunities. In this chapter, I briefly examine the dimensions of hybrid collective action by bringing up recent cases of citizen mobilization around extractivism in Latin America. I understand extractivism as the “appropriation

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of natural resources in large volumes and/or high intensity, where half or more are exported as raw materials, without industrial processing or with limited processing” (Gudynas, 2018, 62). During the past decades, these movements have been recurrent and widespread throughout the region, concurrent with the expansion of natural resource extraction (Reeder et al., 2022). They need to be understood in the context of the intensification of extractivist policies and practices in the region, as well as unprecedented mobilization to challenge extractivism pushed by states and corporations in mining, oil (particularly fracking), and hydroelectricity. Many countries in the region are the largest global exporters of minerals in high demand, such as copper and lithium. Here my goal is not to offer a detailed examination of the evolution and the impact of “anti-extractivist” movements; rather, I approach these movements as rich organizational and communicative experiences to examine hybrid collective actions. Two clarifications are in order. “Anti-extractivism” should be used in quotation marks given that the movements, as I explain below, offer alternative visions of human development as well as environmental and social politics, rather than simply opposing dominant policies. What is singular about them are their broad proposals for human development. Also, hybridity is not unique to these movements. It is also visible in other examples of progressive collective action, including movements in support of media reforms (Segura & Waisbord, 2016) and women’s reproductive rights (Daby & Moseley, 2022).

The Forms of Hybrid Organizing The hybrid character of collective action is manifest in four aspects: the uses of both legacy and digital media; citizen participation in offline as well as online spaces; the combination of multiple actions and goals; and the deployment of frameworks to define problems and propose solutions. Hybrid Media Movements use both analog and digital media. While some examples attest to the primacy of digitally enabled actions (Raftopoulous & Specht, 2021), others illustrate the continuous use of traditional media (Pinto et al., 2017) in the context of Latin America’s long tradition of popular use of multiple technologies for emancipatory communication. Radio

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has been at the core of the communicative and organizational actions by rural movements that have contested extractivist policies in several countries, such as Chile, Peru, and Ecuador (Smith, 2020). Local populations resorted to radio drama/fiction, news and talk shows for different purposes: express their views on sustainable and people-centered development, demand inclusion in decision-making as well as policy changes, urge authorities to halt projects, and educate the public on indigenous cosmovisions. While some are “our media” closely aligned with the causes of the movements, other media are commercial or community-based that are not necessarily identified with their causes. What explains the persistence of radio? Radio offers relatively easy access, low-cost, and frequent opportunities to voice demands and inform audiences. Certainly, some stations are apprehensive about making activists visible or ignore them due to their complicity with extractive industries. However, the range of radio stations offers opportunities for public expression and coordination (Palma & Alcaino, 2020; Segall, 2021). Radio still matters due to enduring listening habits and the trust in community media, combined with factors such as obstacles to wider access and limitations of digital technologies to connect with broader publics (Cobo & Molina, 2019; Specht & Ros-Tonen, 2017). The blending of legacy and digital platforms reflects a pragmatic, capacious approach to mediated activism, interested in finding opportunities for communication and organization. It speaks of the different opportunities and obstacles that movements confront in highly unequal media ecologies, where dominant media companies have historically sided with corporations (including in the extractive sector) and governments. In media systems fundamentally oriented to profit and narrow partisan politics, movements continue to face obstacles, especially media distortion or silence, while justifying extractivist propaganda (Lira et al., 2021). However, even if they face unfavorable media conditions, movements have sought potential media allies and carved out opportunities for public communication. Hybrid Spaces The availability of digital platforms for organization and resistance have not made offline spaces and participation irrelevant. Movements continue to resort to spatial forms of protest and expression, including marches

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and rallies, as well as physical forms of participation in debates and consultations (Coryat, 2015). Dozens of protests have used spatial actions to contest decisions and express dissident views. Anti-extractivist protests have staged different forms of resistance, such as marches, blockades, and rallies, in areas of exploitation of natural resources. Ensuring a large human presence in these areas has been a deliberate tactic to resignify the purpose and the use of particular spaces, namely, to assert human rights in sites of exploitation and ecological dangers and disasters. As Svampa and Antonelli (2021) have argued, territorial occupation by protesters is a meaningful choice reflecting the contrast between people’s relationship to their land/space with purely economic and extractive orientation championed by the state and corporations. Territorial protests are inscribed in a tradition of nonviolent tactics and civil resistance by ordinary citizens (Mouly & Hernandez Delgado, 2019). Physical participation also includes citizen’s meetings and consultation processes primarily focused on debating control over resources and territories. Throughout Latin America, scores of community consultations and referenda about mining and other extractive industries have taken place (Walter & Urkidi, 2017). They are driven by attempts to empower local communities and wrestle authority from central governments and corporations. Most of these consultations prompted by the actions of local movements demand inclusion and challenge the lack of will of governments or corporations to involve citizens. While the impact on specific projects has been uneven, some conclusions can be drawn. Physical participation has allowed people to believe that they have a role in decision-making, and offered opportunities for state and non-state actors to meet and discuss. In some cases, consultations resulted in postponing and even terminating projects. While some experiences became institutionalized in regular processes of decision-making, others only were short-lived. In sum, collective actions around extractive projects utilize spatial and online tactics for different purposes. The variegated forms of protest and activism attest to the belief that, despite enormous digital opportunities, spatial participation remains consequential for public expression and organization (Fuentes, 2019). It is important to underscore the significance of peaceful resistance through spatial occupation and assemblies considering that violence is embedded in every aspect of plunder extractivism (Shapiro & McNeish,

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2021; Wilson Becerril, 2019; for exceptions, see Schmalz et al., 2022). Violence is evident in the forceful exploitation of natural resources, the violation of the rights of local populations, the securitization of extractive sites, exploitative labor conditions, the brutal repression of dissident movements, and ecological disasters caused by extractive industries. It is through violence that territories and populations are made vulnerable to predatory and authoritarian practices (Hristov, 2020). Violence also manifests in the continuous persecution of environmental and indigenous activists (Menton et al., 2021) by state forces and paramilitary squads, which have turned Latin America into the most dangerous region in the world for critics of environmental devastation. In 2020, Colombia was considered the deadliest country for environmental activists (Global Witness, 2021). Hybrid Tactics Hybridity is also expressed in the combination of collective action tactics—from protest to policy advocacy. Many social movements that contest plunder extractivism should not be narrowly understood as “protest” movements. They not only contest the dominant model of development through territorial occupation and digital activities, but they also try to promote development alternatives through a variety of tactics. For example, policy advocacy and coalition building have been used to change the institutional decision-making process underpinning extractivism and to champion citizens’ assemblies and other forms of participation. Movements have tried to negotiate and build alliances with governments and corporations to gather support for changes, such as banning mining practices and introducing citizens’ reviews of mining and other projects. A hybrid toolkit thus involves a combination of ideological and pragmatic considerations, while considering strategic matters such as conditions, opportunities, alliances, balance of forces, and so on. The use of hybrid tactics is not unique to these movements, as they have also been central to the strategies of other forms of collective action, such as the struggles for HIV/AIDS care and treatment (Rich, 2020) as well as abortion rights (Anderson, 2020).

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Hybrid Epistemologies Collective actions against plunder extractivism deploy epistemological contestation. Movements do not just challenge specific decisions about particular projects. Rather, they offer alternative imaginaries to define, address, and solve issues grounded in different philosophical premises about development and the environment. These imaginaries are visible in recurrent framing battles about various issues, such as the purpose and the consequences of extractivism, the relation between human and natural resources, the meanings of development, and the connections among economic, socio-political, environmental, and territorial issues. Alternative imaginaries combine citizen and scientific knowledge in hybrid epistemologies. Citizen epistemologies include the Sumak Kawsay/Buen Vivir (“well-being”) social philosophy and other indigenous notions grounded in comprehensive, human-centered local traditions, that are markedly different from the plundering philosophy animating state-sponsored corporate projects. They foreground community-centered, ecological, and culturally appropriate views about humanity and the environment. Citizen epistemologies also espouse contemporary human rights-centered development that foregrounds democracy and social equity (Sempertegui, 2021). Movements also use scientific knowledge to contest official views about the goals and the impact of extractivism. In numerous cases, academic experts have collaborated with movements in multiple roles: conducting studies about environmental impact, assessing the consequences of specific projects, and providing testimonies in public assemblies and hearings. Movements do not approach citizen/indigenous knowledge and scientific expertise as binary, incompatible options, but rather, as equally important sources to ground their opposition to official projects and outline alternative models. Surely, in some cases, there have been tensions between epistemologies as well as actors (Arancibia et al., 2018), but they are often amalgamated in alternative visions of development and environmentalism. Thus, their arguments feature different analytical and normative discourses—from the need to preserve the public commons to the significance of the Pachamama (“Earth Mother”). Access to safe water is defended by using scientific data about the pernicious consequences of certain mining and oil extraction practices, international human rights to water, as well as arguments rooted in the Buen Vivir (Dupuis et al., 2020).

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Contestation and Strategic Communication in Hybrid Societies “Anti-extractivist” movements in Latin America demonstrate that (digital) technology doesn’t singlehandedly determine communication and organizing for social change. Multiplying technological opportunities does not inevitably lead to collective action in certain directions. Movements are neither purists nor orthodox when it comes to choosing between analog and digital media, offline and online spaces, various tactics to achieve social change, or citizen, indigenous and scientific epistemologies. Decisions are not made in abstract, but within specific political and historical contexts as well as certain communicative and organizing traditions. Movements make choices according to opportunities for public expression, deliberation, and policy advocacy. Setting up dichotomies between “brick-and-mortar” and digital organizations, or legacy and digital media is unnecessary. It seems an artificial distinction for citizens and movements concerned with responding to decisions and challenges that affect their livelihoods, health, and environment. Also, it should not be surprising that, in hybrid societies, collective action features traditional communicative practices, forms of participation, and strategies and knowledge. New technologies do not completely knock off previous forms of mediated communication and public engagement as these evolve in a neat sequence of replacement of old practices. Rather, the repertoire of social change is a mashup of traditions and practices that results from the accumulation and the reshaping of communicative resources and organizational opportunities.

References Arancibia, F., Bocles, I., Massarini, A., & Verzeñassi, D. (2018). Tensiones entre los saberes académicos y los movimientos sociales en las problemáticas ambientales. Metatheoria-Revista De Filosofía e Historia De La Ciencia, 8(2), 105–123. Caren, N., Andrews, K. T., & Lu, T. (2020). Contemporary social movements in a hybrid media environment. Annual Review of Sociology, 46(1), 443–465. Cobo, G. D., & Molina, C. (2019). La comunicación comunitaria: el sustrato político-cultural de los movimientos sociales. Chasqui: Revista Latinoamericana de Comunicación, 1(140), 9–14.

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Coryat, D. (2015). Extractive politics, media power, and new waves of resistance against oil drilling in the Ecuadorian Amazon: The case of Yasunidos. International Journal of Communication, 9, 3741–3761. Daby, M., & Moseley, M. W. (2022). Feminist mobilization and the abortion debate in Latin America: Lessons from Argentina. Politics & Gender, 18(2), 359–393. Dupuits, E., Baud, M., Boelens, R., De Castro, F., & Hogenboom, B. (2020). Scaling up but losing out? Water commons’ dilemmas between transnational movements and grassroots struggles in Latin America. Ecological Economics, 172, 106625. Fernandez Anderson, C. (2020). Fighting for abortion rights in Latin America: Social movements, state allies and institutions. Routledge. Fuentes, M. A. (2019). Performance constellations: Networks of protest and activism in Latin America. University of Michigan Press. Global Witness. (2021). Last line of defence, https://www.globalwitness.org/ en/campaigns/environmental-activists/last-line-defence/ Gudynas, E. (2018). Extractivisms: Tendencies and consequences. In Reframing Latin American development (pp. 61–76). Routledge. Hintz, A. (2012). Challenging the digital gatekeepers: international policy initiatives for free expression. Journal of Information Policy, 2, 128–150. Hristov, J. (2020). Pro-capitalist violence and globalization: Lessons from Latin America. In The Routledge handbook of transformative global studies (pp. 194– 208). Routledge. Lira, C. L., Palma, K., & Limonado, F. (2021). Three W’s of in-depth journalism portraying socio-environmental conflicts in Chilean television: What (the agenda), who (the sources), and where (the locations). Signo y Pensamiento, 40(79). Menton, M., Navas, G., & Le Billon, P. (2021). Atmospheres of violence: On defenders’ intersecting experiences of violence. In Environmental Defenders (pp. 51–63). Routledge. Mouly, C., & Hernández Delgado, E. (2019). Conclusion: Civil resistance in Latin America—A viable alternative for ordinary people to defend their rights. In Civil Resistance and Violent Conflict in Latin America (pp. 227–244). Palgrave Macmillan, Cham. Palma, K., & Alcaíno, C. (2020). Mining the media: How community radio breaks through extractivist discourse articulations in a context of disaster and socio-environmental conflicts. Environmental Communication, 14(6), 830– 843. Pinto, J., Prado, P., & Tirado-Alcaraz, J. A. (2017). Mediated neo-extractivism and national development. In Environmental news in South America (pp. 143–163). Palgrave Macmillan.

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Raftopoulos, M., & Specht, D. (2021). Frack-off: Social media fights against fracking in Argentina. Environmental Communication, 16(5), 1–14. Reeder, B. W., Arce, M., & Siefkas, A. (2022). Environmental justice organizations and the diffusion of conflicts over mining in Latin America. World Development, 154, 105883. Rich, J. A., & Jolicoeur,. (2020). Organizing twenty-first-century activism: From structure to strategy in Latin American social movements. Latin American Research Review, 55(3), 430–444. Schmalz, S., Graf, J., Julián-Vejar, D., Sittel, J., & Alister Sanhueza, C. (2022). Challenging the three faces of extractivism: The Mapuche struggle and the forestry industry in Chile. Globalizations, 1–19. Segall, D. (2021). The power of sound: Community radio as a tool for socialenvironmental activism in Argentine Patagonia. Journal of Environmental Studies and Sciences, 11(2), 200–211. Segura, M. S., & Waisbord, S. (2016). Media movements: Civil society and media policy reform in Latin America. Bloomsbury Publishing. Sempértegui, A. (2021). Indigenous women’s activism, ecofeminism, and extractivism: Partial connections in the Ecuadorian Amazon. Politics & Gender, 17 (1), 197–224. Shapiro, J., & McNeish, J. A. (2021). Our extractive age: Expressions of violence and resistance (p. 280). Taylor & Francis. Smith, A. M. (2020). Sounds of the Baguazo: Listening to extractivism in an intercultural radio programme from the peruvian amazon. Journal of Latin American Cultural Studies, 29(3), 423–443. Specht, D., & Ros-Tonen, M. A. (2017). Gold, power, protest: Digital and social media and protests against large-scale mining projects in Colombia. New Media & Society, 19(12), 1907–1926. Stein, L., Notley, T., & Davis, S. (2012). Transnational networking and capacity building for communication activism. Global Media Journal, 6(2). Svampa, M., & Antonelli, M. A. (2021). Minería transnacional, narrativas del desarrollo y resistencias sociales. Buenos Aires: Biblos Treré, E., & Kaun, A. (2021). Digital media activism. in Digital roots, 193. Waisbord, S. (2018). Revisiting mediated activism. Sociology Compass, 12(6), e12584. Walter, M., & Urkidi, L. (2017). Community mining consultations in Latin America (2002–2012): The contested emergence of a hybrid institution for participation. Geoforum, 84, 265–279. Wilson Becerril, M. S. (2019). Frames in conflict: Discursive contestation and the transformation of resistance. In Civil resistance and violent conflict in Latin America (pp. 175–204). Palgrave Macmillan, Cham.

CHAPTER 5

Alternative Economic Discourses from the Margins: Kenyan Migrant Women’s Informal Childcare Organizing as an Alternative Economic Discourse in the Contemporary U.S. Context Nancy Maingi Ngwu

A decade after Broadfoot and Munshi (2007) challenged the conditions of erasure and silencing of “diverse voices and alternative rationalities” in the subfield of organizational communication, interrogating normative practices that reify the erasure and silencing of other forms and rationalities of organizational communication remains a pressing concern for postcolonial scholars (p. 249). How then, a decade later, can organizational communication stop obscuring, silencing, and erasing other

N. Maingi Ngwu (B) Department of Comminication, University of Colorado Boulder, Boulder, CO, USA e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Pal et al. (eds.), Organizing at the Margins, New Perspectives in Organizational Communication, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22993-0_5

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discourses, forms, and rationalities of organizing? In this article, I suggest a postcolonial disruption of the capitalocentric discourse in organizational communication as one way in which the subfield can move toward a more open and inclusive theorizing of organizations and organizing practices (Gibson-Graham, 2006). To define it, capitolocentrism “is the practice of analyzing all economic systems through the theoretical gaze that presumes that the horizons of the economy are fully comprehended by a map that includes only market exchange and the calculative behavior couplet” (Gibson-Graham, 2006, location 1672-Kindle Edition). Along with this thinking, attempts by mainstream organizational communication scholars to articulate what “working and organizing look like under contemporary capitalism,” have unintentionally contributed to the continued dominance and colonization of neoliberal capitalism (Kuhn, 2017, p. 32). “Even more detrimental, the unintended consequences of our capitalocentric discourse has rendered alternative organizational forms and activities as mere fantasies and the possibilities of organizing against, alongside, and beyond capitalism an afterthought” (Maingi Ngwu, 2022, p. 45). While we purport to bring different organizational forms and activities to mainstream organizational theorizing, our capitalocentric discourse has problematically situated capitalist activities and organizational forms at the center of our theorizing of social organizing. As the world bemoans yet another capitalism failure in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, the time is ripe for organizational communication practitioners and scholars to decolonize our own relationship with capitalism and (re)imagine the way in which we might contribute to the need for alternative economic activities and rationalities that are so needed right now. To this end, I argue that in order for organizational communication scholars to contribute to the much-needed actualization of alternative economic rationalities and activities, we must locate, name, and disrupt our universalized capitalocentric discourse and create space for recovering local discourses of alternative economies. In keeping with this goal, this article traces the local economic discourse of Kenyan migrant women groups’ informal childcare organizing (ICCO) in the U.S. context as a non-capitalist activity that is defined by recovering and remaking African indigenous modes of organizing and economic relationality as a means of economic empowerment and survival within global capitalism. Informal childcare organizing in this research refers to non-governmental regulated childcare organized by and among friends and neighbors that are unrelated

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(Bryson, n.d.). To this end, ICCO is a non-capitalist practice that involves the communal exchange of childcare services through an (in)formal social exchange network. As an organizing practice that operates under the principles of bartering, ICCO discourses provide an important empirical understanding on the creative strategies that marginalized groups, that have been relegated to the periphery of society, creatively resist, remake, and reshape capitalist organizational forms and activities by recovering and remaking indigenous economic relations in the contemporary U.S. context. By tracing the discursive construction of ICCO by a group of East African women living in the U.S., this research aims to bring a de-capitalized perspective on what non-capitalist working and organizing might look like in the current global order (GibsonGraham, 2006). By centering non-capitalist activities of Global South migrant women, it extends notions of alternative economic relationality, by engaging the dimensions of race, nationality, and culture, that are often overlooked in mainstream discourses of diverse economies (e.g. Gibson-Graham & Healy, 2013; Gibson-Graham, 2008; & Cameron & Gibson-Graham, 2003). Many alternative economic activities by Global South migrants living in the Global North emerge and persist through conditions imposed by oppressive power structures that threatened the very survival of the Global South subject. As such, examining alternative economic activities of Global South migrants has the potential to offer novel insights into the communicative constitution of non-capitalist activities. As Gibson and Graham (2006) offer, “If we can begin to see non-capitalist activities as prevalent and viable [even by organizational actors that have traditionally been rendered invisible in mainstream theorizing], we may be encouraged here and now to actively build on them to transform our local economies” (Gibson-Graham, 2006, Location 374 - Kindle Edition; parenthesis added). Creating an intellectual space for non-capitalist activities calls for organizational communication scholars to decenter, decolonize, and reimagine our intellectual relationship with capitalism, as well as the organizational forms at the center of our theorizing of organizations and organizing. Such a move has the potential to reveal alternatives to capitalism that have the potential to contribute positively to some of the most pressing issues of our time. With these aims in mind, this research employs utu feminism—a Kenyan feminist epistemology that draws from Kenyan indigenous values to theorize the lived experience of Kenyan women in the contemporary context—to contextualize and locate the ICCO discourse of East African

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women in the U.S. context as an alternative economic discourse and organizing practice. As a framework intentioned on bringing East African women’s lived experiences to mainstream academic theorizing, utu feminism speaks to the reclaiming of indigenous motherhood rights by ordinary Kenyan women as an African feminist practice (Kinyanjui, 2018). At the heart of this framework is attention to how motherhood shapes Kenyan women’s organizing practices. Forced by various oppressive structures (capitalism, patriarchy, modernity, etc.), the Kenyan woman has no choice but “to build alliances so that she can provide for her offspring, flourish, and connect communities” (Kinyanjui, 2018, p. 777). In contrast to Western feminist theorizing, utu feminism centers motherhood as the key shaper of organizing practice. Eliciting utu feminism is a necessary move that serves the larger political aim of this project to uncover the capitalocentric assumptions that inform the organizational forms at the center of organizational communication theorizing. This study also engages the relationship between power, knowledge, and culture within organizational communication’s capitalocentric discourse (Said, 1978). Specifically, I look at organizational communication’s capitalocentric discourse as a framework that has unintentionally created alternative economic practices, such as ICCO, as an obsolete Other. In rendering alternative economic activities as an Other, marginalized groups whose economic relations and activities may be (un)intentionally outside of capitalist relations are rendered invisible and/or objects of capitalist relations. To this end, I interrogate Kenyan ICCO in the U.S. context as a way of speaking back to the center. In doing so, I join other organizational communication scholars who are working from the margins to locate spaces of subaltern communicative resistance and persistence (e.g. see Broadfoot & Munshi, 2007; Cruz, 2015b; Cruz, 2017; Cruz & Sodeke, 2020; Duta & Pal, 2020; Pal, 2016; Pal & Dutta, 2013; Pal & Buzzanell, 2013; Pal & Dutta, 2008;). In what follows, I review the literature on capitalism in organizational communication. Second, I describe the key elements of informal childcare as a phenomenon and its relation to organizing practice. I then introduce the foundations of utu feminism, the cultural framework that I deploy in this research, and then my methods, findings, and discussion of this study.

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Capitalism in Organizational Communication Scholarship A basic keyword search of the term capitalism in Management Communication Quarterly (MCQ), the field’s flagship journal, or a brief look at the table of contents in organizational communication textbooks, suggests that capitalism is a “socio-economic frame” (Kuhn, 2017, p. 118) with a well-established space in organizational communication scholarship (e.g. Clair & Anderson, 2013; Cheney & Cloud, 2006; Cloud, 2001; Kuhn, 2017; Kuhn et al., 2008; Mazmanian, 2019). While this scholarship has productively posed economic discourse as something that organizational communication scholars have much to contribute to (Kuhn, 2018), much of the economic discourse in organizational communication is focused on “sites of working and organizing” informed by capitalism as a “socioeconomic frame”(Kuhn, 2017, p. 118). The unintended consequences of this pre-occupation with capitalist sites of working and organizing is that non-capitalist forms of organizing and noneconomic aspects of organizing have become an “other” only to be understood within or in relation to capitalism. Almost two decades ago, Cloud (2001) cautioned organizational communication scholars about falling for reductive approaches to the economy by assuming that capitalism had shifted to a state of new economic reality. In her work Cloud (2001) situated capitalism as the overarching institution implicated in contemporary working and organizing conditions and offered that “without attention to class interests, class power, and class movement in a capitalist system that is ongoing, any attempt to understand power in the workplace will be, at best, incomplete and, at worst, irrelevant to the project of social change” (p. 275). Decades later, organizational communication scholars seem to have taken heed to Cloud’s (2001) cautions by continuing to center capitalism in our reading of the economy. In his work engaging with how organizational communication might more suitably engage with the most pressing social issues of our time, Kuhn (2018) suggests engaging with problems “encountered in working and organizing under contemporary capitalism as a means to operationalize novel conceptions of organization and communication” (p. 30). In this work, Kuhn (2018) argues:

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investigating important social problems requires an understanding of the practices, organizations, projects, and institutions to which we devote much of our doing and living. It requires a conception of the options for doing and living within, and against, those practices and institutions. The primary and overarching institution upon and through which working and organizing occur is, unsurprisingly, capitalism. Even if we are interested in organizational practices where profits and losses are not computed, capitalism as a mode of understanding the social as a market-based site of exchange is pervasive. (p. 31)

Unsurprisingly, this practice of orienting toward capitalism as the overarching institution in which working and organizing occur has situated “alternative” economic activities as viable organizational forms only in relation to their ability to break free from the constraints of capitalism. While this orientation toward capitalism is understandable given scholarly understandings of what it means to be alternative, the issue with this orientation is that it presumes that alternative economic activities only operate outside of capitalism—a binary that organizational communication scholars invested in making sense of the pressing conditions of working and organizing within the harsh realities of COVID-19 could do well to disrupt (Stephens et al., 2020). Consequently, our current orientation toward capitalism does little to create legitimate space for making sense of alternative economic activities that blur the boundaries between economic structures, or that exist and persist within capitalism. Although notions of alternative organizing call organizational communication scholars to consider organizing possibilities that have not been considered before (Cheney & Munshi, 2017), our capitalocentric discourse constrains us from seeing those organizational forms that have a fluid relationship with capitalism as alternative. Perhaps no organizational form in recent times has been more criticized for its collusion with capitalism more than the non-profit organizational form (Sanders, 2012). In their foundational study on the portrayal of the poor among nonprofit organizations, Clair and Anderson (2013) critique the relationship between Heifer international—a religious organization whose mission is to eradicate poverty—and capitalism. In their reading of the organization’s promotional materials, Clair and Anderson (2013) conclude that the organization is a “capitalist player after all” (p. 562). While this

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example is brief, it captures the binary thinking that keeps organizational communication scholars from seeing alternative possibilities within, outside, and beyond capitalism. To be fair, the discourse to disrupt organizational communication’s relationship to capitalism and create space for alternative economic activities is a/an (re)emerging discourse among critical organizational communication scholars. While reviewing this discourse in organizational communication is beyond the scope of this research, this study was conducted with the aim of building on the sensibilities that Bryson and Dempsey (2017) call us to in their research. In their foundational work on the unwaged reproductive labor, Bryson and Dempsey (2017) examine seasonal consignment sales (SCS) in the U.S. context as an alternative organizing practice. Rather than focusing on aspects of SCS that could instinctively dismiss its alternative possibilities, Bryson and Dempsey (2017) focus on the ambivalences of SCS and its function as an alternative to capitalism. This study builds on Bryson and Dempsey’s (2017) call “for multiple, alternative representations of the economy based on practices of solidarity and shared recognition that are able to open up new possibilities for theorizing” by engaging with ICCO as an alternative economic discourse and practice (p. 604).

Informal Childcare as an Alternative Organizing Practice Although “alternative organization/organizing” are terms that still need further probing/contesting in organizational theorizing, this study adopts this conception to strategically situate the type of organizing practice that is captured in this research. To this end, alternative organizing refers to, “organizations that are understood in opposition to the familiar, traditional, mainstream, or hegemonic arrangements, and/or those organizing practices that are radically different from those to which a group or part of society is accustomed” (Cheney, 2014, p. 1). In this work, alternative organizing offers a frame to make sense of the function of economic activities that exist and persist against, alongside, and beyond capitalism. Building on the defining principles of autonomy, solidarity, and responsibility that Parker et al. (2014) propose as characteristics of alternative organizational forms, this study focuses on an informal childcare group as a type of alternative organization. Autonomy as a defining principle of alternative organizational form refers to the idea that individuals have the

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right to be free from external control or influence (e.g. autonomy from the state, economic autonomy, etc.) (Parker et al., 2014). Solidarity refers to the idea that organizational actors have a collective reliance on one another, and responsibility refers to the need for alternative organizing practices to have a responsibility to developing, sustaining, and remaining accountable to the future (Parker et al., 2014). While it may seem misleading to call an informal childcare group an organization, I do so within the scope of Parker et al.’s (2014) principles and to capture ICCO as a type of organization that is unfixed and in a constant state of becoming (Weick, 1979). The informal childcare group in this study is autonomous because it operates outside of state-regulated licensing. It operates on the principle of solidarity as organizational members are reliant on the communal exchange of childcare services through an informal social exchange network, and it holds a responsibility to the future by situating motherhood and economic empowerment as vital components of alternative imaginings of the future in the present. ICCO offers a culturally specific context to explore the function of alternative forms of organizing that exist within, alongside, and beyond capitalism. In this regard, this work aims to contribute to the theorizing of viable alternatives to capitalism in organizational communication scholarship. I introduce below the cultural framework I deploy in this work to culturally contextualize the East African women’s informal childcare group in this study.

Utu Feminism as Global South Cultural Framework Utu feminism is an African feminist framework introduced by Kenyan feminist geographer Njeri Kinyanjui. Utu is a Swahili word for humanness and encapsulated with the feminine focuses on the humanity of everyday African women as they negotiate, resist, and manage local/global exploitations. At the root of utu feminism is a concern for how indigenous motherhood rights inform ordinary Kenyan women’s organizing practices. Kinyanjui (2018) says: key to motherhood rights is the desire for their offspring to live and thrive in safe and secure spaces. It also includes the women’s right to have spaces for self-reliance and self-determination in work, production, and exchange to nurture and care for their offspring. To achieve these rights, women

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work with resilience to provide for their offspring and also resist any form of injustice to their children. (p. 11)

Utu feminism not only shares a concern for challenging patriarchy, but also challenging oppressive structures. It is about how women apply the norms, logics, and values of humanness in daily livelihood struggles. Below, I highlight the values and principles embedded in utu feminism as well as discuss why this framework was elicited for this organizational communication project. Utu feminism is advanced by the Kenyan feminist values of solidarity, gifting, sharing, and reciprocity; all of which are constituted by communication. Utu feminism is premised on the philosophy of ubuntu (“I am because we are” ), often invoked in African contexts as a basis for solidarity and interdependence (Ngondo & Klyueva, 2022, p. 27). This principle of ubuntu espouses that a person is only a person through others, and that the individual cannot survive without being in community, organizing in community, and resisting in community with others (Ngondo & Klyueva, 2022). Solidarity is thus an important tenet of utu feminism as it plays a vital role in creating collective agency among women as they struggle and resist oppressive structures (Kinyanjui, 2014). Utu feminists build solidarity so that they are able to provide for their children and build thriving communities (Kinyanjui, 2018). The value of gifting in utu feminism highlights indigenous practices of gift exchange during childbirth, weddings, and other occasions as a feminist practice advancing motherhood. “Traditionally, women advanced motherhood through matega, where they would meet to exchange gifts, for example, during childbirth and ngwatio where they would meet to pool labour” (Kinyanjui, 2018, p. 780). The value of sharing in utu feminism refers to the transfer of utu-feminist knowledge (logics, values, and norms) from one generation of women to the next. Finally, the value of reciprocity in utu feminism captures the expectation and responsibility that ordinary women have to humanity and one another. The feminine utu’s greatest concerns connect her to her children and her community; by taking care of them, they take care of her. These values at the heart of utu feminism serve as a good analytical tool for understanding marginalized women’s organizing practices in the Kenyan context and beyond. It is important to note that utu feminism is situated on the principles of African feminist theory (for an overview of ontological, epistemological, axiological,

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and methodological commitments of African feminist theories in communication research, see Cruz, 2015a). I now discuss the political aims of eliciting an utu-feminist perspective in this research. While feminist analyses of alternative organizing activities have tended to use a Western feminist framework, this study draws on utu feminism for two important reasons. One is the organizational communication field’s ongoing discussion on ways to decolonize organizational communication inquiry from Western academic imperialism and whiteness that are implicated in the organization of organizational communication and the communication discipline at large (e.g., see Andrade & Cooper, 2019; Kapoor, 2019; Pal et al., 2022; Rodriguez et al., 2019). A similar but related reason for employing an utu-feminist lens for this study is the tendency for academic inquiry to employ essentialist approaches to the study of women’s experiences by neglecting intersectional sensibilities (Linabury et al., 2021; Linabury & Cruz, 2021). In this vein, this work aims to join postcolonial scholars working to expand African approaches to our ways of knowing in organizational communication scholarship by eliciting a Kenyan feminist epistemology that draws from Kenyan indigenous values to theorize the lived experience of Kenyan women in contemporary contexts. As such, utu feminism speaks to the reclaiming of motherhood rights by ordinary Kenyan women as an African feminist practice (Kinyanjui, 2018). Utu feminism considers how motherhood shapes Kenyan women’s organizing practices. Forced by various oppressive structures (capitalism, patriarchy, modernity, etc.), the Kenyan woman has no choice but “to build alliances so that she can provide for her offspring, flourish, and connect communities” (Kinyanjui, 2018, p. 777). In contrast to Western feminist theorizing, utu feminism centers motherhood as the key shaper of organizing practice. Additionally, utu feminism considers the way that indigenous modes of organizing centered around motherhood rights influence the contemporary modes of organizing that Kenyan women adopt to provide for their offspring. Kenyan women in the U.S. have imported utu feminist logics, values, and forms of organizing to the contemporary U.S. context. The informal childcare organization in this study is one such organizing practice. In conducting this empirical project, I ask the following research questions: RQ1: How does Kenyan migrant women’s ICCO discourse draw on utufeminist values to organize against, within, and beyond capitalism?

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RQ2: What alternative communication practices inform Kenyan migrant women’s ICCO in the U.S. context?

Methods Research Setting and Procedures Because this research was conducted during the COVID-19 global pandemic, this project underwent several design changes and embraced an emergent design to fit the shifting demands of recruiting participants and collecting data amidst global shutdowns and health crises (Ravitch, 2020). This project was originally proposed to be conducted in the Kenyan context but the COVID-19 crisis called for a shift to the U.S. context and the direction of the project, which was originally aimed at examining how Kenyan women are communicatively remaking indigenous organizing practices in the contemporary Nairobi context, had to be shifted to focus on Kenyan migrant women in the U.S. context. While these shifts were unexpected, the shift and change in context and direction ended up strengthening my project. Similarly, recruiting participants and collecting data had to be reimagined and shifted to online contexts. Given these shifts and changes, this research is a pilot study of a larger African feminist ethnographic project on African women’s organizing in the contemporary U.S. context. In the larger project, I was examining how Kenyans have imported African modes of organizing to the U.S. context. ICCO emerged as one such mode of organizing, and so I revised my interview guide to include questions about informal childcare. African feminist ethnography is methodologically concerned with “recovering African women’s own understandings and rejects the stereotypes of women as victims by focusing on their resourcefulness and creativity” (Cruz, 2015b, p. 426). The aims of this project are aligned with the promises of African feminist ethnography as it focuses on how African women—in their everyday organizing practice—carve spaces and strategies of empowerment as they manage, resist, and survive tensions associated with patriarchy and global capitalism (Cruz, 2015a). Building on these logics, as well as the emergent design imposed by the COVID-19 context, I conducted semi-structured interviews with Kenyan women who are part of Kenyan women chamas living in the U.S. east coast and conducted digital participant observations of a chama group located in the same region. For brief context, Chama (vyama in plural)

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is an informal organization created by indigenous Kenyan women to help pool resources together to overcome shared difficulties imposed by local and global power configurations. Created by indigenous rural women in the Kenyan context, Kenyan women have remade chamas in the contemporary Kenyan context and in Kenyan diasporic communities all over the world. Participants were recruited through snowball sampling. I solicited participation from personal contacts involved in a Kenyan women’s chama and solicited referrals from women interviewed (Lindlof & Taylor, 2011). I conducted nine in-depth, semi-structured interviews, lasting from 30 to 75 minutes. All interviews were recorded using an audio recorder and transcribed. Three of the nine interviews were selected because of their explicit connection with ICCO. The research was conducted in a town located on the U.S. east coast. Digital meeting sites (WhatsApp and Zoom) were used to conduct interviews and participant observations were conducted via the group’s WhatsApp group chat forum. Participants chose pseudonyms prior to their interviews. Because I did not gain access to the group forum that I ended up observing till a month into my project, I engaged in 14 hours of participant observations via the group’s WhatsApp group chat forum. I gained access to the group through one of the women I had interviewed as she said she knew the leader of a chama and was able to get me access to conduct observations and recruit participants from the group. I logged onto the WhatsApp forum every day and took field notes of conversations and posts shared by group members on my computer. I had initially only planned on logging onto the WhatsApp group forum once or twice a week, but the active participation of the members and my own interest in their conversations and posts made logging in daily necessary to understand their organizing practices. Interviews represented individual reflections on the informal childcare experience, while observations illuminated the functions of the informal childcare organizing as a practice. Conducting this research on Kenyan women’s organizing practices proved challenging because of the COVID-19 pandemic. I experienced internal challenges about the ethics of conducting qualitative research with marginalized groups during a global pandemic. It was no secret that the pandemic was ravaging BIPOC communities all over the world, and it was difficult to conduct research as usual knowing the challenges that the world was undergoing. Given these ethical convictions, I made the decision to apply for a mini-grant from my department to compensate participants for their time on this project. Other challenges experienced

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were related to transcribing data. The software system that I decided to use to do the initial transcription of my interviews did not register Kenyan English and therefore I had to transcribe interviews myself. This is a challenge that scholars working with diverse language speakers have to navigate when using Western designed research aids. Researcher Positionality As a Kenyan migrant woman born and raised in Kenya and now living in the U.S. context, my identity informed my encounters with the women in this study. I was nine years old when my mom, dad, and siblings migrated to the U.S., and I have been around Kenyan women’s alternative organizing both in the Kenyan and in the U.S. context for most of my life. At the time this study was conducted, I was living in the U.S.as a doctoral student. Although I still strongly identified with my culture, I had lived in the U.S. for most of my life. The women, who were mostly middle aged and had all migrated to the U.S. as adults, often pointed to their age, relationship with migration in the U.S., and connection to Kenya as markers of difference between us. Language helped break these barriers as most of the women were surprised to find out that I still spoke both my ethnic language and had a strong command of Swahili. This came up in almost all of my interviews as Kenyan English is often mixed with Swahili words. Noting I understood the words seemed to break barriers between us and made the women less uncomfortable with me. Other challenges pertained to my role as a researcher. As a student of qualitative research inquiry trained in Western institutions, I have become accustomed to the interactive communication style between participants and researchers. Early on in the research process, I noted women evading this Western “interview style” approach to our interviews. They would either ask me questions of their own during the interview or signal a desire for me to join them in their sharing by asking affirming questions. Realizing that culturally, the idea of sharing as a co-constructed process, I made a conscious effort to share when prompted during my interviews. Finally, during interviews the women often took on the role of cultural educators as they often invoked my age by referencing my place as part of a generation of “young people,” and emphasizing how important socialization and education of our culture was to the next generation. Because of this disposition and as a sign of respect for the women, I found myself allowing for longer interview times than I had intended in the design process.

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Data Analysis I employed a grounded theory approach to analyze the data. A central goal of grounded theory is to “begin with empirical world and build inductive understanding of it as events unfold and knowledge accrues” (Charmaz, 2020, p. 199). Fieldwork and data analysis happened simultaneously, and I avoided reading any material related to Kenyan women’s organizing prior to analyzing the data. This approach was appropriate for my study as, similar to other projects with corresponding aims (e.g. Cruz, 2017), I wanted to focus on my participants’ voices and avoid my own bias or meanings associated with the topic during coding and data analysis. After the three interviews selected for this pilot study were transcribed, I went back and listened to the interviews prior to assigning any codes. Open coding was used in the first phase of the coding process, labeling themes that emerged from the participants themselves. When the third participant’s interview was conducted, I continued open coding while identifying new codes emerging from the data. The second phase of coding included analyzing new codes against those previously identified. The third phase of coding included distilling codes to create a final list of codes. Throughout the three phases of coding, I was intentional about suspending my own bias and experiences as a Kenyan migrant woman in the U.S. by practicing self-reflexivity about my role as a researcher. Findings In my first research question, I investigated how Kenyan women’s ICCO discourse draws on utu-feminist values to organize against, within, and beyond capitalism. My findings revealed that the women drew on utufeminist values to resist the dominant capitalist culture and exploitation. Apparent in their ICCO discourses was a stark recognition of their marginalized realities within racial capitalism. This conception of racial capitalism points to the historical foundations of capitalism as predicated on the extraction and exploitation of labor and economic value from racial minorities and particularly Black people (Robinson, 1983). For the women, the racialized exploitation of capitalism necessitated the need for ICCO embedded in their own cultural values and principles. Thus, they noted the utu-feminist values of solidarity, reciprocity, sharing, and gifting, embedded in the philosophy of ubuntu, as central to their organizing against the racialized exploitation of capitalism. Although

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ICCO operated for the purpose of allowing the women to provide for their children through gainful employment in capitalist contexts, the women drew on utu-feminist values to resist and negotiate their labor power within capitalism. The women’s ICCO discourse revolved around avoiding exploitation of their and the fathers of their children’s labor power in the U.S. context by reducing the burden of childcare services to communal exchange. To the women, ICCO allowed them to collectively reduce the overwhelming demand of labor from the capitalist system. The value of solidarity was especially noted by the women as a means for them to build collective agency among both the women and the fathers of their children against capitalist exploitation. Mumbi, a mother of three, spoke of how ICCO allows her and her husband to negotiate their labor power within capitalism: For us, if we did not have this thing going on, one of us would have to stay home and take care of the children or we would have to work three jobs just to make it. It costs $200 dollars per child per week. That would be $600 dollars for our kids. The group allows us to work and save so much money.

Gender solidarity, thus emerged, as central to their organizing against, within, and beyond capitalism. The notion that African women enact collective agency and resistance through negotiation, collaboration, and compromise with African men is widely documented (Biwa, 2021; Cruz, 2015a; Cruz, 2015b; Cruz, 2017; Nnaemeka, 2004). As Biwa (2021) offers, “African feminists emphasize the importance of the group and their interconnectivity. Thus, their foremost concern is for human life. This concern is also an acknowledgment that “each gender constitutes the critical half that makes the human whole—neither sex is totally complete in itself”—men are not the other” (p. 45). This concern for gender solidarity in the women’s ICCO discourse reflected a departure from Western notions of the relationship between gender roles and reproductive labor. This was evident in Mumbi discussed the role that her husband played in their ICCO. She said, “this thing cannot happen without us. It cannot happen without him, and it cannot happen without me. We do it together.” In my observations, although the women were the ones primarily leading and coordinating the group, the men were closely involved in the function of the group as they were also tasked with taking care of children in the group and were part of coordinating efforts

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to transport children in the group to various homes and to/from school. Solidarity thus not only emerged as a symbol of gender alliance but as a key utu-feminist principal for marginalized communities to collectively survive and flourish within global capitalism. The women’s ICCO discourse drew on the utu-feminist value of reciprocity to practice an alternative economic logic and rationality. The economic rationality in ICCO for the women revolved around the communal exchange of childcare services thus reinforcing bartering as the method of exchange for the services they provided one another. Building on the constitutive foundations of solidarity in their organizing against, within, and beyond capitalism, the women viewed reciprocity as a necessary condition for ICCO to operate as a viable alternative to capitalist childcare organizing. Rather than focusing on reproductive labor as a means for accumulating capital, ICCO allowed the women to focus on values of communal care. The women saw ICCO as a practice of taking care of one another, something that did not warrant monetary exchange. When asked about the way pay worked in their ICCO, Jennifer, a mother of two boys, offered: I’m sorry, we do not pay for this. That’s the arrangement between the women. We arrange like, let’s work it out this way. I can take a morning shift and come home, pick up the kids while you do the evening shift. So we don’t pay for this. We just take good care of each other.

The women equated caring for each other’s children as caring for one another, therefore reciprocity was mobilized by communal care for one another. Though motherhood is central to ICCO, to the women, the responsibility of care extended beyond their children and into caring for the community. “We take care of each other” was a common utterance among the women. For the women, the value of reciprocity coincided with the principle of ubuntu, both committed to the values of interdependence and care for one another. This rationality challenges capitalism’s demand for monetary exchange for services by engaging bartering practice as a viable mode of the economic lifeworld. Beyond engaging bartering practice, drawing on reciprocity as a value allowed the women to practice alternative economic logic and rationality premised on the welfare of the community systematically disrupted capitalist logics and rationalities in the realm of reproductive labor.

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Finally, the women’s ICCO discourse drew on the utu-feminist value of sharing and gifting as a practice of building and surviving as a community. As utu-feminist values, sharing and gifting are strongly rooted in indigenous Kenyan women values. “Traditionally, women advanced motherhood through matega, where they would meet to exchange gifts, for example, during childbirth and ngwatio where they would meet to pool labour” (Kinyanjui, 2018, p. 781). In the women’s ICCO, gifting and sharing allowed women to challenge capitalist demands for commitment to individual wealth accumulation by simultaneously building and reinforcing their commitments to their community. The women’s relationships transcended childcare exchange and included building community outside of the group through gifting and sharing. The women expressed their connection with other women in their community by attending events and activities hosted by women in their community. Events such as baby showers, church celebrations, and bereavement support events emerged as contexts where the women got together and practiced building community support beyond their ICCO. When asked about how their ICCO connects them with their community, Nyakiro spoke of communal gifting at weddings and baby showers as part of their commitments to helping and taking care of each other: when any woman in our community has something going on, a baby shower, something they are doing at their church, or even when someone loses someone back home, we always pull together to help.

Mumbi said, “there is no other way to be in this country, so we are there for each other.” Gifting and sharing were just one way that the women articulated the extensiveness of their relational organizing and interdependence on one another for building a community for economic survival within global capitalism. Their ICCO discourse thus drew on gifting and sharing as a means for shaping their local community for them and other Kenyan cultural members living in the U.S. Further, there were instances when the women expressed the extensiveness of their organizing through sharing and gifting as a means of expressing their commitment to the shared need of collective survival in their status as Black migrant people living in the U.S. Mumbi’s articulation of there being no other way to be in this country resonated with these notions of the need for a collective survival. While they did not explicitly discuss experiences of racism in

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the U.S. as one of the driving forces for their need for collective survival, their desire to engage sharing and gifting in times of need and celebration translated as resistance to capitalist values that often time are linked to xenophobia. Jennifer provided an example: when I had my second son last year, this is before covid, I couldn’t work. My husband had to work two jobs. These women they came. All of them. So many and took care of us. They brought the baby clothes, they brought us food, and they helped take care of my son when my husband couldn’t. No one else in this country can just do this for you. They are my sisters and brothers.

Jennifer’s reference to the fact that “no one in this country can do this for you” was especially pointed to the issues with dominant capitalist culture that values Black “foreign” bodies only as far as they can be mined for profit and labor. The ICCO discourse resisted this by engaging gifting and sharing, in the instance of Jennifer’s postpartum struggles, by valuing her human needs in ways that the women expressed were not always possible in the U.S. context outside of their local community and organizing. In sum, the Kenyan women’s ICCO discourse drew on the utu-feminist values of solidarity, reciprocity, sharing, and gifting as a means for simultaneously organizing against, within, and beyond capitalism. While most of the women and the fathers of their children held capitalist occupations, their ICCO articulated a desire to elicit cultural values and counter-hegemonic organizing as a means for collectively resisting and surviving the demands and exploitation of racial capitalism. They relied on the philosophy of ubuntu as a constitutive feature of their ICCO, therefore illuminating African feminist economic discourses as viable alternatives to capitalist forms for organizing. Toward this end, the women’s ICCO discourse has the potential to challenge the capitalist colonization of everyday life through alternative communication practices and imaginings of being, resisting, and thriving in community with others, which I discuss below.

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Alternative Communication Practices in Kenyan Migrant Women’s ICCO Addressing my second research question, I investigated the alternative communication practices that constitute Kenyan migrant women’s ICCO in the U.S. context. In connecting with Cheney’s (2004) thinking on alternative organizing, I was seeking to explore alternative communication practices as those communication practices in the women’s ICCO discourse that emerged as different from those that communicatively constitute hegemonic arrangements. My findings encapsulated two dimensions of alternative communication practices that constituted the women’s ICCO: (dimension 1) practice as activities in the women’s ICCO that involved messaging and meaning-making; and (dimension 2) practice as ongoing communication about norms that constituted ICCO (Craig, 2005). Table 5.1 illustrates these two dimensions of alternative communication in the women’s ICCO discourse. Prayer As illustrated in Table 5.1, the alternative communication practices that emerged in dimension one of the women’s ICCO included prayer and preserving culture by talking and teaching children involved in ICCO about their Kenyan culture. Prayer was noted in my field observations as a present and prevalent alternative communication practice in the women’s ICCO. Women in the ICCO WhatsApp forum often requested prayers for various things going on in both their immediate lives in the U.S. and things going on in Kenya. On one of my observation days, I noted a video that a member shared detailing news of seven 16-year-old girls that had disappeared in Kenya. The video was a recording of one of the girl’s aunts pleading for anyone with any information to contact authorities and to Table 5.1 Two dimensions of alternative communication practice in Kenyan women’s ICCO discourse

Practice dimension

Findings

Practice as activities of messages/meaning-making Practice as ongoing communication on constitutive norms

prayer; preserving culture trust; care; commitment

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pray. When the video was shared, group members shared their sentiments of fear, and offered that they would be praying for the safe return of the girls. One of the group members shared that this was, “the most devastating thing you want to hear. I am praying. We can’t take care enough.” A few days later when the girls were found alive, the women shared praises to God for their return. Other times women asked for prayers for things going on with the other group members or themselves. When a group member and her kids got sick, a woman in the group asked for prayer requests. Members of the group responded with prayers for several days. Although the women never explicitly discussed their specific religious affiliations, prayer emerged as both an alternative communication practice for taking action for their collective care and solidarity with one another but also as a practice necessitated by the conditions of living and surviving under the oppressive structures they were organizing alongside, within, and beyond daily. Several of the women told me that prayer was “fuel for them.” This notion of prayer being fuel and using it as a form of collective action in oppressive conditions resonates with what Kinyanjui (2018) offers as characteristic of the feminine utu: The feminine utu not only speaks to patriarchy but also to autocratic, oppressive regimes. “the feminine utu is epitomized in the women’s unbroken spirit of perseverance, determination and unrelenting experiences” (p. 780). This relationship with prayer as a culturally embedded communication practice made prayer a constitutive feature of ICCO for the Kenyan migrant women.

Preserving Culture by Talking and Teaching Children Involved in ICCO Kenyan Culture Another alternative communication practice that emerged as constitutive of the women’s ICCO was the women preserving their culture by talking and teaching their kids about their culture. Mumbi, a mother of three, said: for me, it is so nice to have this group to help my children. Raising kids is hard work and raising them away from our families back home makes it even harder. This group is our family here. They are the ones that the children hear talking our language. They feed them our food when the keep them, and they hear our songs.

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Discussions similar to Mumbi’s on how important the ICCO is for talking and teaching their kids about their Kenyan culture were prevalent in my conversations with the women. At one point, Jennifer mentioned that my learning about how they teach their kids—some of them born in the U.S.—about our culture was them teaching me how they/I can teach my own children when I have them. I wrote the following in my notes after my interview with Jennifer: “ICCO for them is as much about preserving the Kenyan culture (through the informal teaching of their children) as it is about resisting capitalism.” Even though they were raising their kids away from their homeland, they considered ICCO as a means for collectively preserving their culture through teaching and talking to their kids about Kenyan culture. Below, I discuss the alternative communication practices that emerged in the second dimension of the women’s ICCO. Ethical Norms of the Women’s ICCO Discourse: Trust, Care, and Commitment The alternative communication practices that emerged in dimension two of the women’s ICCO were trust, care, and commitment. In my conversations with the women, they talked often about the ethical norms that constituted ICCO. While these norms do not in themselves alone represent communicative practice, their pervasiveness in the women’s ICCO discourse illuminated the centrality of these norms to ICCO as an organizing practice. From the start, the women discussed trust as central to their ICCO. Trust served the function of developing ICCO as an organizational form. Because of the informal nature of ICCO, the currency of operation is trust. When asked how one becomes a member of their ICCO group, Mumbi spoke about trust as a constituting factor of their ICCO: Now, once you come and you request that you want to be a member, we have to call and we have to look for your fellow friends. We gotta do some background check, though it’s not really like the one we do here. We call some people that know you and they tell us if you are someone we can trust to be in the group. It is very easy to get information from people in our community here, so we know everything before we allow you to be a member.

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Other sentiments regarding trust revolved around it as central to recruiting new members and maintaining members in their ICCO. New members were vetted through the lens of trust, by inquiring from existing members if interested members could be trusted. Conversations with existing members also revolved around trust, as members discussed needing to know that they can trust fellow members to take care of their children as their own. Trust, thus, was central to the function of the ICCO as well as the way the women interacted with each other in their everyday lives. Care and commitment also emerged ethical norms in the women’s ICCO discourse. Care emerged as not only a central value in ICCO but also a constituting element of ICCO whose foundations were premised on caring for children, caring for each other, and caring for their community. To practice care, the women had to be committed to the logics, values, and rationalities of African motherhood in relation to community building. The women spoke of the need for them to stay committed to their values as a means for survival in the U.S. Every member of the group had to be committed to following through on childcare responsibilities, as well as remaining available to step in when unexpected things came up. Jennifer spoke on how they enacted care and commitment in the group: “sometimes, things come up, I have to stay at work later or like now, here, things can be so unpredictable. We all know that so we are always available for each other in those times.” Central to these alternative communication practices is an alternative economic rationality that privileges the community over the individual. Kenyan migrant women’s ICCO thus has the potential to not only offer important insights on alternative ways of being in community, but also serve as productive sites of inquiry for alternative economic organizing.

Discussion and Conclusions This study explored Kenyan migrant women’s ICCO discourse as an alternative economic discourse in the cotemporary U.S. context. Findings revealed that the women’s ICCO draws on utu-feminist values to organize against, within, and beyond capitalism. The women’s ICCO discourse embodied utu feminism by drawing on solidarity, reciprocity, sharing, and gifting—embedded in the philosophy of ubuntu—as constitutive features of their organization of resistance and persistence. Solidarity, long linked to issues of survival (Cruz, 2017), is an embodied value of the

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women’s ICCO discourse as a means for building collective agency. In line with the women’s recognition of their marginalized realities within capitalism, solidarity was viewed as a necessary condition for organizing against exploitation of racial capitalism and necessary for negotiating their labor power. At the onset, women recognized solidarity across gender lines as necessary for evading the extraction and exploitation of labor and economic value from racial minorities and particularly Black people. Their ICCO discourses were full of examples of gender solidarity as needed for the function of ICCO as a practice. To the women, ICCO allowed them to collectively reduce the overwhelming demand of labor from the capitalist system. The overexuberant costs of capitalist childcare would have necessitated additional labor from the women and the fathers of their children; however, ICCO was a means and practice of evading that persistent extraction of labor from them. Reciprocity is an embodied value of the women’s ICCO discourse as a viable practice of an alternative economic logic and rationality. Rather than using informal reproductive labor as a means for accumulating personal capital, the women relied on the logics of communal exchange embedded in reciprocity as a practice to constitute their ICCO. Expressions like “we take care of each other” prevalent in the women’s ICCO discourses were reflective of the alternative economic logics at the center of ICCO. Contrary to capitalist logics and values that elevate accumulation of capital, competition, and self-interest; the women’s ICCO discourse elevated logics of interdependence, communal care, and service for the sake of community welfare as logics undergirded by the economic rationality of reciprocity. Sharing and gifting are an embodied value of the women’s ICCO discourse as a practice of building and surviving as a cultural community in the U.S. context. As one of the utu-feminist values mostly rooted in Kenyan indigenous women’s organizing practices, the women’s ICCO discourse revealed a deep sense of challenging capitalist demands by using ICCO as a mode of building and reinforcing commitments to their community beyond the immediate exchange of childcare services. Specifically, even though motherhood and the exchange of childcare services were at the heart of their ICCO, the women’s relationships with one another transcended their organizing practice. Events such as baby showers, church celebrations, and bereavement support events emerged as contexts where the women got together and practiced building community support beyond their ICCO. The women’s ICCO discourse revealed

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that they drew on gifting and sharing—especially during difficult times— as expressions of their shared need of collective survival as Black migrant women living in the U.S. context. Alternative communication practices evident in the women’s ICCO discourse gain significant importance in the sensemaking of ICCO as an alternative economic discourse. This is where Cheney’s (2004) and Cruz’s (2017) notions on how organizational communication scholars can readily gauge alternative organizing becomes critical. Specifically, if communication constitutes organizing, then it is more than possible that alternative organizational arrangements are constituted by alternative communication practices. The women’s ICCO is distinctively communicatively constituted by the religious practice of prayer and by cultural preservation through teaching and talking with children about their culture. Prayer as an alternative communication practice is pertinent as the ICCO arrangement is not succinctly faith based. Gauging the preservation of culture through teaching and talking as alternative communication practice is distinct in that the cultural values that guide their organizing are undergirded by larger aims of preserving cultural modes of resistance within, against, and beyond capitalism. These findings contribute to organizational communication’s alternative organizing research by exploring the organizing practices of Global South women who have been largely invisible in mainstream organizational communication theorizing. Additionally, preliminary findings expand alternative organizing theorizing (Cheney, 2014) by engaging ICCO in the U.S. context—an informal form of organizing that Kenyan women have communicatively imported to the U.S. In particular, I have illuminated informal and invisible organizing practices as meaningful sites of inquiry for organizational communication scholars. The preliminary findings of this study are important as they outline practices of resistance that marginalized groups might enlist to organize for survival within global capitalism. While this study is still in progress, these preliminary findings suggest that the complexities of constructing alternative economic spaces may be readily engaged by eliciting a cultural lens such as utu feminism.

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CHAPTER 6

Bound(less): Re-storying Entrepreneurship Chigozirim Utah Sodeke

In the Global South, marginal enterprise endures and proliferates in the presence of severe constraints such as extreme poverty, exploitation, repressive governmental policies, upheaval and displacement, war and conflict, and economic uncertainty (Arora & Majumder, 2021; Atzeni, 2016; Banerjee et al., 2022; Cruz, 2014; Imas et al., 2012; Lwenya & Yongo, 2012). Yet marginal entrepreneurial practices are rarely taken up as a sufficient basis for understanding the nature of entrepreneurship and organizing. In other words, the lived, entrepreneurial practices of marginal organizational actors in the Global South are not generally viewed as a source of fresh or groundbreaking insight into entrepreneurship. In this article, I fuse autoethnography with the reflexive and transformative practice of re-storying (Stornaiuolo & Thomas, 2018; Thomas & Stornaiuolo, 2016) to interrogate my previous conceptions of Lagos roadside food traders as “bounded entrepreneurs” (Ray, 1993), i.e.

C. U. Sodeke (B) School of Communication and Journalism, Eastern Illinois University, Charleston, IL, USA e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Pal et al. (eds.), Organizing at the Margins, New Perspectives in Organizational Communication, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22993-0_6

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individuals that become entrepreneurs because they have no choice due to factors such as marginality, displacement, and governmental constraints. I make a shift to the notion of “bound(less) entrepreneurship” to eschew static, type-based, understandings of entrepreneurship, uncover unrealized insights in my previous work, and more fully narrate the complexity and contribution of marginal entrepreneurial subjectivities. This new narrative advances an “open, non-teleological, and processual view of entrepreneurial action as continuously unfolding and inherently creative” (Garcia-Lorenzo et al., 2018, p. 374). It also provides a viable starting point for organizational communication scholars to begin to craft inclusive scholarly discourses of entrepreneurship, and explicate the broader applicability of Global South organizing practice. I contend along with Vickers (2000) that if the essence of scholarly work is to explicate new ideas, knowledge, and points-of-view, then a researcher’s self-narratives are vital. Rich and reflective autoethnographic accounts of a researcher’s scholarly development and engagement in marginal organizational contexts can help generate creative, thoughtful, and boundary-pushing theorizing. Organizational autoethnography is a well-traveled road and there are many footsteps to follow (Boyle & Parry, 2007; Cruz et al., 2020; Doloriert & Sambrook, 2012; Herrmann, Barnhill, & Poole, 2013; Tayeb, 1991). By “connecting the personal to the cultural” it takes the researcher’s closeness to the subject of research seriously as a vital source of insight (Ellis & Bochner, 2000, p. 733). Combined with the creative act of re-storying, the researcher is able to enact a reflexive return to research narratives and reshape those narratives to “better reflect a diversity of perspectives and experiences” (Stornaiuolo & Thomas, 2018, p. 346). Also relevant to my work is the conception of re-storying as a method for replacing firmly established and constraining narratives with compelling new narratives that stimulate organizing and activist engagement (). Thus, autoethnographic re-storying here involves the use of autoethnographic narrative to re-examine research narratives and address their shortcomings through creative reframing and re-composition, so that new and concealed narratives, meanings, and learnings can fully emerge. I propose bound(less) entrepreneurship in an attempt to present a more generative, insightful, and complex storying of marginal entrepreneurial practice situated in the Global South. As my commitment to amplify marginal entrepreneurial and organizational subjectivities in my work has deepened, I share Imas et al. (2012)

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concern that we “have been too busy making too much noise” (p. 579). The social sciences are replete with theories, definitions, and conceptualizations of entrepreneurship. Instead of offering yet another definition of entrepreneurship, my goal is to generate a narrative that facilitates better “encounters with difference,” stimulates theoretical inventiveness, and helps us imagine inclusive ways forward in communication theorizing of entrepreneurship (Imas et al., 2012, p. 579). I also seek to embolden deep reflexivity and vulnerability that I see modeled in the work of Humphreys (2005), Tayeb (1991), and Vickers (2002). Their revelations about their development as scholars are painfully honest yet incredibly empowering. Vickers (2002) admits to the risky nature of such self-revelation. However, she balances this view with a powerful assertion: “Being prepared to ask another to risk exposing his or her life implies that we might at least be prepared to do the same. Our “privileged” place carries with it an obligation to give of ourselves” (p. 619). Proceeding in the light of her encouragement that organizational researchers should write what they know, I chronicle my doctoral research journey, and the dissatisfactions that emerged in my efforts to theorize the organizational practices of Lagos roadside food traders. As I move through this autoethnographic account, I address these dissatisfactions through active questioning and critique, rethinking, and reframing as I go along. The deeply personal disclosures that are revealed in my shift to a narrative of bound(less) entrepreneurship are emboldened by the vulnerability of the traders. Since the lines between public and private are often imperceptible in marginal organizing (Cruz & Sodeke, 2020), my presence in traders’ workspaces was by nature profoundly personal and intrusive. The impulse to re-story my research narrative of the street traders was prompted by two current trends. First, the parallels between the common dismissal of street traders in the Global South as inconsequential subsistence workers and the delegitimization of pandemic era entrepreneurs in the West stimulates further questions about how the mainstream mirrors the margins, particularly as the impacts of economic injustice are increasingly felt by privileged members of society. For example, Casselman (2021) states in response to a post-pandemic surge in entrepreneurship: Some economists remain skeptical of the long-term significance of the start-up boom. A substantial share of the new businesses are sole proprietorships, many of them in retailing — which could mean nothing more than someone selling crafts online…That is better than downtowns full of

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boarded-up vacancies, but hardly reflects a wave of innovation. “The big question is how many of these are really going to be disruptive businesses of the sort that really make a difference to economic growth and are going to be job creators,” said John Dearie, president of the Center for American Entrepreneurship, an advocacy organization. “I don’t think this is a major reversal of that broad and multidecade trend” of decline entrepreneurship. (para. 25–26)

This excerpt is classic Schumpeterian fare, anchored by familiar tropes of neoliberal success such as innovation, disruption, and explosive economic growth. As I followed these trends with great interest, I tried to imagine what narratives of enterprise could replace these deeply held ideas. Grounded in the lived practices of Global South entrepreneurs, the narrative of bound(less) entrepreneurship challenges and expands entrenched conceptualizations of innovation, success, creativity, job creation, and what is or is not economically viable. Second, more than ever before, organizational communication scholars are questioning the epistemic foundations of the sub-discipline. This is an opportune and exciting time to propose new narratives about topics relevant to organizing. As we make room for the organizational voices in the Global South to speak, Cheney’s (2000) admonition comes to mind: “Taking difference seriously means not only allowing the Other to speak but also being open to the possibility that the Other’s perspective may come to influence or even supplant your own” (p. 140).

My Research Journey My scholarly interest in marginal spaces began with a rebuke from a Nigerian economics professor. After sharing my plans to study small and medium businesses in Lagos, Nigeria in some capacity, he retorted impatiently, “What about ALL these people who sell on the street?” I was slightly embarrassed that I had not thought about this myself, especially as a doctoral student of organizational communication. Informal organizations had received such scant attention in the organizational communication literature I was immersed in. So deeply ingrained was my formalized idea of “organization” that I did not even consider street vendors as a subject of organizational inquiry. Furthermore, as a Lagos girl, born and raised, patronizing street traders was an everyday practice. There were very few spaces untouched by the vibrant and chaotic rhythms

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of street trade. I was so challenged by this critique that I changed my research plans. My eventual research evolved into a phenomenological study of the lives of roadside food traders (Utah, 2015).

Bounded Roaming the streets and markets and having conversations with street traders was one of the most exciting and frightening things I had ever done. The traders often looked at me as if I was some strange creature, and sometimes with unguarded suspicion. But I pressed on, wondering why I always had to make things difficult for myself. The pace of enterprise and the realities of the traders’ lived experience often defied my carefully drawn plans and notions of organizing. I agonized about how I was going to write all of these experiences in a coherent form and avoid essentializing narratives. To manage these anxieties, I constructed evocative entrepreneurial vignettes on each street trader. Following is a vignette of a particularly memorable interview (Utah, 2015): Ese is in her late thirties to early forties and runs a buka right next to Bose’s. There isn’t a shortage of customers, so there doesn’t seem to be any rivalry between the two business owners, at least on the surface. Initially, she was tentative about the interview; however, after some friendly encouragement, she opened up, particularly around the topic of the Chibok school girls. Like Bose, she was reluctant to join any association which she saw as being too much wahala 1 ; she also felt that being a member of an association would hold her back from attending to her primary concern which was providing for her children. When asked about her long-term goals, her answer was simple: “build house for my children…the suffer that you suffer, you will not allow your children to suffer.” Her response cuts to the marrow of socio-economic struggle in contemporary Lagos which in many cases is primarily an issue of survival. The aspiration to entrepreneurship is one that is colored by personal and contextual constraints and has to be negotiated based on one’s unique circumstances. Interestingly, unlike some others food traders, she had been able to hold on to her business location for fourteen years, and actually paid rent to the management of the estate. The informal sector is often defined based on the fact that workers are undocumented, untaxed, and generally unstable; however, the term “informal” is in some cases misleading. The traders follow formal processes for securing their space, maintaining that space, and conducting business. Theirs is a life of expected and somewhat organized improvisation. (p. 72)

1 Trouble or drama.

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I still remember her face; the tired lines and hesitant smile. I gave up on my efforts to perform the role of objective expert and surrendered to the emotions that were laid bare before me; worry, fear, humor, confusion, numbness, and rage. I eventually consolidated my thoughts into a central insight: the organizational lives of Lagos roadside food traders are characterized by the constant negotiation of multiple layers of struggle around space, place, relationship, resources, and spirituality. I did my best to let these experiences speak and breathe through my writing. However, as I concluded my evocative accounts of each layer of struggle, I felt pressured to connect to something more familiar, established, and “serious.” As a graduate student, I harbored the usual insecurities, and I did not want to be written off as a sentimental kook replacing hard-hitting scientific inquiry for flowery and emotional stories about marginal organizing. So, I borrowed the term “bounded entrepreneurship” as conceptualized by Ray (1993) to further characterize what was then at the forefront of my observations: how different the lives of street traders were from the lofty, aspiration-based narratives of entrepreneurship I had been exposed to in Western institutions. I felt a slight unrest; a feeling that I had missed an opportunity and had perhaps not been true to myself. But I forged ahead under the pressure to complete my dissertation and dwindling funding. I felt slightly comforted when a member of my community commended the evocative and accessible nature of my scholarly voice, and encouraged me to continue to write in this way. Maybe I was exactly where I needed to be. However, my dissatisfaction lingered.

Making the Shift A couple of years later as an assistant professor, I was challenged yet again by a colleague in the history department. After a meeting, I shared my work with her, talking at length about the pervasiveness of street trade in Lagos, and how this form of enterprise was arguably the most important and visible thread in the tapestry of entrepreneurial life in the city. She listened attentively and said, “that doesn’t sound bounded to me, that sounds bound(less).” In her view, the notion of boundlessness better signified the ongoing interplay between relentless constraint and relentless entrepreneurial activity as an everyday response to socioeconomic struggle. In other words, bound(less) entrepreneurship is the pervasive, daily practice of organizing struggle through entrepreneurial activity. Something about the descriptive shift from bounded to bound(less)

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released my theoretical imagination and increased my awareness of the underlying biases about entrepreneurship and organizing that continued to play softly in the background and constrain my writing. It also gave me some clarity about the source of my continuing unrest. In truth, I felt shackled by the usual categorizations that populate the entrepreneurship literature; typologies that separate entrepreneurial subjectivities into types such as “necessity-based” and “opportunity-based.” These tight typologies stifled my capacity for insight, and lacked descriptive and evocative gravity. For example, one of the traders simultaneously scoffed at the idea of meetings and associational life and spoke wistfully about how his dream was to have people work under him. Throughout our conversation, he seemed to both eschew and espouse neoliberal values and ideals of success and participation. As a lived practice, entrepreneurship in the margins as I observed was a complex blend of contradictory and paradoxical emotions, values, and desires that seemed to shift with time and place. In my writing, I had attempted to capture some of these complexities, but lacked the confidence and security to say what I really wanted to say: “these typologies are extremely limiting, unproductive, and boring, and the traders’ experiences are complex, interesting and generative and can stand by themselves as the basis for organizational theorizing.” It is indeed unfortunate that in my writing, I suppressed the passions that had energized my fieldwork (Ganesh, 2014). In addition, it was difficult to embrace my inner revolutionary because organizational communication scholars were simply not talking explicitly about the informal economy. Currently, the informal economy still does not achieve the level of attention it warrants.

Bound(less): Re-storying Entrepreneurship A critical point in my research journey was my introduction to pathbreaking scholarship on hidden organizing (Scott, 2015) and alternative organizing (Cheney, 2014; Parker et al., 2014). Within these frames, I could at least begin to find language to articulate my experience and impressions of informal entrepreneurship. Scholarship proceeding from these theoretical areas (Cruz, 2017; Jensen & Meisenbach, 2015; Schoeneborn & Scherer, 2012) gave attention to contradiction, context, and tension in ways that enriched my understanding of the inherently paradoxical nature of bound(less) entrepreneurship. I can now see how my passions, identities, and biases are key aspects of analysis and a potential source of insight (Ganesh, 2014). As a result,

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I am emboldened to disclose how my evolution and shifting positionalities from graduate student to assistant professor scholar have impacted my process of analysis. My awareness of the risk of this venture has not changed. In some ways, it has intensified with my increased knowledge of academia. However, “the reward and excitement come from connecting with others and sharing with those who want to know” (Vickers, 2002, p. 619). As Vickers (2002) queries, “Is it appropriate to keep up appearance of neutrality?” I would argue that it is crucial not to waste one’s vulnerability on self-indulgence, but to be animated by the ethic of narrating the margins with integrity and respect. I recognize that there are some key changes that must be made; ideas that I was tentative or silent about that must be underlined. With these issues in mind, I offer this descriptive vignette of bound(less) entrepreneurship: Bound(less) entrepreneurship is the forceful presence and prevalence of entrepreneurship in everyday life. As a lived practice of enterprise, it involves the improvisational and skilled negotiation of multiple layers of struggle, drawing from past and present knowings gathered through experience, instinct, interaction, hardship, relationships, and community. It is by nature paradoxical; limited and limitless, vulnerable and indomitable, ordered and disorderly, competitive and communal. It is animated by multiple, shifting and evolving desires; survival, aspiration, ambition, actualization. It is whatever it needs to be in the moment.

The shift to a bound(less) narrative of entrepreneurship necessitates certain amendments to the old narrative of bounded entrepreneurship.

Embracing Everydayness I commence with a first-person recollection of street trade in my childhood neighborhood, Ilupeju: On Saturday mornings, there is an orchestra of street calls as itinerant hawkers roam the streets announcing wares that people might need for breakfast: akamu, bread, eggs. Mobile tailors can be identified by the hissing, clipping sound they make by opening and closing their massive scissors rapidly. Outside the biggest houses, some gatemen have been granted permission from their bosses to sell sweets and essentials like soap, salt, and sugar in single use portions, and cobblers on the street corners are ready to repair and shine shoes for Monday. I am often sent to a

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street corner known as Bus Place to buy essentials. It is a neighborhood institution; a bodega of sorts, selling every household product imaginable out of an abandoned Volkswagen bus erected on slats. The woman that runs it apprentices several young women until they are old enough to strike out on their own. Formal and informal businesses exist side by side. A giant fruit and vegetable stand sits outside a large supermarket called Tisco. A large row of women sell plantains against the wall of a commercial building. When evening comes, the night stalls will be illuminated by kerosene lanterns and the tantalizing smell of the suya stand outside a local bar will draw patrons outside for the spicy meat.

This vignette describes a scene that is not unusual. Lagos is filled with neighborhoods such as this where everyday life is punctuated and colored by nonstop enterprise. After reading this vignette detailing daily experiences with street trade, my initial erasure of these activities might seem surprising. There is an obvious boundlessness to the scene; a highly visible infusion of enterprise into the very fabric of life. But the dominant formalized narrative of entrepreneurship was so firmly in place in my consciousness that for a long time, I was unable to connect these activities to my organizational frame of reference. The ill-defined, yet stubborn “phantasm” of the entrepreneur within neoliberal enterprise culture is difficult to discard (Jones & Spicer, 2005). This heroic figure is centered as the object of desire and favored over the simple, lived, and unremarkable practices that make up actual entrepreneurial activity. Stories of the entrepreneur’s exploits, particularly in popular presses are rife with tropes of risk-taking, exploitative innovation, and creative destruction (Imas et al., 2012). These vague, often decontextualized ideas are then presented as the model for how to “do business” and the ideal way of being in enterprise culture. A central problem with this narrative is that it lacks inclusivity. Also, it does not describe actual lived practices (Jones & Spicer, 2005). In contrast, the neighborhood vignette and the markets I visited featured an interconnected cast of characters, situated in similar and different ways, trying to make sense of how to participate in the economy. There were no Elon Musk or Richard Branson. In place of the heroic figure is a cacophony of lived practices that are liquid, shifting, and improvisational (Cruz & Sodeke, 2020) as well as corrupt officials making threats and demanding bribes. It is the everyday that is most remarkable. In the words of my history colleague, the practices that make up marginal entrepreneurship are bound(less); paradoxically bounded and

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without bounds. This paradox is vividly displayed for instance in the street traders’ daily struggles for space. The street traders cannot afford formal shops in any of the complexes, strip malls, or designated market areas. So, they break through the boundaries of urban town planning and erect their shops at street corners, highways islands, bus stops, etc. It is frightening and awkward to be dropped off in the middle of a busy road, notebooks, and recorder in hand. There is often no place to sit as we talk, and I must blend into and avoid interrupting the everyday flow of work.

Rethinking Innovation …let me find my way with my children…

Everyday acts of survival replace the entrepreneur’s grand economic exploits. Most of the food traders in area were women. The above sentiment was poignantly repeated in one form or another by different traders, i.e. concern over feeding and clothing their children and affording school fees. The concerns that preoccupy the street traders are everyday concerns, not Schumpeterian imperatives of creative destruction. For example, I asked one of the traders what she would change about the country. I waited for a monologue on her desire for socioeconomic revolution. But she simply said, “the traffic.” My privileged frame of reference was quick to make sense of this as trivial. But the horrific traffic is one of the greatest obstacles for the street traders, causing them to lose hours of work. In these circumstances, bound(less) entrepreneurship is expressed in the invention of processes, products, and services that make the everyday plausible and doable. It is not just defined as the next great revolutionary process, product, or service, but surviving and overcoming obstacles and existential oppositions to one’s livelihood. I think of the food stall that had been moved several times by disciplinary city task forces, and still continued to operate and maintain its customer base. Innovation and entrepreneurial skill in this context can be simply “finding your way with your children,” and figuring things out day-to-day events. ….it is a fast moving good.

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There is also no shame in picking the proverbial low-hanging fruit. The formula that displays itself on the street corners is, “sell something simple, sell a lot of it, and sell it fast.” The above statement was made by a woman who worked near an oil and gas plant with many hungry workers. Naturally, she (and many others in the area) sell roasted plantain; a snack that you don’t have to sit down to eat. It is easy to make, and eat, requiring no ingredient other than plantain. If you are lucky, the trader might sell roasted and groundnut to pair with the plantains, but that’s about it. This is why she liked her business. Quite simply, the goods moved fast and in large volume.

Rethinking Economic Growth You know this business…this is not shop business….you can get maybe in a plaza…put tent…then you make it big.

Implicit in opportunity vs. necessity-based categorizations of entrepreneurship is the idea that necessity-based entrepreneurships are somehow on the bottom rung of entrepreneurial existence due to their limited potential to produce massive profits and explosive economic growth. So-called necessity-based businesses are thus constructed as somehow less desirable or less successful under the neoliberal order, even though they might serve communities, alleviate extreme poverty and hunger, or might even be making more money than a larger-scale business. This was the case for Bus Place featured in the opening neighborhood vignette. Bus Place, erected over a massive drainage ditch, thrived while air-conditioned supermarkets opened in the neighborhood, and failed after a few months or a couple of years. Bound(less)ness is displayed through the unconventional use of space due to the lack of access to space. It is often characterized by unconventional modes of responsiveness to the market, e.g. hawking food, cold drinks, and essentials to people stuck in traffic. These agile forms of enterprise persist because they break the traditional rules of engagement that ironically bind traditional businesses. For instance, the fruit trader who made the statement above had no desire to sell fruit indoors; it would jeopardize her competitive edge. She did however want the business to grow in its current outdoor form. In a different time and place, she would be a trader at an overpriced farmer’s

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market. But on the streets of Lagos where neoliberal imaginaries have taken hold, she is a nuisance that must be cleansed. The goal is to get her and other eyesores “inside” and off the streets even though there is no feasible pathway for that progression to occur. I admit that as she spoke, I thought, “doesn’t she want more?” The problem with this question is that “more” is based on the dominant narrative of entrepreneur that emphasizes mass wealth creation, efficiency, and a particular vision of innovation and ignores the lived experiences of people working in the periphery (Imas et al., 2012). The views advanced by the dominant narrative of entrepreneur also conceal vital work occurring in the margins that sustains communities. For instance, the fruit trader and a few others I interviewed regularly travel to rural areas and transport fresh produce at personal cost into the city (Utah, 2015). Practices such as these confound tired typologies that propagate assumptions about people in the periphery without understanding or seeking to understand their daily activities and their contribution to society. By participating in these typologies and by mobilizing them in my work, I might also be guilty of concealing key insights and revelations about life in the margins.

Conclusion Above, I have performed an autoethnographic re-storying of “bounded entrepreneurship” and proposed an alternative narrative of bound(less) entrepreneurship grounded in the lived experiences of Lagos roadside food traders. Organizational communication scholarship is yet to explicitly theorize and conceptualize entrepreneurship. I offer this narrative to stimulate theoretical inventiveness and provide some key pathways for scholars interested in advancing communication scholarship on entrepreneurship. First, an insight that emerged in this process is the importance of giving attention to points of disconnection and connection between marginal and mainstream entrepreneurship. One damaging consequence of static categorizations of entrepreneurship, as well as similar categorizations that presume a solid demarcation between formal and informal activities, is that they conceal the broader applicability of marginal entrepreneurial experiences. For example, as economic pressures mount and institutional supports such as child care become scarce, unreliable, or prohibitively expensive, encroachments of the personal into the so-called professional are becoming more commonplace. Mainstream organizational actors are

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increasingly experiencing the permeability of boundaries (Cruz & Sodeke, 2020) between organizing and life that is typical of the margins. For example, as many women in the West are now being forced to fuse work and childcare due to exorbitant costs and limited availability, it is important to note that poor women in the Global South have always taken their children to work. In the markets and city centers I visited, it was not uncommon to see hundreds of infants strapped to the backs of the traders as they worked. We have much to learn from how marginal actors combine entrepreneuring with personal aspects of life. Second, within and beyond the margins, historically and contemporarily, and in both Global North and Global South contexts, entrepreneurship involves varying responses to diverse and particular experiences of socioeconomic struggle. Street traders are often cast as some kind of exotic economic Other. While marginal entrepreneurs face unique and intensified challenges, their lives reveal a broader story of what entrepreneurship is and the ways it takes shape. It is fascinating for instance that many celebrated forms of entrepreneurship are scaled up versions of marginal business practices. Consider the gentrified coffee shop and the chai wallahs on the street corners of Mumbai; or the agile food delivery services like Door Dash and hawkers who serve you as you sit in your car. These striking parallels between mainstream and marginal entrepreneurial forms could be explored more fully. Third, in this article, I also engaged the practice of reflexivity and vulnerability through evocative autoethnographic narration of the margins and my own development as a scholar. Evocative writing should not be dismissed as merely ornamental or self-indulgent. When people speak evocatively, it is often because they are deeply connected to their experience of themselves and others, and care enough to convey it in ways that invite others into that experience. Instead of hiding behind entrepreneurial cliches, I hoped to stimulate, “some of the evocative power, embodiment, and understanding of life that comes through the concrete details of autoethnographic narrative” (Ellis, 1998, p. 7). Evocative organizational autoethnography can illuminate pathways into new or less traveled theoretical areas and research contexts. Additionally, it is vital to pay attention to the ways that research participants evocatively describe their experiences. In narrating bound(less) entrepreneurship, I included phrases and statements that symbolized key moments of connection and understanding between myself and the traders. These statements

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also highlight their constructions of enterprise. Such moments in conversation, when identified, are a vital moment of pause that have the potential to challenge our epistemic foundations and uncover concealed insights and understandings of organization.

References Arora, S., & Majumder, M. (2021). Where is my home?: Gendered precarity and the experience of COVID-19 among women migrant workers from Delhi and National Capital Region, India. Gender, Work & Organization, 28, 307–320. Atzeni, M. (2016). Beyond trade unions’ strategy? The social construction of precarious workers organizing in the city of Buenos Aires. Labor History, 57 (2), 193–214. Banerjee, P., Khandelwal, C., & Sanyal, M. (2022). Deep care: The COVID19 pandemic and the work of marginal feminist organizing in India. Gender, Work & Organization. Boyle, M., & Parry, K. (2007). Telling the whole story: The case for organizational autoethnography. Culture and Organization., 13(3), 185–190. https://doi.org/10.1080/14759550701486480 Casselman, B. (2021, August 19). Start-up boom in the pandemic is getting stronger. New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2021/08/19/bus iness/startup-business-creation-pandemic.html Cheney, G. (2000). Thinking differently about organizational communication: Why, how, and where? Management Communication Quarterly, 14(1), 132– 141. Cheney, G. (2014). Alternative organization and alternative organizing. Retrieved from http://www.criticalmanagement.org/node/3182 Cruz, J. (2014). Memories of trauma and organizing: Market women’s susu groups in postconflict Liberia. Organization, 21(4), 447–462. Cruz, J. M. (2017). Invisibility and visibility in alternative organizing: A communicative and cultural model. Management Communication Quarterly, 31(4), 614–639. Cruz, J., McDonald, J., Broadfoot, K., Chuang, A. K. C., & Ganesh, S. (2020). “Aliens” in the United States: A collaborative autoethnography of foreignborn faculty. Journal of Management Inquiry, 29(3), 272–285. Cruz, J. M., & Sodeke, C. U. (2020). Debunking Eurocentrism in organizational communication theory: Marginality and liquidities in postcolonial contexts. Communication Theory, 31(3), 528–548. DeMocker, M. (2018a). The parents’ guide to climate revolution: 100 ways to build a fossil-free future, raise empowered kids, and still get a good night’s sleep. New World Library.

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DeMocker, M. (2018b, September 14). Re-storying 1: What does re-storying mean? [Video]. Youtube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iDllkM2SOqc Doloriert, C., & Sambrook, S. (2012). Organisational autoethnography. Journal of Organizational Ethnography. Ellis, C. (1998b). What counts as scholarship in communication? An autoethnographic response. American Communication Journal, 1(2), 1–5. Retrieved from https://acjournal.org/holdings/vol1/Iss2/special/ellis.htm Ellis, C., & Bochner, A. P. (2000). Autoethnography, personal narrative, reflexivity: Researcher as subject. In N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research (2nd ed., pp. 733–768). Sage. Ganesh, S. (2014). Unraveling the confessional tale: Passion and dispassion in fieldwork. Management Communication Quarterly, 28, 448–457. https:// doi.org/10.1177/0893318914535785 Garcia-Lorenzo, L., Donnelly, P., Sell-Trujillo, L., & Imas, J. M. (2018). Liminal entrepreneurin: The creative practices of nascent necessity entrepreneurs. Organization Studies, 39(2–3), 373–395. Herrmann, A. F., Barnhill, J. A., & Poole, M. C. (2013). Ragged edges in the fractured future: a co-authored organizational autoethnography. Journal of Organizational Ethnography. Humphreys, M. (2005). Getting personal: Reflexivity and autoethnographic vignettes. Qualitative Inquiry, 11(6), 840–860. Imas, J. M., Wilson, N., & Weston, A. (2012). Barefoot entrepreneurs. Organization, 19(5), 563–585. Jones, C., & Spicer, A. (2005). The sublime object of entrepreneurship. Organization, 12(2), 223–246. Lwenya, C., & Yongo, E. (2012). The fisherman’s wife: Vulnerabilities and strategies in the local economy; the case of Lake Victoria, Kenya. Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society, 37 (3), 566–573. Jensen, P. R., & Meisenbach, R. J. (2015). Alternative organizing and (in) visibility: Managing tensions of transparency and autonomy in a nonprofit organization. Management Communication Quarterly, 29, 564–589. Parker, M., Cheney, G., Fournier, V., & Land, C. (Eds.). (2014). The Routledge companion to alternative organizations. Routledge Ray, D. (1993). Open and bounded entrepreneurship. Journal of Small Business & Entrepreneurship, 10(3), 91–100. Schoeneborn, D., & Scherer, A. G. (2012). Clandestine organizations, Al Qaeda, and the paradox of (in)visibility: A response to Stohl and Stohl. Organization Studies, 33, 963–971 Scott, C. R. (2015). Bringing hidden organizations out of the shadows: Introduction to the special issue. Management Communication Quarterly, 29(4), 503–511.

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Stornaiuolo, A., & Thomas, E. E. (2018). Restorying as political action: Authoring resistance through youth media arts. Learning, Media and Technology, 43(4), 345–358. Tayeb, M. (1991). Inside story: The sufferings and joys of doctoral research. Organization Studies, 12(2), 301–304. Thomas, E. E., & Stornaiuolo, A. (2016). Restorying the self: Bending toward textual justice. Harvard Educational Review, 86(3), 313–338. Utah, C. (2015). Beyond corruption: Assessing the organizational potential in alternative discourses of struggle in Nigeria (Doctoral dissertation). Retrieved from https://digitalcommons.unl.edu/commstuddiss/32/ Vickers, M. H. (2000, September/October). Administrative evil: A vital contribution [Book review]. Public Administration Review, 462–466. Vickers, M. H. (2002). Researchers as storytellers: Writing on the edge—And without a safety net. Qualitative Inquiry, 8(5), 608–621.

PART II

Dismantling Borders

CHAPTER 7

Reflexivity and Solidarity in Culture-Centered Research with Marginalized Populations Jaime Robb

Neoliberal structures of globalization have trampled upon diverse, local knowledge to fit a universal ideology of health care (Dutta & Zoller, 2008), compromising, in the process, the ability of immigrants from the Global South to industrialized societies to make crucial health decisions for themselves (Hacker et al., 2015). Yet, immigrants who leave their native cultural environments in search of greater economic opportunity, work hard to re-negotiate their relationship with the health care apparatus, and perform resistive practices locally in their new settings (Dutta, 2007). A culture-centered approach to health communication

J. Robb (B) Diederich College of Communication, Marquette University, Milwaukee, WI, US e-mail: [email protected]

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helps document localized health narratives and offers a suitable theoretical framework for understanding how this group maneuvers around their structural limitations. Such an approach calls for both reflexivity and solidarity on the part of researchers working with marginalized communities. In this chapter, I look closely at reflexivity and solidarity as a researcher undertaking research with groups of people who constitute pockets of the Global South within the Global North. I share my reflections on my research endeavors to explore the experiences of undocumented immigrants, considered at risk for negative health outcomes due to inadequate access to health care, at a location in the southern region of the United States. This critical health communication exploration interrogates how knowledge, power, representation, marginalization, and resistance impact undocumented immigrants’ communication around issues of health (Lupton, 2012). A culture-centered approach is productive for problematizing how immigrants are forced to navigate the U.S. health system through resistive ways due to the fears associated with their status (Dutta, 2007). This theoretical approach, geared toward examining how cultural identities at the margins of a health industry navigate an uneven distribution of resources, aligns itself with the agency of subaltern identities in surviving beyond the margins. Drawing on qualitative methods, I used semistructured interviews along with participant observation techniques to collect data for this project. I interviewed and documented the healthrelated experiences of individuals living in three South Florida counties (Dade, Broward, and Palm Beach) as undocumented/illegal immigrants for more than a year. I ended up interviewing 27 individuals, starting with 11 individuals who I had relationships with prior to starting this project, many of who were able to introduce me to others, which created a snowball sampling to gather other participants. In what follows, I offer some of the reflexive struggles and challenges I faced while collecting and organizing the experiences that participants shared with me. Most of the data for this reflexive discussion stemmed from a field notebook I used to take notes during the interview process and to write reflections and ideas after each interview. I start by positioning reflexivity as an important theoretical focus for doing research with marginalized populations such as this one.

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Considering Reflexivity as Research Given my previous connection with many of the participants, I believed the concept of reflexivity is vital to illuminate the role of power, and the fluidity of trust in the communicative process involved with doing qualitative research interviews. When Burke (1939) suggested that “a way of seeing is also a way of not seeing,” he was in effect promoting the need to be reflexive in our research endeavors (p. 120). Being reflexive is structuring communicative products so that the audience assumes the producer, process, and product are a coherent whole (Ruby, 1984). Ruby (1984) highlights the function of reflexivity as a way of directing the gaze and focus of the reader to show the messiness of the research process. This in turn shapes how an audience interprets the knowledge that gets produced. So, when researchers take the additional steps to communicate about the limitations and potential biases involved in research endeavors, they open up space for interpretations and inquiry to facilitate further knowledge production (Dutta, 2007). By being reflexive, researchers create a meta-commentary that helps spawn new ways of interpreting their research (Dutta & Basu, 2013). The notion of “bending back” (Steier, 1993) is a valuable metaphor for engaging with individuals’ stories of marginalization and in-access. Steier (1993) identifies reflexivity as a means for methodological engagements that foster the type of research setting that goes beyond the limitations of a traditional research design. In effect, “reflexivity, or a turning back onto a self, is a way in which circularity and self-reference appear in inquiry, as we contextually recognize the various mutual relationships in which our knowing activities are embedded” (Steier, 1993, p. 164). He points to the co-facilitation of knowledge that occurs in research spaces, and how valuable it is for scholars to recognize that their communication influences the knowledge produced, and the way participants could be affected by the produced knowledge. This was vital for my research as my own prior experiences as an undocumented immigrant, living among some of my participants, afforded me access and trust that might not have been possible without such connections. I made certain assumptions in each conversation, thereby shaping the nature of the interaction. By fostering a reflexive attitude throughout the process, I was forced to notice my limitations as a researcher, along with the advantages I was afforded due to my prior connections (Dutta, 2007). I began by assessing

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language choices for each interview, potentially facilitating more productive engagements by making tweaks to both language and design. For instance, after the first three interviews it became clear that I was not offering participants enough time to reflect before I inserted a comment. Consequentially, I used my watch to ensure that I offered participants at least five seconds before I interjected or continued with my questions. The emphasis on reflexivity also helped me get a deeper understanding of the idea of solidarity.

A Rhetoric of Solidarity Solidarity is a “union or fellowship arising from common responsibilities and interests, as between members of a group or between classes, peoples”; “community of feelings, purposes”; and “community of responsibilities and interests” (Merriam-Webster, 2020). These standard definitions seemed inadequate to me as I wondered how I could engage in an act of solidarity with my participants when I faced none of the risks they faced. What does it actually mean to show solidarity in this case? How does it look, what does it sound? What fragrance is solidarity, what are the particularities of its taste, and, most importantly, what does solidarity feel like? To me and to my participants? How can one possibly know that they are feeling the same thing as a group that has far less opportunities due to their lack of status? These questions led me to Durkheim’s (1984) definition of solidarity: “it is social cohesion based upon the dependence which individuals have on each other in more advanced societies” (p. 122). Durkheim’s understanding of solidarity resonated with me as it highlighted social cohesion as the determining factor in an aim toward connectivity and trust. That was the first aspect I had to come to terms with as someone situated as a researcher. Just as perfection is an aim that cannot actually be achieved, I realized that solidarity could only be something I could aim for but it could not really be achieved. But there is an inherent development that occurs based on one’s attempt to be perfect or enact solidarity. I think my struggles centered around the fact that I wanted to see myself as an insider who aligns with the frustrations participants discussed, but my position as someone conducting an academic research interview clearly showed that I am more in line with the dominant order surrounding this group as opposed to sharing their subaltern positioning.

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Talking about dominant systems and bureaucratic institutions with many participants was an incredibly challenging task. While I had prior connections to some of the participants I interviewed, I felt implicated as they discussed ideas of class and power in relation to their situation. As I sat in people’s homes with my recorder and notebook filled with questions (not to mention my Starbucks coffee cup), I felt the weight of responsibility that came with the authority of being able to call an interview into being. What I mean is that the communicative event that involves asking and answering questions creates a type of formality around the interview process that gave me an abundance of power as the individual asking the questions. This power in my estimation meant that it was irrational to think I could achieve some sense of solidarity with these individuals who were sharing very emotional and challenging experiences. Yet, I could not help but believe that maybe the reason why they were willing to share such experiences with me was because they already felt some sense of solidarity through a shared discourse/situational understanding. I was being allowed entry into the life worlds of these individuals because I had unique access to a group that is often poorly represented and hidden from the mainstream American public. From a rhetorical perspective, the interviewer has plenty of influence over the entire process, from the questions they ask to the way they ask those questions, and even the silence that is afforded between questions creates opportunities for the interviewer to dictate the direction of the interview (Glesne, 2007). Over the course of the interviews and during the data interpretation process I struggled to understand just how much influence I had over the way questions were framed and how that would impact the answers that were provided. The tension that emerged after the first six interviews was complex: how much of the researcher’s (my own) prior knowledge/experience should shape the questions participants were asked, and would that limit participants’ responses or produce a sense of understanding/solidarity?

Establishing Trust One of the obvious challenges with this particular study involved establishing trust with a vulnerable population. As a researcher who is employed by a dominant institution like a university, I knew that my body represented the types of institutions that this group typically found untrustworthy. In my first couple of interviews, it was obvious that my

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communication and word choice made individuals respond to me as if I was that institutional body. As the first four participants I interviewed were people I knew for most of my life, I was extremely sensitive to the way their pattern of communication changed once I started recording our conversations. After transcribing the first three interviews, it became clear that my pattern of communication had changed too once I started the recorder and asked for consent. The formal structure of an interview created an unforeseen distance that showed itself in mundane communication styles. For example, choosing to use the word “undocumented” to engage with Francis, a neighbor who I worked with throughout high school and college, hinted to me that my presentation was communicating institutional distance in their eyes. When I asked Angelia, a close family friend, “How do you think Americans judge undocumented immigrants?” she responded: “Do you mean people without papers?” This suggested to me that maybe my language choice was not as favorable and grounded as I hoped it would be. As Angelia is someone, I had a prior relationship with before conducting this interview, I interpreted her response as a powerful communicative moment that exposed my separation between institutional discourse and local language. When Angelia and I have had conversations in the past about this topic, I would normally use the phrase “people out of status” or “without papers,” as opposed to undocumented. This forced me to reflect on how my perceived positionality as a university representative triggered a discursive pattern, as I felt the need to maintain some level of distance between myself and participants to uphold what I presumed to be “research integrity.” Ultimately, I started to understand how the interview as a communicative event created a certain level of formal structuring (for both me and my participants) that made it necessary to invoke institutional distance, using my language in order to not cross the imaginary line between research and participants. As a researcher concerned with discourse practices and the role of communication in shaping interactional outcomes, I find it important to constantly attend to communication styles and patterns, along with the nonverbals that accompany a message. So, when Francis, someone who I worked closely with for years as a teenager, said “She didn’t even know that when I came to work with people like you and Mikey that you all didn’t have papers either, most of the people I took to lawn bush weren’t straight,” I interpreted this exchange as more authentic than other responses during the interview. Yet, Francis’s comments made me

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feel exposed, as I was also implicated in his response, not as Jaime the academic but as “you” who lived and worked closely together. Moments of these sorts made it challenging to interpret such exchanges, which created another tension where I had to determine if including this sort of data would limit the trust a potential audience has in my research outcomes. While this was less the case for participants that I met for the first time, I could not help but consider how the frame “interview” that included a recording device influenced participant responses. Simply put, participants I had prior relationships with were much more formal when answering questions as opposed to when talking before or after the recorder came into the fold. This inherently speaks to the relationship between communication and structures, and how calling a structure into being (an interview) can reshape communicative exchanges.

Inside (Outsider) I was raised in a community that was largely dominated by Caribbean immigrants who lived relatively close to each other. While in high school I became part of different cultural networks that included people from South and Central America. While I did not speak their languages, I was able to make connections through sports and the shared absences I experienced with fellow classmates and teammates, such as not being able to get a driver’s license or not partaking in certain field trips. For instance, one participant and I learned about each other’s lack of status in high school because we both played on the soccer team and were both unable to participate in a soccer tournament that was being held in New Orleans. I approached the concept of cultural support networks as an important theme beforehand because they were a source of comfort to me; this meant that questions about community were used as a way to offer some kind of “solidarity” in the interview process. As I transcribed and analyzed the data, I could not help but wonder if I was limited in my interactions with participants because I wanted to get to those questions about community before the interview time elapsed. It was when I returned to my journal while writing about reflexivity that I realized that my focus on community was important for multiple reasons. I started to understand community as a “local” communicative structure that afforded participants the type of autonomy to navigate larger institutional structures in ways that they were otherwise unable to.

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I believe that I was able to gain this understanding for two reasons, the first of which was me having prior relationships with the first four individuals I interviewed. This allowed me to re-engage individuals after I interviewed them to ask about their perception toward me as an interviewer as opposed to a family or friend. The most reoccurring feedback I received following the first set of interviews was to not use so many “big words.” This indicated that my communication style and tone were influencing how participants responded. Angelia suggested that she did not understand some of the words I used, “that’s why I kept asking you to repeat things.” Meaning that because I was asking questions in a way that was more formal than how they were used to when talking to me, I had to assume that my communication style placed me as an outsider. They were effectively mirroring my use of formal communication patterns to fit the interview frame, as I was also doing. I think what was most telling of this is the nine times during all 27 interviews that a participant asked the simple question, “Am I allowed to say that?” I believe this question made it clear that participants were concerned with the institutional oversight that comes with a formal interview. It also indicated that I was being garnered a level of trust and access that the tape recorder was not afforded (as I assume that to be a symbol of institutional data collection). Second, having been someone who lived in the United States for some time without papers also afforded me a certain degree of trust, as I realized after the first set of interviews that talking about my own experiences would help to reestablish some level of comfort. Talking about my time in high school as a student-athlete without papers was important for helping Luke “understand what he was allowed to share.” Sharing my own experiences helped participants feel a bit safer communicating about their struggles in this formal way. While this by no means guaranteed me participants’ full trust, I believe it reassured them that I would protect their stories, as I was also implicated. This was a moral dilemma I noticed as I analyzed the data; because I was no longer implicated in the way participants were, the tension of solidarity emerged once again. It became clear by the sixth interview, when I interviewed someone I had no prior relationship with for the first time, that participants were attentive to the various styles of communication being used. This suggested to me that I was viewing this group as limited in their agency and awareness; I was in effect using a dominant institutional frame to make sense of this group’s seeming lack of attention to their communicative environments. I brought a limited perception of this group, as

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I assumed that only students of Communication Studies are attentive to local and global communicative practices erected by the surrounding structures. I had to reflect on my own biases to understand that participants also see communication as a signal as to how they will potentially be judged, which indicates if a situation is favorable or not. I do not mean to suggest that sharing similar experiences afforded me complete trust because it did not. I was still a citizen who brought in prior mediated assumptions to the research space, which showed how removed I was from this situation even as I attempted to communicate a sense of understanding. What my experiences afforded me was a willingness to investigate my own language practices in order to be sensitive toward this group’s awareness of their own structural limitations. The discourse mattered. For example, when asking participants about their work life, framing questions as “How do you find work under the table,” as opposed to “Where do you work,” shows that I am attentive to the complexity of their situation (which is completely normal for them). Meaning, this group did not feel comfortable explaining the details and complexity of their situation to those who are seemingly ignorant toward their ways of knowing. Trust and willingness are things that go hand in hand for this population, whereby some level of trust is needed for this group to be willing to engage with dominant spaces and individuals. This is certainly the case for hospital and medical institutions, as participants tend to view these spaces with the same critical lens that they take to political conversations. The first step toward reducing the health disparities faced by this group is to supply medical professionals with the communicative resources that would show sensitivity toward this group and their structural limitations and understanding.

Conclusion The “bending back” that Steier (1993) and Ruby (1984) point to goes beyond the self as embedded in a system, but also highlights the various effects that the design structure, relationships, and language of the research project have on what is eventually produced. Hence, by fostering a reflexive attitude throughout the process forced me to notice my limitations as a researcher, along with the advantages I was afforded due to my prior connections. This started with assessing the design and language choices used to structure each interview and how to potentially facilitate more productive engagements by making tweaks to both language and design.

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The goal of situating this research project as concerned with reflexivity was to tackle the taken-for-granted attitudes which tend to accompany academic research. It is important to recognize the responsibility we have as researchers to foster co-learning relationships with those individuals we look to engage (Basu & Dutta, 2009). The reason why I thought a reflexive turn would be illuminating for this project was because I wanted to design a research engagement that would allow me to recognize and be attentive to the slippage between my position as a researcher and that of someone who has shared similar experiences to participants (Basu, 2011). Solidarity involves taking risks, as long as those risks could potentially lead to benefits for the entire group, in the same way participants would take risks in order to protect others in similar positions. In effect, solidarity with participants was achievable by recognizing how my position can be used to support group cohesion. The hope of this research project then was to expand group cohesion/solidarity to include those reading this document so that we can create the type of society where people without papers can access the same human rights services, that citizens do, including healthcare.

References Babcock, B. (1980). Reflexivity: Definitions and discriminations. Semiotica, 30 (1–2). Basu, A. (2011). HIV/AIDS and subaltern autonomous rationality: A call to recenter health communication in marginalized sex worker spaces. Communication Monographs, 78(3), 391–408. https://doi.org/10.1080/03637751. 2011.589457 Basu, A., & Dutta, M. J. (2009). Sex workers and HIV/AIDS: Analyzing participatory culture-centered health communication strategies. Human Communication Research, 35(1), 86–114. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1468-2958. 2008.01339.x Bloemraad, I., Korteweg, A., & Yurdakul, G. (2008). Citizenship and immigration: Multiculturalism, assimilation, and challenges to the nation-state. Annual Review of Sociology, 34(1), 153–179. https://doi.org/10.1146/ann urev.soc.34.040507.134608 Burke, K. (1939). Attitudes toward history. Durkheim, E. (1984). Mechanical solidarity, or solidarity by similarities. The Division of Labour in Society, 31–67 ,. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-349-177 29-5_3

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Dutta, M. J. (2007). Communicating about culture and health: Theorizing culture-centered and cultural sensitivity approaches. Communication Theory, 17 (3), 304–328. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1468-2885.2007.00297.x Dutta, M. J., & Basu, A. (2013). Negotiating our postcolonial selves: From the ground to the ivory tower. In S. H. Jones, T. E. Adams, & C. Ellis (Eds.), Communication faculty publications (p. 504). https://digitalcommons.usf. edu/spe_facpub/504 Dutta, M. J., & Zoller, H. M. (2008). Theoretical foundations; Interpretive, critical, and cultural approaches to health communication. In H. M. Zoller & M. J. Dutta (Eds.), Emerging Perspectives in Health Communication (pp. 1– 18). Routledge. Glesne, C. (2007). Research as solidarity. In N. K. Denzin & M. D. Giardina (Eds.), Ethical futures in qualitative research: Decolonizing the politics of knowledge (pp. 169–178). Left Coast Press. Hacker, K., Anies, M. E., Folb, B., & Zallman, L. (2015). Barriers to health care for undocumented immigrants: A literature review. Risk Management and Healthcare Policy, 175,. https://doi.org/10.2147/rmhp.s70173 Lupton, D. (2012). Representations of medicine, illness and the body. In Lupton, D. (3rd ed.) Medicine as culture: Illness, disease and the body (pp. 51–78). Thousand Oaks: Sage. Merriam-Webster. (n.d.). Citation. In Merriam-Webster.com dictionary. Retrieved October 21, 2020, from https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/cit ation Ruby, J. (1984). Ethnography as trompe l’oeil: Film and anthropology. In J. Ruby Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Steier, F. (1993). Introduction: Research as self-reflexivity, self-reflexivity as social process. In F. Steier (Ed.), Research and Reflexivity. London: Sage.

CHAPTER 8

The Imagined Freedom: Borders and Exile in the Global South Abdalhadi Alijla

Introduction We live in a world in which the most morally unacceptable forms of social and political violence, discrimination, and oppression are acceptable. After sixteen years of living in exile, I was granted permission to enter the Gaza Strip and return home to visit my family, including my mother on 17 July 2022. I was also able to visit the grave of my father who passed away three years before my successful return to Gaza. In 2006, Hamas, a political Islamist movement, won the majority in the Palestinian legislative elections, which led the Global North powers, siding with Israel, to delegitimize the results of the Palestinian elections and besiege the Palestinian government by cutting aid and financial support to Palestinians. These global powers, primarily the European

A. Alijla (B) Gerda Henkel Stiftung, Düsseldorf, Germany e-mail: [email protected]

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Union, Canada, and the U.S., lent their support to the security apparatus led by Hamas’s opponents, but in 2007, Hamas took over the Gaza Strip by force after weeks of conflict with Fatah and the security forces of the Palestinian Authority (Alijla & Al Masri, 2019). I left Gaza soon after, not knowing I would be unable to return for more than a decade and a half. During this time, I moved from being a student to an asylum seeker to a refugee to a quasi-citizen and then a citizen of a country different from where I was born (Alijla, 2019). In 2019, my father died in Gaza while I was about to start a postdoctoral position in Beirut. Even though Beirut is just six hours by car from Gaza, I could not visit my family to share our grief and I could not attend his funeral. The Gaza Strip has been blocked since the early 1990s. Between 1967 when Israel occupied the Gaza Strip along with the West Bank, Sinai desert, and the Golan heights and the 1990s, Israeli military let the Gaza population to work in Israel freely, as a form of cheap labour, but kept the movement restricted to the outside world (Alijla, 2020b). Since 1993, Israel started to impose partial restriction in the form of checkpoints, wired barriers, border controls from the north, east, south, and from the sea in the west. Despite that, there was a possibility to travel through Rafah to Egypt, and from there to the rest of the world. Since 2006, Israel has been imposing a very tough and highly sophisticated and dehumanizing blockade over the Gaza Strip, preventing movement, using new technologies to restrict movement in the Gaza Strip, and calculating the calorie intake for every person in Gaza (The Guardian, 2012). For more than 15 years, Israel has transformed the Gaza Strip into one big prison (B’Tselem, 2005). In early 2022, I decided it was time to do my best to visit my family through the Rafah border between Egypt and the Gaza Strip. The risk would be either deportation from Egypt, imprisonment in Hamas’ jails, and therefore the loss of my job in Sweden, or in an extreme situation, assassination by a radical group. I planned the trip for July to coincide with the vacation time of my new job in Stockholm and waited until June to book the tickets to Cairo. During this time, my mental state was consumed with the imagined fears of every possible scenario that might happen during the visit. Going beyond traditional theories on political violence, borders, and oppression, this chapter questions the epistemological foundations of such theories concerning the Global South. I argue that the normalization of

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political violence has led to a post-capitalist structure of borders where freedom of movement is sold by states, authoritarian regimes, and their militaries. My experience of returning to the Gaza Strip after sixteen years in exile has helped me to reflect on how normalizing state violence can commercialize freedom of movement.

Preparing for the Return It was in January 2022 that I made up my mind to visit Gaza no matter what the odds as my mother was getting older and was hospitalized frequently. The pain and guilt of not being able to visit my father before his death were already unbearable. His death reminded me daily of how borders were creating a monster of the trauma inside me and others in my position. I knew that visiting Gaza was gambling with my future but it would be worth it if I was able to see my mother again. The preparation for my return to Gaza was marked by so many questions and what-ifs. The first step was to assess the regulations for the entrance of foreigners to Gaza and the procedures for obtaining permissions. With a Swedish passport I was now a foreigner in my own home. The second step was to ensure that I had no registered lawsuits with Hamas’ de-facto police and judicial system, which could lead to my arrest. Third, I examined and analyzed the security situation in the Sinai desert and whether I would be able to pay the large amounts of money required to enter the Gaza Strip and avoid interrogation. Also on my mind was that, as per Palestinian culture, I was expected to take gifts to relatives. But how could I do that for so many people? Overall, however, the most critical question for me was if I would feel safe and if I would feel that I belong in Gaza again. The fear that I would not feel a sense of belonging triggered anxiety about whether my decision to return home was the right one. After living in seven different countries and fifteen cities, it was hard to imagine that I would be returning to the city in which I grew up. I knew that this city would not be the same after many assaults, bombs, and wars. I started to relive my childhood memories and was afraid of them being torn apart by the realities on the ground.

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The Power of a Foreign Passport To be born as part of the Global South creates a challenge at borders when it comes to freedom of movement. A nation’s power is reflected in the ease with which its passport holders can cross borders. Palestinians have no such power as they are routinely deprived of the freedom of mobility. Palestinians with Western passports too have a difficult time, even at Arab airports. More often than not, Palestinians who are foreign passport holders are asked in many Middle Eastern airports: “What are your origins?” The border police see the dark skin, the Arabic name, on what I call the “Unfitting Ericsson”, where Mohamed with an American passport is seen to be incongruous, and Abdalhadi with a Swedish passport looks far from an imagined Swede to the police officer. Border officials are caught up in their own assumptions and prejudices. Despite these challenges, the foreign passport does wield power and the possibility of banning a Western passport holder, or the “Semi-Swede”, in my case, is low. Nevertheless, there is still a risk as no matter what passport I hold, I will always be noted as a “Palestinian” in passport entry and exit system records. When I landed at Cairo international airport on my return home, I remembered the previous traumas of being a Palestinian and becoming a Swede. To have a Swedish passport is a powerful means to be protected in general, but as a researcher, it is a dangerous game. In the last few years, Egypt has been targeting political scientists, academics, and researchers who worked in Egypt (HRW, 2022). As someone working in the Middle East and writing about the Middle East, I was alert to the fact that I might have been banned or blacklisted in Egypt. But who knows until one tries to get into the country? The worst-case scenario here is deporting me as soon as possible to another country of my choice. Of course, if I were to hold only a Palestinian or Egyptian passport, I would be arrested and disappear into the unknown, as has happened with many Egyptian researchers who disappeared and appeared in courts after many weeks. In a few cases, the actions of colleagues in European universities pressured the Egyptian authorities to release them (HRW, 2022). To cross through the Egyptian Rafah crossing I only needed proof that I have a family in Gaza. But, on the other side, as a Swedish citizen, I could not travel through Jordan to the West Bank and then to the Gaza Strip, as Israel prohibits movement between Gaza and other parts of the world without special permission from the Israeli military. As someone

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born in Gaza, I need special security coordination with the Israeli army to let me into any area under Israeli control. My Swedish citizenship, therefore, is useless when it comes to visiting Israel or the West Bank, as Israel treats the Palestinians who were born in Gaza as Palestinians only, even though they have or are willing to use their foreign passports. Citizenship of the Global South determines your destiny. While having a passport from a Global North country can protect you, to some extent, from dictatorships, it cannot guarantee your safety and security if you are deemed to have a Global South identity. Crossing borders and simple geographical movements are only in the realm of dreams for most Palestinians, even those who may have acquired foreign passports.

The Imagined Freedom: Pay More or Suffer If entering Gaza is difficult, leaving Gaza is an absolute nightmare. The only two ways to leave are through Israel, via the Erez crossing, and Egypt, via the Rafah crossing. From Erez, it is nearly impossible to leave the Gaza Strip. Israel has maintained a highly restricted freedom of movement through the Erez checkpoint. The vast majority are not even eligible to apply for an exit permit from Erez. Only patients, traders, and INGO workers are able to apply for permits to enter or exit the Gaza Strip. Although the Rafah crossing is open most of the year, it operates at a minimum capacity for unrealistic security reasons. For example, it opens at 10 am and closes at 5 pm, allowing only between 300 and 400 travelers to leave each day. In 2022, the Rafah border was closed for 36 days from January to August, adding to tensions. To leave Gaza via the Rafah crossing, there are a number of hoops to jump. The first is to register with the de-facto government of Hamas, outlining approximate travel days and the reason for travel. Every applicant must provide a logical and convincing reason for leaving the Gaza Strip, such as medical reasons, student or work abroad contracts, or residency elsewhere. A week before the day of travel, people have to check and confirm their willingness to travel. The names are listed 48 hours or 24 hours before travelling. In some cases, applicants do not succeed in leaving and have to try again later. The Rafah crossing has become a profitable business for the Egyptian security and military and security apparatus. Until 2005 and the Israeli withdrawal from the Rafah borders, the informal Egyptian visa (Tanseeq) cost between 40–50 USD. However, after the border was completely

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closed between 2006 and 2014, a Tanseeq cost between 1500 and 3000 USD per person with barely 20–30 border crossing days annually and limited numbers allowed to leave the Gaza Strip. A few years ago, a new commercial company was established to provide VIP services for travellers from Gaza to Egypt. The company, which has a close connection with the Egyptian security apparatus, and is rumoured to be owned by a few high-level officers on the Egypt side, provides transportation services to Palestinian travellers between Rafah and Cairo (HRW, 2022a). Although the distance between Rafah and Cairo is around 400 km, the military operations in the Northern Sinai make the road challenging to pass quickly, and passengers at some points sleep for a few days in the desert before being allowed to move towards Rafah. Currently, the average time of travel between Cairo and Rafah is 18 hours, which includes the checking of bags a few times along the road and sleeping over in the desert without toilets or covers. With the assistance and collaboration of Egyptian security, the company transfers Palestinian passengers to Rafah from Cairo in six hours. The costs for such services range between 750 and 950 USD (the average income for an employed individual in Gaza is 207 USD monthly). On my return home, as the Rafah border was closed due to the Hajj vacation for a week, I was forced to stay in Egypt for a few days. As the opening day approached, I received the news that tens of thousands of travellers were stuck on the Suez canal, and I may need three days to get to Rafah. I decided to pay to go in the shortest time possible. The cost of a bus was 750 USD with six other people. The Egyptian authorities allow only between five and six buses to leave the Gaza Strip, and leaving involves a process called “Tanseeqat”, a mechanism of paying an agent informally a defined amount of USD (usually changing the amount depending on the pressure on the borders and the number of passengers; the more travellers, the more pressure on the borders, thus increasing the “value” of Tanseeqat). The prices of Tanseeqat depend on its type based on the authority and power it wields. For instance, the military intelligence Tanseeq is the most powerful, costing more than 350 USD, while the general security Tanseeq costs below 250 USD. Although the Tanseeq may facilitate an exit from the Rafah border, they do not guarantee humane treatment. Travellers often have to wait several hours to stamp their passports without air conditioning, drinkable water, proper seats, or clean toilets.

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On the way to Gaza from Cairo, I waited at what they call the “VIP section”, where more than 300 people were crowded in seats that fit less than 50. With a malfunctioning air-conditioner and the cries of dozens of children, the VIP hall became unbearable. I ran to the normal hall, which was full of people but more spacious. A Palestinian man with a Russian passport, Russian wife and child, was angry. He started to shout and complain that he paid 750 USD for humane treatment and fast travel. After waiting more than three hours, he was frustrated by the delay. According to the officers, foreign passports have to go through a process of security control with military intelligence, national security, and intelligence services. As the man shouted, a senior officer called him in a loud and angry voice, “Don’t fool yourself into being a VIP with your 750 USD, Mom’s little darling! You paid the money so that your wife won’t go to the restroom under a desert tree at night. Go and sit down there and wait for your passport”. After waiting more than three hours to stamp our passports, I made it to the Rafah border. It was a luxurious crossing compared to the Egyptian part. The faces are different, bearded men, walky-talky, moving in a fast step, welcoming us but looking at us suspiciously. I was expecting an interrogation and a lengthy investigation considering my case. However, it was smooth, as I was not in their registry and record as I had feared. After half an hour, I was outside, hugging my brothers for the first time in more than fifteen years.

The Dream of a New Sky Given the hardship the people of Gaza face when they leave the Gaza Strip, entire generations have been deprived of their right to leave. By leaving, I mean leaving for any purpose and reason, not necessarily for medical treatment or studies abroad. The mere thought of leaving Gaza for tourism is considered a “joke” or an “unimaginable fantasy”. The Gaza Strip has been gradually transformed into a giant prison since the early 1990s, as Erez crossing and wire barriers started to be built around Gaza (this is against the narrative that the siege of Gaza started in 2006). As a consequence, most of my generation consider themselves long-term prisoners. As journalist Marah Elwadiya wrote in a social media post after she travelled to Egypt for the first time for studies, “I always wondered what the sky colour was outside Gaza. I finally saw it…after 31 years, I was able to be far away from the fire and guns…” (Elwadiya, 2022).

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According to an Alaraby TV special investigative report from September 2022 between 185,000 and 205,000 Palestinians left the Gaza Strip between 2007 and 2020, which makes up around 10% of the whole population (Al-Araby, 2022). The Palestinians of Gaza do not have the basic fundamental rights of freedom of movement. As a result of being the “biggest open-air prison” in the world and the continuous violence and attacks (between 2008 and 2022, Gaza was subject to five assaults that resulted in thousands of victims), and current generations are suffering from social, economic, political, and psychological issues that clinically separate them from the external world. The freedom of movement that was supposed to be bought by entering through the Rafah border was only meant to keep the authority and power in the hands of the officers. In other words, the Palestinian travellers bought nothing but time and reinforced the structure of financial benefits for the Egyptian military and security agencies.

Memories Erased On the way from the Rafah border to Gaza City, I realized how much the Gaza Strip had changed. It is different. Places are different, names of places are different, childhood buildings have disappeared, new roads have opened, and new realities have emerged. Every corner of Gaza has a story of destruction, death, and sorrow. “Do you remember this?” was a common question my relatives asked me on the roads in Gaza. But the reality is I do not, as most of the experiences I had as a child and teenager have disappeared. I recall seeing the news videos of attacks, sometimes live on TV, but to see the reality of the destruction is different. Since 2007, Israel has launched five wars against Gaza (2008/2009, 2012, 2014, 2021, 2022) and stepped up their attacks every time, to the limit where every single place in Gaza has become unsafe, including streets, hospitals, schools, and public buildings. Many buildings from 2008 to 2014 have not been rebuilt yet (Filiu, 2014). What hurt me the most on my return was the disappearance of my primary school. It was attacked in 2014, and destroyed. Despite that, new modern roads found their way into Gaza through international aid, and a new upper middle class of Islamists have emerged. What struck me was the dozens of new and luxurious restaurants and cafés along Gaza’s beach. On

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a few occasions, I passed big photos of men who were seemingly killed by Israel. I would recall them as either a classmate from school or university.

Between Anger and Hopelessness: Youth in Gaza When I arrived home, dozens of relatives, friends, and acquaintances from social media visited and welcomed me to Gaza. I have met dozens of young people and witnessed their discussions about political, economic, and societal problems. They are angry at Hamas, the Palestinian Authority, Fatah, and Israel. I felt their hopelessness and feelings of disappointment, including fear and anxiety about the future. Gaza’s society is a young society, where around 30% are young people between 18 and 29 years old. They are the population most affected by the siege, occupation, and political divisions (PCBS, 2019). A young man who will be 30 years old in 2022 was born when Gaza was under partial siege in the early nineties and lived through five major assaults and wars, a political division and internal military conflicts between Fatah and Hamas. The violence they are subjected to since childhood has affected how they perceive political, societal, and economic values. In July and August 2022, the International Committee of the Red Cross conducted a survey among youth in Gaza and found that two-thirds of the youth in Gaza are dependent on their families, and more than 40% have no hope of finding a job in the next fifteen years. In the same survey, 88% of the youth considered their lives abnormal due to the Israeli occupation, the renewed rounds of attacks, the restrictions of movement, and the internal Palestinian divisions (ICRC, 2022). Looking at their mental health amid global crises, national division, and the siege, around 49% endure stress, anxiety, and depression. In addition, around 33% say that they face social problems. The hopelessness and siege have created a generation alienated from politics. National interests are the third priority after economic issues and internal divisions (Alijla, 2020a). While I was in Gaza, two silent phenomena were being discussed: the high number of suicide by the youth (Al Arab, 2020) and the extensive violence against women.

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Economy of Starvation According to the Palestinian Bureau of Statistics, 56.6% of the population of Gaza suffers from food insecurity, and 80% live under the poverty line. The first whisper among people in Gaza is about the monthly Qatari 100 USD (As part of holding Hamas under control, Qatar in coordination with Israel pays 100,000 families a 100 USD monthly) in food vouchers and cash-based assistance. The number of beggars, especially children, is frightening. Due to economic stagnation and lack of job opportunities, many universities’ female students cannot continue their studies. I met two university rectors who informed me that they are in a severe financial crisis and cannot deliver high-quality education. When I left Gaza 15 years ago, there were still many factories and food industries at a small level, but with all the attacks from Israel and the ongoing economic siege, they have collapsed. I remember different types of cookies that we used to eat but they are no longer available as the factory, “Al Awda”, was unable to continue its operations. Yet, Gaza’s economy and life present for me a paradox. Modern cars costing not less than 70,000 USD drive by on the roads while thousands of people are unable to have food security just for the day. Small businesses have disappeared, but modern and expensive restaurants have emerged. As Gazans whisper that those successful businesses belong to Hamas and their newly emerged Islamic middle class, it is the small and medium projects serving all the Palestinians that constitute a solid part of the shaky economy.

Gaza Between the Global South and the Global North I have been arguing that the continuation of the Israeli colonization relies on the support of the Global North. Historically, and for many decades, the Global South, especially countries who were under colonialism, supported the struggle for liberation of Palestine. Although many European countries assisted in establishing the Palestinian authority, they continued to support the Israeli state, politically and economically. Even criticism against issues such as settlements, and killing of civilian Palestinians is soft on Israel, asking the Israeli state to not use disproportionate force, as if the force of the state on a besieged land can ever be proportionate. Most recently, Israel has implemented strict rules limiting the

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ability of foreigners to stay in the West Bank, work for INGOs, or even teach or research at any Palestinian institution. Unsurprisingly, Israel orders visitors to register romantic relationships with Palestinians (The Guardian, 2022). The Global North countries do not even react, and few statements or worrisome are issued without any reliable or promising actions. The case of Gaza is unique as most people would expect that it would be treated by the Arab neighbouring country of Egypt, differently. However, since the demarcation agreement between Egypt and Israel after the creation of Israel, Egypt has been looking at Gaza through a securitization lens. Most security measures were informally forced by the Global North countries and the UN. The policies and consequences of the Israeli siege on Gaza and the rest of Palestine do exist in various forms and levels elsewhere in the Global South. Such policies involving the creation of artificial and rigid borders as well as economic and political sieges drive many from the Global South to self-exile, forced exile or a mixture of them. There is a need to theorize the conditions for such exile, especially the ways in which the Global North is complicit in the different forms of exile people in the Global South, face, leading to the dehumanization of millions.

Conclusion This testimony is not only a personal testimony of struggle in one of the smallest regions of the Global South but a testimony of the people of Gaza living and suffering in occupied Palestine. In this testimony, I have focused on how entry and exit to the Gaza Strip are not only ruthlessly controlled and policed but also commercialized and securitized, seizing more money from impoverished Palestinians and creating new realities of buying fake and imagined freedom. Even though the Palestinians in Gaza continue to struggle, they choose not to talk openly about how the Egyptian army and security use the Rafah crossing as a financial asset and how every Palestinian traveller is seen as a moving-USD. Despite these challenges, and considering the historical relationship with the Egyptian people and regime, the Palestinians of Gaza, as an oppressed group, do not direct their struggle against Egypt’s abuse of power. Their focus is on the Israeli colonization as that is the bigger struggle. Because of this colonization, they have been utterly

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robbed of the conditions necessary for a struggle against another power other than Israeli colonization. In this testimony, I also describe how I saw the stagnated economic situation in Gaza, which is fragile and could collapse anytime. I have seen the hopelessness and fear in the eyes of my generation in Gaza and their eagerness to leave Gaza for a better future.

References Al Arab. (2020). “‫انتحار الشباب فی غزة‬.. ‫رسائل احتجاج تکشف حیاة الیائسین‬.” ‫صحیفة العرب‬. 01:00 2020. https://bit.ly/3ppzgLb Al-Araby, dir. (2022). “Immigration from Gaza.” Ein Al-Makan. Gaza. https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=QEWn1DX7xzg Alijla, A. (2019). Gazzawi as Bare Life? An auto-ethnography of borders, siege, and statelessness. Contemporary Levant 4 (2). 177–82. https://doi.org/10. 1080/20581831.2019.1666860 Alijla, A. (2020a). Trust in divided societies: State, institutions and governance in Lebanon, Syria and Palestine. Bloomsbury Publishing. https://www.blooms bury.com/us/trust-in-divided-societies-9781838605322/ Alijla, A. (2020b). Palestine and the Habeas Viscus. Borders in Globalization Review 1(2): 8–22. https://doi.org/10.18357/bigr12202019493 Alijla, A., & Aziz Al M. (2019). New bottles, old wine: The contemporary Palestinian political division. Journal of Islamic and Middle Eastern Multidisciplinary Studies 6(1), 1–23. https://doi.org/10.17077/2168-538X.1116 B’Tselem. (2005). One big prison: Freedom of movement to and from the Gaza Strip on the eve of the disengagement plan. https://www.btselem.org/public ations/summaries/200503_gaza_prison de sousa Santos, B. (2018). The end of the cognitive empire: The coming of age of epistemologies of the South. Duke University Press. Elwadiya, M. (June 1, 2022). For the first time, I traveled. Sabaq. https://bit. ly/3C5lx3D. Filiu, J. P. (2014). The twelve wars on Gaza. Journal of Palestine Studies, 44(1), 52–60. HRW. (2022). Joint statement: Alarming death of Egyptian economist and researcher following forced disappearance. Statement. Human Rights Watch. https://bit.ly/3T2NAq3 HRW. Email. (2022a). Ya Hala’s operations at the Rafah crossing, https://bit. ly/3yqlzkq ICRC. (2022). Gaza’s youth: Suspended lives, fading opportunities. International Committee of the Red Cross. https://www.icrc.org/en/document/gazasyouth-suspended-lives-fading-opportunities

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PCBS. (2019). Population final results—detailed report Palestine—population, housing and establishments Census 2017. Ramallah. https://pcbs.gov.ps/ Downloads/book2425.pdf The Guardian. (October 20, 2022). West Bank visitors ordered to register romances as Israel brings in strict rules. https://bit.ly/3F5L1js The Guardian. (October, 2012). Israel used ‘calorie count’ to limit Gaza food during blockade, critics claim. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2012/ oct/17/israeli-military-calorie-limit-gaza

CHAPTER 9

Border Struggle: Invisible [Hi]story of the Other in Management/Organization Studies J. Miguel Imas

The second Industrial Revolution, 1998 (from late nineteenth to early twentieth centuries) saw a wave of technological, business and organizational innovations. As Freeman (2018) suggests, it transformed people’s lives, creating (mostly in the Western world and especially the United States) a class of entrepreneurs, contributing to the rise of the middle class (in management roles) and producing a large body of workers (mostly European immigrants and white Americans from farms and small towns) (Niiler, 2019), in the newly created factories that supported this transformation. This period also saw the rise of one of the most despicable “business” practices in human history, the exhibition of human beings in human zoos and world fairs (Sánchez-Gómez, 2013).

J. M. Imas (B) Faculty of Business and Social Science, Kingston University, Kingston, UK e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Pal et al. (eds.), Organizing at the Margins, New Perspectives in Organizational Communication, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22993-0_9

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Human zoos and world fairs in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were ethnological exhibitions with the purpose to assert Western nations’ power over their colonies. Displaying human beings (natives) as “savages ”, most European imperialist nations asserted their technological and socio-economic prowess over the savage other. Equally, it conditioned western populations to see this other as an “exotic” being, therefore, desensitizing Western people to see others as inferior beings (Trupp, 2011). For Blanchard et al. (2008) this important event marks the rise of colonial and mass racism. South Africa’s Apartheid regime well into the twentieth century can be seen as an example of this legacy (Steyn & Mpofu, 2001). The inhumane practice of displaying colonized “colour” people, emphasizing a kind of Western superiority (Trupp, 2011), underlines the remarkable life of individuals like Ota Benga, a young African Mbuti Congolese, who in 1906 was exhibited in a cage at the New York Zoological Park’s monkey house. Benga was acquired, along with other Mbuti, from colonized Congo1 by businessman and explorer (entrepreneur) Samuel Phillips Verner for display at the Saint Louis World’s Fair in 1904 (Sax, 2015). Once that exhibition ended, Benga went back to Congo where a brutal war of colonization exterminated his tribe. He returned to the United States and ended up at the New York Zoo under the direction of William Temple Hornaday, a well-known animal conservationist (Newkirk, 2015). Hornaday, a celebrated animal and wildlife crusader, held white supremacist views (Dehler, 2013). Dehler’s accounts of his life expose his racist views against non-Anglo-Saxon individuals (e.g., southern Europeans, Mexicans, native Americans, not to mention African people). Hornaday was close to Madison Grant, another notorious white supremacist of the time. Grant outlines his racist ideology and credentials in his book, The Passing of the Great Race (Grant, 1916). He goes on to say in his next book that the Nordic Race –European race was significantly superior to any other “race” (Grant, 1933). It is no surprise that Grant, who viewed himself as an anthropologist, was a proponent of eugenics—the science of racial purification and elimination of so-called human defects (Mitchell & Snyder, 2003), and, therefore, had no hesitation to support the exhibition of Benga in a cage at the New York Zoo.

1 Today known as the Democratic Republic of Congo, independent since 1960.

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Meanwhile, in 1903, at another location in the United States, Frederic Winslow Taylor, born 1856 into an affluent Philadelphia family, published his book Shop Management (Taylor, 1903), the precursor to his most influential book, The Principles of Scientific Management (Taylor, 1911),2 where he outlined what became the scientific basis of management (and organization) in the twentieth century (Koumparaulis & Vlachopoulioti, 2012). While violent racism was tearing up Benga’s life, Taylor enjoyed a life of abundant privilege. Taylor travelled in Europe for three years, attended a boarding school and was accepted at Harvard, but could not join due to eyesight problems (Blake & Moseley, 2011). Taylor subsequently worked at different industrial organizations where his ideas about how to manage work more efficiently took hold. Taylor’s efficient way of production eventually pioneered the introduction of management principles to govern “workers” in the emerging modern “machine” organization of the 2nd Industrial Revolution. Taylor, unlike Benga, is remembered and acknowledged as a key figure in the development of modern management (Keulen & Kroeze, 2014). Indeed, Keulen and Kroeze (2014) suggest that once his work was published “one could not imagine a world without it”. Benga, on the other hand, lived a life of misery and impoverishment at the margins of Taylor’s existence, finally committing suicide in 1916 (Newkirk, 2015). I open this chapter with two contrasting [hi]stories of the time that preceded the advent of management and organization studies. These [his]stories may seem inconsequential and unrelated to the epistemological debates and development of our field. We may even say that the story of Benga does not add knowledge to the development of management. Yet, we may also say that it is extremely important to recognize the [hi]stories of those who lived at the “margins” and whose lives remain ignored and erased from our scholarly discussions (see Imas & Weston, 2012). The suffering and exclusion of individuals like Benga are a testimony of the ways in which our management and organization disciplines evolve, setting foundations for a racialized conception of the field (see Dar et al., 2021). In making Benga’s “invisibility” visible, our theoretical constructs highlight border otherness or the “subaltern” existence

2 Those principles were based on scientific rationality and its concerns with planning, organizing, directing and controlling/monitoring work cycles in organizations.

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as discussed in postcolonial and decolonial texts in critical management/organization studies (e.g., Banerjee, 2008; Ibarra-Colado, 2006). It opens the field to ontological “scrutiny beyond a pure philosphical “game” (Sian, 2017). Ontologically, we have not fully unpacked the conditions of subaltern communities. Subaltern communities were being exploited and wiped out at the time when others, the dominant members of society, were writing about the industrial and technological advancement of the Western capitalist world (see Imas & Garcia-Lorenzo, 2022). Especially, in the New World (the Americas) and Africa, where the discourse of “science” justified and sanctioned the degradation of the subaltern other (Fanon, 1963). It is important to turn the lens to those who were not “heard” or ominously “deleted” from academic discourses of modern management and organization. Drawing on Wendell Phillips’s letter to Frederick Douglass (Douglass, 1845), where he quotes from an old Aesop’s fable The Man and the Lion, I invite us to consider that it is time for the lions to start recounting and reclaiming their own [hi]story of management and organization. I also add that it is time to document what happened at the margins of the dominant historicization of the discipline. We are not the “protagonists” or “authors” of this tale, but vehicles that carry [hi]stories of those whose lives remain lost and unheard in a discipline that has been reluctant to rectify and examine its violent past. These untold stories come to demonstrate how imperialism was carefully designed: “Imperialism was organized, and it was managed” (Cooke, 2003b). Next, I focus on Saartje Baartman’s remarkable life in slavery and captivity. Her story gives us an insight into an African woman’s life in the nineteenth century as well as an insight into the “dark” side of management and organization history.

Saartje Baartman: A Product for Freak Management Shows The story of Sarah Baartman is the story of the African people…. It is the story of the loss of our ancient freedom…(and) of our reduction to the state of objects who could be owned, used and discarded by others. —(Thabo Mbeki, 2002)

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Who is Saartje Baartman? Why is she relevant in management/organization studies? What kind of contributions did she make? Did she influence the development of management/organization or businesses in the nineteenth and twentieth century? Indeed, like Benga most readers and scholars in management/organization studies have most likely never heard of Baartman. Her name does not appear in critical management journals, such as Organization. However, it is easier to find other names in relation to women’s contributions at the onset of the field. For instance, Lydia Estes Pinkham (1819–1883), is described as an entrepreneurial businessperson who influenced the development of management marketing (Conrad & Leiter, 2008). Also, Lilian Gilbreth (1878–1924) is celebrated for successfully applying scientific management at home under adversity and with a family of eleven children. She became an instant success for her radical thinking at the time: The search for the One Best Way of every activity, which is the keynote today in industrial engineering, applies equally well to home-keeping and raising a family.—Lillian Gilbreth (quoted in Graham, 1999, p. 633)

Mrs. Gilbreth succeeded at both running a family and developing her kitchen design business, reinventing herself as a household engineer (Graham, 1999). Graham (1999) suggests that while she was known for her intelligence, scientific skills, psychological stability and ingenuity, it was more for her influence in the “scientification” of housework that secured her a place in the historical narratives of management/organization. The Goddess of the “one best way” in management became not only a feminist icon but her life was celebrated by Hollywood in the film Cheaper by the Dozen (1950). These narratives are instrumental in constructing the supremacy of white European women in the dominant historiography of management/organization studies (Showunmi, 2018). Unlike white American women, the “unknown” Baartman was not considered to be someone capable of high intelligence, psychological strength, ingenuity and scientific knowledge and skills. She was not regarded as someone with the capacity to contribute to science. Her only apparent attribute, it appears, was being an African woman with an “exotic body” who needed to be exhibited for European pleasure, curiosity and disdain. As such, Saartje Baartman, not even her real name as this was given by her Dutch owners, was exhibited under the pseudonym,

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the Hottentot 3 Venus, in nineteenth century Britain and France (Willis, 2010). Like many African women or men (in colonial /imperialist context) at the time of the Industrial Revolution, she existed only to be “displayed” as an object; paraded as an exotic primitive savage, deprived of agency, humanity, dignity, voice and social life. The silence around Baartman’s life in management and organizational studies indicates that she was not given any importance or recognition in the discipline even though it was the violent commodification of her body that became a source of profit for white slave owners (Howard, 2018). In the context of cultural domination, the myths and images are central to sustaining oppressive tactics that determine how histories are documented and how individuals appear to be visible and/or invisible, humanized and dehumanized (Henderson, 2014). Patricia Hill Collins (as cited in Henderson, 2014) calls the authority to define an instrument of power, and these instruments of power serve to control the images of black women such as Baartman. Situating her story in the discipline opens the door to re-examine the grand history of management/organization. Such re-historicization unmasks the discipline’s seemingly singular focus on “pure” scientific development, economic prosperity and wealth. The absence of any engagement with Baartman in the dominant discourses indicates the field’s apathy for anti-racist work and shows colonial underpinnings of its very foundation (Cooke, 2003b). Thus, when Hamel (2009) claims that the invention of management along with enlightenment (policy) and scientific discovery led to global prosperity, I argue that it was the suffering and struggle of people like Baartman or Benga that enabled progress. Her courage, her suffering, and her life are intricately connected to that progression.4 Born in Eastern Cape, South Africa in 1789, Baartman was a member of the KhoiKhoi, a nomadic pastoral community in southwestern Africa.

3 Hottentot is a Dutch word originally employed by Dutch settlers in the Dutch Cape Colony of Southern Africa. It denotes the Khoikhoi people of South Africa. Later on in the eighteenth century, it was adopted as a derogatory term to describe African people as primitive and savages with supposedly grotesque physical features (Hughes, 2006). 4 We must keep in mind that long before Martin Luther King’s leadership march to freedom (Garrow, 1987) and Rosa Park’s organizational defiance (Schudson, 2012), we had people like Baartman who suffer discrimination and appalling racist treatment in the hand of their “managers” employers.

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She had seven siblings and her parents died when she was still an adolescent. Baartman was captured and subsequently taken to Cape Town to work as slave (domestic) servant for a Dutch family, the Cesars (Holmes, 2007). There she met a soldier with whom she had a baby who later died (Levin, 2009). The Cesars experienced financial difficulties in the Cape, and they needed to secure new income. Alexander Dunlop, who was the military staff surgeon, and an exporter of museum specimens convinced the family that Baartman, a pretty young African woman, had potential as a “scientific curiosity” in Britain (Holmes, 2007) due to her prominent buttocks (Levin, 2009). Once convinced of the lucrative promises, they sailed with Baartman to England, arriving in 1810. Once in England, she became a “displayed object of curiosity” (Qureshi, 2004) for two shillings a show as part of a freak managerialist show.5 Qureshi (2004) describes the inhumane exhibition of Baartman in detail. She was dressed in a very tight dress in order to appear practically naked, adorned with beads and feathers to ascertain her African ancestry, and given some musical instruments from her community in South Africa to perform. While she “performed” her keeper treated her like a wild beast, forcing her to stand, walk or to sit. People who came to see her were extremely fascinated with her “body” features, particularly her buttocks. In fact, Baartman, like most Hottentot females, presented a significant accumulation of fatty tissue, a condition known as steatopygia (Krut & Singer, 1963). Chauveau (2012) maintains that during scientific debates on the hierarchy of race, this attribute was believed to correspond to the buttocks of “female apes”, degrading further the humanity of Baartman. Men who came to see her “performance” poked her with their cane whereas women pinched her buttocks. Other women used their parasol to examine whether her body was “nattral” (Chauveau, 2012). Under these inhumane conditions she was forced to perform even when she was ill.6

5 Freak Shows were colonial exhibitions and fairs in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, parading indigenous women, men and children from Asia, Africa, Oceania and the Americas. 6 Management/organization has a history of physical exploitation and abuse well into the twentieth century. Imas (2010), e.g., described management as a “tool” of oppression and subjugation in Chile, during the dictatorship years, and Argentina, where workers lost their fundamental rights.

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Her despicable and inhumane treatment attracted the attention of abolitionists,7 who attempted to free and send her back to South Africa. They lost the case under very “spurious” circumstances as Dunlop and the Cesars showed the court that Baartman had a contract and was just an “employee” (Holmes, 2007). These management entrepreneurs continued to exhibit their “employee” in England, profiteering from her display. In 1814, after Dunlop’s death and when the Cesars desired to return to the Cape, Baartman was sold to a French animal trainer called S. Réaux (Levin, 2009). Réaux took her to Paris, reasserting her subaltern status by continuing to commodify and objectify her to earn money, and mistreated and abused her further. For instance, she had to perform for 12 hours daily, without much consideration or respect for her humanity and well-being. She was exploited for the indulgence of her oppressors and captivating audiences in the same way slaves in plantations were “directed” to perform their tasks.8 With Baartman attracting the attention of naturalists and scientists in France, Réaux sold Baartman to the Paris Natural History Museum in 1815, making a small fortune out of the deal. The scientists working at the museum were Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire (naturalist) and George Cuvier (anatomist). The peculiarity of these two scientists is that both were believers in European supremacy and supported the idea that black people were closer to “animals” than human beings. Indeed, their interest in Baartman was purely “physical” rather than in getting to know her as another individual. Her body shape was studied to assert her status (as others like her) as a “primitive” being. This was exemplified by including her in the first volume of Saint-Hilaire’s and Cuvier’s Histoire Naturelle des Mammifères (Qureshi, 2004), the only human to be displayed in drawings alongside other “animal mammal species”. Cuvier and Saint-Hilaire were part of established scientists setting the basis for what became known as the “invention of race”, i.e., the scientific belief that established a hierarchical idea of race, whereby Europeans

7 Although in England slavery was abolished by 1807; it remained in place until 1833 throughout the empire. 8 Here it is important to make a brief observation on slavery and management history. Cooke (2003a) discussed this issue, suggesting that if management was concerned with the efficiency of directing people to complete tasks and jobs, it was perplexing that major twentieth century management textbooks ignored fully the subject while 4 million slaves performed their jobs under “managers”.

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were at the top and the rest at the bottom. For instance, both scientists claimed that facial structures were determinants of cerebral development, implying that non-Europeans were less developed in intelligence and other cognitive tasks, ultimately justifying slavery and colonialism (ACHAC, 2013). As interest in seeing her show decreased, Réaux put her to work as a prostitute in a brothel (Holmes, 2007) after which Baartman died in 1815 of syphilis. As she passed away, one would have imagined that these erudite scientists would have allowed her body to rest in peace, and history would have completely forgotten her existence as it did with so many other slaves. However, St-Hilaire requested the right to preserve her body for further studies. Even after her death, she continued to be treated as an “asset” of (business) scientific interest (Chauveau, 2012). Baartman’s body was used by Saint-Hilaire and Cuvier to further compare her body to “other animals”. St-Hilaire described Ms Baartman’s anatomy in comparison to orangutan and female mandrills. Cuvier, on the other hand, was obsessed with the so-called Hottentot apron (Baartman’s genitalia) to establish some clear differentiations with European women. Gilman (1985) suggests that scientists’ obsession with female sexuality in the nineteenth century was driven by the desire to proclaim clear differentiation between white Europeans and Africans. Furthermore, the focus on women genitalia exposes the obsessive desire to present women’s sexuality as pathological. Gilman (1985) concludes that all these experiments were driven to prove the polygenetic argument whereby black women possess different sexual genitalia and therefore could be treated as a different (lower) race. Fundamentally, this was cementing racist and supremacist views that justified “scientifically” the exploitation of African women like Baartman. Baartman’s body continued to be exhibited in the Natural History Museum of Paris until 1937. This time she became an “artefact” that continued to attract scientific and artistic interest. According to Cheaveau (2012) her remains were moved afterwards to the Musée de l’Homme until 1970 and put away after complaints were made by feminists. In 1994, her skeleton reappeared at a nineteenth-century ethnographic sculpture exhibition at the Musée d’Orsay and suffice to say that this again raised protest. Indeed, well into the twentieth century, she was still “performing” for Europe’s audiences. She was still attracting attention as the Hottentot Venus of the Cape.

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It was not until 2002 that Baartman’s body was finally returned to her homeland, South Africa. It took long negotiations with the French government as some French intellectuals objected to her remains’ repatriation as a loss for science as if her body still belonged to her oppressors. She was buried on August 9, 2002, at a funeral ceremony on the banks of the Gamtoo River. Thabo Mbeki, president of South Africa at the time, closed the act with the following words: Sarah Baartman should never have been transported to Europe. Sarah Baartman should never have been stripped of her native, her Khoisan, her African identity and paraded in Europe as a savage monstrosity. (BBC, 2002)

It took her two centuries to come home; it took her two centuries to gain her freedom. but in the process, Baartman, the organizational worker, taught us valuable lessons in organizational [in]dignity and [in]humanity. Her story of “dehumanization”, deprivation of her identity and her unspeakable exhibition as a “savage”, tell us, following Holmes (2016), a story of “survival” against the monstrous acts committed against not only her but entire populations who were enslaved (see Holmes, 2016). Her story is the story of millions of Black women who fought for their rights and against tyranny (Steyn & Mpofu, 2001), the tyranny of management exploitation. Decades before intersectionality was conceptualized as a theoretical construct (Rodriguez et al., 2016), and decades before we started to discuss and question Western narratives of organization and management from critical, decolonial and postcolonial approaches (e.g., Prasad, 2003; Weston & Imas, 2018), Baartman’s struggle exposed that “rational dehumanization” is central to management history. For example, postcolonial feminist approaches (e.g., Özkazanç-Pan, 2012) underline the exploitation and exclusion of the other, bringing attention to the theoretical understanding of life as a slave or a marginal actor. Yet, I argue that we have not scrutinized adequately the past to include the voices of those, like Baartman, who suffered with their bodies. It is their [hi]story that preclude the lives of those who we describe today as black leaders or black pioneers in the world of management and organization studies (see e.g., Carton & Rosette, 2011).

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Rational Dehumanization and Racialized Scientific Management: Saartje Baartman’s and Ota Benga’s Legacy for Management/Organization [Hi]story Human zoos, the incredible symbols of the colonial period, have been completely suppressed in our collective history and memory. Yet they were major social events. The French, Europeans and Americans came in millions to discover the “savage” for the first time in zoos or “ethnographic” and colonial fairs. These exhibitions of the exotic (the future “native”) laid the foundations of the West’s progressive transition from practicing “scientific” racism to “mass” racism that continued for over sixty years, attracting millions of “visitors” from Paris to Hamburg, London to New York, Moscow to Barcelona… (Blanchard et al., 2008)

What do organizational inhuman stories of Baartman and Benga tell us about the ways in which the dominant narratives of management/organization were written in the twentieth century? How does the colonial legacy shape our theories of present and future notions of work, management and organization? Clearly, following Blanchard et al. (2008), it seems evident that the experiences of individuals like Baartman or Benga have been erased from the collective history and dominant narratives of management studies. For instance, while discussing slavery, these significant events have been simply omitted (see Cooke, 2003a). We see this in McGrath’s (2014) brief history of management, whereby she mentioned only in a very short sentence the unfortunate use of slave labour in agricultural endeavours. I argue that describing the brutal and inhuman suffering of people caged in human zoos as “unfortunate” fails to capture the enormity of the pain and injustice involved in the practice. Baartman’s life as a “commodity”, dismissed as “insignificant” or “unfortunate” along with millions of others and their families who were kidnapped and forced to work as slaves under colonial regimes in Africa, Asia and the Americas, finds no place in the history of management/organization studies. I argue that the glorious “history” of scientific management achievements, extolling contributions of “thinkers” like Taylor, Townes or Gantt while suppressing human suffering at the time, reinforce a white supremacist foundation of the discipline.

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I note the occurrence of the same phenomenon in Chandler’s (1999) Visible Hand of Management, a historical account of the rise of management. The visible hand replaced what he thought until then was the “invisible” hand of market forces to drive (managerial) capitalism within the emerging new modern organization. His historical account focuses on embedding a new hierarchy, i.e., class of managers who could direct the (working) life of individuals in new modern factories. But what the book remains silent on is that the “visible hand” was active in the “production (capture)” and “distribution” of the other from the late nineteenth to the twentieth century. Management/organization history is inseparable from the [hi]story of those who were enslaved and paraded as “exotic natives” in [in]human zoos and world fairs, like Benga was. Their histories are intertwined with the management history; inseparable from each other as the modern world was built out of the misery of those enslaved and displayed. The “efficiency” of managerial design, planning, organizing and execution was tried and tested on not only slavery but in the lucrative imperialist industry of world fairs exhibitions and human Zoos, upon which new management narratives were constructed: To place a man (woman), with the intention that he should be seen, in a specific reconstructed space, not because of what he ‘does’ (an artisan, for example), but because of what he ‘is’ (seen through the prism of a real or imagined difference). (Blanchard, 2008, p. 23)

Thus, I suggest two implications from Baartman’s and Benga’s stories. First, the [in]visible story of management is essential for the systematic rational dehumanization of the other, whereby the life of the subaltern other loses value and significance. The exploitation of the other sets the managerial foundation of how to treat people in the modern factory under “scientific management principles”. Rosenthal (2018) illustrates this eloquently when she describes the Congressional special committee’s hearing on the impact of new business practices on the lives of workers in 1911. The interest of the committee, she narrates, was “scientific management”, i.e., the technique that sought to measure and improve worker productivity. However, the committee did not quite approve of the management principles. A worker from Massachusetts’s Watertown Arsenal described his experience as being equivalent to slavery. Expanding on the experience, the worker said, “managers exerted extreme control

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and follow you when you are at your job”. A head machinist said, “the system had reduced the men to virtual slavery” (Rosenthal, 2018). Moreover, Rosenthal (2018) goes further to associate slavery to the birth of scientific management by pointing out how “the task idea”, a central notion in modern scientific management was the reflection of the task system imposed in plantations: As far as discipline at the workplace goes,... the master–slave relationship is quite similar to the capitalist-wage-laborer relationship in scientifically managed enterprises. (Aufhauser in Rosenthal, 2018)

Evidently, silence and suppression of the tragic and violent past that affected the lives of Baartman and Benga informs management principles and is at the heart of management discourses. People were forced to “work” and their lives were controlled, exhibited and ultimately sanctioned such that the “practices” deployed to dominate and control got adopted in the new scientifically managed enterprises of the twentieth century. That is how the invisible stories of power and control are suppressed by those who benefit from the system of exploitation. Second, the rise of scientific management reflects quite significantly the rise of “racism” as a managerial tool of domination and control. This is based on the rise of eugenics that aimed to prove scientifically that clear differences and hierarchy existed between human beings.9 Eugenics (in Greek “well born”) assumed that there were factual differences in human intelligence, character and temperament as a result of heredity (Paul, 1984). These ideas grew from the scientific work conducted by scientists like Charles Darwin (1809–1882) and Francis Galton (1822– 1911). Galton, for e.g., stated in Hereditary Genius (1869) that for him “black people were at least two grades below Anglo-Saxons in ability and intelligence” (cited in Jackson and Wiedman, ). Science laid the foundation for white supremacists’ views and for justifying colonization and slavery. Human zoos were a product of that subjugation and an extension of those assumptions on the native other.

9 I cannot possibly give a full historical account on how eugenics developed as a “respectable” [pseudo] science that contributed to advance scientific racism well into the twentieth century. I invite readers to engage with Jackson and Weidman (2005/2006) who discuss the subject in depth.

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These supremacist ideas, Rosenthal (2018) suggests, got infused with ideas of management progress. In fact, a well-known businessperson like Andrew Carnegie supported these ideas. Carnegie financed the scientific study of zoologist Charles Davenport who was a friend and collaborator of Madison Grant, who, as I described in the introduction, held strong white supremacist views. Davenport regarded non-white individuals as inferior, and he was working to prove it. Not surprisingly, the President of the Carnegie Institution for Science had to “apologise” for Carnegie’s historical involvement in the pursuit of scientific racism: There is no excuse, then or now, for our institution’s previous willingness to empower researchers who sought to pervert scientific inquiry to justify their own racist and ableist prejudices. Our support of eugenics made us complicit in driving decades of brutal and unconscionable actions by governments in the United States and around the world. As the President of the Carnegie Institution for Science, I want to express my sincere and profound apologies for this organization’s past involvement in these horrific pseudoscientific activities. (Eric Isaacs, quoted in Schambra, 2021)

The implications of the ideas that germinated at the hype of Human Zoo exhibitions still exist today, permeating the ways in which we read and practice management in organizations. Liu (2021) suggests that in management studies, “whiteness” prevails through the discipline’s epistemic norms and conventions and above all, its intellectual history. The discipline maintains racial inequality, by suggesting race is “irrelevant”, and “racism” is obsolete (Dar et al., 2021). As a result, scholars of colour have to explore their own experience of invisibility. In sum, I argue that the grand management [hi]story is founded on two principles—systematic rational dehumanization, and racism as a managerial tool.

Concluding Thoughts By reflecting on the lives of Baartman and Benga, I have attempted to elucidate a critical discussion on the ways in which the grand management narrative is written. To challenge the foundation of that narrative, I invoke scholarships on colonization (Mignolo, 2000), violence and dispossession (Hammar, 2014), identity and humanity, and oppression and repression (Imas & Garcia-Lorenzo, 2022). The life of these significant individuals is as precious as those who “intellectually” advance the modern

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organizational world, and the modern narratives of management. Baartman’s suffering and Benga’s exploitation were good examples of how the other’s working life was disregarded and “forsaken”. Reflecting on their experiences teaches us to confront the seemingly apolitical history of management/organization studies and re-write this history to bring forth subjugated knowledges from the margins of the discipline, and continuously challenge prejudices and assumptions that work to denigrate the racialized and colonized other.

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PART III

Deconstructing Structures

CHAPTER 10

Culture-Centered Organizing at the “Margins of the Margins”: Dismantling Structures, Decolonizing Futures Mohan J. Dutta

Organizing at the margins is intertwined with the organizing of knowledge about such organizing, imbricated in logics of power and control, and placed within the politics of knowledge in the modern imperial university. How do we go about knowing the margins as the labor that we perform as academics in our relationships with the margins reflect the broader politics of feudalism/colonialism/capitalism that constitutes the project of knowledge generation? Moreover, for those of us inhabiting diverse marginalized identities, our performance of marginalized

M. J. Dutta (B) Center for Culture-Centered Approach to Research and Evaluation, Massey University, Palmerston North, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Pal et al. (eds.), Organizing at the Margins, New Perspectives in Organizational Communication, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22993-0_10

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identities as academics, largely protected with our academic privilege, writing and teaching decolonization within the neocolonial/neoliberal university, and divorced from working class, abolitionist, and indigenous struggles against neoliberal expansion, is often a key element in the securing of opportunities (Bradford & Dutta, 2018; Dirlik, 1999; Dutta, 2020a). Our performance of radicalism within the academic structure while keeping the structure intact and/or reproducing it is intertwined with the careerist opportunities bestowed on us by the colonial/capitalist structure. Salient here is the ongoing co-option and incorporation of the languages of marginalization, postcolonialism, and decolonization to prop up and reproduce academic privilege (in the South Asian context I am familiar with, this takes the form of upper caste, upper class privilege among postcolonial academics), reproduced through hierarchies of power and control that cozy up to power and reproduce it (Dirlik, 1999; Dutta, 2019a, 2020a). Whiteness as the universal values of white culture works out pathways for expanding the reach of global capital, albeit through the sophisticated incorporation of postcolonial/decolonization discourse and performed under the hegemonic narrative of diversity, education, inclusion (DEI), and internationalization (Dutta, 2020b, 2020c). The deployment of the language of marginalization to uphold power/control among postcolonial elites that further reinforce the hierarchies propped up by whiteness points to the sustaining power of the underlying ideologies of capitalism/colonialism that form the frontiers of twenty-first century neoliberal extraction, and that have historically formed the architecture of the colonial/capitalist project (Dirlik, 1999). Performances of critiques of Western knowledge and turn toward cultural mobilizations of difference, held under the umbrella of cultural identity, are deployed toward producing and incorporating cultural essentialisms into the market logic of neoliberalism, working alongside the interests of capital to prop up cultural articulations of difference. For instance, frames such as “Asian turn” and “Asian values” are deployed in East/Southeast Asian authoritarian regimes toward the legitimization of repressive strategies of disciplining workers that foster extreme forms of neoliberal capitalism, consolidating techniques of exploitation under the rhetoric of harmony to enable the global flow of capital (Dutta, 2019b, 2021). Consider simultaneously the ongoing erasure of subaltern voices and knowledge claims under the performance of postcolonial/decolonizing analyses. Moreover, the language of decolonization, performed by postcolonial elites, is mobilized toward perpetuating

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ongoing forms of marginalization within postcolonial spaces, carrying out exploitative practices that serve the interpenetrating relationships between colonialism/capitalism and internal racisms (such as casteism in India, racism toward darker skinned Indians and Malays in majority Chinese Singapore, and caste oppressions in the technology sector in the U.S. with the large presence of upper caste Indians organizing around diversity, equity, and inclusion), and in specific instances, organizing around disinformation and hate that further disenfranchise and perpetuate violence on the raced, classed, gendered, caste margins. Amidst these symbiotic relationships between the opportunistic reworkings of whiteness dressed up in postcolonial/decolonizing narratives and the performance of postcolonial grievance by elites to secure a place at the tables of whiteness, it is necessary to turn to the emancipatory roots of decolonizing struggles, to theorize decolonization as a project anchored in resistance to the hegemonic values of whiteness that render colonialism/capitalism as natural, and to anchor decolonization in the socialist anti-colonial nationalisms that spread across the colonies between the 1930s and the 1970s (Dutta & Pal, 2020; Dutta, 2019b). The values of white culture that construct land, natural resources, and the earth as exploitable resources to be privatized, controlled and commoditized are resisted through the articulation of and mobilization around knowledge claims that foreground the sacredness of land, values of love and care, and principles of resource redistribution. Drawing from Indigenous struggles and the knowledge generated from within these struggles, I argue in this chapter that organizing decolonization is anti-colonial, reflected in struggles for reparation and returning colonized land, knowledge, cultural resources to colonized peoples (Tuck & Yang, 2012). Decolonization as the assertion of sovereignty of communities that have been targeted by the colonial project, at its roots, seeks to undo the structures of whiteness that reproduce colonialism/capitalism, drawing upon values that foreground care for the ecosystem and living/non-living forms (see Dutta & Thaker, 2019; Gopal, 2021). Salient to the ongoing work of decolonization is the turning to knowledge systems and knowledge claims that are centered in relational logics, offering the bases for universal forms of organizing that challenge the reductionism of colonialism/capitalism by seeking connections (Tuiono & Dutta, 2018). Decolonization in this sense is emergent from current struggles against the extractive forces of neoliberal capitalism that target the remaining land, water, and other natural resources, seeking to commodify them by

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turning them into zones of profiteering. Moreover, decolonization is a struggle for the future, drawing on the knowledge systems of Indigenous and local communities in the Global South. Turning to the knowledge held by local and Indigenous communities in the Global South builds the registers for organizing rooted in principles of intergenerational care, safeguarding of resources, and communal sharing (Pal & Dutta, 2013). The labor of decolonizing futures therefore is fundamentally about realigning the affinities and affective frameworks of organizing, returning to the socialist project that shaped anti-colonial movements (Dutta & Pal, 2020). In the rest of the chapter, I will turn to the key tenets of culture-centered organizing to outline the already existing strategies of resisting the colonial/capitalist project. In doing so, I will seek to outline the nature of academic labor that is engaged with struggles against colonialism/capitalism, presenting examples from culture-centered organizing processes emergent from interventions housed under the umbrella of the Center for Culture-centered Approach to Research and Evaluation (CARE) (see Dutta & Zapata, 2018).

Colonialism, Capitalism, and Theft The marginalization of communities at the global margins is shaped by the intertwined processes of colonialism and racial capitalism. The capitalist project is intricately tied to the colonial project, the occupation of land and extraction of resources fueling the growth of capitalism, alongside the large-scale availability of cheap, hyper-precarious labor in the form of exploitable labor expelled from colonized spaces (Dutta, 2021). Moreover, extractive forms of taxation to fund the colonial architecture have historically worked alongside the uses of various instruments of violence to build free markets for the commodities of capitalism (Bose, 1990). Historically, the two tools of manipulation and violence have been instrumental to the theft of land and to the promotion of the free market.

Communicative Inequality and Disenfranchisement Inequalities in the distribution of material resources are intertwined with inequalities in the distribution of communicative resources (Dutta, 2008, 2018). Theorizing communicative resources as resources for information and voice, culture-centered analyses document the ways in which these resources are held by those in power, creating and reproducing the

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conditions for marginalization. Disenfranchisement as material absence of access to resources is rooted in the erasure from discursive resources and infrastructures. The experiences of marginalization that reflect material disenfranchisement are reflected in the erasure of voice. Moreover, communities at the margins are shut off from information around pathways for accessing material resources. The concept of communicative inequality theorized in relation to voice foregrounds the ongoing and cascading processes of erasure that are scripted into the organizing of colonial/capitalist infrastructures. Hegemonic forms of communication as participation and engagement deploy a plethora of strategies to project difference as cultural essence, framing participatory processes within the ambits of colonialism/capitalism to further perpetuate the interests of capital. Consider here the role of civil society co-opted within the ambits of global capital, incorporating social change into privatized market logics, framing participation in the ideology of the market. This privatized logic is further entrenched and reproduced through digital platforms projected as bringing about participation, with the logics of the platform incorporating participation to serve the agendas of global capital. In this context, it is salient to examine the role of participatory digital platforms as instruments for commoditizing land and grabbing land at the frontiers of neoliberal capitalism. That communicative inequality is intertwined with disenfranchisement therefore turns to the questions of distribution and ownership of voice resources and infrastructures (Dutta, 2015). The culture-centered approach (CCA) puts forth the concept “margins of the margins” to document the ongoing erasure of communities at the intersectional raced, classed, gendered, colonial margins. Attending to the questions, “Which voices are erased from the discursive space?” “What are the processes through which these voices are erased?” attends to the complex layers of erasures, seeking to disrupt the politics of representation that is co-opted by hegemonic structures to perpetuate erasure. The concept “margins of the margins” invites critical reflexivity rooted in listening, inviting academics, activists, and communities to listen to the voices at the intersectional margins that are erased.

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Whiteness, Privatization, and Colonialism The colonial roots of knowledge structures framed within the ambits of modernization fundamentally shape knowledge as extraction. The whiteness of colonial knowledge upholds as universal the values of hegemonic white culture while simultaneously perpetuating a racist ideology that erased the knowledge generating capacities of colonized/enslaved cultures. From anthropology to the sciences, the racist organizing of knowledge has shaped the production and circulation of knowledge to serve colonial interests. Tied to the assertion of the power and control of the colonizer over privatized land, knowledge has historically worked to create erasures. Through the production of knowledge, laws have been manipulatively deployed to steal Indigenous land and resources (Mutu, 2019). The whiteness of knowledge as extraction is reproduced across postcolonial contexts. Hindutva as colonialism mimics the whiteness of the Empire, having been seeded by the “divide and rule” policy of the Empire and catalyzed by the conceptual threads of fascism. Catalyzing extreme form of neoliberalism as smart governance, Hindutva puts in place an array of authoritarian techniques of repression to catalyze accelerated land grab and privatization of public resources (Gopalakrishnan, 2006). Similarly, consider the colonial impulse of the “Asian model” that assembles a range of authoritarian strategies under the umbrella of “Asian values” to perpetuate colonialisms within Asia and across spaces, to perpetuate extreme forms of labor exploitation, and to uphold extractive practices through repression to facilitate the flow of global capital (Dutta, 2019b). What connects these processes of extraction across contexts is the underlying ideology of privatization that drives the colonial impulse. In the backdrop of this ongoing co-option of the language of decolonization to serve the goals of consolidating elite power and control, working alongside the extractive interests of capital, culture-centered processes of organizing attend to the agentic capacities of people and communities at the global margins to build plural, socialist, anti-capitalist, and anti-colonial registers for organizing the world.

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Culture-Centered Organizing at the “Margins of the Margins” The process of cultural centering turns to the actual labor of building voice infrastructures at the “margins of the margins.” Because erasure forms the basis of the perpetuation of the colonial/capitalist project, raising voices at the margins forms the basis for transformative organizing processes that challenge hegemony. While hegemonic approaches toward organizing center strategies for negotiating the colonial/capitalist structure to secure incremental gains, voices of communities at the “margins of the margins” foreground the impossibilities of incrementalism, noting that strategies of accommodating power further perpetuate power, calling for radical acts of organizing that challenge and dismantle power (Elers & Dutta, 2019). Resistance to power is situated in and emergent from subaltern agency. Salient here is the whiteness of hegemonic power that prescribes communicative rules of civility that constrain forms of appropriate participation (Dutta & Elers, 2020). To cater to these rules of civility to participate in the structures established by whiteness is to lend to the further perpetuation of whiteness. Moreover, note the politics of high theory performed as postcolonial and subaltern studies that work through the erasure of subaltern articulations, theorize on/about the subaltern while maintaining distance from actual subaltern politics. In their introduction to subaltern politics, Nilsen and Roy (2015) suggest the “entanglement of power and resistance,” positing that subalternity is “always being mediated” and not “necessarily guaranteed to be successful or transformative” (p. 15). They go on to conceptualize the processes through which the implementation of neoliberalism is negotiated by elites through processes of both coercion and garnering consent from below. The “new rights agenda” is secured in this analysis through the mobilization of subaltern politics, pointing to neoliberalism as a negotiated process that is reflected in liberties and entitlements enshrined in law. Such a reading of subalternity fails to engage with the communicative processes of organizing at the “margins of the margins” that fundamentally seek to dismantle the neoliberal project through the mobilization of meanings rooted in subaltern rationality. The impure and messy forms of subaltern negotiations the authors point to simultaneously draw upon culturally centered meanings that challenge the colonial whiteness of the neoliberal project. Yet, these radically

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transformative knowledge practices remain erased from the theorizing of the new subaltern politics. Salient here is the mobilization of values rooted in interpretive frames that resist the extractive logics of colonialism/capitalism, thus fundamentally offering registers for organizing radical democracies rooted in voices at the intersectional “margins of the margins.” Such meanings rework and mobilize democratic processes from below, building the organizing registers for challenging the neoliberal project. The process of cultural centering attends to voice at the intersections of culture, structure, and agency. Exploring the communicative processes in hegemonic structures that erase voice theoretically is tied to the methodology of co-creating infrastructures for voices that mobilize toward structural transformation. Methodologically, culture-centered processes of organizing therefore turn to the labor of building voice infrastructures at the “margins of the margins” that are owned by communities at the “margins of the margins” and that are mobilized by the rhythms and norms of community life, while simultaneously turning reflexively toward the intersectional inequalities and tensions within community spaces.

Resistance Work as Interconnected Resistance work at the global “margins of the margins” is locally embedded, situated in context, and is simultaneously connected across spaces, contexts, and issues, building into universal registers for transforming the forces of colonialism/capitalism (2012). The culturally constituted meanings that form the basis of resistance mobilized at the “margins of the margins” interrogate, disrupt, and dismantle the whiteness of colonialism/capitalism that reduces human experience into extractable resources. In the voices of communities at the “margins of the margins,” various forms of dispossession and extraction mobilized by colonialism/capitalism are intertwined, rooted in the communicative processes of establishing as hegemonic reductionist, individualizing, property-owning, market mediated values of hegemonic white culture (Moreto-Robinson, 2015). The reductionism of whiteness is interrogated through meanings that witness and foster connections, that locate human life in relation to the ecosystem, grounded in land, organized in the theorization of earth as sacred, and that mobilize organizing practices seeking connections. For instance, in culture-centered articulations

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of health among Santalis in Bengal, health is constituted in sacred relationships with trees and the forest (Dutta, 2004). Mobilizing for health therefore is materialized in collective resistance to protect trees and land. Land forms the key part of the mobilization among Santalis organized in the uprising in Jangalmahal, constituted in relationship with the struggle for dignity. The right to voice that mobilizes the Santali struggle is deeply intertwined with the struggle for the right to the forest and the wider ecosystem. Similarly, consider the struggles for low-wage hyper-precarious migrant workers in Singapore against the extreme neoliberalism of the state that marks workers as discardable bodies (Dutta, 2021). The voicing of health as a human right turns to the everyday struggles with hunger and securing access to decent food among the workers. This in turn is understood in relationship with the illnesses, sick days, and workplace injuries the workers have to negotiate. Resistance is understood as the right to a voice, expressed in the context of the poor quality of food catered to the workers, and mobilized as the basis for seeking labor rights amidst the repressive strategies of disciplining and silencing labor mobilized by the state. Hyper-precarious migrant workers resisting the organizing of migrant work that constitutes their experiences of food insecurity simultaneously foreground the poor housing conditions and the risky transportation structures that ferry them to and from work. These everyday experiences of negotiating health risks are in turn situated amidst their voicing of experiences of racism, stigmatization, and violence at work (Dutta, 2021). This forms the backdrop of the emergent calls to worker collectivization and the right to unionize. Low-wage migrant workers voice frameworks for building registers of solidarity with the working classes in Singapore, forming the basis of working-class resistance against Singapore’s exploitative economy. In Aotearoa New Zealand, the struggles of M¯aori communities in securing health turn to organizing to safeguard the relationship with the land. In culture-centered organizing at the “margins of the margins,” M¯aori participants put forth the Indigenous concept of Whakapapa, situating their everyday negotiations of health in connections with whenua, community networks, and relationships of care (Mika et al., 2022). These relationships of care weave in human as well as ecological contexts, situating communication as the anchor to organizing to secure land. Communities mobilize to express sovereignty (tino rangatiratanga) by occupying land, and at the same time, working on the land collectively to

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grow food in the form of M¯ara kai (community food gardens). Community advisory groups of Indigenous, migrant and local communities in the Global South organize to build locally situated food systems rooted in the ethic of care and community. Similarly, the organizing for food sovereignty among Dalit (oppressed caste), landless women in Telengana India offers a communicative and material infrastructure for mobilizing for climate justice, resisting the technocratic neoliberal response to climate change (see Dutta & Thaker, 2019).

Voice in Organizing Processes Voice forms the basis of culture-centered organizing for structural transformation. Through the expression of voice, communities at the “margins of the margins” challenge the multiple layers of inequalities that constitute material disenfranchisement. For instance, in the resistance work performed by Muslims in India amidst the fascist consolidation of hate by the Hindutva state, the expression of voice forms the register for holding the state to account (Nizaruddin, 2020). Amidst the state’s turn to deploying the repressive National Register for Citizens and Citizenship Amendment Act, the participation of Muslims, and the leadership offered by Muslim women, voice the constitutional principles that form the registers of Indian democracy, dismantling the hate that forms the infrastructure of the Hindutva state (Hashmi, 2022). The mainstreaming of majoritarian hate is held to account through the expression of voices at the margins experiencing the hate. The agenda of repression to disenfranchise through silencing is interrupted through the presence of the voices of the “margins of the margins.” Voice forms the basis of organizing protests across the country, bringing together communities at the “margins of the margins” in connecting with each other, and in raising calls for holding on to the principles of secularism, socialism, and democracy. Salient here is the placing of processes of democracy within community-based cultural strategies, attending to the politics of fostering spaces for the raced, gendered, classed margins. The participation of working and precarious class Muslim women in leading the processes of social change place habits of democracy in the rhythms of everyday community life (Hashmi, 2022). The occupation of public spaces through the registers of pluralism, raising claims to the principles of secularism, democracy, and equality guaranteed by the Indian constitution, creates the infrastructure for voices,

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narrated through art, poetry, slogans, songs, and other forms of performances (Hashmi, 2022; Nizaruddin, 2020). These calls for upholding the Indian constitution serve as the registers for building support across the nation, resulting in protests across India. Through various forms of performances that include protest songs, speeches, and raising of slogans, public spaces are turned into infrastructures for voice. Salient here is the materiality of everyday spaces as voice infrastructures in communities amidst the large-scale consolidation of media power (both traditional and digital) under Hindutva. Voice forms the basis of stories crafted by Muslims, rendering visible the infrastructure of hate perpetuated by the Hindutva state and the accompanying apparatuses of power and control. These stories mobilize organizing, bringing together community formations and connecting community formations in the struggles against Hindutva. The digital infrastructure of disinformation and hate mobilized by Hindutva to silence the voices of Muslims and simultaneously target them are resisted through offline–online spaces of resistance (Nizaruddin, 2020). The participation and leadership of Muslim women in the movement against state-sponsored Hindutva hate resists and dismantles the propaganda crafted by Hindutva around the narrative of “freeing the oppressed Muslim woman” that is deployed as a catalyst for the infrastructure of hate, and in synergy with the Empire’s construction of the oppressed Muslim woman as the legitimating trope for colonial violence. Digital infrastructures for voice are mobilized alongside and in iterative relationship with community spaces for articulating resistance. Forms of art, performance, and protest participation are shared across offline and online spaces. In Aotearoa New Zealand, in the example of resistance depicted earlier, M¯aori community advisory group members from the “margins of the margins” in Feilding note the erasure of their voices as the basis of the colonial onslaught on their land and ecosystem. Voicing their relationship ¯ with the Oroua river, Wh¯anau members mobilize around building spaces for their voices to be heard, which in turn, shapes their organizing of resistance to stop the expansion of land grab under the rhetoric of development (Mika et al., 2022). Culture-centered processes of co-creating voice infrastructures at the Indigenous “margins of the margins” shape ¯ the organizing of the land occupation at the Oroua river (see Mika et al., 2022). Wh¯anau voice the effects of land loss on their everyday health and wellbeing, mobilizing to resist the colonial occupation of the river framed as community development for the prevention of flooding.

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Through the voice infrastructures that brought together Wh¯anau at the “margins of the margins,” narratives explored the workings of colonial strategies and strategies for resistance. They occupied their ancestral land, co-created a video campaign to speak back to the Council and prepared submissions outlining the effects of further land dispossession on the health and wellbeing of Wh¯anau. They voiced their relationship with the river and the ways in which this relationship shaped their knowledge of how to strengthen the riverbanks to ensure the river can freely take its own path without overflowing onto adjacent land. Narrating the river in relational terms dismantled the commoditization and privatization of the river as an exploitable resource to be colonized. The occupation of the ancestral land creates a register for dismantling the Eurocentric discourse on development. During the land occupation and after two meetings between the Wh¯anau and Horizons, the Council apologized for taking the land and reinstated the land back to the Wh¯anau.

Knowledge in Organizing Struggle Colonial/capitalist forms of knowledge production conceptualize knowledge as a commodity in the service of colonial extraction. The whiteness that forms the hegemonic definition of knowledge positions as universal the colonial epistemology rooted in the production and circulation of distance. To know is to produce claims from a distance, incorporated into the networks of power/control to generate concepts that legitimize colonialism/capitalism. Knowledge thus has historically served the expansionary infrastructure of colonialism, producing racist constructs that legitimize the colonial theft of land and enslavement of colonized peoples. Knowledge as extraction has simultaneously carried out cognitive epistemicide, violently erasing the knowledge-generating capacities of colonized people and communities (de Sousa Santos, 2015). This erasure of knowledge is intertwined with the denial of the agentic capacities of colonized peoples at the “margins of the margins.” Postcolonial and decolonial claims to knowledge generation, rendered in abstraction and devoid of embeddedness in the struggles at the “margins of the margins” have reproduced this expansionary/extractive feature of colonial/capitalist knowledge, rendering erased/invisible the agentic capacities of subaltern communities. Moreover, performative claims to Eurocentrism of knowledge formations have been co-opted toward serving the shallow and opportunistic agendas of upper caste, upper

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class postcolonial academics, devoid of engagement with actual struggles against colonialism/capitalism/racism (Dutta, 2020a). Consider for instance the brokerage played out by postcolonial elites in the perpetuation of whiteness when whiteness is threatened. Such brokerage works well to accommodate postcolonial elites within white structures, bringing in rewards, albeit limited, for genuflecting to these structures. Consider similarly the opportunism of an elite Brahminical class of postcolonial academics aspiring toward whiteness, largely silent about the oppressive forces of whiteness through appeals to civility and dialogue, and simultaneously profiteering from movements toward inclusion emergent from radical critiques of whiteness that disrupt disciplinary norms (Dutta, 2019a, 2019c, 2020a). In the context of national policies, de-westernization is often the very trope that serves colonial interests through the replication of the strategies of whiteness. The emergence of the “Asian turn” is an example of the regressive agendas of power and control enacted through authoritarian power under the guise of culturalism. Increasingly, the decolonial turn has been co-opted into the agendas of far-right forces, precisely because it is devoid of solidarity work with communities at the global margins and disconnected from the struggles to dismantle colonial/capitalist structures. Consider for instance Juluri’s (2020) flawed and opportunist use of the language of decolonization to prop up Hindutva propaganda. Juluri communicatively inverts decolonization, delinking it from its anti-colonial and anti-capitalist registers, to craft the fiction of a monolithic Hindu agency (this monolithic Hindu agency is a key construct in the organizing logic of the fascist politics of Hindutva) and then craft the spurious concept of Hinduphobia. Hinduphobia as a concept is manufactured and disseminated by Hindutva to propel its hate politics and to silence its critics. The simplistic labeling of the references to Hindu nationalism as a Western category serves the sinister purpose of denying the materiality of Hindu nationalism as a fascist ideology driven by hate, and the material effects of the hate felt by India’s minorities, particularly Muslim minorities. Juluri’s baleful deployment of the language of decolonization and its corresponding claims to social justice as the basis for doing the propaganda work for Hindutva is not an anomaly, but directly emergent from the cottage industries that have sprung up around decolonization, de-westernization, cultural studies, and postcolonialism, devoid of the commitments of material struggles of the Left against capitalism as the instrument of colonialism. Theorizing on the subaltern has often turned

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into a performance of knowledge production at/from a distance, disconnected from the actual struggles of subaltern communities for securing hegemony. The work of decolonization in the CCA negotiates strategies of decolonizing the decolonial, seeking to dismantle the structures that perpetuate elite power and control by replicating the colonial/capitalist agendas. Amidst the extractive frontiers of neoliberal capitalism that seek new land, resources, and labor to exploit, the struggles for organizing at the “margins of the margins” turn to the generation of knowledge that actively resists colonialism/capitalism. Embedded within the struggles for land and sovereignty, knowledge as resistance challenges the organizing of knowledge as abstraction. Felt through the body, as performance, and situated within the rhythms of embodied struggles against the colonial/capitalist practices of extraction and exploitation, knowledge at the “margins of the margins” transforms the very contours of knowledge wrapped up in logics of whiteness. A critical element of this transformative register is its marking of hegemonic knowledge carried out through the text in power circles as disempowering. This critique of disembodied knowledge as both extractive and often harmful for communities at the “margins of the margins” turns to frameworks of accountability rooted in community voice. Co-creating Voice Infrastructures Anti-colonial struggles have historically challenged the erasures perpetuated by the colonial structures through voice infrastructures where they have articulated knowledge claims. These knowledge claims form the basis for organizing that seeks to transform colonizing structures. Cocreating voice infrastructures is at the core of narrating indigenous and local knowledge at the margins of Empire, resisting the epistemic injustice that is perpetuated by the settler colonial/capitalist state. Because erasure forms the basis of the colonial expansion, the articulation of voice is the anchor to organizing resistance, to the assertion of sovereignty, and to the building of material interventions that agitate against the intertwined forces of colonialism and capitalism. Voice infrastructures are spaces for articulating knowledge claims that challenge the colonial/capitalist propaganda. Through their participation in voice infrastructures, subaltern communities craft collective identities, which in turn

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form the basis of material resistance against the destructive forces of colonialism/capitalism. To turn to local and Indigenous communities at the “margins of the margins” as the co-creators of knowledge is to participate in the work of building voice infrastructures. The culture-centered method does this through immersive ethnographic work that is organized to address the everyday challenges negotiated by communities at the “margins of the margins,” working alongside communities in mobilizing resistance (see Elers et al., 2021). Community articulations of structural violence expressed in voice infrastructures work alongside imaginaries of structural transformation. Narratives emergent from in-depth interviews, which are in turn intertwined with participant observations, shape the building of advisory groups that bring together members from within communities at the margins negotiating intersectional forms of marginalization, attending to the spaces and contexts of erasures. The community advisory group forms the key voice infrastructure in generating knowledge claims and in organizing for transformative change, shaping the emergent and iterative research design, developing strategies for data sovereignty, the process of interpreting the data, and the mobilization of communication for structural transformation (Dutta et al., 2019). Across a plethora of culture-centered interventions, community advisory groups anchor the processes of participation and decision-making, laying claims to sovereignty, and developing strategies for laying claims on democratic processes. Narratives and images are mobilized toward building communicative registers that challenge the hegemonic principles of organizing land, resources, and labor. For instance, advisory groups of low-wage foreign domestic workers in Singapore negotiating hyper-precarious work conditions voice their everyday challenges of health amidst the structures that constitute work (Kaur-Gill & Dutta, 2020). The voicing of food insecurity, physical violence, non-payment of wages, and deception form the basis of the research design co-created by the advisory group. Participating in carrying out the research collectively and in making sense of the research through the process of co-construction shaped the resistance strategies co-created by the foreign domestic workers (FDWs) (see Fig. 10.1). Through images, stories, and performances, they narrated the stories of their everyday exploitation, the structural violence intertwined with the racist organizing of foreign domestic work in Singapore, and the trafficking of labor that shaped their everyday challenges to health and

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Fig. 10.1 Campaign advertisement created by foreign domestic workers

wellbeing (see for instance, Respect our rights, n.d.). The “Respect our Rights” campaign co-created by hyper-precarious FDWs in Singapore, rooted in community advisory groups of FDWs negotiating precarity, disrupts the erasures crafted into the dominant discursive infrastructures carefully managed by the state. Sustaining Voice Infrastructures The process of organizing at the global margins to bring about structural transformation is a long-term process that is built on the principles

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of authenticity and commitment. The principle of authenticity turns to the ongoing interrogation of the interplays of power and control, and the ways in which hegemonic forces both control and co-opt resistance strategies emergent from the margins. Moreover, the principle of authenticity calls for collective reflexivity, holding communities, activists and academics working in solidarity to account with each other, communicating with openness the emergent values, and examining closely the strategies for transformation. Collectivizing authenticity transforms the individualized and corporatized structures of accountability, turning accountability on its head to hold academics accountable to activists and the broader communities we work with (Bradford & Dutta, 2018; Dutta, 2010). Sustaining voice infrastructures anticipates the layers of structural and material violence that are directed at communities, academics, and activists when voice meaningfully disrupts the structures, and therefore prepares with a wide array of strategies of connection. Strategizing the timing of articulations, expressions, and public visibility for organizing work at the “margins of the margins” is critical to sustaining voices at the “margins of the margins.” Similarly, turning to commitment as an organizing principle transforms how academic labor, activist labor, and community labor are understood, building registers that continue to return to the struggle to agitate against the structure. Crafting Solidarities in Struggles In the resistance work against colonial land grab, the articulation of Indigenous sovereignty as the basis of knowledge forms the infrastructure of land occupation among Indigenous communities (Dutta, 2020a, 2020b, 2020c, 2020d; Tuck & Yang, 2012). Culture-centered academicactivist solidarities shape the processes of co-creating knowledge registers to sustain resistance. Turning to claims that foreground sacred relationships with land and natural resources forms the basis of organizing, disrupting the whiteness that constructs land as private property. Note here the oppositional relationship between culture-centered organizing of knowledge embedded within struggles for land and sovereignty and elite abstractions of subalternity that theorize about subaltern agency from spaces of distance. For instance, the analysis offered by Nielsen of the land organizing in Singur and the critique of our culture-centered reading of the Singur movement emerges from this fundamental difference. While Nielsen goes on to offer a reading of caste and contradictions within

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the community to interrogate the mobilization around the articulation of land as sacred, our culture-centered reading emerges from the knowledge claim that land is sacred and anchored in the struggle (Pal & Dutta, 2013). It is the whiteness and colonizing gaze of the reading by Nielsen that fails to witness the agentic articulation of “land as sacred” that forms the organizing infrastructure of the Singur movement, and anchors Indigenous and local movements across the Global South. While indeed the organizing of communities at the global margins negotiating neoliberal development is constituted by internal inequalities and there exist tensions within communities around neoliberal development projects, mobilizing around knowledge claims that challenge the ideology of neoliberal development forms the organizing feature of struggles at the global margins. The meaning attached to the land as sacred in the organizing process in Singur fundamentally challenges the whiteness of the neoliberal project that constructs land as private property to be transacted in the market. Culture-centered processes of building infrastructures for knowledge are rooted in solidarity (Dutta et al., 2019). In our ongoing labor of co-organizing resistance with Dalit and Muslim communities in the Indian diaspora and in India under the umbrella of CARE, mediated through solidarity work with activists and communities experiencing the hate mobilized by Hindutva, I am continually reminded of the urgency of being held accountable to community voices at the “margins of the margins.” Recognizing that the disproportionate burden of Hindutva hate is borne on their bodies by India’s Muslims, the work of placing accountability in the hands of the community turns to work through methodological choices and articulations that are rooted in community voice and ownership. This has meant that much of the work I/we do, and the broader work of CARE, are held accountable to Muslim interlocutors who participate as advisory group members, shaping the research design and co-crafted with Muslim activists challenging the power/control of Hindutva. This work has taken the form of white papers, policy briefs, and media advocacy, rooted in community voice, also therefore largely placing itself in public spaces rather than within the confined spaces of academic journals and books. This has also meant that the rhythms, strategies, and forms of knowledge generation are guided by community voices, foregrounding the urgency of building public advocacy and activist interventions, prioritizing those interventions in the immediate context over scripting articles, book chapters, and books for academic

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consumption. Worth noting here are the voices of the “margins of the margins” that speak back to hegemonic forms of knowledge production on Hindutva, interrogating the extractive logics that raise claims while largely being invisible from the actual embodied struggles against Hindutva. Similarly, through their participation in co-creative processes of crafting poems, narratives, and visual registers, low-wage migrant workers in Singapore foreground their everyday struggles. Solidarities that are culturally centered attend to the logics of relationships, care, and community that anchor the ways in which communities, activists, and academics connect with each other. These culture-centered solidarities at their heart de-center the forms of organizing that are prevalent in the academe, offering invitations to the academic to be placed within struggles. Challenging Repression When knowledge infrastructures emergent from the “margins of the margins” create discursive anchors in the hegemonic spaces, they become the targets of organized repression campaigns carried out by powerful political and economic actors. For instance, the organizing of knowledge against Hindutva is the subject of attacks by Hindutva forces, both in the form of organized offline-online campaigns and in the form of political pressure used by the Hindutva state (Chaturvedi, 2021). At the time of writing this chapter, over fifty academics and activists in India have been incarcerated for dissenting against the Hindutva state. In the diaspora, several of us academics and activists, have been turned into the targets of Hindutva campaigns, being harassed through a wide array of strategies from letter writing campaigns to petitions, to lawsuits, to digital trolling, having been labeled Hinduphobic (Dutta, 2022). Similarly, in the organizing work of CARE, our research team negotiated various strategies of repression (see Dutta et al., 2019). The forms of repression ranged from running audits that questioned the paid work of activists in the Center to planted disinformation campaigns that were picked up and circulated by postcolonial academic elites sponsored by the authoritarian state to anonymous websites run by white supremacists repeating the disinformation planted by postcolonial academic elites to a web-based anonymous disinformation campaign labeling me “Hinduphobe” for my public critiques of Hindutva (see Dutta, 2020a, 2020b, 2020c, 2020d). A collective of CARE researchers and community organizers were targeted with an organized campaign in the authoritarian regime, replete with

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strategies of intimidation, bullying, and erasure. As a material exemplar of the repression, community-led art co-created with communities were systematically removed from the walls of the university in the authoritarian regime. Our collective resistance work then, as academics and activists, takes the form of co-creating sustainable infrastructures for voice and securing these infrastructures where the “margins of the margins” articulate knowledge claims rooted in their struggles (Dutta et al., 2019). The resistance to Hindutva is rooted in the everyday articulations of democracy voiced by dalits, gender diverse communities, and Muslims (Nizaruddin, 2020; Ratnamala, 2022). These everyday claims to democracy offer the registers for countering the propaganda infrastructure of the Hindutva state. Culture-centered organizing of knowledge turns into building conceptual frameworks for policy advocacy rooted in the voices of the “margins of the margins.” Moreover, turning to the collective forms the basis of offering and sustaining courage in organizing resistance to repression. Challenging the walls that have been propped up and reproduced by five decades of neoliberal reforms that separate academia from communities, building place-based collective solidarities work through multiple spaces to challenge the colonial and capitalist structures.

Activism Within the Academe The struggles in communities, on the streets, in digital spaces, in grassroots organizing processes, located outside the walls of the academe are deeply intertwined with the struggles within the academe. As eloquently noted by Dirlik (1999), the global ascendance of a particular form of identity-based postcolonialism has been deeply intertwined with the rise to hegemony of the neoliberal free market rationality, commoditizing life and resources, establishing the power and control of global capital through the language of the market, and disciplining academics into instruments of the global free market. The competition-based, individualized rationality that underlies the whiteness of the neoliberal project is deeply intertwined with the systemic defunding of the academe, coupled with the re-organizing of the academe to the logics of the free market (Dutt-Ballerstadt & Bhattacharya, 2021). Simultaneously, the proliferating industry around marginalization has gained currency, distanced from the struggles of the “margins of the margins,” and framed as theory work “on/about” the margins. Devoid of

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the risks and necessities of placing the body in solidarity with struggle, the performance of theory as abstraction perpetuates the extractive ideology of colonialism while simultaneously pushing careers into pathways of mobility. For instance, in the South Asian context, shallow performances of decolonization and postcolonial theory, devoid of critical reflexivity, keep intact casteist control on theory, narrating subalternity from spaces of caste/white privilege (Kavitha & Alagan, 2021; Ratnamala, 2022; Yengde, 2022). Theorizing of Hindutva by caste-privileged Indians, devoid of and disconnected from the struggles of adivasis, dalits, and Muslims in India negotiating the casteist, Islamophobic hate deployed by Hindutva, reinforces the erasures that constitute the Hindutva project. Consider similarly the theorizing of subalternity by caste-privileged scholars without the narration of our own caste privileges and complicities in the perpetuation of subalternity through erasures (see Dutta & Basu, 2013). This literature largely remains disengaged from Indigenous theorizing and movements for Indigenous sovereignty over knowledge generation. Simultaneously, consider the casteism and anti-Indigenous ideology that perpetuates across the Brahminical structures of the Indian education system, aligned with the colonial structures that require English language competence and knowledge of the communicative processes for participation in carrying out theory work (Samos, 2022). It is worth noting here the extreme challenges to mental health experienced by Dalit and adivasi scholars in the casteist structures of Indian academia, reproducing the violence of the colonial architecture (Ratnamala, 2022; Thirumal & Christy, 2018; Yengde, 2022). The control over theory is held through casteist/colonial language games and grammars of casteist citation politics, while simultaneously erasing the articulations of theory by people and communities at the “margins of the margins.” A wide array of instruments of measurement, auditing, surveillance, and technocratic strategizing have been deployed to align the academe with the agendas of the global free market, with the increasing power over the academe held by the capitalist class, alongside the reworking of the state to assert power over the academe in serving capitalist interests that fund political parties (Craig et al., 2014). Calculations of risks and profits drive academic decision-making processes taken over by technocrats and risk managers, with techniques of surveillance and disciplining in place to streamline academic performance. While on one hand, universities compete aggressively to participate in a plethora of public platforms to drive their reputation, on the other hand, the participation of academics

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in public spaces is severely constrained by the logics of civility and appropriate talk. Technocratic managerialism thrives on the infantilization of academics, turning academics into caricatures of children to be managed and disciplined. Entire infrastructures of audit and disciplining are put into place to keep academics in check, so they toe the line, making sure not to go too far out to challenge the power structures while performing just enough rhetoric of criticality to earn the metrics in the ranking games (Dutt-Ballerstadt & Bhattacharya, 2021). In this backdrop, Indigenous theorists attend to the fundamental embedding of theory work within struggles. Notes one of the foundational theorists of Kaupapa M¯aori, Graham Hingagaroa Smith, “…when people are speaking about Kaupapa M¯aori theory, I often challenge them: ‘show me the blisters on your hands’-in other words, ‘How is your theorising work linked to tangible outcomes that are transformative?’” Culture-centered organizing at the “margins of the margins” turn to the question of theoretical sovereignty, with the control and ownership over theory held by communities at the “margins of the margins.” In the work of Kaupapa M¯aori theory, the ownership of theory by M¯aori for M¯aori creates a transformative infrastructure amidst settler colonial violence. The historic erasure of M¯aori from spaces of theorizing is transformed through the collective resistance that is rooted in the knowledge systems held by M¯aori. The work of activism within the academe therefore must be guided by the voices of Indigenous and local communities in the Global South, foregrounding the organizing principles of care and relationships in transforming the academe (Dutta, 2020b).

Conclusion In conclusion, culture-centered organizing turns to the agentic capacities of the “margins of the margins” as owners of knowledge, dreams, and imaginations that offer the basis for transforming our futures. The participation of the margins in processes of structural transformation interrogate and resist the whiteness of colonialism and capitalism, rendering visible the racist ideology that drives the expansion of extreme neoliberalism in the contemporary context. The co-creation of voice infrastructures at the “margins of the margins” offers the basis for mobilizing for structural transformation. The presence of hitherto erased voices as owners of knowledge agitates toward materializing organizing practices rooted

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in the ideas of care, love, relationships, and community. The struggles outside of the academe, in community spaces, are central to the re-organizing of academe in principles of solidarity, authenticity, and commitment.

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CHAPTER 11

Emotional Communities in the Economy of Emotions: A Study of Discursive Muscularity in Networked Mobilization of Fan Groups in China Zhuo Ban

Introduction This chapter examines the other side of alternative organizing in highlighting the dialectic interplay between resistance and global capitalism’s hegemonic tendency to adapt to resistance. In describing how communities at the margin mobilize and gain power of influence in China’s platform-based fan economy, I highlight how fan groups are simultaneously exploited and co-opted by powerful social agents such as platform capital and political powers. Although fan groups claim putative power

Z. Ban (B) School of Communication, Film, and Media Studies, University of Cincinnati, Cincinnati, OH, USA e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Pal et al. (eds.), Organizing at the Margins, New Perspectives in Organizational Communication, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22993-0_11

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over corporations in the form of anti-consumptive social movements, such movements are nonetheless heavily imbued in logics of nationalistic capital. Indeed, as the case study indicates, fan mobilizations are increasingly tapped into by those powerful agents as a tool of exploitation and social control. In explicating these complex processes, however, I do not intend to dismiss fan mobilization as “clicktivism” or “fake” organizing at the margins. My past research experience in the hyper-capitalist context of China suggests that a purist view on resistance and grassroots organizing can be unrealistic and even problematic. Communities at the margins often have to follow the dominant rules and logic and work with structural forces in order to survive and gain influence. The delicate dance between resistance and co-optation is integral to studying alternative organizing in so-called platform societies. China is an ideal context to examine the complex power dynamic between alternative organizing and structural power. In the fifty years since the market reforms of the late 1970s, global and local capital has jointly transformed a socialist, planned economy to a market economy. The Chinese society is entrenched with a set of dominant capitalist logics, one that has the power to transcend the anti-capitalism inherent in Maoist ideologies. This highly adaptive logic of capital, by extension, also infiltrates discourses of resistance. In this chapter, I use the example of online fan communities in China to demonstrate the relationship between online discursive activities, platform-based organizing, and the structural or economic contexts/outcomes of fan mobilization, highlighting the (often hidden) role of capital in the mobilization process. In 2020, the Trump administration announced that it would impose restrictions on “certain Chinese companies” as they “used forced labor in the Xinjiang region to make their products” (Swanson, 2020). The global garment industry reacted to the announcement, often producing statements or actions about ethical sourcing in the supply chains. In March 2021, after announcing a stop to the use of cotton produced from the Xinjiang region of China, a number of international garment retail brands (most notably H&M) faced several waves of backlash from Chinese publics (Brant, 2021). Amidst numerous calls for boycotts and other economic sanctions toward these brands, Chinese online publics also closely followed the positions taken by celebrities on the issue, especially those celebrities that had sponsorship and other contracts with

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brands like H&M. While many celebrities further strengthened their position as popular national idols by swiftly severing ties with the brands (杨幂 热巴易烊千玺等宣布终止与阿迪达斯一切合作, 2021), some others were criticized for their perceived imbalance and/or inaction. For example, Liu Yifei, a Chinese actress famous for playing the eponymous role in the Disney blockbuster Mulan, became the center of attention after staying silent on the Xinjiang cotton issue for two days after the initial flashpoint event. Her fan base expressed online remonstration, with hundreds of self-declared “decade-long fans” publicly announcing their decisions to “bid farewell to their star-chasing days (“刘亦菲终于更新动态了!宁 发广告也不对新疆棉表态, 网友怒而脱粉”, 2021). Shortly afterward, Liu announced that she was canceling her sponsorship contract with one of the brands in question. The role of the public remonstrations of her online fan groups was widely seen as being instrumental to the decision. I examine online fan groups in China as a special kind of networked collectives that exhibit remarkable mobilization efficiency and discursive power. Many researchers have identified the internet-based fan networks as part of an emerging, distinct, and fast expanding segment of popular culture in China( 冯 雪, 2019). Unlike many other kinds of activist groups, fan networks typically do not have any offline organizational structure, and rarely take their displeasure to the streets. They are not understood as political organizations, and enjoy little policy clout. Indeed, the most observable member behaviors from such groups are repeated expressions of devotion toward the idols. Yet at moments like the Xinjiang cotton incident, despite their status as faceless followers, members of fan groups exhibit an extraordinary ability to call shots for celebrities, pressuring them to take otherwise unlikely actions, such as sudden termination of lucrative sponsorship contracts. For the purpose of this essay, I refer to the instances of boycotts toward products and services organized and propelled by/among/through fan communities as “fan-cotts.”. Fan mobilization, leading to “fan-cotting” is by no means an anomaly in China, or indeed, in the global marketplace. Indeed, the #SupportXinjiangCotton fan-cott is only one of a number of recent cases where international brands find their Chinese spokespersons to be very pliant to their fanbase. Another notable recent example can be found in the D&G chopstick video case (see Ban & Lovari, 2021) when angry online publics called for #BoycottDG after the brand released a series of promotional videos that were considered to contain racist caricatures of Chinese

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people. In the context of organization studies, I use fan groups and fancotts to observe how networked organizations, constituted predominantly through discursive interactions, can effectively influence material reality. The ability of discourse to affect material reality: its metaphorical “muscle” (or “teeth”) that can physically move material objects around in space is of renewed interest in the analysis of global organizations that are reckoning with locally and internationally networked consumers. In this chapter, I use the fan networks based on Sina Weibo (a Chinese social media platform) as an example to interrogate the relationship between platform affordances and discursive muscularity of internet-based fan networks in China. The chapter is organized in three main parts: I start by explaining the concept of discursive muscularity and its relevance to the context of fan groups and fan-cott. Next, I discuss the key characteristics of online fan groups in China, and highlight the centrality of emotional discursive processes in these online communities. Then, contextualizing fan organizing in the burgeoning fan economy in China, I critically interrogate the relationship between the practices of leveraging emotion in fan economy and the elevated muscularity of emotional (nationalistic) discourses.

Discursive Muscularity in the Digital Era A question often asked about internet-based collectives and their networked mobilization concerns the relationship between the “talk” and the “walk”—whether discursive activities online can translate to substantive changes in social reality (Glenn, 2015). While not all instances of clicktivism and hashtag activism exert influence beyond the digital world, some online mobilization routinely achieves significant socio-material outcomes. The concept of discursive muscularity is central to understanding the fundamental relationship between (D)iscourses and the non-discursive aspect of social reality in critical discourse studies. While the constitutive power of language has been widely acknowledged in the study of organizational processes, there is still an ongoing debate (Bargiela-Chiappini, 2011; Iedema, 2011; Meisenbach, 2008; Mumby et al., 2011) over the “arbitrary and capricious distinction between the discursive and the material” (Mumby et al., 2011, p. 1152). Reflecting on the linguistic turn in organizational studies, Alvesson and Karreman (2011) call to question the tendency in organizational discourse studies to grant discourse

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the muscularity to constitute society in substantive, material ways where there are in fact “a spectrum of positions’’ (Alvesson & Karreman, 2011, p. 1141), ranging from situations where a clear and direct causal relationship can be established between the discursive events and changes in the material reality, to those where the link cannot be established or is not as apparent. At the Big-D Discourse level, it is especially difficult to establish clear causal relationships between, say for instance, nationalistic discourses and an organized economic sanction of international brands. As such, in studying the discursive processes of organizations, it is important to pay special attention to instances (and the mechanisms with which) (D)iscourses translate from “talks” to “walks”. The term “discursive muscularity”, therefore, refers particularly to the constitutive power of discourses to exert “substantive impact on the material aspect of social and organizational processes” (Ban, 2020, p. 901). I focus, in particular, on the organizational features contextual to discursive muscularity. Within critical discourse studies, it is generally understood that the interactions between discursive events and social reality are largely shaped by the contexts of the discursive event (Wodak & Meyer, 2016). Among these contextual matters, certain social, structural, and organizational features are pivotal to the ways discursive muscle elicits substantive changes in socio-material entities. Certain organizations (or organizational structures) are particularly susceptible to discursive muscle or are designed to allow discursive events to exert an influence on socio-material reality. For example, legal documents constructed by human language (such as laws, contracts, wills) work as binding codes that direct behaviors of citizens. Their discursive muscularity is ensured by the legal codes that work, essentially, to delimit individual choices of non-compliance, thereby ensuring that all are susceptible to the binding language of legal codes (White, 1981). Moreover, new social structures and tools are designed constantly, and at increasing speed, to grant human language the power to manipulate material reality. While discourse scholars earlier criticized the overemphasis on discursive muscularity and the purported “open- sesame effect” on material reality, new voice-command technology increasingly turns the logic “open-sesame” into reality (Arnaud & Fauré, 2016). Here are a few examples of voice-command systems and devices enhancing human language’s ability to directly manipulate socio-material reality:

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“Hi Google, set alarm at 6 am tomorrow”. “Hi Alexa, play Thunder from my playlist”. “E-security system, lock front door”. “Unlock front door”.

In many other instances, however, discursive muscularity is called to question, especially in the context of “semiotic excess… of the digital era” (Rehak, 2003, p. 477), which is characterized by polarized (Anspach, 2017; Shin & Thorson, 2017), fragmented (Engesser et al., 2017), and polysemic (Duffy, 2010) discourses on various new media and social media platforms. In other words, the digital era sees more complex and intense discursive clashes while competing for legitimacy and influencing social reality. Even as new media researchers express concern at the inability of some powerful organizations to mobilize publics through social media (such as the only moderate success of COVID vaccination campaigns of many public health authorities), other grassroots networks and their discourses have gone viral and have affected instant and drastic material outcomes (like in the case of fan-cotts in China). The question is less about whether discourses can exercise constitutive muscularity, but rather which discourses realize their muscular potential to influence social reality, and in what organizational context.

Emotional Leverage of Online Fan Groups and Discursive Muscularity Online fan groups in China are networked collectives that exhibit remarkable mobilization efficiency and discursive muscularity. Fan studies researchers have observed the central role that emotion plays in shaping organizational processes, member identity, and member behaviors (方 俊 & 曾德燕, 2021). I further argue that emotional expressions among online fans are central to the profit model in the booming fan economy in China. Hence, online fan communities in China represent an organizational context to observe the elevated muscularity of emotional discourses. I discuss several factors that are central to the discursive features of online fan groups, using the example of those operating on the Weibo platform. First, I discuss the organizational features of Weibo-based fan groups as discursive communities characterized by their emotionality. Such strategies for the platform further enhance the fan groups’ power to influence, meanwhile producing an emotionally charged, volatile discursive environment and organizational structure. Second, I explain

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how muscularity of emotion-centered discourses creates incentives for media infrastructures and platform affordances that further maximizes the emotional leverage of the fan discourse.

Online Fan Groups as Emotional Discursive Communities Many believe that fan culture as a distinct and prominent branch of popular culture in China can be traced back to the “Super Girl” (or Super Voice Girls) singing contest organized by Hunan Satellite Television between 2004 and 2006 (李 静, 2020). The Internet, especially social media platforms like Sina Weibo and Baidu Tieba, soon became the most prominent communication and organizing arenas for the growing fan population. According to a comprehensive report on fan culture and lifestyle in China issued in 2016 ([艾瑞咨询], 2016) by 2015, the population of fan-type users on the Weibo platform has exceeded 67 million. A significant proportion of this population (43%) are followers of celebrities in the entertainment industry. The most typical member demographics of fan networks are female (76%) and young (almost 70% are between 16 and 25 years of age). Fan communities have been discussed in length as a form of organizing that centers on the emotional experiences and processes of its members (方俊 & 曾德燕, 2021). While earlier studies on Chinese fan groups tend to treat the emotional aspect of fan culture through lenses of rationality (肖仲辉, 2005; 邵道生, 1994) and mental health (符酾达, 1994), more recent conceptualizations focus on the emotional need of fans, and how this need is fulfilled and harnessed in the complex fan “eco-system”(马 芝丹, 2015). Specifically, arguments about the emotional nature of fan groups focus on two characteristics of these collectives. First, emotional attachment plays a key role in the discursive construction of group member identities in fan groups, where devotion to a particular idol becomes the central schema of collective authoring of organizational texts (臧悦 & 颜梓汐, 2020). As Zang and Yan (臧悦 & 颜 梓 汐, 2020) point out, the idol–fan relationship is not based on geographic location or social class, but established through “fulfilling expectations, creating emotional resonance, and achieving psychological acceptance”(臧悦 & 颜梓汐, 2020, p. 214). In this process, members of the fan group not only project idealized images onto their idols, but

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also actively seek and enact the fulfillment of such fantasies through their interactions with the idols. Second, emotionally charged discursive events are the most common and visible form of member interactions in the fan communities. Experience, performance, and expressions of emotion are central to processes of both organization and disorganization among the fan networks (方 俊 & 曾德燕, 2021). Many of these discursive events are strategic efforts to influence idol behaviors, as fan pressure is a routine part of the life in a fan group (温 孟 薇 & 汪海燕, 2020). As many researchers on Chinese fan groups have pointed out, these organizations routinely stage emotionally charged discursive events, and can be effectively mobilized to take online or off-line actions by emotional messages and semiotic events (朱丽丽, 2016; 杨银娟 & 柳士顺, 2019). Communication activities in the forms of discussions, petitions, informal censuses/votes, and picketing (both on and offline), etc., are routinely employed to sway the decisions of the celebrity on matters both private and public, ranging from marriage decisions to sponsorship contracts, from outfit choices to stances on political issues. These discursive events are based, first and foremost, on the internal logic of the groups. Centered on the idea of a special idol– fan relationship, these events legitimize open and impassioned queries and exchanges over personal and professional lives and decisions of the celebrity and do not necessarily demonstrate any concern for privacy. In short, fan discourses, especially those with a strong emotional orientation, are fundamental to the organizational processes of Weibo-based fan groups. In the following sections, I explain in more detail how fan discourse exercises constitutive, productive, and consumptive influences on social reality.

Influence of Emotional Fan Discourse: Constitutive Emotional discourses—of love, devotion, and often the negation of such—constitute the mainstay of fan group texts and work to define and maintain organizational borders and membership. This constitutive mechanism manifests most explicitly as a set of fan group neologisms that facilitate proclamation and enactment of fan status. These terms are based on the homophonic translation of the English word “fan” into “fen” [粉], which also means “pink” [fen, 粉]. As the relationship between color and

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fandom is established in the system of popular lingo, the arbitrary connection between color and fan status extends to other colors, like in the case of being “black” [hei, 黑], which is used to indicate the opposite of being “fen”, or being an anti-fan. Based on these basic discursive elements, the fan group lingo has evolved into a rather complicated system of denotations. First, there is the demarcation of fans (“pink”, fen, 粉), the ambivalent (“not-pinknot-black”, bu-fen-bu-hei, 不 粉 不 黑), anti-fans (“black”, hei, 黑), or non-fans (“passersby”, luren, 路 人). The difference between the anti-fans and non-fans is that the former indicates active animosity while the latter a lack of interest. Second, the category of “fan” is further divided into a number of subcategories to indicate the characteristics of fan attitude and behavior. These include, for example, true-love fans (zhenai fen, 真 爱粉), senseless fans (“brain-damaged fans”, naocan fen, 脑 残 粉), diehard fans (“iron fans”, tie fen, 铁 粉), swaying fans (“over the hedge fens”, qiangtou fen, 墙头粉), or even the cross category of casual fans (“passersby fans”, luren fen, 路人粉) and critical fans (“black-pink/fans”, hei-fen, 黑粉), and so on. The third subcategory are expressions of status change, which can take place between fans, non-fans, anti-fans, and others like in the cases when non-fans turn into fans (“passersby- into-pink”, luren zhuan fen, 路 人 转 粉) or fans turn into enemies (“pink-intoblack”, fen zhuan hei, 粉 转 黑). The change can also take place between different types of fans, as in when someone transforms from an imaginary girlfriend to a more maternal fan in the relationship (“girl-friend-fan into birth-mother-fan”, nvyou-fen zhuan qin-ma fen, 女友粉转亲妈粉). Besides the expressions of status change, another subcategory involves proclamations that certain status is determined and final, and this typically happens in the case of becoming a sworn enemy (“lifelong black”, yisheng hei, 一生黑) of the celebrity. Each status indicates a distinct set of identities, relationship features, and communication patterns. For example, a girl-friend-fan of a pop singer will fly to all the concerts in an artist’s tour, while a birthmother-fan will contribute money toward the singer’s first-class ticket instead. Passersby-fans are typically lurkers in online fan clubs, while the “lifelong black” members are active contributors, trying to turn other members from pink to black. In the context of online fan groups like those operating on the Weibo platform, the integrity of the organization is maintained by repeated and constant pledges to devotion, often through discursive practices that can be indexed to fan identity. The result

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of this collective, largely performative discursive exercise is, on the one hand, fanatic devotion to the target celebrity, or on the other, a potential complete relationship collapse at the failure of the cast of ideal images (方俊 & 曾德燕, 2021). For fan communities formed and maintained by shared emotional bonds to the idols, drastic changes to the network structure, hemorrhaging membership loss, even total collapse and closure of networks are surprisingly quite common. Year 2021 alone has seen “house collapse” [ta-fang, 塌房] of Weibo-based fan networks of three top idols (方俊 & 曾德燕, 2021). Right before the “house collapses”, these three celebrities from the entertainment industry were safe bets for box office collections and TV ratings, and frequently occupied the top of the trending list on the Weibo search engine. Yet the fan networks almost disbanded overnight in the wake of a number of high-profile scandals involving emotionally charged issues such as surrogate pregnancy, tax evasion, and allegations of sex crimes. When a celebrity is found to be guilty of issues like tax evasion, there is usually some sort of official sanction from the platform administrators. However, self-proclamations of the members about leaving the fan network or turning into anti-fans are a better indication of the constitutive ability of these groups. In short, the organizational processes of internet-based fan networks in China are characterized by constitutive, emotionally laden discourses. Members of the fan group can set and reset, draw and erase organizational boundaries in individual or collective discursive events. In some cases, for example, fan groups can split into factions with irreconcilable conflict into the subgroups situated along the wide spectrum of loyalty levels. In other cases, a big proportion of the disgruntled fan group may declare that they are no longer fans, or even become sworn enemies of the formerly beloved idols. In any case, the membership and boundary changes of fan communities often accompany highly emotional discursive events of sworn devotion or detestation by members. Declaring fan status, therefore, is not merely an expressive discursive genre, but is intentional, and has the potential to result in constitutive changes of the organization. More importantly, online fandom discourses are accompanied by the materiality of the fan economy, which I turn to next.

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Influence of Emotional Fan Discourse: Consumptive and Productive Muscularity of fan discourses in the Weibo-based fan communities is influenced, on one hand, by emotion-infused interactions of members in the network, and close coupling of emotion and fan economy on the other. Jenkins (2006) uses the term “affective economics” to capture the relationship between participative culture and consumption as marketing strategies that tap into publics’ (expression of) sentiments become more central to business models in contemporary society (Jenkins, 2014, p. 276). As a more expressive component of participative culture, fan communities are of particular interest to marketers for their “stronger emotional engagement with their brands” (Jenkins, 2006, p. 218). Many scholars borrow the concept of affective economics to analyze fan economy in China (周懿瑾 et al., 2020; 杨玲, 2015; 胡泳 & 刘纯 懿, 2021). As an emerging socio-structural phenomenon, there is a need to clearly define the concept of “fan economy” in the Chinese context. The term loosely refers to “value and revenue generated via interactions between individual fans (especially “super fans”) and fan communities, with the artists/stars (and their production studios and programs) that they follow” (Liang & Shen, 2016, p. 332). Earlier scholarly attention to “fan economy” in China often focused on specific components of the fan economy, especially those involving the consumptive activities of fans (李 康 化, 2016). These include the fan consumption of entertainment products (刘婷婷, 2019; 徐航, 2020; 蒋淑媛, 2015), gifts (Zhang et al., 2019; 杨玲, 2015), and lifestyle products associated with or marketed by the idols (陶 金 国 & 訾 永 真, 2017). This conceptualization of fan economy explores the “rich emotional intention” (李 康 化, 2016, p. 73) within the consumptive behaviors of either “consumers as fans” or “fans as consumers” ( 李 康 化, 2016). The emotional logic of fan consumption significantly differs from the utilitarian consumption logic of value maximization. Therefore, from a consumptive lens, fan economy can be understood as an “economy of emotions, culture, and values” (孙尚青, 2018, p. 136). As social media platforms in China increasingly become sites of fan interactions and business transactions, there has been rising research interest on the production component of the fan economy, particularly on the role that fans play as producers of digital labor (陈新 民 & 雷晨 琅, 2021). Based on their observations of the idol-building industry in China, Chen and Lei point out that fans play a dual role

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in the participative structure of fan culture: producers and consumers. Borrowing from Toffler’s (2022) portmanteau, highly active fan collectives on social media platforms are often identified as key “prosumers” of digital cultural products. In a social media context, fan digital labor not only includes content production through activities such as posting, reposting, liking, commenting, etc., but also production of liuliang [流 量, a measure of content outtake that can be roughly translated as “traffic” or “following”] through participation in popularity ranking activities (方 俊 & 曾 德 燕, 2021). As a source of digital labor, fan group members in China are recognized for their fanatically motivated and well coordinated productivity through a number of record-breaking digital events. For example, in 2014, a celebrity singer set the Guinness world record for the most comments received on a Weibo post (Lynch, 2014). The record was reset one year later at more than 100 million comments. Also in 2015, a Weibo post from a teen celebrity band member on his birthday was reposted more than 42 million times within one day, setting another Guinness world record (Swatman & Martin, 2015). Examining these record-breaking media activities based on the free digital labor of fans, many have highlighted the role that emotion plays in the fan-based digital production (庄曦 & 董珊, 2019; 方俊 & 曾 德燕, 2021). Fang and Zeng (方俊 & 曾 德燕, 2021) argue that fan group members conduct emotional labor as they interact with their idols on the social media platform. Different from the original Hochschildian (Hochschild, 1983) conceptualization of emotional labor that focuses more on emotional control, fan emotional labor puts more emphasis on the expression and performance of emotions in the digital media context (方俊 & 曾德燕, 2021, p. 33). Calling fan digital labor a form of affective labor, Zhuang and Dong (庄曦 & 董珊, 2019) point out that fan communities are imaginary collectives based on shared emotions. In these imaginary collectives, “amazing [levels of] digital productivity” can emerge from the interactive process of emotional mobilization, a process that transforms emotional expressions of fans into a value production mechanism (pp. 32–33). In this sense, not only are discursive events the main drivers of the constitutive process of the fan groups themselves, but they largely constitute the groups’ marketable digital productivity, and determine the commercial value of the idols. Therefore, fan discourse exercises constitutive, productive, and consumptive influences on social reality.

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Emotional Leverage in Fan Economy and the Impact on Discursive Muscularity In discussing a value production system based on fanatic consumption and unpaid fan labor, it becomes necessary to explore the role that capital plays in the economy of emotion. Many researchers have observed the process of capital “hijacking” fan culture in China (Yijin & Meijiadai, 2021; 黄楚新, 2021), where the emotional processes of fan communities are harnessed for the purpose of spurring excessive consumption or exploiting unpaid digital labor. Borrowing from Yao and Xu’s (姚建华 & 徐偲骕, 2019) critique of the mechanism of “manufacturing consent” in the digital production regime, Zhuang and Dong (2019) argue that, in “voluntarily” spending time and effort in digital production, members of fan groups participate in the process of self- exploitation and alienation (p. 35). They further call for a politico-economic critique on the emotional dimension of digital production regimes. One line of research takes interest in the role that capital plays in shaping the digital fan economy regime (栾轶玫, 2020; 黄楚新, 2021). In Huang’s (黄楚新, 2021) critical analysis of digital fan culture in China, the communicative behavior of fan group members is seen as a result of several structural industrial forces. One of these is the capitalist logic behind the fan economy business model which involves the commercial interests of artist agencies, “click farm” operators, retail platforms, etc. This capitalist logic creates a desire to increase and realize the market value created by fans’ digital labor. The other structural force entails the particular configuration of digital affordances offered by social media platforms, which work to stimulate and capture liuliang-centric (liuliang meaning traffic or following) digital production (p. 37). As such, even as we identify online fan groups as a type of emotionbased collective, it is important to understand this organizational feature in the context of a broader neoliberal socio-economic structure, a context in which fan emotions are strategically appropriated and utilized to accrue digital labor and stimulate consumption. This strategic mechanism to expand profit by taking advantage of fan emotions as a form of borrowed capital can be referred to as emotional leverage. In an analysis of online fandom and click wars, Tong (童祁, 2020) points out that fan emotions are strategically triggered and datafied (a digital information production process), turning into a profit source for various stakeholders in the context of fan economy (p. 73). In particular, social media platforms like

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Weibo provide data and algorithmic tools for quantifying the marketable value of digital contents and interactions, and offer market mechanisms for realizing and transacting value created through fan digital labor (张 虹, 2021). In a fan economy that is largely dependent on emotional leverage, emotional discursive activities are more closely connected to substantive, material gains and losses of key players. The power of fan discourse lies not merely in petitioning and providing emotional reward/penalty. It has the capacity to threaten business and professional viability of the celebrity through an economic logic centering on popularity. The popularity of the celebrity is largely symbolically determined by the communicative behavior of the group members. It is determined, for example, by how many people “followed” the celebrity on their social media page, the number of the times a video or message posted by the celebrity is viewed, liked, or forwarded, and by the quantity and quality of comments to those posts. The process can also be reversed by how the members “unfollow”, “unfriend”, “unlike”, or otherwise change the ways of interacting with the celebrity. Just as the members can declare their fandom, they can also proclaim to be longer fans or becoming antifans. In this way, the muscularity of fan discourse manifests predominantly in how celebrity social actors can be pressured to take (or not take) highly visible actions in order to maintain a favorable discursive environment in their fan groups. Meanwhile, the power of fan discourse is further accentuated by a set of datafication mechanisms for fan emotions offered by the Weibo platform. In general, leveraging fan emotions and their expression is a prominent feature of data-centric social media platforms in contemporary China. For example, in 2014, Weibo started a celebrity popularity leaderboard which collects and ranks real time data about the online fan group sizes and volume of digital activities. The position on the leaderboard of a celebrity is recognized as a key indicator of her/his social influence and commercial value. In order to push their idols up the leaderboard, fan group members are motivated to artificially elevate levels of digital content production and engage in click wars with members of other fan groups. Datafied fan emotions exert impact outside the Weibo platform. Movies and TV shows make projections on box office proceeds, viewership, and ROI based on the fanbase data of the key cast members. Cast member hourly rates are closely associated with the size of their fan base and fluctuate greatly. Product sponsorship contracts are often explicitly

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linked to fan group sizes and quality of interactions (i.e., the intensity of positive emotions expressed in the idol–fan interactions). Celebrity product ambassadors can lose sponsorships or even face contract violation charges if their fan base shrinks drastically during the contract period. In short, as industries tap into the popularity of the celebrities for commercial success, ROI, and brand image, discursive activities in the online fan group, datafied by the platform tools, determine the professional and commercial value of the celebrity. In this sense, discursive muscularity of fan group members reflects the power of capital in the fan economy. Emotional Leverage, Nationalistic Discourse, and Fan-Cotts The elevated muscularity of emotional discourses creates the conditions for discursive actors to strategically use emotional appeals in order to increase material and social impact. Fan-cotts and the production of emotionally charged nationalistic discourses are good examples of this. In this section, I examine the effective mobilization of fan-cotts on the Weibo platform in the context of elevated discursive muscularity. In particular, I argue that Weibo serves as a platform to magnify the constitutive power of emotional discourse. These not only include discourses about fan–idol relationships, but also actors that act as ideological hitchhikers to the emotional leverage in online fan communities. One line of ideological discourse important to the analysis of fan-cotts is the fandom-nationalist discourse (刘海龙, 2017). Based on his observation on the online fan community of a Chinese celebrity soccer player, Liu (刘海龙, 2017) observes how new media technology has transformed the organizational processes of nationalist movements, blurring the boundary between political activities and discursive construction of fan identity. Liu uses the example of a series of “fan crusades” [出 征] in 2016 and 2017 to demonstrate the mobilization processes of the fan group. The neologism “fan crusade” refers to coordinated discursive activities among members of the fan group for the purpose of comment control on social media platforms operating outside China. One of the “fan crusades” organized by this group in 2016 was targeted at Virgin Air, a British airline, for an alleged racial discrimination event involving a Chinese passenger. Fan group members, in coordinated fashion, flooded Virgin Air’s official Facebook page with strong pejorative comments and passionate criticism. This model of discursive “crusade” has become a “fixed nationalist movement repertoire” (刘海龙, 2017, p. 27).

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Liu (2017) also points out that the new generation of nationalistic social actors have harnessed new media platforms, making them a part of the nationalist movement. Not only did the movement organizers adopt the strong emotional form of expression, but they also exploit online fan groups’ ability to use emotional appeals in mobilizing, organizing, and executing coordinated discursive events. In this process, the strong emotional experience during the “crusades” can change the fan group itself, as many members feel that they have become more patriotic because of the experience. This is understandable, as a key attraction of fan communities, as I have explained earlier in the chapter, emerges from the ability to fulfill needs for emotional expression and performance. Upon entering the discursive field of the fan group, nationalistic discourse can sometimes compete with that of devotion to the idols. Nationalistic discourse, with its strong emotional appeal often wins. Some fan groups, like the one Liu has studied have evolved into predominantly online nationalist movement organization, and a part of the cyber nationalism movement in China (刘海龙, 2017, p. 32). When fan discourse and nationalist discourse clash, the conflict can result in dramatic “house collapses”. For example, in 2015, a celebrity actor was publicly accused by a disgruntled former fan to have paid a controversial visit to Yasukuni Shrine1 in Japan. The issue of the Yasukuni Shrine visit triggered strong nationalistic responses from fan group members, resulting in the disintegration of the fan group (崔凯, 2020). When the idol of the fan group is a national of another country, the strength of the nationalist discourse is routinely influenced by the geopolitical relations between the two countries. For example, Lü (吕 婉琴, 2021) studied how political factors influence the fan communities of South Korean popular music (K-pop) artists. After the deployment of US-South Korean missile defense system in 2016, fan discourse has dramatically changed from “the idol above else” [“偶像第一”] to “country before idols” [“国家面前无偶像”]. In this context, patriotism has become a standard part of idol character design (张越, 2020; 韩建平, 2021), and an expected condition in the imaginary fan–idol relationship (吴志远, 2019). If the idols did not act 1 A Shinto shrine in Tokyo, Japan that enshrines Japanese soldiers who died in the war. Visits to the Yasukuni Shrine is controversial primarily because of its inclusion of 14 Class-A war criminals convicted in the International Military Tribunal for the Far East at end of WWII.

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in accordance to this expectation, like the example at the beginning of the chapter, when Liu Yifei did not promptly participate in the boycott against the international brand in the Xinjiang cotton incident, they not only risk fan criticism, but the stability of the fan base, and eventually their commercial value in the fan economy.

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CHAPTER 12

Black Lives Matter as Postcolonial Organizing Angela N. Gist-Mackey

and Hannah Oliha-Donaldson

Introduction The Black Lives Matter (BLM) movement is a continuation of a centuries long global struggle for human dignity across the African diaspora. Technically the BLM movement started in 2013 as a social media hashtag, #BlackLivesMatter, by Alicia Garza, Patrisse Cullors, and Opal Tometi after the acquittal of George Zimmerman in the trial about the fatal shooting of Trayvon Martin (Howard University, 2018). Yet, BLM represents the continuation of historically brutal struggles for personhood and dignity that is tied to the genesis of slavery.

A. N. Gist-Mackey (B) University of Kansas, Lawrence, KS, USA e-mail: [email protected] H. Oliha-Donaldson Anoka Ramsey Community College, Coon Rapids, MN, USA e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Pal et al. (eds.), Organizing at the Margins, New Perspectives in Organizational Communication, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22993-0_12

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We argue the BLM struggle for human dignity is a form of postcolonial organizing. Broadfoot and Munshi (2014) identify three commitments that explain the intersection of postcolonial thought and organizing; we argue each commitment undergirds the BLM movement. First, the BLM movement disrupts and reimagines organizing spaces. Members of the BLM movement have occupied spaces through protests in countries across the globe including the U.S, Belgium, and Brazil, among many other countries (McCaffrey, 2020; Pousadela, 2021). Second, the BLM movement resists colonialist discourses and rethinks organizing practices. The mantra, “Black Lives Matter,” is a discourse that asserts that the lives of Black1 people, like all lives, are worthy of dignity and personhood. Finally, the BLM movement aims to decolonize thought by reconfiguring organizing forms of knowledge. BLM challenges governments, cities, communities, and individuals to reimagine a world and enact organizing where Black lives count and are valued in sociomaterial ways. Framing BLM through a postcolonial lens is important because it unpacks the misconception that BLM is an ahistorical contemporary movement, a practice that dilutes and minimizes the importance of BLM as a social movement. Ultimately, our argument bolsters the significance of the BLM movement as a continuation of the struggle for global civil rights and human dignity. We begin this essay by first outlining the three commitments outlined in Broadfoot and Munshi’s (2014) work on postcolonial organizing. Then we apply these commitments to the BLM movement in order to demonstrate how this movement is a form of postcolonial organizing. We close with an overall explanation of our contributions and call-to-action for both scholars and community organizers.

Postcolonialism and Organizing Broadfoot and Munshi (2014) explicate the intersection of postcolonial thought and organizing by addressing epistemology and politics in three central commitments, which are reviewed below.

1 We use capital letters for “Black” and lower-case letters for “white” in this paper. The term “white” has been used as a signifier of social oppression and domination. In support, scholars (e.g.Davis, 2019; Touré, 2006) across the globe follow the capitalization choices in their work as a political effort to attend to the destructive nature of racism and white supremacy across the globe.

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Commitment #1: Disrupting and Reimagining Organizing Spaces Initially, acts of colonization almost always incorporated dominating and controlling the spaces and places of cultures outside one’s own, typically through violent means (Tyler, 2021). Thus, the first commitment of postcolonial organizing requires a disruption of such domination and an effort to reimagine how previously controlled spaces might be (re)organized in ways that honor the oppressed and the Indigenous. Organizational communication scholars have an opportunity to further explore how contemporary organizing practices are rooted in power-laden, historical inequities (Shome & Hedge, 2002) and then to reimagine such spaces in order to mitigate such historical atrocities. For instance, Eurocentric ideals and Western ideologies, such as hierarchy (Magee & Galinsky, 2008) or rationality (Mumby & Putnam, 1992), manifest organizationally in problematic ways. Postcolonial scholars and critical organizational communication scholars are well positioned to creatively reimagine organizing spaces in order to resist hegemonic ideologies rooted in colonialism (Broadfoot & Munshi, 2014). Such social change would require organizational communication scholars to become more sensitive to contemporary manifestations of colonialism, a sensitivity that is, according to Spivak (1999), rooted in being mindful of historical forces and the trauma of domination and allows a recognition of othering practices in situ. This commitment to postcolonial organizing identifies efforts to resist the material manifestations of colonialism tied to politicized spatial realities. Yet we know colonialism does not merely manifest materially, rather it is sociomaterially manifest—expressed in both material forms such as control over space/land and social phenomena such as manifestations in discourse (Gist-Mackey & Dougherty, 2021). Discourse is indeed central to the next commitment to postcolonial organizing. Commitment #2: Resisting Colonialist Discourse and Rethinking Organizing Practices While colonialism was clearly about physical, spatial, bodily, and/or material domination and control, colonialism also controlled discourse. Eurocentric ways of thinking conveyed ideologies of superiority and white supremacy that colonized discourse and culture (Broadfoot & Munshi, 2014). In this second commitment of postcolonial organizing, Broadfoot and Munshi (2014, p. 157) articulated that “the nature

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of postcolonial discourses is more than a point of binary opposition to colonial discourses.” Rather postcolonial discourses can meet organizing when a multiplicity of Indigenous forms of thinking, being, and engaging are privileged and valued discursively and function to resist colonial discourses. Broadfoot and Munshi (2014) explain that critical organizational communication scholars are well positioned to resist colonial discourses. Yet, doing so can be political in nature, especially when seemingly neutral organizing practices are called into question. Resisting normative organizing practices, such as hierarchically structuring organizations (Magee & Galinsky, 2008), and reconsidering them and their function is one way postcoloniality can shift discourse and aid in reimaging new ways of organizing. The first two commitments, reimagining spaces and resisting colonialist discourse are often rooted in the third commitment: decolonizing thought and reconfiguring organizing knowledge. Commitment #3: Decolonize Thought and Reconfigure Organizing Forms of Knowledge Broadfoot and Munshi (2014) address the disproportionate privileging of Western business contexts, Eurocentric organizing practices, as well as a focus on organizational outcomes over people. Similarly, Cruz and Sodeke (2021) explain that normative methodological approaches in organizational communication are insufficient to study experiences of marginalization in postcolonial African contexts. Broadfoot and Munshi (2014, p. 160) elaborate saying, “Decolonization, therefore, can be considered the force by which people claim their own future, deciding independently how they wish to live, work, care for others, and express their rights to be free.” Decolonial work must be done through sociomaterial struggle (Gist-Mackey & Dougherty, 2021), meaning both social aspects of life like representation, discourse, and interaction, but also material aspects of life such as embodied autonomy and access to physical resources among others in order to thrive, not simply survive. Postcolonial theory can provide one pathway forward to re-invent organizing forms of knowledge. This can occur in part by centering subaltern epistemologies, voices, stories, and lived experiences (e.g. Banerjee & Linstead, 2004; Dutta & Pal, 2010; Munshi et al., 2011). Indeed, “Postcolonial theory can provide scholars with ways to recover local epistemologies and reform global ethics to address the powerful inequality of organizing practices in global relations” (Broadfoot & Munshi, 2014, p. 161). Next,

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we explain how each of these three commitments is present in the BLM movement.

Postcolonial Nature of BLM Organizing The BLM movement has been a hypervisual global organizing effort that addresses institutional inequities and interlocking oppressions (Crenshaw, 1991), which have organized Black suffering throughout historical and contemporary systems and structures in society. What started as a social media hashtag #BlackLivesMatter has flourished into an internationally networked foundation with a clearly stated mission and vision: Black Lives Matter Global Network Foundation, Inc. is a global organization in the US, UK, and Canada, whose mission is to eradicate white supremacy and build local power to intervene in violence inflicted on Black communities by the state and vigilantes…We are a collective of liberators who believe in an inclusive and spacious movement…We must ensure we are building a movement that brings all of us to the front…We are working for a world where Black lives are no longer systematically targeted for demise. We affirm our humanity, our contributions to this society, and our resilience in the face of deadly oppression. The call for Black lives to matter is a rallying cry for ALL Black lives striving for liberation. (Black Lives Matter Global Network Foundation, 2022, para. 1)

There is diversity in the movement, but this excerpt of the vision statement captures the central tenets of BLM. With this, we turn to the three commitments of postcolonial organizing (Broadfoot & Munshi, 2014) by demonstrating how the BLM movement is a form of postcolonial organizing. BLM Commitment #1: Disrupting and Reimagining Organizing Spaces BLM as a social movement disrupts physical spaces in acts of protest and has reimagined organizing spaces by organizing virtually via social media. Physical protests that disrupt spaces by organizing have been a staple of American democracy representing values for freedom of speech. There have been countless physical protests that have advocated for the civil rights of Black people in the U.S. including, but not limited to, the 1955 Montgomery bus boycott, 1960 Greensboro sit-ins, 1961 Freedom

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rides, 1963 March on Washington for jobs and freedom, and 1965 Selma Montgomery March, among others. Sadly many protests advocating for Black humanity have been met with violence from individuals and authorities. For instance, the 1965 Selma Montgomery March turned into what has been dubbed, Bloody Sunday. On March 7, 1965, when then-25-year-old activist John Lewis led over 600 marchers across the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama and faced brutal attacks by oncoming state troopers, footage of the violence collectively shocked the nation and galvanized the fight against racial injustice. (Klein, 2020, para. 1)

This physical protest in the form of a march disrupted the space in order to advocate for human rights. The brutal violence inflicted on the bodies of peaceful protesters made racism undeniable and publicly visible. Unfortunately, contemporary peaceful protests in the BLM movement have continued to be met with violence in similar ways. BLM is an extension of these civil rights focused protests in the sense that BLM protests have occupied prominent physical spaces across many countries, including the U.S., dominating the area with the radical idea that Black lives matter. The police brutality that led to the death of George Floyd in 2020 sparked a surge of BLM protests. According to the Armed Conflict Location & Event Data Project (ACLED, 2020), there were 7,750 BLM protest demonstrations across the U.S. in 2,440 different locations in all 50 states and Washington D.C. between May 24 and August 22, 2020. Of these, nearly 94% were peaceful protests (ACLED, 2021). This demonstrates an overwhelmingly peaceful disruption of space by organizing, constituting the first commitment to postcolonial organizing. Unfortunately, according to the ACLED (2020), the U.S. government often responded to BLM peaceful protests with force: “In demonstrations where authorities are present, they use force more often than not. Data show that they have disproportionately used force while intervening in demonstrations associated with the BLM movement, relative to other types of demonstrations” (ACLED, 2020, p. 8). More specifically, authorities are three times more likely to intervene in BLM protests when compared to other demonstrations (ACLED, 2021). The authorities’ use of physical force often included deploying tear gas, rubber bullets, and pepper spray or beating demonstrators with batons—in over 52% of the demonstrations in which they engaged (ACLED, 2021, p. 1). Yet despite

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the use of physical force to deter protesters from occupying space, BLM protests are organized across the globe. Since the summer of 2020, there have been more than 8,700 protests in solidarity with BLM across 74 different countries primarily concentrated at embassies, consulates, and Trump properties, the latter of which are affiliated with the 45th president of the U.S. This evidence suggests a strong alignment with the first commitment to postcolonial organizing— disrupting organizing spaces. Yet, BLM has also reimagined organizing spaces, a second component to the first commitment to postcolonial organizing (Broadfoot & Munshi, 2014). The hashtag #BlackLivesMatter started as an online social media hashtag. The use of social media as a platform reimagines traditional organizing spaces by transcending spatial limitations of executing protests in geographic spaces. This is significant for a variety of reasons, but we argue that one of the most salient reasons is that online organizing expands the movement about Black life and Black bodies into a disembodied space that could perpetually continue the struggle against brutality endured by Black bodies. Disembodying the BLM message via social media disrupts physical attempts to squelch the movement through embodied violence. BLM’s use of social media allows the movement to “overcome transnational communication barriers and has eroded the concept of territorialization” (Suvojit, 2016, p. 25). The viral nature of the BLM movement via social media allowed the movement to grow from its roots in the U.S to an international social movement that transcends borders and spans physical and digital spaces. All of this organized spatial disruption and virtual coordination is done with the bold proclamation that Black Lives Matter, which is a postcolonial form of discourse addressed in the next commitment. BLM Commitment #2: Resisting Colonialist Discourse and Rethinking Organizing Practices The very claim, “Black lives matter” is a disruption of colonial discourse. BLM mobilizes postcolonial discourse by inviting us to reimagine organizing spaces through this central assertion, by challenging the erasure of lived experience, and through the movement’s ongoing work to resist eradication through discursive struggle (e.g. “all lives matter”). When BLM activists began making the claim, “Black lives matter” in 2013, Trayvon Martin, a Black teenager who was senselessly gunned

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down while walking home was gone, and his murderer walked out of a courtroom with no repercussions. These activists were pushing back against a legal system that places lives on a scale and continuously found those who are Black and brown expendable. They were disrupting centuries of oppression and domination sanctioned by Eurocentric ideology and the weaponization of race through colonialism. Colonialism centered Eurocentric ways of knowing and being, effectively minimizing, and in some instances, erasing Indigenous and subaltern knowledge and life (Kimmerer, 2014). This work was done through eras of linguistic and discursive domination, which sanctioned and justified the material oppression of those who were conquered. One of the central tools of colonial domination was the use of language to shape reality in the interest of white domination. Colonial rulers exerted power over territories by imposing their social and political thought, and their language on those they conquered. In the wake of colonialism, languages and cultures were decimated (Accurso, 2015) or changed irrevocably. Further through political, legal, scientific, and social discourse, the supremacy of white bodies over Black bodies was continuously reified. For hundreds of years a valuation was made through innumerable layers of discourse; from African coastlines to the North American south, African bodies and lives were found wanting over and over again. Beyond this were the material conditions colonial discourse sanctioned through laws, policies, and systems: seizure of territories and lands, decimation of social and cultural ideals, destruction of any barriers to colonial domination—human, ideological or structural (Tyler, 2021). Olutola (2020) notes that “by remapping the world through colonial violence, European powers did more than brutalize non-white races— they carved out the very framework of racial categories as a way to justify their domination” (para 2). This history of violent oppression and rule dating back to the fifteenth century set in place a system of domination centered around racialization and brute force. The machinery colonial empires used to wield their power and spread their carefully crafted racialized ideological discourse through communities, systems, and practices were law enforcement entities. Legal entities reified colonial discourse by actualizing them in practice. From the 1400s to today, the intersection of racialization and the resulting violence it engenders remains (Tyler, 2021). Contemporary policing mirrors these problematic practices (e.g. Epp et al., 2014).

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It is from this apex that BLM emerged, using language to highlight and resist discursive domination and erasure, while illuminating ongoing manifestations of colonial ideology and racialized violence by police. While an uncomfortable truth in this twenty-first-century moment, the vestiges of colonial discourse and the material conditions it fosters abound; yet the BLM movement challenges colonial discourse and mindsets by discursively centering the value of Black life. With its simple avowal, Black Lives Matter; the BLM movement upends the very scaffolding on which colonial ideology rests: the disposability of Black life. It was partly through colonial discourse that a hierarchy of being, in which whites were the first and most important link in the “great chain of being” (Wander et al., 1999, p. 15), was crafted. It stands to reason that discourse must play a critical role in undoing that machinery. BLM is a discourse that resists dominant ideologies of white supremacy. It succinctly pushes back against the taken-for-granted belief that whiteness is the axis upon which the world must turn. This is evidenced by current counter-discourses to BLM (i.e. “all lives matter” or “blue lives matter”). Arguably, the purpose of these counter-discourses is to silence the BLM movement, challenge its central claim, and co-opt the message to reify the status quo. BLM also discursively resists historical discourses that render Black life as lesser than or expendable (i.e. slavery laws, three-fifths voting laws partially counting Black life, Jim Crow laws, racial apartheid, and anti-miscegenation laws). In the U.S. slavery era, Black people were discursively and materially conceptualized as chattel (Tyler, 2021). They were branded, sold to the highest bidder, and viewed as property. At the 1787 Constitutional Convention, for example, it was decided that only three-fifths of the slave population would be counted to determine taxation and representation in government (Encyclopedia Britannica, 2022). Following slavery, Jim Crow laws took over, sanctioning a racial caste system between 1877 and the 1960s. During that period, “craniologists, eugenicists, phrenologists, and Social Darwinists, at every educational level, buttressed the belief that Blacks were innately intellectually and culturally inferior to whites” (Ferris State University, para 1). Controlling discourses for hundreds of years dehumanized and denigrated those of African descent. It is out of this backdrop that BLM arose, speaking from a postcolonial space to discursively affirm and assert the value of Black lives and Black experiences.

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BLM as a discourse of resistance disrupts unspoken, tacit assumptions regarding whose lives are worthwhile and whose lives have been deemed historically expendable. It is both in the material and virtual acts of disruptive organizing demonstrated in the first commitment to postcolonial organizing and in the BLM movement’s discourse of resistance that the third commitment of decolonizing thought and reconfiguring knowledge is manifest. BLM Commitment #3: Decolonizing Thought and Reconfiguring Organizing Forms of Knowledge Fifi and Heller (2019) explain that, “Colonialism was as much a process of deconstructing and reconstructing knowledge systems as much as it was of economic and political domination” (2019, p. 104). By turning society’s gaze to the many ways Black lives, bodies, souls, and minds have been sociomaterially ravaged through colonial thinking and practices, BLM also invites us to reimagine organizing forms of knowledge from a postcolonial space. BLM attempts to make progress on the unfinished work of the civil rights era; to push us from the liminal, in-between space of possibility, to reality. Specifically, BLM challenges us to recognize the ravages of colonial knowledge systems and the ways it manifests in communication and daily actions. BLM also invites us to embrace postcoloniality in our sensemaking around systemic racialized oppression and organizing around racial justice. When Martin Luther King Jr., the civil rights activist and icon, articulated his dream in the 1960s, it moved many because up until that point, it was an unspoken hope. In articulating this hope, King captured hearts and minds across the globe and moved the world closer to equality. Between the 1960s and today, strides have been made, yet there is still tremendous work to be done. The cases of police brutality that have taken center stage in past years illuminate the magnitude of that work. They expose the distance between King’s dream and true equality for Black and Brown people across the globe. The last few years demonstrate that while a lot has been achieved in the areas of racial justice, equity, and liberty reaching the full potential of racial justice, equity, and liberty remain a far too distant possibility. BLM is a social movement attempting to push the world out of this liminal state of possibility toward the reality of equity and justice.

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BLM does this by disrupting Eurocentricity and colonial knowledge through its invitation to see, understand, and own ongoing oppression against Black people as a shared global problem and history, and the legal and social structures that sanction this ongoing oppression. It also challenges whiteness and Eurocentricity by centering Black experiences. When the world continued to see images of police brutality against Black people, and the resulting rallying cry led by the BLM movement, this challenged notions of a post-racial world and exposed the ravages of contemporary colonial mindsets and the ways they continue to appear in daily life (i.e. over-policing, relations between and within communities, disproportionate incarceration rates, disproportionate unemployment and poverty rates, etc.). BLM as a moniker communicates knowledge and truth that outright opposes colonial knowledge, thinking, and mindsets.

Conclusion Our analysis here explores three commitments to postcolonial organizing and demonstrates how BLM is a form of postcolonial organizing. BLM is the continuation of a centuries long struggle for liberation across the African diaspora. Ultimately, the use of a postcolonial lens to explore the BLM movement reveals how postcolonial organizing can resist anti-Black racism specifically. Anti-Black racism must be eradicated sociomaterially because the existence of anti-Black racism spans both objective (i.e. material) and subjective (i.e. socially constructed) realities. The BLM movement is postcolonial organizing that is well positioned to continue to fight anti-Black racism through sociomatieral struggles by (1) disrupting and reimagining both physical and virtual spaces, (2) resisting colonialist discourses and rethinking organizing practices, and (3) decolonizing white supremacist thought while reconfiguring organizing forms of knowledge. BLM constitutes postcolonial organizing because it, first, occupies social media hashtags and local communities across the globe in response to ongoing anti-Black brutality and violence. Second, BLM avows a new discourse, which resists white supremacy and its discursive roots by naming and changing what colonialists have historically asserted as a fundamental truth evident in political, legal, and economic systems. Finally, BLM reasserts a new knowledge system that values Black life in its diversity of forms. Ultimately, the BLM movement provides an opportunity for us to decolonize thinking and reconfigure new knowledge systems that turn toward the margins and reorganize equitably.

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Our analysis reveals that in order for decolonial efforts to contribute to social justice, they must grapple with anti-Black racism directly. We posit a fourth commitment that expands Broadfood and Munshi’s (2014) original framework. Our fourth commitment is that postcolonial organizing is a sociomaterial struggle to dismantle anti-Black, Indiginous, & People of Color (anti-BIPOC) racism. With this, we now turn to future implications regarding this sociomaterial struggle for dignity, liberation, and equity.

Future Implications Our goal in this paper was to identify tenets of postcolonial organizing, and illuminate how the BLM movement is a form of postcolonial organizing, and demonstrate how the intersection of postcolonial theory and organizing practice, as it manifests in the BLM movement, holds great promise for our collective future. In this section we invite readers to further engage in postcolonial praxis and provide strategies for doing so. Praxis occurs when scholarly thought meets daily lived practice. We believe that leaning into postcolonial praxis in our organizing will allow individuals and communities to begin healing and undoing processes and practices mired by colonial ideology. This will require global communities to take ownership of the material impact of transgenerational trauma and own the challenging work of allyship that honors the lives, voices, and bodies of those who identify as Black, Indigenous, People of Color. Further, we must resist status quo ways of organizing rooted in Eurocentric ideologies, refuse to engage in dichotomous thinking, call out taken-for-granted ways of knowing and being that are undergirded by colonial ideologies/epistemologies, and name and address the ways scholarly advances have exploited and disenfranchised BIPOC communities. We urge readers to listen intently to subaltern and indigenous voices to better embrace their ways of knowing (Oliha, 2012). In addition, we can engage postcolonial mindsets in our organizing by sharing power, leading with compassion, and embracing the multiplicity and diversity of humanity. These initial future implications are wide reaching. In the interest of space and praxis, we first offer strategies that all readers can engage to embrace postcoloniality in their daily practice. We then close by focusing on two central audiences: academics and organizers.

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Embracing Postcoloniality In order to embrace postcoloniality, it will require organizers and organizational scholars to resist white supremacy culture. Jones and Okun (2001) identified the following fifteen characteristics of white supremacy culture: (1) perfectionism, (2) sense of urgency, (3) defensiveness, (4) quantity over quality, (5) worship of the written word, (6) only one right way, (7) paternalism, (8) either/or thinking, (9) power hoarding, (10) fear of open conflict, (11) individualism, (12) I’m the only one, (13) progress is bigger, more, (14) objectivity, and (15) right to comfort. These attributes of white supremacy culture are often implicitly informing contemporary forms of organizing and knowledge. Due to space constraints, we are only able to address a few of these attributes in order to demonstrate how organizers and scholars can embrace postcoloniality. Most Western organizations and efforts at organizing function as hierarchies (Magee & Galinsky, 2008), which are connected to power hoarding and materialism. In order to embrace postcoloniality, we need to decentralize and share power and resources in order to promote equity in our practices and outcomes. Also, from a Western and Eurocentric perspective, knowledge is constituted exclusively through disembodied written documentation (Marvin, 1994), indicating a worship of the written word. In order to embrace postcoloniality, society will need to collectively embrace other forms of knowledge like storytelling and listening, which are tied to Indigenous epistemology (Brayboy, 2005). Further, embracing postcoloniality will require embracing a multiplicity of perspectives while resisting false dichotomies evident in either/or thinking. According to Martin (1992,p. 84), “Western thought has been founded on dichotomous thinking, for example, rational/emotional, active/passive, presence/absence.” Through such binary thinking meaning is produced and each side of the dichotomy only achieves significance through its structural relationship to the other (Moi, 1985). In regard to U.S. race relations, too often the discourse is fixated on relations between white/Black people, which grossly oversimplifies the diversity of racial identities and race relations. This must be mitigated by taking an intersectional (Crenshaw, 1991) approach to race and to organizing. Every human experiences race in multi-textured ways. The diverse tapestry of human experience is erased when discourse about race, or anything else for that matter, is limited to either/or (i.e. Black/white) frameworks. Those from Indigenous, Asian, Pacific Islander, Latinx, Caribbean,

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multi-national, and/or multi-racial identities are obscured from the larger conversation when a default approach using either/or thinking is employed. We urge organizers and scholars to lean into the complexity of intersectionality (Crenshaw, 1991) in every thing they do in order to enrich their understanding and praxis regarding BLM by embracing postcoloniality. These are a few simple examples of how we all can explore and enact postcoloniality. Future Implications for Academics For academics, future implications revolve around relationships within the academy. We call scholars to read Dutta’s (2006) Ten Commandments of Reviewing. Dutta (2006) established ten central values for peer-reviewing practices that demonstrate a promise to a kinder, gentler discipline. These include: (1) approach reviewing as a collaborative task, (2) put aside your ego, (3) be reflexive, (4) understanding the paradigms, (5) understand the limitations of a project, (6) don’t feel that you need to demonstrate how much you know, (7) be specific in your recommendations, (8) provide feedback in a timely manner, (9) encourage, and (10) do unto others as you would have them do unto you. These reveal a relational approach to academic work. Further, we call academics to not only resist hegemonic institutional forms of oppression that systematically and overtly harm Black people and Black lives, but also to be mindful and resist covert micro-oppressive practices, which stall and push against progress. OlihaDonaldson (2018, p. 134) defines micro-oppressive practices as, “daily, unobtrusive actions combined with liberal discourse that reinscribe and propagate an inequitable and problematic social system.” This requires academics to name, own, and change both overt and covert forms of harm perpetuated by the academy and to not only resist being complicit in such systems, but to also change them to foreground equity. However, we believe that many of these implications for academics can be transmuted into values that could also lead to a kinder, gentler, and influential way of organizing in the spirit of postcolonialism. Future Implications for Organizers Further, adapting Dutta’s (2006) work we call organizers to postcolonial action. We believe that all organizing should be seen as (1) collaborative where organizers should (2) set their egos aside and lean into the

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collective good, particularly of those who have been historically marginalized. This will require all organizers to (3) be reflexive regarding their own biases, especially how one’s own positionalities manifest in interactions with others. In lieu of understanding academic paradigms, Dutta’s (2006) fourth practice, we believe organizers should do their best to (4) understand a multiplicity of worldviews in solidarity with those they engage through organizing—whether that means those who are organizing alongside one another or those who are opposing one’s organizing efforts. Further, we call organizers to (5) understand the limitations of any one movement to mitigate social inequity and to address one’s own limitations by (6) resisting the tendency to demonstrate how much one knows. When collaborating with other organizers we recommend people (8) offer their strongest insights and labor to organize social movements and to do so in (9) a timely fashion. Further, we call organizers to encourage their fellow organizers and the next generation. We urge all organizers to (10) engage others with compassion and dignity. BLM as postcolonial organizing is an attempt at reimagining and creating a world where identities and cultures that have been threatened, eradicated, and devalued are dignified, understood, and valued as worthwhile humanity.

Afterword In reflection, we want to share a bit about our own positionalities as Black Women scholars. The two authors of this essay both identify as Black women scholars, yet occupy very different standpoints in the African diaspora. Dr. Angela Gist-Mackey is an American-born Midwestern Black woman who has traveled the world and is multilingual, yet has only resided on U.S. soil. Dr. Hannah Oliha-Donaldson is an African-born Nigerian-American Black woman who has resided in different nations, has traveled the world, is multilingual, and has experienced immigration. Racial identities always intersect with our national identities among multiple other identities we hold in regard to our occupations, familial roles, religious identities, gender identities, and social class identities, among many others. We experience Blackness and the BLM movement in diverse ways. And still we represent, yet a small scope of the BLM movement and our intersectional identities represent different aspects of postcolonial being. We invite you to lean into postcolonial ways of being and to explore your own intersectional identities while honoring the identities of others, particularly in relation to contemporary efforts at

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postcolonial organizing. We call you all to recognize and enact the simple truth that Black Lives Matter.

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Cheney, S. May, & D. Munshi (Eds.), Handbook of communication ethics (pp. 119–132). Routledge. Oliha, H. (2012). Critical questions: The impact and import of the contradictions and epistemic denials in the field of intercultural communication research, theorizing, teaching, and practice. International Communication Gazette, 74, 586–600. https://doi.org/10.1177/1748048512454825 Oliha-Donaldson, H. (2018). Let’s talk: An exploration into student discourse about diversity and the implications for intercultural competence. Howard Journal of Communication, 29(2), 122–139. https://doi.org/10.1080/106 46175.2017.1327379 Olutola, S. (2020, September 1). The history of racist colonial violence can help us understand police violence. The Washington Post. https://www.washingto npost.com/outlook/2020/09/01/history-racist-colonial-violence-can-helpus-understand-police-violence/ Pousadela. (2021, May 26). #BLM beyond the US: Anti-racist struggles in Latin America. Open Democracy. https://www.opendemocracy.net/en/dem ocraciaabierta/blm-beyond-the-us-anti-racist-struggles-in-latin-america/ Shome, R., & Hedge, R. S. (2002). Postcolonial approaches to communication: Charting the terrain, engaging the intersection. Communication Theory, 12(3), 249–270. Spivak, G. C. (1999). A critique of postcolonial reason: Toward a history of the vanishing present. Harvard University Press. Suvojit, B. (2016). Transcendence through social media. Journal of Media and Communication Studies, 8(3), 25–30. https://doi.org/10.5897/JMCS2015. 0469 Touré. (2006). Who’s afraid of post-Blackness?: What it means to be Black now. Simon & Schuster. Tyler, I. (2021). Stigma: The machinery of inequality. Zed Books. Wander, P. C., Martin, J. N., & Nakayama, T. K. (1999). Whiteness and beyond: Sociohistorical foundations of whiteness and contemporary challenges. In T. Nakayama & J. Martin (Eds.), Whiteness: The communication of social identity (pp. 13–26). Sage.

CHAPTER 13

Producing and (Re) Producing? An Ethnographic Narrative of Female Estate and Apparel Workers of Sri Lanka Prajna Seneviratne

A Preamble As I walk with her to the crèche where she will leave her children before starting work, Lakshmini, a young mother who works as a tea plucker in Ceylonita estate, Nuwara Eliya, Sri Lanka, tells me of her burden of working in the estate and attending to her household tasks. She speaks hesitantly, her low voice carrying the distinct accent of her ethnic identity. It is with a sad smile on her face that she tells me she doesn’t have much time to talk with me, because ‘she is always working’. Her words resonate in my mind as I watch her struggle through the many roles of mother, housewife and waged worker; walking down to the crèche with her children, working

P. Seneviratne (B) Faculty of Management Studies, Department of Organization Studies, The Open University of Sri Lanka, Nawala, Sri Lanka e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Pal et al. (eds.), Organizing at the Margins, New Perspectives in Organizational Communication, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22993-0_13

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in and around the house, plucking tea leaves in the field—from sun up to sun down. Indeed she seems always to be working. At another day and place, Dishanthi, a young girl who had been working as a sewing machine operator at SriKnit garments, Katunayaka, Sri Lanka for five years, tells me of her plans of leaving work: “…we can’t take care of a family while doing this work…the [sewing] machines drain all our energy…they [the factories] are slowly killing us… we have to change this system…”. She makes no attempt to hide the anger in her voice, an anger I share with her, as I listen to her in silence. It is this same silence that has surrounded—and still surrounds— the lives of these ‘ women and girls’ as they struggle to make a living as ‘ tea pluckers and sewing girls’ in a far away third world 1 country. It is this silence my narratives attempt to break, even in a small way by writing the (unwritten) stories of their lives.

Why the World Needs to Know Their Stories? Even though it is only a passing glimpse of their lives, the above narrative gives rise to a multiplicity of questions relating to female estate and apparel workers of Sri Lanka. Why is Lakshmini, a woman of Tamil2 ethnicity and Indian3 origin working in a Sri Lankan tea plantation? Why is she the breadwinner of her family? How does she cope with the multiple tasks of housework, childcare and waged work? Why have global garment factories set up their operations in this third-world location? Why does Dishanthi work as a sewing machine operator? Why do global factories employ young girls like her in their assembly lines? Why is she leaving her job? What is the work regime she thinks has to be changed? Will she,

1 Drawing on Mohanty’s definition, third world as stated here refers to “colonized, neo colonized or decolonized countries (of Asia, Africa, and Latin America) whose economic and political structures have been deformed within the colonial process, and to black, Asian, Latina, and indigenous peoples in North America, Europe, and Australia” (Mohanty et al., 1991, p. ix). 2 The ethnic composition of Sri Lanka is basically made out of majority Sinhalese, who account for nearly three quarters (74%) of the total population and the minority groups of Tamils and Muslims, who make-up 18% and 7% of the Islands people respectively. The Tamil community is sub divided into two components as the Tamil people of the Northern and Eastern parts of the Island and Tamil people of Indian origin who live in the central hills and work as plantation labourers. (www.statistics.gov.lk/census2001/ index.html). 3 Estate workers like Lakshmini are of Indian origin and were brought to work in Sri Lankan tea plantations by British colonial rulers.

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together with others who share her thinking, succeed in bringing about such change? Indeed, many of these questions have been asked, and to some extent answered, by scholars interested in studying them from the diverse perspectives of their own disciplinary backgrounds, i.e. history, political economy, gender studies and so on. As such, there already exists a collection of scholarly work on: employment of Indian immigrant labour in colonial tea plantations of ‘Ceylon’4 (e.g. De Silva, 1982; Duncan, 2007; Jaiswal, 2019; Jayawardena, 2000; Wesumperuma, 1986), gendered aspects of labour within these plantation enclaves (e.g. Jayaweera, 1991; Kurian, 1985, 2000; Kurian & Jayawardena, 2017; Wijayatilake, 2001), emergence of global garment factories at third world locations (e.g. Athukorala & Rajapathirane, 2000; Indraratne, 1998; Kelegama et al., 2002; Natsuda et al., 2010), and employment of young third world women on global assembly lines (e.g. Hewamanne, 2021; Jayaweera, 2003; Perera, 2007; Shaw, 2007; Siddiqi, 2020). These studies have made significant contributions towards producing knowledge on different aspects of plantation estates and apparel factories of Sri Lanka. However, they have also ignored, on a continuous basis, a distinct phenomenon that closely relates to the workers—specifically to the majority of female workers—of these work settings. That is, these studies fail to address, other than in a very cursory way, the interaction of women’s reproductive and productive labour within these settings. Thus, ‘why’ and ‘how’ women workers of these different work sites engage in a multiplicity of labour roles continue to remain outside of the contemporary feminist discourses of women’s reproductive and productive labour. Moreover, none of these studies seem to specifically address the issues of what female estate and apparel factory workers themselves think about the work they engage in. Thus, these women workers continue to be silenced, even in the very texts that are written about them. This, then, is the gap this chapter attempts to bridge, and it aims to do so by exploring the multiple interactions of women’s productive and reproductive labour within different work regimes of a third world/postcolonial setting. This chapter builds upon and draws on my previous work some of which I briefly describe below. In ethnographic experiences with female plantation and apparel workers of Sri Lanka: a methodological reflection

4 Ceylon was the name given to Sri Lanka by its colonial rulers.

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(Seneviratne, 2017) I attempt to examine the extent to which existing principles of ethnography embody the ethical political considerations as applies to third world/postcolonial settings by reflecting upon actual ethnographic experiences gained within such settings. Marxist feminism meets postcolonial feminism in organizational theorizing: issues, implications and responses (Seneviratne, 2018b) is basically woven around the theoretical framework of my research work. In this paper, I discuss the issues and implications of simultaneously drawing upon Marxist and postcolonial feminist approaches to organizational theorizing in developing a theoretical/analytical framework for exploring the multiple interactions of productive and reproductive labour roles of female plantation and apparel workers of Sri Lanka. The study entitled ‘Estranged labour on the global assembly line? ‘sewing girls of global garment factories in Sri Lanka’ (Seneviratne, 2019) is an attempt to shed light on the similarities between ‘estranged labour’ as described by Marx and the labour of ‘sewing girls’ spent on the global assembly lines. Debates surrounding the theoretical constructs of productive and reproductive labour and the significance of gender, class and ethnicity in knowing about women’s work and lives are the focal points of my paper titled ‘Producing and (re) producing? Untangling multiple labour roles of female estate and apparel workers of Sri Lanka’ (Seneviratne, 2018a). All these writings contribute to the body of knowledge in my chosen area of study in their own unique ways. The most significant contribution of my work however, is entrenched in writing the (unwritten) ‘stories’ of ‘tea pluckers’ and ‘sewing girls’ as they struggle to combine the multiple roles of mother, housewife and waged worker within these third world/postcolonial settings as I attempt to do in this chapter. As such, this chapter belongs to Lakshmini, Rajeswari, Dishanthi, Dilrukshi, Kamani, Marci and others, for here they tell us ‘stories’ of how they live and work within the different work settings of a plantation estate and an apparel factory in a world/postcolonial country. This chapter takes us from the cold and misty mountain ranges to the noisy and crowed shop floors telling us how these ‘women and girls’ of the ‘third world’ struggle with their multiple roles—as mothers, sisters and housewives at times and as waged field and factory workers at others. In writing their stories my chapter ‘rewrites what has so far been written out of history’ and places these women workers of the third world at their rightful place along the contemporary feminist discourses on women’s productive and reproductive labour.

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Furthermore, inspired by the thinking of postcolonial feminism, in this chapter, I attempt to explore the daily life struggles of these women workers through the triple lens of class, gender and ethnicity, questioning the traditional image of ‘third world women’ as passive and submissive and allowing these women who have been relegated and silenced to speak back, recounting the stories of their lives. Before moving onto narrating their stories, it becomes pertinent to describe the context out of which these stories emerge. As such, it is a brief explanation of the origin of plantation labour in colonial çeylon’ and the employment of women in ‘world market factories’ specifically garment factories in post independent Sri Lanka, that this chapter now turns.

Of Colonial Plantations and (Post) Colonial Factories; A Brief Journey to the Past During the early nineteenth century, while British colonial rule was taking root in ‘Ceylon’, industrial capitalism was spreading its wings across the countries of Western Europe, creating a demand for primary and cheap consumption products—primary goods serving as inputs for the growing industries and the consumption goods meeting the demands of the growing middle classes—in these countries. Colonies were seen as a cheap source of supply (of these goods) and colonial policy actively promoted enterprises engaged in their production (de Silva, 1982; Kurian, 2000; Perera, 1998). Plantation production, which from the 1830s onwards dominated the sphere of economic activity of ‘Ceylon’, was introduced in line with these policies of colonial governance. As Jayawardena (2000, pp. 68–70) argues, ‘The early 1830s is an important turning point in Sri Lankan economic and political history…with the viability of a plantation economy gaining importance it was imperative to replace outmoded mercantilist policies’. During this period economic expansion called for major reforms in the administration, political institutions and the judiciary of the country. In 1829, a commission of inquiry headed by W. M. G. Colebrooke and C. H. Cameron was appointed to look into all aspects of colonial rule in Sri Lanka. Recommendations made by Cameron and Colebrooke were innovative and controversial in nature and included the closure of many feudal and mercantilist institutions, abolition of rajakariya (compulsory labour), the cinnamon monopoly and so on (Jayawardena, 2000; Perera, 1998; Wesumperuma, 1986). Jayawardena explains the

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growth of the plantation economy in Sri Lanka as ‘in the 1830s, the British continued the Dutch practice of promoting a non-industrial type of capitalism in the form of the plantation system. As in many colonial territories, merchant capital found this particular form of economic and social organization the most suitable for exploiting the country’s resources and maximizing profits’ (2000, p. 72). Such colonial economic arrangements moved primary production—agriculture and extraction of raw materials—to cheaper (colonial) locations, allowing more lucrative secondary (industrial) production to be undertaken within the colonial power itself. Later on, in the ‘new international division of labour’ industrial production as well was moved to the (post) colonies retaining the highest returning tertiary sector ‘in-house’. Returning to the emergence of colonial tea plantations in Ceylon, one of the major concerns of British planters was non availability of a steady supply of labour to service the plantation economy. During the early years of the 1830s the Sinhalese Kandyan5 peasants did not respond to the demand for regular work on estates (Wesumperuma, 1986) as they were involved with their own cultivation practices and piece work in the fields (Kurian, 2000; Perera, 1998). According to de Silva ‘…the Sinhalese villager was not willing to work as a hired labourer…Despite the dispossession of a large extent of the lands enjoyed by him the Sinhalese villager was a small peasant proprietor and, therefore, he was somewhat independent minded’ (1964, p. 16). Wesumperuma (1986, p. 8) further explains this situation as ‘Indigenous people did not come forward to work on plantations… they had no need to labour for a wage, as they lived within virtually self sufficient, traditional economic frameworks’. This situation resulted in an acute shortage of plantation labour which compelled British planters to look for alternative sources. The overpopulated regions of the Madras Presidency, South India where landlessness was wide spread and famine occurred frequently (Wenzulhuemer, 2005) offered an ideal solution. The ever increasing landlessness of the Tamil districts of the Madras Presidency (particularly Tanjavur) is attributed to the ‘disintegration of the Indian village handicraft industries consequent to the flooding of the Indian market with cheap British manufactured articles’ (Wenzulhuemer, 2005, p. 16). Village artisans could not compete

5 People living in the upcountry area are known as Kandyans.

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with the British producers and this resulted in a state of ‘chronic indebtedness of all ordinary villagers to the land magnates to the city usurers’ (Kurian, 2000, p. 3). These regions also suffered from famine during the period which most affected the lowest castes and classes. The ever increasing economic peril and distress contributed to the creation of a pool of extremely destitute persons who were forced to look elsewhere for a living. The British planters seized this opportunity, and kanganys 6 were assigned with the task of recruiting estate labourers from among this group of destitute women and men. They were given advances of money (known as pensa kassi or payment in pence) to be paid to the workers and sent to these regions. Recruitment was done within villages and among kin groups, and the majority of workers were from the lower caste peasants (Wesumperuma, 1986). Once enlisted the workers had to cross the Indian ocean and journey a long way inland to reach the Kandyan highlands of ‘Ceylon’ where local forest lands were being cleared away to make room for the emerging plantations. Jayawardena describes the perils the immigrants had to face during their long journey as ‘… the immigrants had to walk long distances to the Indian coast and about 150 miles from Ceylon ports to the hill country. In malaria-ridden areas, the sick were left to die on the roadside and many of the survivors who reached the hill country succumbed to the unaccustomed cool weather’ (1972, p. 17). Even on the estates, the neglect of sick workers became a public scandal, and reference was made to the ‘roads choked up with the sick, the dying and the dead’ (de Silva, 1964, p. 240). In 1869, W. C. Twynam, then Government Agent of Jaffna,7 describing the plight of ‘coolies’8 during the early stages of resettlement says: Miserable gangs of coolies of 1843 and 1845, with one or two women to 50 or 100 men, strangers in a strange land, ill-fed, ill-clothed, eating any garbage they come across (more however from necessity than choice), traveling over jungle paths, sometimes with scarcely a drop of water to be found anywhere near them for miles, and others knee deep the greater part of the way in water, with the country all around a swamp; working on 6 Kangany is the name given to (male) workers who supervise labourers in the estates. 7 Jaffna is the main city in the Northern Peninsula of Sri Lanka. 8 ‘Cooly’ is the term used to identify immigrant workers of Indian origin in colonial documentations.

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estates just reclaimed from jungles, or on jungles about to be converted into estates. (SLNA/CO, 1869, p. 16)

Lives of ‘Coolies’ Under ‘Colonial Masters’ As mentioned previously kanganys were instrumental in bringing down workers from south India to the plantations in Ceylon. However, the ‘role’ of the kangany in the working of the plantation system, especially during the very early years, did not end here—he was assigned the ‘powerful position as intermediary between the plantation management and the workers’ (Jayawardena, 1972, p. 17). During this time the duties of a kangany, in addition to recruiting workers included ensuring the workers turned up to work in the field, supervision of workers in the field, settling of disputes both within and outside the field, issuing of rice and running a shop in the estate premises (de Silva, 1982; Jayawardena, 1972; Kurian, 1985, 2000). While the need for recruitment disappeared over the years with the Indian workers becoming resident labour ‘the patriarchal role of the kangany and his position as money lender and shop keeper continued’ (Jayawardena, 1972, p. 17). The powerful and often dubious role of kanganys within this enclave plantation system bought about many undesirable affects to the lives of plantation workers. Firstly, they were perpetually in debt to the kangany who as the sole money lender gave credit to workers at unreasonably high rates of interest. The debts were set off against the workers’ monthly wages resulting in a never ending vicious cycle of ‘worker indebtedness’ which caused R. Reid, a former Controller of Labour in Ceylon to remark that Indian workers in Ceylon were ‘born in debt, lived in debt and died in debt’ (SLNA/AR, 1932, p. 18). Kanganys used fraudulent methods to swindle money from the illiterate workers, who were often kept in the dark as to the actual amounts owed by them. The ‘tundu’ system which enabled the kangany to transfer the worker from one estate to another and set off the amounts owed by him against the wages received from the new employer was another feature which kept the workers bonded to and unable to escape from the grips of the kangany. Even though legislative action was taken to overcome the worst effects of worker indebtedness and the ‘tundu’ system was abolished, the kanganys through various extra-legal methods continued to take advantage of the pauperized workers and enrich themselves in the process (de Silva, 1982; Jayawardena, 1972). Another objectionable

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feature of this system was the issue of wages where ‘planters in the 19th century sometimes failed to pay wages regularly, handed the workers wage to the kangany or made deductions from the wages’ (Jayawardena, 1972, p. 18). As described by P. D Millie, himself a planter, if the coolies did not do what was considered as a fair amount of work, they were either put absent, or half day in the check roll, or kept at the working place but not at work till it was dark (Millie, 1878). The wages paid to the immigrant workforce, through these apparently unjust methods, were lower than those paid to the lowest paid unskilled urban workers (Jayaweera, 1991), keeping estate wages down—33 cents daily for men and 25 cents daily for women—being a determined policy of the planters (Jayawardena, 1972). Even during periods of acute labour shortages ‘the lack of bargaining power of the workers, their political isolation from the rest of the community, and the tight discipline….’ (Jayawardena, 1972, p. 18–19) enabled planters to keep estate wages at a constant low level during these early years. Illiteracy was widespread among plantation workers which together with their degraded social status kept them docile and subservient (Wesumperuma, 1986) to the kanganys and planters. While education made rapid advances in the rest of Ceylon, literacy levels in the plantations remained lower than the national average (Jayaweera, 1991). The plantation system during these years was infected with a high rate of exploitation and other grievances. Moreover, it contained features of a semi feudal system of economic relationships—‘the worker was not a free agent in the capitalist sense, whereby he could sell his labour on a competitive labour market’ (Jayawardena, 1972, p. 21). Rather the whole system was one of bondage, and plantation workers had many of the characteristics of serfs, including part payment of wages in kind, housing tied to the place of work, ties of indebtedness, legal compulsion to remain on the estate, and physical violence to enforce discipline (Jaiswal, 2019; Jayawardena, 1972, 2000). It is this very nature of estate life that makes plantations different from other work regimes and gives rise to work relations unique to these specific settings. Thus, the similarities between the lives of estate workers and ‘serfs’ as identified by Jayawardena (1972) and Jaiswal (2019) offer important insights in exploring the complexities surrounding estate woman’s’ multiple labour roles as attempted through this chapter.

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A Gendered View: Lives of Female Tea Pluckers During the early years of migration the majority of workers recruited were male with a small number of unattached women also migrating with the male gangs (Twynam, 1869 cited in SLNA/AR, 1932). However, during later years planters as well as colonial officers made an attempt to recruit as many women as possible to work as estate labourers (Kurian, 1985). ‘The mortality rate among the workers was very high (about one in every four migrants) due to the harsh conditions on the journey and the problems of acclimatization as well as the work regime’ (Kurain, 2000, p. 6). Thus, planters were keen to retain the workers who survived the initial period and figured out if more women were made to migrate, the workers would stay for longer periods and the estates would have a more settled population (SLNA/CO, 1869). Another important reason for recruiting women was that female labour was cheaper than male labour, as women were paid less than men even for equal tasks (Jayaweera, 1991). Also as Kurain identifies … ‘women from these low castes and classes occupied the lowest position in the Indian hierarchical order and this has forced them into accepting hard and menial tasks’ (2000, p. 7). Thus women were seen as ‘more steady and regular labourers’, more adaptable to the hard life on the estates. These attitudes resulted in colonial officers issuing instructions to agents in India to look for more women to recruit as labourers. Thus, more and more women began to migrate with men, causing a shift in the sex composition of the estate workforce (Kurian, 2000), and by the early twentieth century the number of women workers were almost equal to that of men. ‘In 1932 of the Indian estate population of 650,576, 209,788 were men, 200,518 were women and 240,270 were children, indicating that family life was almost universal among adult Indian estate labours in Ceylon’ (SLNA/AR, 1932, p. 122). A situation emerged where household units were maintained in the estates with women working both in the field and at home. This was an arrangement quite lucrative for the planters as they benefited both from women’s productive work in the field and unpaid reproductive work in the households. In the field, women were primarily employed for the labour intensive, repetitive, time consuming task of plucking tea leaves; the rationale for this being ‘women had nimble fingers’. In the households women were primarily responsible for caring for the needs of the children since they were more ‘patient’. Thus, with the increase in the number

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of women workers, a clear sexual division of labour, based on so-called ‘natural principles’ was also established in the estates (Kurian, 2000). Explaining further, even though feminist writers (e.g. Kurain, 2000; Kurian & Jayawardena, 2017; Wijayatilake, 2001) have made some reference to multiple roles and the duel burden of estate women, they fail to engage in a theoretically informed discussion of the capitalist logic and the exploitative nature surrounding this unique happening, as experienced by women in estates. A further exploration of the multiple interactions of women’s reproductive productive labour, as happens within this estate setting, becomes a primary aim of this chapter. It attempts to do so by looking at this phenomenon through the critical analytical lenses of Marxist feminism and postcolonial feminism, bringing the categories of gender, class, and ethnicity into its analytical framework. The scope of this writing, however, extends beyond the plantation estates in that it attempts to explore the multiple labour roles of women estate workers by comparing and contrasting them with women’s work as happens under a different work regime: namely of global garment factories. Accordingly, the emergence of global garment factories in post independent Sri Lanka and the working and living conditions of garment factory workers— majority of whom are ‘young girls’- will be discussed in the following section of this chapter on girls, garments and global capital. ‘Girls’, Garments and Global Capital Sri Lanka was one of the British colonies that gained independence9 during the mid-twentieth century. For nearly three decades since regaining independence in 1948 the country’s economy remained largely unchanged. From 1956 to the 1970s the local economy was characterized by state accumulation through nationalization and regulated private enterprise alongside import substitution (Jayaweera, 2003; Lynch, 2002). By the late 1970s the economy was in a crisis state with a wide spread shortage of consumer goods including food and clothing—blamed on inward-looking economic policies of import substitution, protectionism and welfare. The year 1977 was a watershed in the economic history of 9 In 1815, Sri Lanka—or Ceylon as it was then called—went under British rule when the last Sinhala King signed the Udarata Givisuma (Kandian Treaty) with the British Monarchy. After a period of non violent struggles led by anti colonial nationalist forces the country regained independence in the year 1948.

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Sri Lankan, with a radical shift towards market liberalization and an ‘open economy’. These changes were accompanied by the adaptation of a structural adjustment programme, promoted by the IMF and the World Bank (Indraratne, 1998). One of the significant policies of such ‘structural adjustment’ was export promotion; accordingly economic reforms that followed placed greater emphasis on export-driven industries (Athukorala & Rajapathirane, 2000). The government extended numerous measures of support to the export sector, in the form of ‘subsidies and duty rebate schemes, dutyfree imports of machinery and raw materials and lower corporate taxes, including tax holidays’ (Kelegama & Epaarachchi, 2002, p. 198). The second phase of the structural adjustment programmes extended these policies and the Board of Investment (BOI) was established as a ‘one stop investment promotion centre’ (Jayaweera, 2003). Given the fact that Sri Lanka is a labour surplus economy these measures attracted a significant inflow of foreign direct investment (FDI) to the country—particularly into labour intensive industries such as the garments industry (Athukorala & Rajapathirane, 2000). Thus global capital found its way into the Export Processing Zones (EPZs) of Sri Lanka specifically set up for the purpose of attracting foreign investments. As Perera (2007, p. 11) notes, ‘Sri Lanka’s first free trade zone region was created in 1978 under the auspices of the World Bank and the (IMF) as one of the condition for global aid. These plans were implemented by the right wing United National Party (UNP) government, whose national economic policies charted a shift from welfarism to development. Dismantling the infrastructure of labour laws put into place as the hard–won gains of 1930s anti colonial working-class movement,10 this new free trade regime promised investment protection, tax holidays, and most importantly the availability of cheap labour to foreign capital’. Such ‘adjustments’ and the setting up of export-driven industries in the newly emergent free trade zones brought about radical changes in the socio-economic fabric of the country. Assessments of structural adjustment programmes at the global level have shown that they have failed to achieve sustained economic development while having adverse socio-economic consequences for 10 The anti colonial working class moment that led the struggle for independence also fought for and established rights of the working class, some of which were later eroded by right wing political parties/governments such as the United National Party (UNP).

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the poor (Jayaweera, 2003). Localized country-specific studies (e.g. Indraratne, 1998; Lakshman, 2002) reiterate these findings, pointing to the increasing income disparities and the exclusion of the poor from the benefits of economic development. As Jayaweera (2003, p. 197) affirms, ‘the quality of employment available to women has deteriorated as a consequence of these reforms and women in low-income families have borne a disproportionate share of the burden of adjustment’. The social cost of this sharp shift in policies, such as escalation in the cost of living and consequent decline in real income, increase in income disparities and poverty, created additional burdens for women in low income families (ibid., p. 199). During the period following structural adjustment programmes, the majority of the middle income and the poor factions of the society were confronting severe contractions in their wealth and income. Income disparities widened and poverty increased by creating hardship among the poor. Earnings of the head of the household in the traditional monogamous family were not adequate even to fulfil the basic needs of the family members. In this context, women in most traditional middle-income families in urban and suburban areas, and in peasants’ families in remote areas were compelled to seek employment to supplement the dwindling real incomes of their families (Jayaweera, 2002, p. 111). However, in a weak labour market, where unemployment and marginal, intermittent informal sector jobs were the norm for unskilled workers (Shaw, 2007) free trade zones (FTZs) were virtually the only source of regular, secure work available to these women. In a context where socially esteemed jobs in the public and white collar sectors has contracted (Lakshman, 2002), women whose families were able to support them preferred to remain unemployed at home. It was only the poorest who were compelled to seek employment in the zones. Thus, ‘rather than being ‘pulled’ to the zones by the prospect of regular work, women of poor rural families were ‘pushed’ by poverty and a lack of choice into jobs they would not otherwise take’ (Shaw, 2007, p. 43). At the time this book chapter goes to press, forty five years after the introduction of liberal economic policies and structural adjustment programmes as advocated by IMF, Sri Lanka is facing its worst economic crisis in history. We have now become a bankrupt country, facing acute shortages of essential food items, medicine and fuel, While sky rocketing price levels driven by hyper inflation is strangling the life breath out of every Sri Lankan, female factory workers, with wage levels which were

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barely sufficient to make a decent living to begin with, have become one of the groups worst affected by the unfolding economic crisis. Returning to my main argument, liberal economic policies and its accompanying structural adjustment programmes, succeeded in creating a ‘pool’ of economically deprived men and mostly women, who were compelled to seek employment in FTZ factories, specifically garment factories. These women workers who today make-up the vast majority of the garment industry workforce in Sri Lanka becomes another group of workers, alongside the women estate workers, that this chapter focuses on. However, unlike the estate workers whose history can easily be traced back to the early nineteenth century, the entry of ‘young girls’ into the global factories is fairly recent—spanning just over 40 years or so. In addition to emerging and locating at different moments in history, spanning from colonial to postcolonial, there are other significant differences between ‘patterns of work and employment relations’ of these two groups of women workers. Such differences, though subject to cursory discussions by feminist writers, remains mostly unexplored and under theorized over the years calling for further study as attempted though this chapter. Over the years feminist writers (e.g. Attanapola, 2005; Biyanwila, 2006; Jayaweera, 2002; Lynch, 2007; Hewamanne, 2021) have pointed out the unusually high turnover rates of female garment factory workers as a major concern facing the industry. This situation of high labour turnover—or the tendency to leave waged employment after a short period of time—viewed in conjunction with related research findings (e.g. Jayaweera, 2002, p. 122) which state that ‘the garment industry has been feminised with 90 percent of its employees being young women workers. Among them 70 percent are in the age group of 15 to 25 years, 91 percent never married….’ points towards a unique trend or pattern of employment among garment workers in Sri Lanka. As data reveals, the local garment industry had continuously exhibited figures of high labour turnover, while being characterized by an over-whelming representation of young female workers. Given this context, why it is that only young women work in garment factories? Why is labour turnover in the garment industry exceptionally high? And even more importantly, is there an interrelationship between these two phenomena? Become issues to be addressed. However as in the case of women estate workers whose multiple labour roles continue to remain vague and mystified, here again the issue of why young women leave their paid work in the factories after a short span of time is attributed to ‘natural’ causes. It seems that

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such issues are rarely considered as a problem calling for further study, but brushed aside as ‘how things are or should be’ in the industry. It is within this context that this chapter seeks to explore relations between reproductive and productive labour of female garment factory workers comparing and contrasting them with similar circumstances as faced by female plantation workers.

On Theory and Methods Let me explain the theoretical assumptions on which this work is based. Within the specific contexts of tea plantations and apparel factories of Sri Lanka, women’s oppression can be traced back to the fundamental questions of the intersections and interactions of class, gender and ethnicity. Firstly, the workforce of these estates and factories consists of proletarian women who make a living by selling their labour to owners of capital; thus their ‘class’ becomes a major determinant of their oppression. Secondly, they are women; and as such their ‘gender’ becomes another determinant of the oppressive conditions under which they live and work. Simply, even within the proletarian body itself, women are subject to a dual exploitation resulting from their gender. Thirdly, this body of proletarian women faces the additionally oppressive force of belonging to specific ethnic groups or of living in certain parts of the world, specifically the third world. Accordingly, the estate and factory workers of my study are ‘proletarian women of the third world’, who are subject to a triple exploitation resulting from their class, gender and ethnicity. Based on this argument this chapter draws on Marxist feminism as one of its main theoretical foundations. Marxist feminism, which integrates gender with the Marxist analytical category of class and is thus concerned with women’s double oppression resulting from both class and gender, is seen as an appropriate theoretical base to ground this study. However, it attempts to discover whether Marxist feminist categories by themselves are capable of explaining women’s subjugation as happens within these settings, or if there are context-specific ‘differences’ that need to be taken into account. In searching for ‘differences’ as they apply to ‘third world women’, this work draws on a second theoretical tradition, namely postcolonial feminist thinking which argues for an inclusion of women’s specific histories and locations in knowing about their lives (Mohanty et al., 1991). I argue that, even though these women workers are undoubtedly closely affected by their class and gender, their

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ethnicity or living within specific historical locations of the third world also affects them in significant ways, which places them in a different situation than women in other parts of the world. These women live under conditions of triple exploitation. As such, studies with them should draw from Marxist feminist as well as postcolonial feminist thinking. Theorizing at the intersections of class, gender and ethnicity is at the core of postcolonial feminism in three important ways: it focuses on the simultaneity of oppression, it has a goal of rewriting history from the social locations of women of colour and most importantly, it recognizes women of colour’s agency. This third aim is achieved by resisting constructions about the ‘other’ that represent them as victims without agency (Mohanty, 2003). Rather, in the work of postcolonial feminists (e.g. Chio, 2005; Minh-ha, 1989; Ong, 1988), intersections of class, gender and race are embodied in postcolonial subjects; those who have been traditionally silenced and relegated speak back. They reaffirm their own agency and represent themselves beyond the traditional images of ‘oppressed’. Thus, what is theorized and studied are resistance, survival and agency, not just victimization and oppression. The context and theoretical assumptions of this study drive it towards generating empirical data around women’s everyday experiences of oppression within these work settings. The study draws on the belief that ‘knowledge’ of women’s lives should be grounded in and informed by the material politics of everyday life. It also sees such ‘knowledge’ as ‘reflexive, indexical and local: as epistemologically tied to their context of production and ontologically grounded in the interests, experiences and understandings of the knowledge—producers’ (Stanley & Wise, 1983, pp. 191–192). These underlying assumptions direct the study towards employing ethnography from a feminist perspective as its prime methodological approach. Fieldwork is carried out within two ethnographic sites i.e. a plantation estate named Ceylonita, and an apparel factory called SriKnit, in the third world context of Sri Lanka. Within both sites, observation of women’s daily lives while they engage in waged work in the estate/factory and household work at their homes and lodging places, make-up a major part of the fieldwork. Such ethnographic observations coupled with in-depth informal discussions with the women workers and semi and unstructured interviews with other social actors within the sites give insights into the issues addressed. Photographs taken at the sites, poems and letters written by women and archival records are used to enrich the effort of data generation.

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The analytical approach of this work takes on a narrative turn, in that it attempts to weave together elements of data to form coherent wholes or ‘stories’, rather than separate them into constituent parts. As such, it moves away from the popular analytical tradition of ‘separation and fragmentation’ of data towards a method of bringing together and synthesizing data. It is weaving together different forms of ethnographic data, i.e. field notes, interviews, photographs, personal correspondence, archival data, and integration of my own subjectivities and reflections into the ethnographic text that results in the telling of (untold) stories of women workers of these work sites. As such, ‘knowing’ about the lives of women estate and factory workers, as attempted through my writing, takes on a position of ‘embodied subjectivity—knowledge as thoroughly located in our embodied selves, as against objectified disembodiment’(Dale, 2001, p. 58). This chapter aims, firstly, to explore the multiple interactions of women’s reproductive and productive labour within different work regimes of a third world/postcolonial setting. Secondly, yet even more importantly, it attempts to write the (unwritten) stories of women workers as they struggle to balance their reproductive and productive labour roles working within these third world work regimes. Theorizing Productive and Reproductive Labour In Marx’s (1969, p. 393) view ‘…only bourgeois narrowmindedness…can confuse the question of what is productive labour from the standpoint of capital with the question of what labour is productive in general, or what is productive labour in general;…’ For Marx, the concept of productive labour is historically specific and he clearly distinguishes productive labour under capitalism from productive labour in general. The latter he calls useful labour ‘…the production of use-values through the labour process…a necessary condition of human existence’ (Marx, 1961, pp. 42–43). It is clear that labour viewed from the standpoint of the labour process alone is useful labour, or labour productive of use value. On the other hand, productive labour specific to the capitalist mode of production is labour which produces surplus value: That labour alone is productive, who produces surplus—value for the capitalist, and thus works for the self expansion of capital…Hence the notion of a productive labourer implies not merely a relation between work and

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useful effect, between labourer and product of labour, but also a specific, social relation of production, a relation that has sprung up historically and stamps the labourer as the direct means of creating surplus value. (Marx, 1961, p. 509)

We are left in no doubt of Marx’s views on productive and unproductive labour as he repeats the fundamental property of productive labour as; ‘only labour which is directly transformed into capital is productive’ (1969, p. 393), ‘from the capitalist standpoint only that labour is productive which creates a surplus value’ (1969, p. 153), ‘productive labour, in its meaning for capitalist production, is wage-labour which, exchanged against the variable part of capital…reproduces not only this part of capital (or the value of its own labour power), but in addition produces surplus value for the capitalist’ (1969, p. 152). Marx emphasizes that productive labour in the first sense, what he calls as useful labour, is a necessary but not sufficient condition for productive labour in this second, correct sense. He explains that if productive labour is exchanged with capital to produce surplus value, unproductive labour is exchanged with revenue to produce use value (1969, p. 157). As Marx further states, designation of labour as productive has nothing to do with the determinate content of that labour, or the particular use value in which it manifests itself (1969, p. 401). The same kind of labour may be productive or unproductive. An actor for example, or even a clown, according to this definition, is a productive labourer if he works in the service of a capitalist (an entrepreneur) to whom he returns more labour than he receives from him in the form of wages; while a jobbing tailor who comes to the capitalist’s house and patches his trousers for him, producing a mere-use value for him, is an unproductive labourer. The former’s labour is exchanged with capital, the latter’s with revenue. The former’s labour producers a surplus value; in the latter’s revenue is consumed. (Marx, 1969, p. 157)

Later writers (e.g. Gough, 1972; Meiksins, 1981; Savran & Tonak, 1999) have made vigorous attempts to clarify the Marxist categories of productive and unproductive labour and also to classify types of labour commonly seen in modern capitalist modes of production under these headings. Discussing Gough’s clarifications here is more an attempt at critiquing them from a feminist perspective rather than an uncritical adoption of such ideas. Gough (1972) clarifies the Marxist analysis as follows:

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productive labour is labour exchanged with capital to produce surplus value, employed in the process of production. Labour in the process of pure circulation does not produce use – value, therefore cannot add to value or surplus – value. (60)

Alongside this group of unproductive labourers Gough places all workers supported directly out of revenue—public teachers, doctors and other state employees. However, this group differs from circulation workers in that they produce use value (1972, p. 60). Drawing upon Marx’s analysis, Gough proposes a matrix of labour producing/not producing use value as against labour producing/not producing surplus value. He positions different types of workers of the present capitalist system within this matrix as follows:

Labour producing surplus value Labour not producing surplus value

Labour producing use value

Labour not producing use value

Productive workers in industry, agriculture distribution and services Unproductive workers: All state employees, domestic servants etc. *Women as domestic workers

__________

‘Pure’ circulation workers, salesman, advertising workers etc. and ‘unnecessary’ supervisory workers

Adopted from, Gough (1972) Marx’s Theory of Productive and Unproductive Labour (* insertion mine)

Such a categorization is far from ‘critique free’ and Gough himself draws attention to its many contradictions and ambiguities. However, the value of this matrix lies in its ability to achieve a certain amount of theoretical clarification and clear off some of the doubts and confusion surrounding the Marxist constructs of productive and unproductive labour. Even more importantly, in so far as the interests of this paper are concerned, it creates a space within which women’s unpaid domestic labour can be placed in relation to other types of work and workers. As such, going by Gough’s exemplification of Marx’s explanations, women’s domestic labour should be viewed as labour producing use value but not surplus value and therefore as unproductive. Relating this idea to the workers of this paper, it follows that their labour is productive only as long as they work within the boundaries of the factory and the field, creating surplus value for the capitalist by producing over and above

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the value of their own labour power. The moment they step out of the confines of the capitalist production process, their labour, according to the Marxian classification, becomes ‘unproductive’. Labour producing use value necessary for human existence, is useful from the point of view of the labour process. ‘Unproductive’ nevertheless, when looked at from a capitalist standpoint. Thus, in so far as Marx’s theory of productive and unproductive labour stands uncontested, women’s unpaid domestic labour remains ‘unproductive’. But Marx’s theory of productive and unproductive labour is far from being uncontested. Rather it lies at the centre of discussions, debates and arguments that have given rise to much confusion and even controversy. Firstly, the Marxist categories themselves, especially their economic base, have been subject to close scrutiny in the form of discussions among scholars who are interested in the economic aspect of the Marxian analysis. (e.g. Harvie, 2008; Laibman, 1999; Mohun, 1996). Secondly, the place accorded to women’s unpaid domestic labour within the Marxist framework has drawn widespread interest among scholars. This interest has manifested itself in the famous ‘domestic labour debate’ bringing forth a rich theoretical analysis of the nature of women’s domestic work within the sphere of capitalist production (e.g. Dalla Costa, 1994; Dalla Costa & James, 1972; Federici, 2004; Fortunati, 1995; Gardiner, 1975; Secombe, 1974; Smith, 1978; Vogel, 1973). Some of these writers, especially the feminist activists among them (e.g. Dalla Costa & James, 1972), critique the Marxist theory for labelling women’s domestic labour as useful but ‘unproductive’ within capitalist production. Indeed they propose alternative theoretical bases for understanding women’s domestic labour. In Dalla Costa and James’s view the ‘true nature of the work of a housewife never emerged clearly in Marx’. They aim their critique at the heart of the Marxian analysis, saying ‘domestic work produces not merely use values, but is essential to the production of surplus values’ (1972, pp. 31–32). Thus they claim women’s domestic work to be productive not in the colloquial sense of being useful but in the strict Marxist sense of creating surplus value. Further accentuating their argument, Dalla Costa and James (1972, pp. 45–46) state that domestic work is not necessarily ‘feminine’ work; rather they are enormous amounts of exhausting work which the capitalist system has transformed into privatized activity, putting it on the backs of housewives. These are social services as much as they serve the reproduction of labour power. Capital has liberated

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man from this work so that he is completely free for direct exploitation, resulting in a situation where productivity of man’s wage slavery in the factory is based on women’s unwaged slavery at home. Thus Dalla Costa and James (1972, p. 51) conclude that ‘women’s unpaid labour in the home has been the pillars upon which the exploitation of the waged worker’s wage slavery has been built and the secret of its productivity’. Again going against the traditional Marxist thinking, they dismiss the belief that women’s emancipation lies in their participation in public industry. Rather, to Dalla Costa and James, ‘slavery to an assembly line is not liberation from slavery to a kitchen sink’. Believing that ‘liberation of the working – class women lies in her getting a job outside home’ is part of the problem, not the solution (1972, p. 51). The solution, as Dalla Costa and James saw, was in arguing for ‘wages for housework’. This was a point of view which came under critique for buttressing women’s subordinated housework rather than attempting to eliminate the structural roots of sexual division of labour. In spite of its controversial nature, the analysis of Dalla Costa and James’ analysis eventually reshaped the discourse on woman, reproduction and capitalism. Its essence was that the exploitation of women has played a central function in the process of capitalist accumulation, insofar as women have been the producers and reproducers of the most essential capitalist commodity: labour power (Dalla Costa, 1994). As Federici (2004), reiterating this argument, says: .…the power differential between women and men in capitalist society cannot be attributed to the irrelevance of housework for capitalist accumulation—nor to the survival of timeless cultural schemes. Rather it should be interpreted as the effects of a social system of production that does not recognize the production and reproduction of the worker as a socialeconomic activity, and a source of capital accumulation, but mystifies it instead as a natural resource or a personal service, while profiting from the wageless condition of the labour involved. (2004, p. 8)

Returning to the stories of ‘tea pluckers’ and ‘sewing girls’ of this paper in the light of the above discussion I see these workers moving among their homes, fields and assembly lines, expending their labour as mothers, housewives and estate/factory workers. They alternate from being ‘productive’ to ‘unproductive’ labour during the same working day, often working within hazy and blurred boundaries; thus it is difficult to

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demarcate when their ‘productive’ labour ends and ‘unproductive’ labour begins. One clear difference, however, is the fact that they are paid a wage for some parts of their work while some others go unpaid. Thus, they are both waged and unwaged workers; ‘productive’ and ‘unproductive’ labourers at much the same time. It is using this waged and non waged condition of women’s labour then, that the main research objective of this chapter is crafted. That is, it seeks to explore the multiple interactions of ‘productive’ and ‘unproductive’ labour of ‘tea pluckers’ and ‘sewing girls’ as they work within two different work regimes of a third world/postcolonial context. However, in doing so, I draw upon the feminist redefinition of the Marxist categories of productive and unproductive labour and views women’s unpaid domestic labour not as ‘unproductive’ but as ‘reproductive’ in the sense that women produce and reproduce the most essential capitalist commodity: labour power.

Of ‘Tea Pluckers’ and ‘Sewing Girls’: ‘Tales from the Field’ My attempt at exploring the multiple interactions of women’s productive and reproductive labour unfolds as a journey of storytelling ethnography where I narrate the daily life struggles of ‘tea pluckers and sewing girls’ as they strive to balance the often conflicting demands on their labour— working within two different work regimes—a plantation estate and an apparel factory in the third world country of Sri Lanka. Stated below is a brief description of the two work settings that serve as the ethnographic sites of my study. Ceylonita estate, the first site within which ethnographic fieldwork was carried out was a state-owned plantation located in the district of Nuwara Eliya. Identified as the heart of the plantation industry, Nuwara Eliya is home to the highest numbers of estate workers in the country. Thus, an estate located in its midst was thought to be reflective of the features specific to the plantation industry as well as to be adequately representative of the characteristics unique to its workforce. Further, Ceylonita is a large-scale plantation consisting of some 200 hectares of land and 505 families, most of whom make a living as waged labourers in the estate. Out of a total resident population of 2062, 1044 were female, who became the focus of this study. I was able to obtain permission to enter the estate, to live within its boundaries and to interact with members of its workforce without any restrictions. As households were seen as bringing

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together both the productive and reproductive aspects of women’s labour, households or families in residence within the estate were considered as cases to be studied. A strategy of purposeful sampling was adopted in selecting the cases. Information-rich cases were selected by talking with the estate midwife who had close knowledge of each of the families in residence. Even though centred around the households or cases included in the sample, fieldwork in the estate drew in a much wider and richer grouping of informants resulting from spontaneous opportunities that sprang up in the field. It also included engaging in informal discussions with other members (e.g. estate workers other than female tea pluckers) of the estate community. SriKnit Garments, an apparel factory situated within the Katunayake Free Trade Zone was selected as the second site for this study. SriKnit is one of three factories owned by a large multinational corporation which has been in operation in the ‘zone’ almost since its inception in 1979. Accordingly, it had a long standing reputation as one of the oldest and most well-established industrial units in the zone. I was able to successfully negotiate access to Sri Knit which had a workforce of 1048, 90% of whom were female workers. Similar to that of Ceylonita estate here again it was these female workers who became the focus of the research. Within this setting, the units of analysis were considered to be the boarding houses/rooms where the female workers resided. Here again the sampling strategy was one of purposeful sampling and was done with the help of an NGO activist who acted as a key informant. The sample or the cases to be studied were selected so as to include a cross section of workers who were at different stages of their work lives i.e. workers who had just come to the ‘zone, who had worked as sewing machine operators for a few years, and workers who no longer worked in the factories but who still lived in the vicinity of the ‘zone’ with their families. Even though, my fieldwork involved close and continuous interactions with female workers and other selected participants within the settings, this chapter is primarily woven around the stories of Lakshmini, Rajeswari, Dishanthi and girls at Aunty Margret’s boarding house for several reasons. Firstly, all these workers were willing to talk with me freely and without reservation, they did not seem to see me as an outsider who has come to spy on them. They did not resent my presence in their work and living spaces but welcomed and accepted me as a friend. Secondly, the stories they had to tell me gave the most powerful, beautiful and sadly the most painful insights into their lives, shedding light on issues I have

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set out to explore and understand. Finally, among them I came across women and girls who did not just accept their hard lives as inevitable, but who had a critical understanding of the oppressive forces surrounding them and who believed in resisting, challenging and changing the capitalist work regimes they were part of. I presume the stories as they told me to be reflective of the stories of many other ‘tea pluckers’ and ‘sewing girls’ of this study. Thoughts and feelings as shared with me by many others involved in this ethnographic journey are summarized towards the latter part of the paper to draw up a more conclusive picture of the multiple interactions of women’s productive and reproductive labour as happens within these work settings. It is to listen to the hesitant voice of Lakshmini as she struggles to combine the many labour roles of mother, housewife and waged worker plucking tea leaves in Ceylonita estate that this chapter now turns. Lakshmini’s Productive, (Re)productive Labour In the morning I stealthily opened the front door and stepped out of the house, so I would not disturb the household still in slumber. Ganesh, who worked as the gardener, was already waiting for me on the door step. He had wrapped himself up against the morning chill, and was carrying a torch. Ganesh had been assigned the task of escorting me to the ‘line’ rooms that morning. From our vantage point on high ground I could clearly see the ‘line’ rooms far down below. It looked as if dawn had reached this part of the valley long before it did the buildings up on the mountain. People, mostly women, were already up and about, some of them sweeping the small yards in front of their homes, some fetching water from the taps by the road side and some inside the kitchens lighting up the fire to prepare meals for the family. It took us only a few more minutes to reach Lakshmini’s house. She knew I was coming to visit her that morning, and was expecting me. I peeped inside the house and saw her busy inside the tiny kitchen. Her daughter was already up and was waiting patiently for her cup of morning tea. Lakshmini, like all other workers was given a free quota of processed tea leaves for use, which consisted of the lowest quality tea known as ‘labour dust’. Now she poured the tea she had prepared into the plastic cups kept on a rickety wooden table. She offered me some; I took a cup and stood by the kitchen door watching her going about her

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work at a great speed. It did not take her much time to finish making the few roti that was going to serve as both breakfast and lunch for the family. She told me she was going to use some curry left over from dinner with them. While going about her tasks Lakshmini managed to tell me that she had to finish a lot of the housework before going to work in the field. It would be late afternoon when she returned home and she still had to prepare dinner. Lakshmini, like most other women in this estate, worked as a labourer in the field. She was a tea plucker; her job was picking tender tea leaves to be processed as tea dust. In this sense she was an active participant in the public industry: a waged worker engaged in the production of marketable produce. She did this waged work in addition to the unpaid domestic work she was doing the very moment I stood watching her. Once she had finished cooking, Lakshmini took the children; her son was about two years of age and was up by now, to the water pipe near the house to be washed. It was freezing cold outside but they seemed to be used to the cold. Mother and children got dressed in the bedroom which had all their clothes hanging on a clothes line running across the room. Lakshmini had to take her daughter and son to the crèche before starting work. While we made our half an hour or so walk to the lower division crèche, Lakshmini told me about her life as a young girl, growing up in this same estate where her mother and father had worked as ‘labourers’ before her. She had stopped going to school at the age of ten. She didn’t give me any reasons for this and I did not ask her. But she did tell me that she had gone to work as a ‘domestic servant’ to the house of an affluent family in the city. Whatever money she had earned had been used for the survival of her family. ‘There were days when neither of my parents was given work…that is how things are here’, Lakshmini told me, explaining the precarious and seasonal nature of estate work. At the age of eighteen she had returned to the estate to get married to her cousin as was the tradition in her community. She was twenty five now and had given birth to her first child at the age of twenty one. It was only after the birth of her daughter that Lakshmini had started working in the estate. She described her experience of finding work as ‘the little money we had was not enough anymore….So one day I went to the bungalow and asked the superintendent to give me work in the estate’. Lakshmini had first become part of the estate labour force when her daughter was ten months old. At this point I asked her if all women who wanted to work had to go and meet the superintendent. She looked surprised before

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answering ‘yes, that is how we go to work in the estate’. What Lakshmini described was how women started work as ‘pluckers’ in the estate. They had to go and ask the superintendent, telling him why they had to work. If the Superintendent thought the women should be given work, they were made part of a plucking gang, and thus became paid labourers of the estate, like Lakshmini had become. Two years after she had first started working Lakshmini had given birth to her son. ‘I worked in the field until the last day before I had him’, she told me proudly. But what she recalls most vividly about the whole event of her son’s birth is the sum of money, which was paid to her by the estate after his birth. It was a legal requirement in the estates that very woman who gives birth while in employment be paid a sum of money equal to three times her monthly salary and be granted three months maternity leave, up to the number of three children. Lakshmini is proud of the ‘benefits’ she had been entitled to, which she describes as: They paid me nearly Rs. 16,000 at once. I was asked to stay home with my son for three months. Once he was old enough [three months] I took him to the pulle kamaraya [crèche]. I was asked to work nearby and was allowed to go into the crèche to breast feed him during the midday break.

Lakshmini, like all other estate mothers who worked, had left her children at the crèche and gone to work in the field. She is not unduly concerned about this arrangement of child care. She thinks it is a useful way of taking care of young children while their mothers go to work in the field. As I listened to her I did not notice that we had already reached the crèche and would have to go back very quickly down the same road we had come, if Lakshmini was to be in time to start work. By the time we reached the area where Lakshmini was to work that day, the cold mist that had covered the valley was slowly giving way to the warm rays of the August sun. Women were coming out of their houses and walking towards their slots in small groups. They were of all ages; all wore brightly coloured sarees and carried long sticks which they lay on the tea bushes to ensure they plucked only the new tender leaves. Some of them carried huge wicker baskets while some had only plastic bags. As Lakshmini’s gang assembled on the road before beginning their ascent up the steep mountain where the bushes grew, I noticed the two kanganys who were in charge of this group of about eighteen women. They were from the same community as the women, Tamil, but male.

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There was one field officer, Jayawerdena, who was the overall supervisor of several ‘gangs’ working in the vicinity. He was again male but from the majority Sinhalese community. I was soon to learn that this was a pattern of work that did not vary, women working as ‘pluckers’ and men working as overseers or supervisors, across the estate. Before they began work, the women were told their plucking targets for the day would be twenty kilogrammes. This meant each woman had to pluck tea leaves up to a minimum of twenty kilogrammes of weight if they were to earn their full pay for the day. At the time of my field work the daily rate of pay in the estate was Rs. 290.00 which was equal to approximately £1.50. If they failed to achieve this they were paid only half the daily rate in spite of working in the field the whole day. If they plucked more, they got a bonus. The bonus was worth Rs. 20.00 per kg of leaves plucked over the daily target. I stood by a tree and watched as the women plucked the leaves in silence, their hands moving among the leaves as if they had a will of their own. Every 1–2 minutes they threw the leaves over their heads into the baskets hanging behind their backs, never once looking back. The baskets were tied to their heads by a rope that was secured around it. As the yield grew, the baskets became heavier and the women’s shoulders sagged in an effort to carry the growing weight. I attempted to set up a conversation with a Kangany but had to give up because he was not very fluent in Sinhala. I was later introduced to one who was, but for the moment I decided just to watch. Around one and a half hours into their work the women were given bottles of warm tea—brewed on a fire place along the road side using tea leaves from the factory—which they drank gratefully. I remembered Lakshmini had had no breakfast, even though they were allowed to gather around and chat over the tea I did not see her taking out her small parcel of food. Soon it was time for the women to go to the weighing shed, to have their pick weighed and recorded in the small card they carried securely hidden under the multicoloured blouses they wore. Each woman had to empty her pick onto a mat on the ground; the leaves were then put back into a plastic bag used as the weighing bag. The anxiety on Lakshmini’s face was almost tangible as she gazed at the hands of the scale in the hands of the kangany who read out the number aloud. Lakshmini took out her precious bit of paper and gave it to the second kangany who wrote down the number for her. She put the card back inside her blouse and went to sit down on a nearby rock. She had managed to pick only eight kilos so

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far and was behind the target. One of the Kanganys shouted rudely at Lakshmini, accusing her of being lazy. ‘Don’t expect to be paid without having enough leaves’. Lakshmini got up from where she was seated and walked back silently towards the tea bushes. Her face was expressionless as her hands started to work even faster than before. The final count would be taken in the afternoon, and this time near the factory. I decided to go back, and return later, after the women had had their lunch break. I was not sure if they would like to have me around while they had lunch, sitting on the ground in the shade of a tree that grew among the tea bushes. Only Lakshmini knew me well and even though she had introduced me to the ‘gang’ I did not want to intrude too much on them. So I turned to leave, promising to meet them again near the factory at the end of the day. Some way up the winding path I could see Lakshmini slowly taking off the basket and sitting down in the shade of a tree. She would be free of the weight of the baskets for some time, but a few women in Lakshmini’s gang, as soon as the baskets were taken off, began to rush down the road in the direction of the crèche. I knew they had young children and were on their way to feed them before starting the afternoon shift. It was late afternoon when I saw the members of Lakshmini’s gang slowly descending from among the tea bushes at the mountain sides where they had been working all day and taking the path leading to the factory. They were followed by the kanganys. The field officers were waiting for them in front of the factory. The women queued up to weigh and record their daily pick, and I could see that the long hours of working in the hot sun had left its mark on them. They looked listless and tired and seemed eager to go home. I was relieved to see that Lakshmini had managed to reach her required pick for the day. She smiled with me as I joined her on her way home. Several other women, who had worked alongside Lakshmini in the field, also fell in line with us, and we walked down the narrow roads towards the line rooms. I could sense that no one was in the mood for lengthy conversations; it looked as if all they wanted was to reach their homes before sunset. We took the last bend in the road by the rocks, and were greeted by the sight of Lakshmini’s son, sitting on the ground in front of the house, patiently waiting for his mother to come home. His sister had gone to a nearby house to play. Both of them had been picked up from the crèche by their father, who had left them at home and had gone down to the town nearby. The little boy smiled happily as he saw his mother, and looked eagerly towards her hands. ‘Every day he hopes I will bring him a sweetmeat from the boutique, but I do so

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only very rarely’, Lakshmini’s words were spoken to no one in particular. Her first task upon reaching home was to light the fire and prepare some tea for herself and the children. She sat down for a while to drink the hot cup of tea which seemed to give her some energy as almost immediately she got up and carried the things she had used for cooking in the morning to the tap outside the house for washing. She told me the children got hungry early and she had to start preparing dinner for them immediately—this by way of an excuse for not having much time to talk with me. Also she wanted to go to sleep as early as possible to save on electricity. The ‘line’ rooms were supplied with electricity recently but they found the bills forbidding, and some households still preferred to use the oil lamps. Lakshmini had decided to cook some rice and make a curry from some potatoes she had got from a neighbour who grew them. As she took out the rice from its bag under the table she quietly glanced inside the bag—making sure there was enough left for tomorrow, for pay day was not near and price of rice was high. As Lakshmini finished cooking and sat down on the stone steps in front of the house to wait for her husband, night had already fallen on the estate. It was dark outside, and I knew it was time for me to go back. I would not be coming back tomorrow morning to Lakshmini’s house. Yet, I knew Lakshmini would get up and light the fire and begin her work just the way she had done today. She would do it for many days, months and years to come, for this was her ‘way of life’ in the estate. Rajeswari, who is Lakshnimi’s elder sister is also a tea plucker in the estate. Every time we met in the field, she asked me to come into her house for a visit. While I was going in and out of her sister’s house and conversing with her, Rajeswari several times asked me why I was not coming to visit her. She was obviously unhappy about this and even thought it as an insult. So, I made it a point to visit her one afternoon, after the ‘women’ had got back from the field. She greeted me with a warm smile and I noticed that she had bathed after work and was looking fresh and relaxed. She wore clean clothes, had combed her hair neatly and was even wearing a red pottu 11 on her forehead. I specially took in her neat appearance which was somewhat in contrast to other workers I have seen who usually looked a bit dishevelled. Rajeswari’s small house

11 Pottu is an ornamental mark painted on the forehead.

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seemed to be in better order than other houses I have seen. It was clean and tidy and she was the owner of a few items of furniture, a few chairs, a table which was used by her daughter to keep her books on and even a small television set. When I went in, she had already started preparing the family dinner, and she invited me to come inside the kitchen. She apologized to me, not once but several times, for the clouds of smoke that filled the house explaining that she had run out of firewood and had used some coconut shells to light the fire. She told me they had to walk far and wide and reach the shrubs that grew on top of the rugged mountains to collect firewood that was used for cooking. Rajeswari’s kitchen had clean pots and pans which she kept hung on to the white washed wall. I asked her about her days’ work as a start up to our conversation. I soon learned that she had a lot to tell about her life in the estate and needed little or no prompting on my part. She had a razor-sharp mind and a critical outlook about her life as a female worker in this estate. Rajeswari described her experiences of working in the field as: Every day we get up early in the morning, we rush to work, and they won’t allow us to work if we are a minute late. We have to listen to nasty words of Kangany’s ...no one speaks kindly to us. They always shout. Have you seen how we eat? We keep our food on the ground... like animals... sometimes stones and sand gets into what we eat. What sort of life is this?

Rajeswari was critical of the low wage they were paid ‘the price of rice is getting higher everyday…yet, our wages are the same. We can’t even buy the basic things we need’. She told me she wanted to get out of the estate and find work that paid more. But she couldn’t leave her teenage daughter. Also, she was helping her sister, by giving a hand with the housework and sometimes taking care of her young children. She talked to me about her parents and her early life in the estate. I learned she was around forty years of age. One incident that she described about her family with deep distress and even anger was about how her mother had died at the age of fiftyfive. They had been unable to take her to a doctor in time, and Rajeswari told me how as a young girl she had run all the way to the ‘bungalow’ at midnight to get a vehicle. But help had come too late, and she still believes her mother’s life could have been spared if there was someone around to help them. She explained how their lives had taken a turn for

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the worse after that, her father taking to drinking heavily and how she, as the eldest daughter had taken up the responsibility of looking after the younger siblings. She still felt a sense of responsibility towards her younger sister and didn’t like to leave her to cope with all her work by herself. ‘It’s very hard when the children are young, I have to stay and help her’. She told me her life had got a little easier over the years. She had a grown-up son who was working in a soap factory in Colombo. Her husband was also employed outside the estate, which put her in a much better financial position than her sister, whom she helped out in every way she could, both financially and otherwise. She was especially proud of the fact that her son was getting a good salary and was sending money home. She told me she was saving up to build a house on a plot of land the family had been given by the estate. They would never get to own the land, but were allowed to build a house using their own funds which was a much-preferred option to living in the line rooms. She happily invited me to come and see the foundation of her new house. She explained it was going to be much better than the one they lived in now, with two rooms, a veranda and a kitchen. She was hoping her son would get married and live there and told me ‘…after all, our children cannot be made to suffer as we have’. Another of her resolutions which stands out clearly in my mind is when she said ‘I will never allow my daughter to work in this estate. I want her to study and get out of this misery’. She also told me that she slept in the cold veranda outside so her daughter could use the only room in the house to do her studies at night without any disturbance. Her daughter was standing by the kitchen doorway listening to her mother while she talked and I saw the same determination in her young face that shone in Rajeswari’s worn out yet still pretty face. Rajeswari’s daughter, however, declined to speak with me, her mother told me she was shy but I read her cold and unfriendly behaviour towards me as resentment for interfering in their lives. Earlier, I had noticed Rajeswari getting into arguments with Kanganis and sometimes even with field officers while at work. Today I asked her if she was not afraid of what they might do, for many women I talked with had voiced their fears of the possible consequences of talking back to the supervisors, even when they thought they were being punished unfairly. Rajeswari clearly had different ideas from them, for she told me:

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What can they do? If we don’t go to the field what will happen to the leaves? They can’t pluck leaves; they can only shout.... they [the kanganis ’ and field officers] don’t understand they are only workers... like us.

Rajeswari does not fit into the popularly known mould of ‘subservient and docile’ third world woman who is easily controlled and manipulated by her male supervisors. Rather, my observations of her daily life revealed an independent and assertive woman who is shrewdly perceptive of her surroundings and who is not afraid to struggle against what she sees as unjust. On several occasions I had witnessed Rajeswari picking up arguments in the field with Kanganis and even trying to defend other women. Here she appears as ‘an agent, who made choices, had a critical perspective on her own situation and thought and acted against her oppressors’ as opposed to being ‘victims of…capital as well as their own traditional sexist cultures’ (Mohanty et al., 1991, p. 29) as some other women I had met in this same vicinity. A description of my interactions with her, as I narrate above illuminates this view. It was just a few days after my stay at the estate that I undertook my first visit to SriKnit factory, my second ethnographic site. The familiar sight of women clad in multicoloured sarees plucking leaves from lush green tea bushes spread out across the misty mountain ranges was still very fresh in my mind. These somewhat pleasing memories made me unprepared for the sights that met my eyes as I entered the area popularly known as the ‘zone’—where the garment factories producing apparels for the export market were centrally located. The relief I felt at finally reaching my destination after a long drive turned into dismay as my eyes took in the strange landscape before me. This was different from anything I had ever experienced in my life. Families living in slums were a sight I was very much familiar with. But this was different. There were no families here, only young girls around the age of 18–25 could be seen in and around the small rooms, built of concrete blocks and roofed with asbestos sheets. These were small blocks of land— fenced in by barbed wire—each holding some 30–40 rooms, and hardly anything else. There were no trees, no free land, no breathing space, nothing but heaps of concrete, asbestos and barbed wire. The entire landscape was dotted with makeshift structures of varying shapes and sizes, all serving as boarding houses or rooms for the ‘girls’. At first glance the whole place appeared to be unreal, a scene out of a movie maybe. It was too overcrowded, too congested, too appalling to be real. But it was, this

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entire set–up and most of all the scores of young ‘girls’ I saw outside their ‘rooms’ this Sunday morning were indeed real. This was how they lived. These were the ‘homes’ to which they returned after eight or more hours of arduous work at deafeningly noisy factories at the other side of this land. It was around 11.00 o’clock in the morning by now, but I could see some of these ‘girls’ had only just got up as they were washing their faces near a common water tap by the road. I later learned they had worked the night shift and had come back only at 2.00 in the morning. Some others had piles of clothes to wash, some were chatting with friends, and the few who were inside the rooms were getting ready to cook lunch. I got to know this because once the doors were opened everything that was happening inside the rooms could easily be seen by anyone walking down the road. Thus, my first glimpse of Dishanthi, as I describe below was through the open doorway of the tiny room where she lived. Dishanthi: Untying Reproductive from Productive Labour When I first saw Dishanthi through the open door of her room, she was standing in front of a small table washing some rice, and the first thought that struck me on seeing her was, how pretty and refreshing she looked even within these seemingly unpleasant surroundings. Her boarding house, for which she paid (as she later told me) one third of her monthly wage, consisted of a single room; which served as the bedroom, the living room and the kitchen. It had a single window and a wooden door in front, through which Pramila, an activist in the ‘zone’ who undertook to help me in fieldwork, directly walked into the room, calling out in her loud cheery voice, ‘I have brought a visitor to see you’, whereupon Dishanthi who was standing by the table on which she had all her groceries and cooking utensils including a small cooker, looked up. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming Pramila Akka, I would have postponed cooking, now that I have put the rice in the water, I will have to finish washing it and keep it on the cooker, or it will get spoiled’. Both Pramila and I told her to finish what she was doing, and she asked us to come inside and sit down on her bed which was only a few feet away from where she stood cooking. There was a small television set on a stool, a fan that stood near the bed, a chair and a suitcase, in addition to the bed and the table in the room. So far Dishanthi hadn’t asked what I was doing inside her room. I looked at Pramila inquiringly, she understood my anxiety and replied

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‘Don’t worry, Dishanthi is one of my best comrades, she had been great at organizing ‘girls’ inside the factories against this appalling system, and we have won some of the battles we have fought together’. I saw a slow smile of satisfaction spread across Dishanthi’s pretty face at these words of praise, and I knew this slender girl who stood before me in her simple cotton dress was no ordinary ‘garment girl’—this was someone who wasn’t afraid to fight, and given the socio–political contexts within which their battles were fought it also meant not being afraid to die. Dishanthi’s story as I narrate below is a story of incredible courage, of living the hard present and dreaming of a better future, for herself and for others like her. Dishanthi was the eldest daughter of a family of five children; she had two brothers and two sisters. She told me she had gone to a primary school near her home but had later gained admission to a better school in the town as a result of passing the government scholarship examination. ‘I was very good in mathematics; all my teachers said I could go to University’. In addition to being good in her studies Dishanthi had represented her school in singing and dancing competitions and had won prizes at regional level competitions. ‘Like all poor children we had many economic hardships, but we were happy living in our small house with our parents’ was how Dishanthi described her life to me as a young girl in her village. When she was seventeen years old, her father who worked for a timber merchant had had an accident at work. For Dishanthi this was a turning point in her life: Everything changed after that... my mother tried her best to feed us by working as a domestic servant....we had well to do relatives, but nobody helped us and I soon realized I had to help my mother...my sisters and brothers were still very young.

What followed was a heartbreaking story of a young girl coming to the ‘zone’ in search of work; going from factory to factory, moving from room to room, in search of some relief, but always ending up with the same cruel treatment. ‘At first I thought I would die of exhaustion. I couldn’t bear the hard work inside the factory…but after some time, I just got used to things’. Dishanthi had met Saman, a young boy who worked as a mechanic in the ‘zone’ as a result of this work a few years ago. They were married now and were living in this room where we sat

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talking. I met Saman later that day, when Dishanthi got him to pose for a photograph I wanted to take. All the time she was talking with me Dishanthi went on cooking, explaining that she had to prepare lunch for her sister who had to go in for an ‘overtime’ shift that Sunday. I was told she was sleeping in the next room, having worked a night shift yesterday. ‘She is only eighteen years old miss, and I tried my best to stop her from coming here, but she didn’t listen to me’, Dishanthi’s voice, for the first time in our conversation, held a touch of regret, as she talked about her sister. Dilrukshi had woken up by now and came in to see what was going on, she was younger than Dishanthi, but most of all I could see that she was not as thin as her sister. She came in and sat down near Pramila near the bed. ‘Dishanthi was just like this when she first came here, but look at her now’, saying so; Pramila took the younger girl’s hand in hers. I saw her glancing down at her fingers. ‘She had a rash in her right hand, it is better now’, she told me. ‘Yes, thanks to you Pramila Akka’, and Dilrukshi explained how her right hand had got infected as a result of sewing rubber gloves; Pramila had taken her to see a doctor. She no longer worked for this company, but had joined another, one that supplied branded ladies garments for the European market. I asked Dilrukshi why she had decided to come to the zone, in spite of her sister’s attempts to stop her: What else can we do miss; there are no jobs in our villages. I couldn’t let Akka [elder sister] go on suffering …she had done enough for us …, now it is my turn.

Seated on the bed in between Pramila and myself Dilrukshi told us how Dishanthi had taken the sole responsibility of their family on her slim shoulders for many long years. How she had sent her entire salary home, working hours and hours of overtime to earn more so they could continue going to school. ‘Some way or other we managed to live through those horrible years … we are older now. But Akka had to sacrifice the best years of her life for us’. Dilrukshi made no attempt to hide the tears that ran down her cheeks as she told me more about what their lives had been. ‘I couldn’t stay at home and let her go on suffering…and I am not going back either, however much she might scold me’, her young voice was firm as she told me this. None of us had anything more to say about her being too young to work in the ‘zone’ after that. Having thus established her right to stay, Dilrukshi sat with us on the bed and joined

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in the conversation; she had some time to spare as the afternoon shift started at 2.00 o’clock. Pramila stayed on as well and we had a friendly chat for about another one hour or so, until it was time for Dilrukshi to go to the factory. By this time her sister had finished cooking, and we decided to go back to Pramila’s office. I asked if they would mind me taking a few photographs and they agreed to my request smilingly. As I took several more photographs of them, my gaze fell on the pictures of beautiful babies, pasted on the rough concrete walls around the room. Dishanthi caught my gaze and smiled; both of us knew of this local practice of married women keeping pictures of babies inside their bedrooms. ‘I love kids, but we have decided not to have any until I quit my job next year’. She had already told me of her plans of leaving her job in another year; once she had collected some money for herself. She had worked for five years in the zone, yet didn’t have a cent to her name so far. Given below are Dishanthi’s reasons for not wanting to become pregnant while working: We go to the factory every morning… we struggle with [production] targets all day. We get back to our rooms at night …only to go back the next morning. It is slowly killing us. I used to be healthy, but now I get tired very soon….I don’t think I have enough strength in my body to carry a child while working at a machine all day.

Girls at Auntie Margaret’s Boarding House At the time I met her Pramila was busy getting ready to celebrate the 25th anniversary of Dabindu, the non g overnment organization of which she is the present leader. As the celebrations were drawing near Pramila spent more and more time getting together the events she had planned out for the day. She made it a point to personally visit the boarding houses to get as many ‘girls’ involved in these events as possible. ‘I can also have a look around these places when I go like this” She told me. “Some of the land lords around here run boarding houses which are not fit even for animals to live in, let alone young girls’ This afternoon I asked her if I could join her on her visit. ‘Yes, come and have a look for yourself’. On our way Pramila showed me a modern two story house closely guarded by a seven feet high parapet wall. She told me how a local resident who had owned a small house and some bare land had built rows and rows of concrete rooms and rented them to the ‘girls’ who came to work in the

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‘zone’ at exorbitant rents. ‘Now they live over there (pointing to the new house) and run a string of boarding houses around the ‘zone”. I was told that the place we were visiting today was one such boarding house. It was known among the ‘girls’ as Margaret entige bordima (boarding house of Aunty Margaret ), Margaret being the name of the landlord’s wife, who acted as owner manager of these residential halls. We had to cross the public road and the rail road that ran parallel, to get to the place which was guarded by a barbed wire fence. Several ‘girls’ were bathing/washing clothes by the well, the few items of clothing they had hung up on the fence was all that separated their bathing space from the rail track and the public road which was full of people at all times. Once inside the ‘house’ I noted that unlike the rooms I had previously seen, it had a long narrow hall with two rows of twin beds on either side. Other than for the beds the hall only had some suitcases, cardboard boxes and clothes lines full of various items of women’s clothing running across its width. As it was still the early afternoon, only a handful of its occupants were inside the hall. All of them appeared to be on very good terms with Pramila, who sat down on the nearest bed, saying ‘I am getting too old to be doing all this walking about, why doesn’t one of you take over from me’. The ‘girls’ laughed at that, ‘That’s not possible Pramila akka [sister] because none of us will stay here for more than a few years, you are surviving only because you don’t work in a factory. Otherwise you would not be here by now’ This was their response to Pramila’s request for a future leader. Of course Pramila knew this and had voiced her concern about the issue during one of our many conversations. ‘One major reason why I can’t organize these ‘girls’ is this very short span of work life. Just when I get them aware and involved in things they are ready to leave and I have to start all over again’. In Pramila’s view the managers of factories operating inside the ‘zone’ preferred this practice of short work cycles of sewing machine operators. ‘They like it this way, they know there is little time for ‘organized resistance’ [sanvidanthmaka virodatha] when the ‘girls’ always go back to their villages after a few years’. ‘But why do they leave?’ My question was directed more at the ‘girls’ than at Pramila, for I already knew her views on the issue. One of them was quick to tell me ‘You would too miss, if you had to live in a place like this and work in a factory all day’. Throughout that afternoon, I listened to them talking with each other and with Pramila about various issues that were of significance to them. Once or twice I joined in the conversation, but for the

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most part, I was a silent onlooker, while they talked about their lives on the assembly lines, at the boarding house and at their homes. All the time they talked they were also going about their daily tasks of tiding up the hall, folding clothes and preparing to cook dinner at a small area at the end of the hall which served as a ‘common’ kitchen. In the following story I describe some of their thoughts, fears and concerns, as I heard that day, which explain the ways in which structural forces of capitalist patriarchy play upon their lives as ‘sewing girls’ on the global assembly line on the one hand, and daughters, sisters and (future) mothers and housewives on the other. Moreover, they inform us of the ways in which they either buttress or resist these dominative structures through their thoughts and actions which are never static and simple, but always complex, dynamic and diverse. Half an hour or so after first entering their residence I found myself standing at the far end of the long hall, while the ‘girls’ got ready to cook dinner. Pramila was sitting on a small chair near by, still complaining about aching legs. The ‘girls’ teased her, saying she was too fat, ‘Try and lose some weight. When you are thin like us, you will feel better.”. “I can’t help being fat…it’s in my genes’. Pramila obviously was not the least bit sensitive about how she looked. ‘As for you lot…you never listen to what I tell you…the little food you eat is not enough for ‘girls’ of your age’ By now I had seen what they were going to cook for dinner; which was some rice and a vegetable. The ‘girls’ pooled their groceries, took turns in cooking and shared their meals. I learned this was a popular arrangement among groups of ‘girls’ living in the larger boarding houses; ‘common cooking’ was thought to be more practical and also less expensive in view of their cramped living spaces and the ever rising cost of basic food items. Now, at Pramila’s comment of their ‘eating habits’ one of the younger ‘girls’ came out with the following reply: You are right Pramila akka [sister], but do you honestly think we can afford to spend any more on food. Yesterday I gave Rs.2000 to Margaret aunty [as rent]....and I have to give Rs.2, 000 for the chain I am getting made for my sister. You know what our salary is12 and this month we don’t have overtime.

12 The wages of sewing machine operators are determined by a Wages Boards Ordinance. At the time I met them the minimum wages level was Rs. 8,000 per month. Most workers engaged in overtime work to supplement their income.

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A few others joined in the discussion with similar sentiments about how difficult it was to spread their meagre income among many pressing needs. They were especially critical about the high rents charged by landowners around the ‘zone’, and also accused the shop keepers in the vicinity of selling food items to them at higher than average prices. ‘They know we don’t have time to go to other shops, so they sell things to us at higher prices’, was how one of them explained the pricing practices of shop owners in the vicinity of the ‘zone’. ‘What is that chain you just talked about’? Pramila asked from the girl who had started the discussion. ‘It’s for my elder sister. Her wedding is next month, and I have to finish paying for it before that’ was her explanation. ‘Fine, you starve yourself to death so that your sister will have a gold chain, I am not telling you anything more’. I was not sure of the mix of emotions in Pramila’s voice when she said this; sarcasm, sadness, both or anything else. ‘But I have to do it, my sister must have a chain or people [meaning relatives and in-laws] will laugh at her”. The young girl was clearly trying to defend her actions. ‘So let them laugh, who cares, they laugh at us any way, saying we are ‘garment girls’’. This was a remark from another girl in the group. After a few more comments about what they thought of gold chains, marriage and dowries the conversation drifted in another direction. ‘Did you know Smart Shirt 13 had fired Kamani?’ Pramila asked from no one in particular. The ‘girls’ apparently knew of the incident, but they were not aware of the reasons behind the termination. So Pramila explained the details to them and told that Kamani, a sewing machine operator of Smart Shirt had taken a day off to visit her ailing father. She had failed to return to work the next day. A supervisor had sent a strongly worded warning letter to her home. She had come back with the warning letter, thrown it is the supervisors face and had walked out of the factory. ‘honda wede’ [good] the ‘girls’ echoed in unison, ‘That women [the particular female supervisor of Smart Shirt ] is a vicious demon. Some months ago she sent another ‘girl’ home [fired from work] saying she took too much leave’. Taking leave was apparently a very sensitive issue with the ‘girls’; all of them were from far away remote villages, and the only time they got to see their families was when they went home on leave. ‘I am going to ask for three days leave for my sister’s wedding. If

13 Smart Shirt is a large multinational corporation operating three factories in the Zone.

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they say no, I will go anyway’, the young girl who was paying for a chain for her sister said from where she was trying hard to light up the fireplace. From were I was standing, I could clearly see the smile that came onto Pramila’s face at these words. I read my experience above as illuminative of the incredibly intricate ways in which the ‘girls’ deal with the structures of capitalist patriarchy weighing down on their lives. In the case of the young girl above, on the one hand, she struggled to pay for a gold chain for her sister, so that she would have a dowry and would not be humiliated by her relatives, who obviously upheld patriarchal social norms. On the other hand she was determined to rupture the forces of capitalist discipline at her work place, which she knew might prevent her from attending her sister’s wedding. Also every ‘girl’ in the room unanimously endorsed Kamani’s act of defiance which had resulted in her losing her job. Not a single one of them tried to warn their housemate against doing something similar, even though they were apparently fully aware of the possible consequences of such disobedience. By openly endorsing such insubordination they were indeed resisting the forces of rigid capitalist discipline that sought to make them apparatus of the global assembly line and were revealing the importance their families at home had over their waged employment in the ‘zone’. My experiences with the ‘girls’ at Auntie Margaret’s boarding house intrigued me into looking further for similar acts of subtle resistance as practised by the ‘girls’ and resulted in my gathering up a collection of poems. These were written by the ‘girls’ and published in the form of newspapers or small booklets by Dabindu. Below are extracts from one such poem, the title of which I have translated to read as ‘with great pleasure I inform you’ [ita satutin danwa sitimi]. It reflects the thoughts of a ‘garment girl’ on receiving a warning letter from her supervisor while at home on leave, and probably of many others like her including Kamani and the ‘girls’ at Auntie Margaret’s boarding house. itha satutin danwa sitimi….! nuba visin evannata yeduna ‘warning letter’ eka kisindu pamavimakin thorawa ‘section leader’ vithin lebuna

with great pleasure I inform you…! the ‘warning letter’, you happened to send me was received without any delay through the ‘section leader’

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‘estuthi’…..hada pathlenma nowunath (nena kumak kiyannada…?)

‘thank you’….even though not from the bottom of my heart (what else to say…?)

dawas thunsiya heta pahama weda karanta puluvankamak nethiweema pilibandawa mage balawath shokaya…! wedidura leewothin ma sathiwiya uythui ma danna (nubath denagatha yuthu) Erudina, pohodina, boho kananak maa nubata sewaya kara ethi bava etha vedagath karunakkwa perala danvanu kemaththemi…!

My deep regrets…! for not being able to work for three hundred and sixty five days writing further that I have worked for you on many Sundays and Poya 14 days that I know are mine (that you should know as well) as a very important matter I wish to write back…!

boho tejash ethuwa nuba visin evannata yeduna ‘warning letter’ eka (boho garu saru nethuwa) udasana seethala dara kebali Avuluwa genuma pinisa ‘shopping’ kawaraye baha prewesam sahithawa tebu bawa Etha satutin danwanu kemaththemi…!

with such supremacy the ‘warning letter’ you hap pened to send (with little respect) is kept carefully inside a ‘shopping’15 bag to light up in the mornings, the cold logs of the fireplace I wish to inform you with pleasure…!

ethin nevathath thuthi mee…yata(ha)th (novana) sevika

so thank you again this is ….(dis) obedient worker

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by: Marci B. Neththasingha Source: Vinishaya karanu mena (for judgement), Dabindu Publication, 1999

Here, in her very own style of writing and using a combination of Sinhala and a few English words that are commonly used on the shop floor, Merci 14 Poya day is a day of religious importance and is a public and commercial holiday. 15 This is a type of plastic bag that is commonly used to put in groceries.

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tells us what she thinks of the ‘warning letter’ she had been sent. She had kept it to light up her fireplace at home; probably the only task she can think of to use it for. Hidden between the lines of her writing she also tells us that her employer had taken the first step in putting her out of work, an act that would cause a ‘fire’ that threatens to consume her life.

Demystifying Women’s Productive and Reproductive Labour As stories of Lakshmini, Dishathi and others illustrate, these women workers of the third world are trapped into a situation of having to balance their ‘labour’ between productive and reproductive roles. Feminist scholars have already problematized certain aspects of women’s reproductive labour, as they work on the global assembly lines and plantation estates. However, they do not specifically address the issue of why and how women deal with their multiple labour roles within these settings. Nor do they attempt to look for differences, if any, between such interactions as happens within these different work regimes This results in an apparent mystification of women’s reproductive labour, through its definition as natural and therefore frequently outside of social and economic studies. By searching for patterns of interactions between women’s productive and reproductive labour as happens within estates and factories, the following discussion attempt to demystify this phenomenon. Silvia Federici claims that her description of primitive accumulation includes a set of historical phenomena that are absent in Marx, and yet have been extremely important for capital accumulation. She identified these as: …the development of a new sexual division of labour subjugating women’s labour and women’s reproductive function to the reproduction of the work-force; the construction of a new patriarchal order, based upon the exclusion of women from waged- work and their subordination to men and finally the mechanization of the proletarian body and its transformation, in the case of women, into a machine for the production of new workers. (2004, p. 12)

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These historical phenomena, as identified by Federici, then subordinate women’s labour by placing it outside of waged work, limited to reproduction of the workforce. The proletarian body, specifically the female proletarian body has been transformed into a machine for the production of new workers. Watching Lakshmini, a young mother working as a tea plucker at Ceylonita estate struggle through her daily routine: rushing through her household tasks at day break, walking down the rugged estate paths to the crèche with her children, plucking tea leaves in the scorching sun and returning home with the last rays of the setting sun to attend to the remaining housework, I wonder whether her way of life is fully accounted for in Federici’s argument. Not only the stories of Lakshmini and Sita Devi as they struggle with the multiple burdens of being mother, housewife and waged worker at one and the same time, but the stories of Rajeswari and Parameshwari, whose children are grown up but who still work to support their families, and of Krishna Devi and Lechchami who continue to work into their old age simply because they have no other way of surviving, seem to be left outside of Federici’s line of vision. Simply, Federici’s words, when she states that ‘women have been left out of waged work’, fail to fully explain the way of life of women workers who have always been, (and are still) working for a wage, in plantation estates in Sri Lanka. That said, her thinking is reflective of the lives of these women, in so far as her assertion about the mechanization of the proletarian body and its transformation into a machine for the production of new workers is concerned. In fact, in so far as these women workers are concerned, their bodies seem to be mechanized not once, as argued by Federici, but twice, for the production of surplus value and for the production of new workers for the capitalist enterprise. If someone is left out of waged work at all within these settings, it is not women but men, for as I happened to witness during my stay at the estate, men could often be seen walking around freely while their wives worked both as waged workers in the field and as unpaid workers in the households. Returning to my experiences at SriKnit factory in the light of this same theoretical assertion, here again Federici’s words fail to fully reflect the lives of Dishathi, Dilrukshi, Sakunthala, and Ramani, all of whom are ‘sewing girls’ working for a wage in the global garment factories of this third world/postcolonial location. These ‘girls’ like the women plantation workers are compelled to work, selling their labour power to make a living for themselves and for their families. However, Federici’s argument about

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the female body being transformed into a machine for the production of new workers seems to relate to these ‘girls’ in a different way than it does for female estate workers. Such differences and probable causes for them are explained below. The lives of ‘sewing girls’, while being similar to that of ‘tea pluckers’ as women working for a wage, are different in other ways. Unlike women in estates, none of the ‘sewing girls’ seemed to be coping with the multiple roles of being mothers, housewives and waged workers at one and the same time. If fact, if and when they wanted to get married and have families of their own, they nearly always thought of giving up their jobs in the ‘zone’ and returning to their villages. This apparent separation of waged and family work seemed to be common in the ‘zone’, just as it was customary to see women combining their waged (productive) and unwaged (reproductive) work in the estates. When Dishathi told me of her decision to stop working as a ‘sewing girl’ so that she could have the baby she dreamed for; when Sureka spoke to me of her life, first as a sewing girl and now as a young mother living temporarily in the ‘zone’; when Tamara described her life away from the ‘zone’ taking care of her daughter; when Sakuntale explained her plans of returning to her village at the end of her pregnancy, all of them, in their own way, were telling me of the difficulty or the near impossibility of combining their productive labour roles as ‘sewing girls’ working for a wage and reproductive labour roles as mothers and housewives. Living as they were at a specific location in history, and forced into working as ‘sewing girls’ on the global assembly lines these girls were indeed struggling to cope with the conflicting demands on their labour. Their struggles were as varied and diverse as the expressions passing over their faces when they spoke to me of their lives: eager and hopeful at times and distressed and sorrowful at others. Their struggles, however different in style and strength seemed, sooner or later led on to the same inevitable end of causing a rift or separation between their productive and reproductive labour roles as waged ‘sewing girls’ in the ‘zone’ and unpaid housewives/mothers at home. Explaining this argument further, when Kumar, the Group Human Resource Manager of SriKint Garments told me shop floor girls usually left their jobs after working for three or four years; when Jarnnarz, the Personnel Manager expressed her concern over the higher than average turnover rate of shop floor workers; when Mahesh, the HRD Manager described the wedding ceremonies of ‘sewing girls’ after which they did

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not come back to work; when Aruni, the female Counsellor showed me the photographs of babies whose mothers no longer worked at SriKnit, all of them in fact were reinforcing what I had already been told by the ‘girls’ themselves: that it was nearly always impossible for them to combine their productive and reproductive labour roles and that many of them sacrificed one for the other. Still resonating in my mind is the Company Nurse Chandrika’s account of how a ‘sewing girl’ had left her job: ‘She came back to the factory at the end of the maternity leave period with her baby, asked me to hold the child and went in and handed in her letter of resignation.…She told me she needed this job desperately, but had no way of taking care of the child while working’. Besides explaining the difficulties of combining productive and reproductive labour roles where these ‘sewing girls’ are concerned, these stories also reveal the subtle ways in which managers of these apparel factories seemed to justify and even celebrate the event of ‘girls’ leaving their jobs after getting married. Indeed throughout their conversations with me Kumara, Mahesh and even Chandrika to some extent, all made an effort to convince me that it was best for the ‘girls’ not to be working any more once they were married and had children. The ‘girls’ on the other hand had a different story to tell; as shown in the story above, as well as reflected in the stories of Dishanthi, Sakunthala and others, they left their work as sewing machine operators not because they did not want to work anymore, but because they found it impossible to combine their waged productive labour with their reproductive labour. Returning to my experiences at Ceylonita estate when I walk with Lakshmini to the crèche where she leaves her two children before starting work; when I follow Sita Devi home from the field almost dragging her two sleepy children behind her who had been at the crèche all day; when I listen to Paremeshwari and Rajeswari telling me of their experiences of leaving their young children in the care of the crèche attendant during their infancy and most of all when I hear the laughter in the women’s voices when they tell me they get pregnant to earn the sum of money paid to them at the birth of their children, there is indeed a marked difference between the stories of these women and the stories of ‘sewing girls’ as I heard while at SriKnit. These two groups of women, working under two different work regimes were negotiating the multiple interactions of their productive and reproductive labour in diverse ways; closely interwoven with each other at times and completely separated from each other at others.

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Differences in the ways in which women’s labour roles interact within estates and factories can be seen as closely bound up with the inherent nature of these work settings. Being immigrants of Indian origin estate workers have always been (and still are) marked out as stigmatized in ethnic terms, but as such highly suitable for work which is also stigmatized as of the lowest order—agriculture and production of raw material for more advanced economies. In a situation where immigration of Indian workers no longer happens and Sinhalese women are reluctant to work as ‘tea pluckers’, the workforce of an estate has to be regenerated from within the estate itself. This results in a situation where estate women have to work as productive workers and reproductive workers, ‘reproducing the future estate workforce’ at one and the same time. Also, living as they are confined within the plantation enclaves, their working and living spaces are situated in close physical proximity to one another, resulting in a close intermingling of their productive and reproductive labour roles. Such close intermingling of work roles facilitated by free child care facilities in the form of crèches seems to conceal, at least to some extent, the multiple exploitative demands placed on their labour. In complete contrast to this set-up, within the garment factory setting, the working and living spaces of ‘girls’ are separated from each other. Their homes are situated in far-off remote villages, to which they return after a short span of work life. When girls like Dishanthi and Sakuntala return to their homes to fulfil their dreams of becoming mothers and housewives engaging in the reproductive phase of their labour, they are replaced by new workers, who take up their places on the assembly lines. Thus, the factories have little reason for attempting to retain these workers, neither are they dependent on them for regenerating the future ‘factory work-force’. Unlike estate workers who belong to a minority ethnic group, apparel factory workers are mainly from the majority Sinhalese community. As such, there is always a large group of young girls with little or no job opportunities elsewhere, from among whom the factories easily draw in new workers in place of those who leave. This vicious circle of young girls working as productive workers on the assembly lines for short times periods and thereafter as reproductive workers at home has been happening ever since the inception of global garments factories in post–independent Sri Lanka. Likewise, ‘tea pluckers’ being bound to work both as productive and reproductive labourers at one and the same time has been the practice in the estates from the days

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of the colonial rule. While being different from each other in certain ways as discussed above, the work regimes of plantation estates and apparel factories are also similar in certain other ways. Prominent among these is the fact that within both settings, women make-up the vast majority of the workforce. Not only are these workers women, they are also proletarian women of the third world. The lives of these women workers then are closely affected by their gender, class and ethnicity.

Women at the Intersections of Gender, Class and Ethnicity Undoubtedly the structures of gender, class, and ethnicity closely affect the ways in which women live within these work settings. However, rather than being mere victims, as often depicted in writings about them, these women workers resisted and struggled against these structures. Explaining this argument in the light of my ethnographic experiences, I hear the voices of Rajeswari, Dishanthi and Marci, who are not restrained by, but are continuously struggling against the exploitative forces surrounding their lives. Hearing Rajeswari, herself struggling to hold up the heavy basket of tea leaves tied on to her head, getting into verbal battles with the Kanganis on behalf of other ‘pluckers’ of her gang, listening to how Dishanthi organized workers inside the factory, reading Merci’s poem ‘with great pleasure I inform you’ , noting the anger in Kamani’s voice when she spoke of her supervisor, made me realize that beneath the apparent serenity of these ‘girls and women’ there was also fierce resistance. Mohanty’s view that ‘…it is possible to retain the idea of multiple, fluid structures of domination that interact to locate women differently at particular historical conjunctures, while insisting on the dynamic oppositional agency of individuals and…their engagement in daily life’ (2003, p. 55) can be seen as significantly reflective of the lives of ‘women and girls’ as lived within these ‘third world’ settings. Postcolonial feminists theorize and study resistance, survival and agency, not just victimization and oppression. In the work of postcolonial feminists’ (e.g. Ong, 1988) women who have been traditionally silenced and relegated speak back. They reaffirm their own agency and represent themselves beyond the traditional images of ‘oppressed’. Relating such thinking to the lives of, Rajeswari, Marci and others, it is by placing them at the intersections of class, gender and ethnicity and seeing them as struggling against fluid

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and multiple structures of domination, as argued by postcolonial feminist theorists, that their lives can be best understood.

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Index

0–9 1955 Montgomery bus boycott, 207 1960 Greensboro sit-ins, 207 1961 Freedom rides, 208 1963 March on Washington, 208 1965 Selma Montgomery March, 208 2nd Industrial Revolution

A Ableist prejudices, 148 Abolition, 142, 158, 225 Aboriginal, 25, 26 Abourers, 230 Abuse, 142 Abuse of power, 131 Access, 116, 161, 165, 206, 243 Acclimatization, 230 Actions, 55, 57 Active participation, 74 Activism, 23, 26, 28, 29, 37, 40, 45, 48, 50, 56, 57, 161, 173–176, 178, 186, 208–210, 243, 253

Activist engagement, 92 Activities, 64, 65, 196, 197 Actualization, 64, 98, 210 Actual labour, 163 Adivasi, 177 Adjustment, 232, 233 Administration, 225 Advancing communication scholarship, 102 Advantage, 228 Adversity, 139 Advocacy, 6, 37, 174, 176 Advocacy organization, 94 Advocate, 207, 208 Affective economics, 193 Africa, 138, 145 African, 71, 72, 143, 206, 210 African ancestry, 141 African diaspora, 203, 213, 217 African feminist, 73, 77 African feminist economic discourses, 80 African feminist ethnography, 73

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Pal et al. (eds.), Organizing at the Margins, New Perspectives in Organizational Communication, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22993-0

273

274

INDEX

African feminist framework, 70 African feminist practice, 66, 72 African feminist theory, 71, 72 African identity, 144 African indigenous, 64 African Mbuti Congolese, 136 African men, 77, 140 African modes of organizing, 73 African motherhood, 84 African people, 136 African woman/women, 70, 73, 77, 138–141, 143 African women’s organizing, 73 Agency, 3, 5, 116, 140, 164, 236, 267 Agenda, 40 Agentic, 174 Agentic acts of survival, 2 Agentic capacities, 3, 8, 162, 168, 178 Agents, 9 Alliance(s), 39, 42, 44, 45, 47–50, 58, 66 Allies, 56 Allyship, 214 Alternative, 2, 3, 6, 8, 9, 55, 58, 59, 64–66, 68–70, 78, 80 Alternative communication practices, 73, 80–84, 86 Alternative discourses, 8 Alternative economic discourse, 84, 86 Alternative economic logic, 85 Alternative economic organizing, 84 Alternative economic rationality, 84 Alternative economic spaces, 86 Alternative epistemologies, 5, 7 Alternative forms, 70 Alternative imaginaries, 59 Alternative narrative, 102

Alternative organization/organizing, 2, 9, 68, 69, 75, 81, 86, 97, 183, 184 Alternative organizational form, 64, 69 Alternative organizing activities, 72 Alternative organizing practice, 69, 70 Alternative organizing theorizing, 86 Alternative rationalities, 63 Alternative representations, 69 Alternative scholars, 15 Alternative structures, 8 Alternative thinking, 8 Alternative ways of being, 84 American, 145, 207 Americas, 138, 145 Ancestral land, 168 Anglo-Saxons, 147 Anti-Black, 213 Anti-Black, Indigenous, & People of Color (anti-BIPOC) racism, 9, 214 Anti-Black racism, 213, 214 Anti-capitalism, 46, 162, 169, 184 Anti-colonial, 3, 4, 159, 162, 169, 170 Anti-colonial movements, 160 Anti-consumptive, 184 Anti democracy, 36 Anti-extractivism, 6, 55, 60 Anti-fans, 191, 192, 196 Anti-globalization, 38 Anti-globalization struggle, 38 Anti-imperialist, 8 Anti-Indigenous ideology, 177 Anti-miscegenation, 211 Anti-racism studies, 25 Anti-racist, 140 Aotearoa New Zealand, 165, 167 Apartheid regime, 136 Appropriate, 28, 29, 163 Appropriation, 29, 54

INDEX

Arab, 124, 131 Arabic name, 124 Arab Spring, 54 Armed Conflict Location & Event Data Project (ACLED), 208 Articulation, 46–48, 50, 51, 159 Asia, 145, 162 Asian, 215 Asian model, 162 Asian turn, 158, 169 Asian values, 158, 162 Assembly, 49, 51 Assumptions, 111, 124, 149, 212, 236 Asylum seeker, 122 Atial realities, 205 Authoritarian, 162, 169 Authoritarian practices, 58 Authoritarian regime, 123, 175, 176 Authoritarian state, 175 Authoritarian strategies, 162 Authority, 44, 57, 113, 126, 128, 208 Autocracy, 82 Autoethnography, 6, 91–93, 102, 103 Autonomous, 40, 70 Autonomy, 69, 70, 115, 206 Axiology, 71

B Baartman, Saartje, 138–149 Baidu Tieba, 189 Beirut, 122 Benga, Ota, 136, 137, 139, 140, 145–149 Besieged land, 130 BIPOC, 74 BIPOC communities, 214 Black, 10, 207, 211, 212, 214 Black American studies, 25 Black bodies, 209, 210 Black communities, 207

275

Black experiences, 211, 213 Black humanity, 208 Black life, 209, 211, 213 Black lives, 204, 207, 208, 211, 212, 216 #BlackLivesMatter/Black Lives Matter (BLM), 203, 204, 207–209, 211–214, 216–218 Black Lives Matter Global Network Foundation, Inc., 207 Black migrant, 79 Black migrant women, 86 Blackness, 217 Black people, 85, 142, 147, 207, 211, 213, 216 Black woman/women, 140, 143, 144, 217 Black women scholars, 217 BLM, 212 BLM movement, 203, 204, 207–209, 211–214, 217 BLM protest, 208 Bloody Sunday, 208 Bodies, 212, 214 Border controls, 122 Border epistemology, 7 Border otherness, 137 Borders, 7, 8, 122–126, 131, 209 Border thinking, 7 Boundaries, 100, 103, 192 Bounded entrepreneurship, 91, 96, 98, 102 Bound(less), 96, 99 Bound(less) entrepreneurship, 92–94, 96–98, 100, 102, 103 Bound(less) narrative, 98 Bound(less)ness, 96, 99, 101 Brahminical class, 169 Brahminical structures, 177 British, 226, 227 British colonial, 225 British colonies, 231

276

INDEX

Brown people, 212 Brutality, 209, 210, 213 Build alliances, 72 Burdens, 231, 233, 263 Bureaucratic institutions, 113

C Capital, 7, 47 Capitalism, 2–4, 6, 8, 16, 30, 42, 45–47, 64–70, 72, 76–80, 83–86, 138, 146, 157–161, 163, 164, 168–171, 176–178, 183, 184, 195, 226, 229, 231, 237–242, 244, 258, 260, 263 Capitalist class, 177 Capitalist colonization, 80 Capitalist domination, 47 Capitalist exploitation, 46, 77 Capitalist forms, 80 Capitalist organizational forms, 65 Capitalist patriarchy, 260 Capitalist propaganda, 170 Capitalist structure, 163 Capitalist system, 67, 77, 85, 239, 240 Capitalist-wage-laborer relationship, 147 Capitalocentric assumptions, 66 Capitalocentric discourse, 64, 66, 68 Capitolocentrism, 64 Captivity, 138 Care, 84 Caribbean, 215 Caribbean immigrants, 115 Caste, 173, 227 Casteism, 159, 177 Casteist control, 177 Casteist structures, 177 Caste margins, 159 Caste oppressions, 159 Caste privileged Indians, 177

Caste privileges, 177 Caste/white privilege, 177 CCA negotiates, 170 Center for Culture-centered Approach to Research and Evaluation (CARE), 160, 174, 175 Centering, 206, 210, 211, 213 Central America, 115 Ceylon, 225–230 Challenge hegemony, 163 Chama, 73, 74 China, 183–186, 188, 189, 192–198 Chinese, 159, 184–186, 193, 197 Chinese fan groups, 189, 190 Circularity, 111 Circulation workers, 239 Citizen, 59, 60 Citizen epistemologies, 59 Citizen mobilization, 54 Citizen participation, 55 Citizenship, 39, 125 Civil resistance, 57 Civil rights, 204, 207, 208, 212 Civil rights activist, 212 Class, 9, 38, 113, 159, 224, 225, 227, 230, 231, 235, 236, 267 Classed, 161 Classed margin, 2, 166 Class interests, 67 Class movement, 67 Class power, 67 Click farm, 195 Clicktivism, 184, 186 Click wars, 196 Climate change, 166 Climate justice, 166 Coalition, 38, 39 Coalition building, 58 Co-constructed process, 75 Co-construction, 171 Co-creation, 164, 167, 168, 170–173, 176, 178

INDEX

Co-facilitation, 111 Cognitive epistemicide, 168 Cohesion, 118 Co-learning, 118 Collaboration, 77, 217 Collaborative, 216 Collective, 19, 27, 30, 45–51, 60, 77, 78, 83, 85, 86, 145, 165, 171, 175, 176, 189, 192, 194, 207, 208, 215, 217 Collective action, 6, 35, 39, 53–55, 57–60, 82 Collective agency, 71, 77, 85 Collective care, 82 Collective future, 214 Collective history, 145 Collective identities, 170 Collective imagination, 51 Collectively organizing, 8 Collectively reorganizing, 9 Collectively resisting, 80 Collective mobilization, 54 Collective movements, 54 Collective reflexivity, 173 Collective reliance, 70 Collective resistance, 165, 178 Collective struggle, 47 Collective subjectivities, 48 Collective survival, 79, 80 Collectivization, 165, 173 Colonial/capitalist state, 170 Colonial discourse, 206, 209–211 Colonial domination, 210 Colonial epistemology, 168, 214 Colonial extraction, 168 Colonial ideology, 211, 214 Colonial impulse, 162 Colonialism, 3, 4, 6, 8, 16–21, 24–27, 30, 46, 130, 136, 140, 143, 145, 157–164, 167–171, 173, 176–178, 205, 210–213, 223, 225, 226, 230, 234

277

Colonialist discourse, 204, 206 Coloniality, 5 Colonial knowledge, 162, 213 Colonial legacy, 145 Colonial power, 7, 226 Colonial project, 160 Colonial propaganda, 170 Colonial regimes, 145 Colonial rule, 225, 267 Colonial state, 45 Colonial structure, 163, 170, 177 Colonial territories, 226 Colonial underpinnings, 140 Colonial violence, 167, 178, 210 Colonial whiteness, 163 Colonization, 1, 8, 23, 64, 131, 136, 147–149, 162, 168, 205 Colonized Congo, 136 Colonized land, 159 Colonized people, 159, 168 Colonized spaces, 160 Colonizer, 162 Colonizing, 3, 5, 9, 16, 174 Colonizing structures, 170 Commercialize, 123, 131 Commodify, 142, 159 Commoditization, 159, 161, 168, 176 Commodity, 145, 160, 241, 242 Communal care, 78, 85 Communal exchange, 70, 77, 78, 85 Communal sharing, 160 Communicate, 117, 213 Communication, 3, 7, 53–56, 60, 65, 67, 71, 72, 75, 81, 93, 110, 111, 114–117, 161, 163, 165, 166, 171, 173, 177, 189, 191, 195, 196, 212 Communication activities, 190 Communication barriers, 209 Communication constitutes organizing, 86

278

INDEX

Communication practice, 81, 82 Communication scholars, 66 Communication Studies, 117 Communication style, 114, 116 Communicative, 6, 73, 81, 86, 169 Communicative environments, 116 Communicative event, 113, 114 Communicative exchanges, 115 Communicative inequality, 161 Communicative moment, 114 Communicative practice, 83 Communicative process, 111, 163, 164 Communicative registers, 171 Communicative resistance, 66 Communicative resources, 117, 160 Communities at the margins, 161 Communities of power, 17 Community, 160 Community-based cultural strategies, 166 Community building, 84 Community-centered, 59 Community health organizing, 2 Community networks, 165 Community organizers, 175, 204 Community support, 79, 85 Community welfare, 85 Complicit, 216 Compulsory labour, 225 Conceptualization, 193, 194, 211 Conflicts, 129 Congo, 136 Connection, 102 Connectivity, 54, 112 Conquered, 210 Constituent, 237 Constitute, 81, 86, 130, 157, 165, 166, 171, 174, 177, 186, 187, 190, 194, 213, 215 Constituting, 84, 208 Constituting factor, 83

Constitutive, 78, 82, 84, 186–188, 190, 192, 194 Constitutive power, 197 Construction, 146, 197, 236 Consumptive, 190 Consumptive lens, 193 Contemporary organizing practices, 205 Contentious politics, 53 Contextualizing, 186 Continuities, 44 Control, 57, 70, 140, 146, 147, 157, 162, 167, 169, 170, 173, 176–178, 205 Controlled, 147, 159, 252 Controlled spaces, 205 Controlling, 205 Co-option, 158, 161, 162, 168, 169, 173, 183, 184 Coordination, 56 Co-organizing, 174 Cope, 264 Cosmovisions, 56 Countercultural, 42 Counter discourses, 211 Counter hegemonic organizing, 80 Craniologists, 211 Critical, 148, 244 Critical approach, 144 Critical cultural studies, 25 Critical discourse studies, 186, 187 Critical health communication, 110 Critical Indigenous studies, 25 Critical lens, 117 Critical management, 138 Critical organizational communication, 205, 206 Critical organizational communication scholars, 69 Critical reflexivity, 161, 177 Critical reinterpretation, 39 Crusade, 197, 198

INDEX

Cultivation practices, 226 Cultural articulations, 158 Cultural aspirations, 25 Cultural centering, 163 Cultural community, 85 Cultural diversity, 4 Cultural domination, 140 Cultural educators, 75 Cultural essence, 161 Cultural essentialisms, 158 Cultural identity, 110, 158 Culturalism, 169 Culturally appropriate, 59 Culturally centered, 163, 175 Culturally constituted, 164 Cultural metaphor, 22 Cultural mobilizations of difference, 158 Cultural modes of resistance, 86 Cultural pluralities, 4 Cultural preservation, 86 Cultural regeneration, 26 Cultural resources, 159 Cultural schemes, 241 Cultural studies, 169 Cultural support networks, 115 Cultural understandings, 22 Cultural values, 80, 86 Culture, 2, 4, 5, 9, 23, 25–27, 29, 39, 40, 66, 70, 75, 76, 81–83, 86, 92, 162, 164, 205, 210, 217 Culture-centered, 171, 173–175 Culture-centered analyses, 160 Culture-Centered Approach (CCA), 109, 110, 161 Culture-centered articulations, 164 Culture-centered organizing, 8, 160, 165, 166, 176, 178 Culture-centered organizing processes, 160, 164 Culture-centered processes, 162, 167, 174

279

Cyber nationalism, 198

D Daily practice, 214 Dalit (oppressed caste), 166, 176, 177 Datafied, 195 De-capitalized, 65 De-center, 65, 175 Decentralize, 215 Decolonial, 4, 5, 10, 138, 168–170, 206, 214 Decolonial approach, 144 Decoloniality, 6, 8 Decolonial politics, 5 Decolonization, 3, 5–7, 9, 10, 16, 20, 21, 23, 25, 26, 29, 30, 64, 65, 72, 158–160, 169, 170, 177, 204, 206, 213 Decolonizing epistemologies, 5, 6, 9 Decolonizing struggles, 159 Decolonizing studies, 25 Decolonizing theory, 3 Deconstructing, 8, 9, 212 Deconstructing structures, 5, 8 Decontextualized, 99 De-facto, 123, 125 Defiance, 260 Defunding, 176 Degrading, 141 Dehumanization, 131, 144 Dehumanized, 140 Dehumanizing, 122 Delegitimize, 121 Democracy, 34–36, 39–41, 44, 50, 54, 59, 164, 166, 171, 176, 207 Democratic politics, 50 Democratic reconstruction, 35 Democratic resistance, 45 Democratization, 38 Demonstrations, 208 Demystify, 262

280

INDEX

Denigrate, 149 Desensitising, 136 Despicable, 142 Devaluation, 45 Development, 59 De-westernization, 53, 169 Dialectic, 9, 10, 183 Diaspora, 175 Dichotomy, 54, 60, 214, 215 Dictatorial, 42 Dictatorships, 40, 43 Difference, 37, 46, 47, 49, 161, 235 Different cultural networks, 115 Differentiates, 49 Differentiation, 37, 143 Digital action, 54 Digital activities, 58, 196 Digital fan culture, 195 Digital fan economy regime, 195 Digital infrastructure, 167 Digital labor, 195, 196 Digital mobilization, 54 Digital organization, 54, 60 Digital organizing, 54 Dignified, 217 Dignity, 203, 204, 214 Discipline’s epistemic norms, 148 Disconnection, 102 Discontinuities, 43 Discourse, 7, 28, 29, 34, 40, 49–51, 59, 64–67, 69, 92, 117, 138, 184, 186–189, 192, 197, 204–206, 209–213, 215, 216, 241 Discourse of resistance, 212 Discourse practices, 114 Discourse scholars, 187 Discrimination, 121 Discursive, 3, 5, 34, 35, 39, 43–45, 65, 114, 175, 186–189, 191, 192, 196–198, 210, 213 Discursive activities, 184, 186, 197

Discursive actors, 197 Discursive communities, 188 Discursive domination, 211 Discursive event, 187, 190, 192, 194, 198 Discursively, 206, 211 Discursive muscle, 187 Discursive muscularity, 186–188, 197 Discursive power, 185 Discursive practices, 191 Discursive resources, 161 Discursive space, 161 Discursive struggle, 39, 209 Disembodied, 170, 209, 215 Disembodiment, 237 Disembodying, 209 Disempowering, 170 Disenfranchisement, 3, 7, 159, 161, 166, 214 Disinformation, 167, 175 Dismantle, 7, 9, 163, 164, 167–170, 214 Dismantling, 2, 7, 9, 166, 168, 232 Dismantling borders, 5 Disorganization, 190 Disparities, 2 Displacement, 91, 92 Disposition, 75 Dispossession, 148, 164, 168, 226 Disproportionate, 206, 213, 233 Disproportionately, 208 Disproprotioante, 213 Disrupt, 169, 172, 173, 204, 207–209, 212 Disrupting, 209, 210, 213 Disruption, 50, 205, 208, 209 Disruptive organizing, 212 Disruptive performances, 35 Dissenting, 175 Dissidences, 49 Dissident, 57 Dissident movements, 58

INDEX

Divergent experiences, 49 Diverse, 103, 109, 157, 215, 217, 223, 258, 264, 265 Diverse voices, 63 Diversity, 92, 207, 213, 215 Diversity, Education, Inclusion (DEI), 158, 159 Domestic, 46 Domestic labor, 48 Domestic labour debate, 240 Domestic servant, 245, 254 Domestic violence, 42 Domestic work, 240 Dominance, 64 Dominant, 55, 56, 58, 112, 138, 184 Dominant capitalist culture, 76, 80 Dominant discourses, 140 Dominant discursive, 172 Dominant epistemologies, 5 Dominant formalized narrative, 99 Dominant historiography, 139 Dominant ideologies, 211 Dominant institution, 113 Dominant institutional frame, 116 Dominant narrative, 102, 145 Dominant spaces, 117 Dominant structures, 8, 9 Dominant systems, 113 Dominate, 147 Domination, 47, 48, 147, 205, 210, 212, 267 Dominative structures, 258 Double oppression, 235 Dual exploitation, 235 Dutch, 226

E East, 122 East African women, 65, 66, 70 East/Southeast Asian authoritarian regimes, 158

281

Economic autonomy, 70 Economic exploits, 100 Economic hardships, 254 Economic injustice, 93 Economic issues, 129 Economic problem, 129 Economic rationality, 85 Economic siege, 131 Economic stagnation, 130 Economic value, 129 Economy, 128, 130, 212, 213, 226, 262 Egypt, 125–127, 131 Egyptian, 124–128, 131 Emancipation, 5, 51, 55, 159, 241 Embodied, 5, 49, 50, 84, 85, 170, 175, 206, 236, 237 Embodied action, 49 Embodied subjectivity, 237 Embodied violence, 209 Embodiment, 103 Emergent, 73 Emonstrations, 208 Emotional discourse, 190, 197 Emotional discursive, 196 Emotionality, 188 Emotional leverage, 195, 196 Emotional (nationalistic) discourses, 186 Emotion-based collective, 195 Empire, 7, 9, 162, 167, 170, 210 Empirical, 65, 72, 76, 236 Empower, 57, 148 Empowerment, 64, 70, 73, 93 Encounters with difference, 93 Enslave, 144, 146, 162 Enslavement, 168 Enterprise, 94, 95, 98, 99, 101, 104 Enterprise culture, 99 Entrepreneur, 92–94, 99, 100, 102, 135, 136, 142 Entrepreneur’s exploits, 99

282

INDEX

Entrepreneurial activity, 99 Entrepreneurial subjectivities, 97 Entrepreneurship, 91–103, 139 Environmental, 55, 59 Environmental activist, 58 Environmentalism, 59 Epistemic, 5, 6, 94, 104 Epistemic injustice, 170 Epistemic violence, 18 Epistemology, 5, 6, 24, 53, 59, 60, 71, 72, 122, 137, 204, 236 Equality, 7, 166, 212 Equitably, 9, 21 Equity, 5, 22, 212, 214–216 Eradication, 209 Erase, 145, 161, 162, 164, 168, 192 Erasure, 63, 158, 161–163, 167, 168, 170–172, 176–178, 209–211 Erez, 125, 127 Essentializing narratives, 95 Estate workers, 234 Estranged labour, 224 Ethical norms, 83, 84 Ethical pluralism, 40 Ethic of care, 166 Ethnic, 266 Ethnic group, 235, 266 Ethnic identity, 221 Ethnicity, 9, 222, 224, 225, 231, 235, 236, 267 Ethnic language, 75 Ethnography, 73, 143, 145, 171, 223, 224, 236, 237, 242, 244, 252, 267 Ethnological, 136 Eugenicists, 211 Eugenics, 136, 147, 148 Euro-American, 16 Eurocentric, 5, 205, 206, 210, 215 Eurocentric discourse, 168 Eurocentric ideology, 210, 214 Eurocentricity, 213

Eurocentrism, 168 Europe, 137, 143, 144 European, 124, 142, 145, 255 European immigrants, 135 European imperialist nations, 136 European pleasure, 139 European powers, 210 European race, 136 European supremacy, 142 European women, 143 Exclusion, 37, 49, 144, 233, 262 Exile, 121, 131 Exotic natives, 146 Exotic primitive, 140 Expansionary, 168 Exploit, 170 Exploitable, 159, 160, 168 Exploitation, 4, 46, 57, 58, 76, 77, 80, 85, 91, 138, 142, 144, 146, 149, 170, 171, 183, 184, 214, 226, 229, 235, 241 Exploitative, 58, 99, 165, 231, 266, 267 Exploitative practices, 159 Extraction, 55, 59, 76, 85, 160, 162, 164, 168, 170, 226 Extractive, 56–58, 159, 160, 162, 164, 168, 170, 175, 177 Extractive capitalism, 5 Extractive practices, 162 Extractivism, 54–59

F Famine, 227 Fanatic consumption, 195 Fan base, 194, 199 Fanbase data, 196 Fan collectives, 194 Fan community, 184, 185, 188, 190, 192–195, 197, 198 Fan consumption, 193

INDEX

Fan-cott, 185, 186, 188, 197 Fan-cotting, 185 Fan crusade, 197 Fan culture, 189, 194, 195 Fan discourse, 189, 190, 193, 194, 196, 198 Fandom discourses, 192 Fandom- nationalist, 197 Fan economy, 186, 188, 192, 193, 195–197, 199 Fan group, 183, 185, 186, 188–190, 192, 194–198 Fan identity, 191, 197 Fan labor, 195 Fan mobilization, 184, 185 Fan network, 186, 189, 190, 192 Fan organizing, 186 Fan population, 189 Fan studies, 188 Fascism, 162 Fascist, 166, 169 Fatah, 122, 129 Female, 222–224, 233–235, 242, 259, 264 Female labour, 230 Female proletarian body, 263 Female sexuality, 143 Female tea pluckers, 243 Female worker, 243, 250 Femicide, 45 Feminine, 70, 240 Feminine utu, 71, 82 Feminism, 34–40, 42, 43, 45, 46, 50, 72, 139, 143, 231, 234, 236, 238, 242, 267 Feminist activism, 36, 38 Feminist activists, 38, 240 Feminist articulation, 46 Feminist collective, 45, 48 Feminist discourses, 223, 224 Feminist mobilization, 44

283

Feminist movement, 6, 34, 35, 37, 44–46, 51 Feminist perspective, 47 Feminist practice, 48, 71 Feminist resistance, 43 Feminist scholars, 262 Feminist social movements, 42 Feminist struggles, 43 Feudal, 225 Feudalism, 157 Feudal system, 229 First Nations, 25 First World, 2 Fixed nationalist movement repertoire, 197 Flourishing knowledge, 19 Flourishing people, 19 Food insecurity, 130, 165, 171 Food security, 130 Food sovereignty, 166 Forced exile, 131 Forced labor, 184 Foreign capital, 232 Foreign Domestic Workers (FDWs), 171, 172 Formal activity, 102 Formal communication patterns, 116 Formality, 113 Forms, 63, 64 Forms of organizing, 72 Fracking, 55 Freak managerialist show, 141 Freedom of mobility, 124 Freedom of movement, 123–125, 128 French, 145 FTZ factories, 234 Fundamental rights, 128

G Gantt, 145 Garment girl, 254, 259, 260

284

INDEX

Gaza City, 128 Gaza Strip, 121–132 Gender, 1, 9, 35, 37, 38, 40, 41, 43–45, 77, 85, 159, 161, 223–225, 231, 235, 236, 267 Gender alliance, 78 Gender-based violence, 45 Gender diverse, 176 Gendered ideology, 7 Gendered margin, 166 Gender equality, 45 Gender identity, 42, 217 Gender ideology, 44, 45 Gender roles, 77 Gender solidarity, 77, 85 Gender studies, 223 Gender violence, 38, 42, 45–47 Geographical movements, 125 Geopolitical relations, 198 Girls, 222, 231, 243, 244, 252–254, 256–260, 263–266 Girls and women, 267 Global, 73 Global assembly line, 224, 258, 260, 262, 264 Global capital, 158, 231, 232 Global capitalism, 64, 73, 78, 79, 86 Global communicative practice, 117 Global communities, 214 Global ethics, 206 Global factories, 222, 234 Global garment factories, 263 Globalization, 109 Globalized social movement, 38 Global margins, 160, 162, 169, 172, 174 Global North, 4, 65, 103, 110, 125, 130, 131 Global North powers, 121 Global organization, 186, 207 Global organizing, 207 Global power, 7, 74, 121

Global problem, 213 Global relations, 206 Global South, 1–7, 9, 16, 18, 22, 26, 53, 65, 91–94, 103, 109, 110, 122, 124, 125, 130, 131, 160, 166, 174, 178 Global South migrants, 65 Global South women, 86 Governmentality, 36 Grand management [hi]story, 148 Grand management narrative, 148 Grand narratives, 3 Grassroots networks, 188 Grassroots organizing, 184 Grounded theory, 76

H Hamas, 121–123, 125, 129, 130 Hardship, 233 Hate, 166, 167, 169, 174, 177 Hate resist, 167 Head knowledge, 19 Health communication, 109 Health disparities, 117 Hegemonic ideologies, 205 Hegemonic power, 163 Hegemonic structures, 161, 164 Hegemony, 2, 4, 7, 37, 43, 49, 69, 81, 158, 159, 161–164, 168, 170, 171, 173, 175, 176, 183, 216 Hering practices, 205 Heterogeneity, 34, 49 Heterogeneous, 36, 41, 48 Heteronormativity, 4 Heteropatriarchal, 42, 45 Heteropatriarchal power, 42 Heteropatriarchal power relations, 41 Hidden organizing, 97 Hierarchical order, 230 Hierarchies of power and control, 158

INDEX

Hierarchy, 48, 158, 205, 206, 211, 215 Hindu, 169 Hinduphobe, 175 Hinduphobia, 169, 175 Hindutva, 162, 167, 169, 174–177 Hindutva state, 166, 167, 175, 176 Historical narratives, 139 Historicization, 138 Homophobia, 43 Homophonic, 190 Homosexuality movements, 40 Hope, 26, 27 Hopeful, 28 Hospital, 117 House collapse, 192, 198 Human, 146 Human-centered local traditions, 59 Human dignity, 203, 204 Humanity, 141, 148, 207, 217 Humanized, 140 Human right, 59, 165, 208 Human rights-centered development, 59 Hybrid, 55, 58, 60 Hybrid collective action, 54, 55 Hybrid epistemologies, 59 Hybridity, 54, 55, 58 Hybrid media, 54 Hybrid tactic, 58

I ICCO discourse, 72, 76, 79, 80, 85 Ichotomous, 215 ICT activism, 53 Ideals, 210 Identity, 4, 25, 49, 75, 125, 144, 148, 188, 189, 191, 216, 217 Identity-based, 176 Ideological discourse, 210

285

Ideology, 16, 48, 58, 109, 158, 161, 162, 169, 174, 177, 178, 197, 205, 210, 211 Idiosyncratic, 41 Imaginaries, 59, 102, 171 Imagined difference, 146 Imagined feminist community, 37 Imaginings, 70, 80 Immigrant, 110, 227, 229, 266 Immigrant labour, 223 Immigration, 217, 266 Imperial, 3, 5, 8, 157 Imperialism, 7, 26, 138, 140, 146 Implicit, 101 Impoverishment, 7, 131, 137 In-access, 111 Inaction, 185 Inadequate access, 110 Incarceration, 213 Inclusion, 38, 40, 41, 43, 56, 57, 169, 235 Inclusive, 64, 92, 93, 99, 207 Income, 259 Income disparities, 233 Incrementalism, 163 Indexical, 236 India, 159, 166, 167, 169, 174, 175, 177, 230 Indian, 159, 177, 222, 223, 226–228, 230, 266 Indian democracy, 166 Indian diaspora, 174 Indian workers, 266 India’s Muslims, 174 Indigenous, 4, 6, 9, 10, 16, 20–27, 30, 34, 42, 56, 59, 60, 65, 66, 70, 74, 158, 160, 162, 165–167, 170, 173, 174, 177, 178, 205, 206, 210, 214, 215, 226 Indigenous activist, 58 Indigenous community, 160, 171 Indigenous epistemology, 30, 215

286

INDEX

Indigenous Kenyan women, 79 Indigenous knowledge, 18, 21, 59 Indigenous modes of organizing, 72 Indigenous organizing practices, 73 Indigenous practices, 71 Indigenous rural women, 74 Indigenous struggles, 159 Indigenous studies, 25 Indignados, 54 Individualism, 40, 215 Individuals, 117 Indomitable, 98 Inductive, 76 Industrial, 195, 226, 243 Industrial capitalism, 225 Industrialized, 109 Industrial organizations, 137 Industrial production, 226 Industrial Revolution, 140 Industries, 225 Inequality, 1, 3, 22, 35, 38, 41, 48, 148, 160, 164, 166, 174, 206 Inequitable, 216 Inequity, 2, 20, 205, 207 Infantilization, 178 Informal activity, 102 Informal businesses, 99 Informal Childcare Organizing (ICCO), 64, 65, 69, 70, 73, 74, 76–86 Informal economy, 97 Informal entrepreneurship, 97 Informal organizations, 94 Information activism, 53 Infrastructure, 161, 163, 164, 166–168, 172–174, 176, 178, 189, 232 Inhuman, 145, 146 Inhumane, 141, 142 [In]humanity, 144 Injustice, 71, 145 Inquiry, 72, 86, 111

Institution, 17, 31, 37–42, 45, 58, 67, 68, 99, 102, 113, 114, 116, 148, 207, 216 Institutional discourse, 114 Institutional distance, 114 Institutionalized, 57 Institutional organization, 17 Institutional practices, 18 Institutional structures, 115 Instrument of power, 140 Insubordination, 260 Intellectual diversity, 4 Intellectual imperialism, 6 Interactional outcomes, 114 Interconnectivity, 77, 99 Interdependence, 49, 71, 78, 79, 85 Intergenerational, 160 Intergenerational thinking, 6, 31 Inter-movement solidarities, 39 Internal divisions, 129 Internal racisms, 159 International, 3, 29, 37, 38, 43, 128, 199, 209 Internationalism, 46 Internationalization, 158, 207 Internationally networked, 186 International system, 38 Internet-based collectives, 186 Internet-based fan networks, 192 Interplay, 96 Interpretive, 164 Interrelationship, 234 Intersect, 217 Intersection, 9, 53, 161, 164, 171, 204, 210, 214, 215, 235, 236, 267 Intersectional identities, 217 Intersectionality, 37, 144, 216 Intersectional margins, 161 Intersectional sensibilities, 72 Intrafamily violence, 42 Intra-gender, 37

INDEX

Intra-gender differences, 37 Intra-movement solidarities, 38 Invention of race, 142 Invisibility, 137, 148 Invisible, 140, 146, 147, 168, 175 Islamic middle class, 130 Islamists, 128 Islamophobic, 177 Israel, 121, 122, 124, 125, 128–131 Israeli army, 125 Israeli colonization, 130–132 Israeli control, 125 Israeli military, 124 Israeli siege, 131 Israeli state, 130

J Jim Crow, 211 Judicial system, 123 Justice, 40, 212

K Kangany, 227–229, 246–248, 250–252, 267 Kaupapa M¯aori, 22, 23, 30, 31, 178 Kenya, 75, 81 Kenyan, 71, 73–75 Kenyan context, 74 Kenyan cultural members, 79 Kenyan culture, 81, 83 Kenyan diasporic communities, 74 Kenyan English, 75 Kenyan feminist, 70–72 Kenyan feminist epistemology, 65 Kenyan ICCO, 66 Kenyan indigenous, 65, 72 Kenyan indigenous women’s organizing practices, 85 Kenyan migrant women, 72, 73, 75, 76, 82

287

Kenyan migrant women’s ICCO, 81, 84 Kenyan migrant women’s ICCO discourse, 84 Kenyan migrant women groups, 64 Kenyan women, 65, 66, 72–76, 86 Kenyan women’s ICCO discourse, 80 Kenyan women’s organizing, 76 Kenyan women’s organizing practices, 70 Khoisan, 144 King Jr., Martin Luther, 212 Knowing, 98, 157, 235, 237 Knowing activities, 111 Knowledge, 4–9, 16–19, 21, 23, 27, 59, 60, 66, 76, 92, 110, 111, 137, 139, 157–160, 162, 168, 170, 171, 173–178, 204, 206, 212, 213, 215, 223, 224, 236, 237 Knowledge building, 5, 6 Knowledge claims, 159 Knowledge/experience, 113 Knowledge generating capacities, 162, 168 Knowledge generation, 157, 168, 174, 177 Knowledge infrastructures, 175 Knowledge making, 5, 25 Knowledge making processes, 16 Knowledge production, 3, 111, 168, 175 Knowledge registers, 173 Knowledge structures, 162 Knowledge system, 9, 159, 160, 178, 212, 213 K-pop, 198 L Labour, 80, 85, 145, 157, 160, 164, 165, 170, 171, 173, 174, 217, 223, 224, 226, 228–230, 232,

288

INDEX

234, 235, 237–242, 262, 264, 266 Labour dust, 244 Labourers, 227, 230, 238, 242, 245 Labour exploitation, 162 Labour force, 245 Labour laws, 232 Labour not producing, 239 Labour of decolonizing, 160 Labour power, 77, 85, 238, 240–242, 263 Labour producing, 239 Labour productive, 237 Labour rights, 165 Labour roles, 223, 229, 231, 234, 244, 262 Lagos, 93–96, 99, 102 Land grab, 167, 173 Land occupation, 167, 173 Language of decolonization, 162 Latin America, 33–36, 39, 40, 44–47, 50, 54, 55, 57, 58, 60 Latin American, 35–41, 44, 46 Latin American feminist, 40 Latinx, 215 Legal, 213 Legitimization, 158 LGBT, 44 LGBT+, 34, 41, 45 Liberation, 3, 130, 207, 213, 214, 241 Liberators, 207 Liberatory, 5 Liberty, 212 Liminal state, 212 Limitations, 117 Liuliang , 194, 195 Liuliang-centric, 195 Lived experience, 66, 72, 102, 206, 209 Lived practice, 94, 98, 99, 214 Lives, 214

Living knowledge, 19 Local, 186, 236 Local communicative practice, 117 Local communicative structure, 115 Local community, 57, 79, 80, 160, 166, 171, 178, 213 Local discourses, 64 Local economy, 231 Local epistemologies, 206 Local/global exploitations, 70 Localized health narratives, 110 Local knowledge, 109, 170 Local language, 114 Local movements, 57, 174 Local populations, 58 Local power, 74, 207 Low castes, 230 Lower caste, 227 Low income, 233 M Machine organization, 137 Mainstream, 38, 64–66, 69, 86, 93, 103, 113, 166 Mainstream entrepreneurship, 102 Mainstream organizational actors, 102 Majoritarian, 166 Malays, 159 Male labour, 230 Male supervisors, 252 Managed, 138 Management, 137, 138, 144–148 Management discourses, 147 Management exploitation, 144 Management narratives, 146 Management/organization, 139, 140, 145, 146 Management/organization studies, 137, 144, 145, 149 Management principles, 146, 147 Management study, 139, 140, 145, 148

INDEX

Managerial, 146, 147 Managerial tool, 148 Manufacturing consent, 195 Maoist Ideology, 184 M¯aori, 6, 18–20, 22–24, 26–28, 30, 31, 165, 167, 178 M¯aori activist, 28 M¯aori knowledge, 19, 22 M¯aori organizations, 30 M¯aori regeneration, 26 M¯aori struggles, 28 M¯aori studies, 25 M¯ara kai, 166 Marginal, 233 Marginal actor, 8, 103, 144 Marginal business practices, 103 Marginal enterprise, 91 Marginal entrepreneurial, 91, 92, 102 Marginal entrepreneurial forms, 103 Marginal entrepreneurial practice, 92 Marginal entrepreneurs, 103 Marginal entrepreneurship, 99, 102 Marginality, 92 Marginalization, 110, 111, 158–161, 171, 176, 206 Marginalize, 1, 5, 16, 34, 157, 217 Marginalized communities, 78, 110 Marginalized groups, 65, 66, 74, 86 Marginalized identities, 157 Marginalized populations, 110 Marginalized realities, 76, 85 Marginalized women’s, 71 Marginal organizational actors, 91, 92 Marginal organizing, 3, 93, 96 Marginal spaces, 94 Margin(s), 2, 3, 5–9, 16, 66, 93, 97, 98, 102, 103, 110, 137, 138, 149, 157, 161, 163, 166, 170, 171, 173, 174, 176, 178, 183, 184, 213 Margins of the margins, 161, 163–168, 170, 171, 173–178

289

Markers of difference, 75 Marxist, 224, 235, 238–242 Marxist feminism, 224, 231, 235, 236 Marxist theory, 240 Marx, K., 224, 237–240, 262 Mass feminism, 45 Massification, 35 Mass racism, 136, 145 Master-slave relationship, 147 M¯atauranga M¯aori, 18, 19 Matega, 71, 79 Material, 166, 186–188, 196, 197, 205, 206, 211–214 Material absence, 161 Material disenfranchisement, 161 Material domination, 205 Material infrastructure, 166 Materialism, 165, 178, 215 Materiality, 49, 50, 167, 169, 192 Materially, 205, 211 Material oppression, 210 Material reality, 186, 187 Material resistance, 171 Material resources, 161 Material violence, 173 Mbuti, 136 Mechanization, 262 Media power, 167 Medical institutions, 117 Mercantilist, 225 Mercantilist institutions, 225 Merchant capital, 226 Methodologically, 73, 164 Methodology, 72, 111, 164, 174, 206, 223, 236 Mexicans, 136 Micro-oppressive practices, 216 Middle class, 135, 225 Middle East, 124 Middle Eastern, 124 Migrant, 65, 165, 166, 230 Migrant women, 65

290

INDEX

Migrant work, 165 Migrant workers, 165, 175 Migration, 75, 230 Minority, 34, 169, 266 Mistreate, 142 Mobility, 177 Mobilization, 6, 35, 38, 39, 50, 55, 159, 163–165, 171, 174, 184, 186, 188, 194, 197 Mobilize, 7, 31, 34, 37, 43, 45, 46, 78, 158, 164, 165, 167, 171, 174, 183, 188, 190, 209 Mobilized state, 41 Mobilize power, 9 Mobilizing, 102, 165–167, 171, 174, 178, 198 Mode of organizing, 73 Modernity, 66, 72 Modernization, 162 Modes of organizing, 64, 72 Motherhood rights, 70, 72 Movement, 3, 28, 34, 35, 39–41, 46, 51, 54–56, 58–60, 122, 124, 167, 169, 173, 174, 177, 184, 197, 198, 204, 207–209, 214, 217 Multilingual imagination, 47 Multinational, 3, 216, 243 Multiplicity, 37, 46, 206, 214, 215, 217, 222, 223 Multi-racial, 216 Muscular, 188 Muscularity, 186–189, 193, 196, 197 Muslim, 166, 167, 169, 174, 176, 177 Muslim activists, 174 Muslim women, 166, 167 Mystification, 262 N Nairobi, 73 Narration, 98, 103, 177

Narrative(s), 92–94, 99, 102, 103, 127, 139, 148, 158, 167, 168, 171, 175, 222, 237 Narratives of management, 149 Nation, 124 National, 37, 38, 45, 50 National identities, 217 National interests, 129 Nationalism, 7, 159, 169, 197, 198 Nationalist discourse, 198 Nationalistic discourse, 187, 198 Nationalist movement, 198 Nationality, 38 Nationalization, 231 Native, 136, 144, 145, 147 Native Americans, 136 Native cultural environments, 109 Negotiate, 70, 77, 165, 243 Negotiation, 45, 77, 85, 95, 96, 98, 163, 165, 171, 172, 175, 177, 265 Neo-colonial, 16, 158 Neoconservative, 33, 34, 40, 44 Neoconservative coalitions, 45 Neo-developmentalism, 43 Neo-extractive, 43 Neoliberal, 1, 3, 5, 8, 10, 17, 37, 40, 43, 45, 94, 97, 99, 101, 102, 158, 163, 166, 174, 176, 195 Neoliberal capitalism, 6, 35, 64, 159, 161, 170 Neoliberal discourse, 29 Neoliberal governmentality, 2 Neoliberalism, 17, 29, 43, 158, 162, 163, 165, 178 Neoliberal project, 163, 164 Neoliberal structures, 109 Neologism, 197 Neo-Nazi, 28 Neo-pentecostal, 43 Network, 192, 193, 207 Networked collectives, 185, 188

INDEX

Networked mobilization, 186 Networked organizations, 186 Networks of resistance, 4 Network structure, 192 New World, 138 Ngwatio, 71, 79 Nigeria, 94 Nigerian, 94 Nigerian-American Black woman, 217 Non-Anglo-Saxon, 136 Noncapitalist, 6, 65, 67 Non-capitalist activities, 64, 65 Non-capitalist practice, 65 Non-digital communication, 54 Non-discursive, 186 Non-Europeans, 143 Non-fans, 191 Nonimperial, 6 Non-industrial, 226 Nonprofit organizational form, 68 Non-profit organizations, 68 Nonverbals, 114 Nonviolent tactics, 57 Non waged, 242 Non-white, 148, 210 Nordic Race, 136 Normalization, 122, 123 Normative, 206 Normative practices, 63 Norms, 71, 81, 83, 169 North, 16, 21, 22, 30, 122 North American south, African bodies, 210 Northern science, 21

O Obilization, 185 Objectified, 237 Objectify, 142 Obscuring, 63 Obsolete Other, 66

291

Occupation, 57, 129, 160, 167, 168 Occupied, 168, 213 Occupied Palestine, 131 Occupying, 165, 209 Ontological, 5, 26, 27, 40, 48, 71, 138, 236 Operationalize, 67 Oppressed, 205, 236, 267 Oppressed group, 131 Oppressed Muslim woman, 167 Oppression, 2, 121, 122, 148, 207, 210, 212, 213, 216, 235, 236, 267 Oppressive, 8, 9, 65, 71, 82, 169, 235, 244 Oppressive structures, 66, 71, 72, 82 Oppressive tactics, 140 Oppressors, 144, 252 Organising, 30 Organization, 2, 3, 6, 8, 10, 16, 17, 30, 35, 37, 38, 42, 46, 54–57, 60, 64–70, 72, 74, 93, 94, 99, 104, 135, 137, 138, 144–146, 148, 149, 185–192, 195, 197, 198, 205, 206, 215, 256 Organizational, 190 Organizational actions, 56 Organizational actors, 3, 65, 70 Organizational autoethnography, 92, 103 Organizational communication, 3, 6, 63, 64, 66, 67, 69, 71, 72, 86, 94, 205, 206 Organizational communication scholars, 64, 65, 67–69, 86, 92, 94, 97 Organizational communication scholarship, 67, 70, 72, 102 Organizational communication theorizing, 86 Organizational discourse studies, 186 Organizational form, 64–66, 68, 83

292

INDEX

Organizational [in]dignity, 144 Organizational inquiry, 94 Organizational lives, 6, 96 Organizational practices, 68, 93 Organizational processes, 188, 192 Organizational structure, 2, 16, 185, 187, 188 Organizational study, 140, 186 Organizational subjectivities, 92 Organizational theory, 8, 15, 64, 69, 97, 224 Organizational voices, 94 Organizational worker, 144 Organization of resistance, 84 Organizations of struggle, 2, 5 Organization study, 8, 138, 139, 186 Organize, 2, 6, 16, 17, 31, 39, 41, 45, 72, 76, 84, 86, 166, 217, 257 Organized, 17, 40, 43, 48, 64, 95, 138, 164, 165, 171, 175, 185, 187, 197, 207, 209, 267 Organized resistance, 257 Organized spatial disruption, 209 Organizers, 198, 214–217 Organizing, 1–6, 9, 16, 30, 31, 60, 64–68, 70, 71, 76–80, 82, 85, 86, 91, 92, 94, 95, 97, 103, 110, 146, 157, 159–167, 169–176, 178, 184, 189, 198, 204, 206–209, 212–217, 254 Organizing center strategies, 163 Organizing of resistance, 4 Organizing practice, 64, 66, 69, 71–74, 83, 85, 86, 164, 178, 204, 206, 214 Organizing processes, 163 Organizing registers, 164 Organizing Resistance, 3, 170 Organizing spaces, 204, 205, 207, 209 Organizing struggle, 96

¯ Oroua river, 167 Other, 63, 66, 67, 94, 103, 136, 144–147, 149, 236 Over-policing, 213

P Pacific Islander, 215 Paid labourers, 246 Palestine, 130, 131 Palestinian, 121, 124–131 Palestinian Authority, 122, 129, 130 Palestinian culture, 123 Palestinian institution, 131 Paradigms, 17, 21, 22, 216, 217 Partial restriction, 122 Participation, 56–58 Participative culture, 193 Participative structure, 194 Particularities, 112 Partisanization, 37 Partisan politics, 56 Paternalism, 215 Patriarchal role, 228 Patriarchal structures, 45 Patriarchy, 4, 39, 66, 71–73, 82, 258, 260, 262 Patriotism, 198 Peaceful protest, 208 Peaceful protesters, 208 Pedagogy, 35 Pensa kassi, 227 People of Color, 214 Performance, 50 Performative, 49, 50 Performative spatiality, 49 Performativity, 49 Periphery, 49, 102 Perpetuate violence, 159 Persistence, 84 Phenomenological, 95 Phrenologists, 211

INDEX

Plantation, 142, 147, 222–229, 231, 235, 236, 242, 262, 263, 266, 267 Plantation economy, 225, 226 Plantation industry, 242 Plantation labour, 225, 226 Plantation system, 226, 228, 229 Platform-based fan economy, 183 Platform-based organizing, 184 Platform societies, 184 Pluckers, 246, 247, 267 Plucking gang, 246 Plural, 162 Pluralism, 38, 46, 166 Police brutality, 208, 212, 213 Policy advocacy, 54, 58, 60 Political, 48, 49, 128, 130, 212, 213 Political act, 48 Political action, 48, 49 Political agency, 49 Political collectivity, 48 Political economy, 223 Political institutions, 225 Political invisibility, 48 Political isolation, 229 Political problem, 129 Political reimaginations, 48 Political resistance, 43 Political self-determination, 25 Political siege, 131 Political value, 129 Political violence, 34, 121–123 Politicization, 47 Politicize, 48 Politics, 129, 157 Politics of knowledge, 157 Politics of representation, 161 Politics of resistance, 6, 35 Polygenetic, 143 Polysemic, 188 Positionality, 9, 98, 114, 217 Post-capitalist, 123

293

Postcolonial, 3, 8, 64, 138, 158, 159, 162, 168, 169, 175, 177, 204–206, 209, 212–214, 216, 217, 223, 224, 234, 236, 267 Postcolonial/decolonization discourse, 158 Postcolonial approach, 144 Postcolonial being, 217 Postcolonial/decolonizing, 158 Postcolonial/decolonizing narratives, 159 Postcolonial discourse, 206, 209 Postcolonial feminism, 224, 225, 231, 235, 236, 268 Postcolonial feminist approach, 144 Postcolonial feminist thinking, 236 Postcolonialism, 158, 169, 176, 216 Postcoloniality, 206, 212, 214–216 Postcolonial lens, 213 Postcolonial organizing, 9, 204, 205, 207–209, 212–214, 217, 218 Postcolonial praxis, 214 Postcolonial scholars, 63, 72 Postcolonial spaces, 159 Postcolonial study, 163 Postcolonial theory, 206, 214 (post) colonies, 226 Poverty, 68, 91, 101, 130, 213, 233 Power, 3, 6, 7, 9, 16–18, 25, 33, 35, 41, 45, 49–51, 66, 67, 110, 111, 113, 124, 126, 128, 132, 136, 147, 157, 158, 160, 162, 163, 167, 169, 170, 173, 176, 177, 183, 184, 187, 188, 196, 197, 210, 214, 215 Power/control, 158, 168, 174 Power differential, 241 Powerful, 183 Power hoarding, 215 Power imbalances, 8 Power relations, 9 Power structures, 65, 178

294

INDEX

Practice, 69, 74, 82, 85 Practices of resistance, 86 Praxis, 8, 214, 216 Pray, 82 Prayer, 81, 82, 86 Praying, 82 Prejudices, 149 Preservation of culture, 86 Primitive, 142 Primordial identities, 48 Privatization, 159, 162, 168 Privatized land, 162 Privilege, 93, 100, 137, 158, 206, 216 Problematized, 48, 262 Produced knowledge, 111 Production of knowledge, 162 Productive, 223, 224, 238–243, 262, 264–266 Productive engagements, 117 Productive labour, 223, 235, 237, 238 Productive labourer, 237, 238 Productive labour roles, 237, 264 Productive work, 230 Productive workers, 266 Proletarian, 235, 262, 263 Proletarian women, 235, 267 Propaganda, 56, 167, 169, 176 Protagonism, 35 Protest, 56–58, 143, 166, 167, 207–209 Protest actions, 54 Protesters, 57, 209 Protest movements, 54, 58 Psychological, 128 Public engagement, 60 Purist, 184

Q Qualitative research inquiry, 75

Quasi-citizen, 122 Queer, 10 Quilombolas , 34

R Race, 37, 38, 136, 141–143, 148, 210, 215, 236 Raced, 159, 161 Raced margin, 166 Race relations, 215 Racial, 48, 148, 210 Racial apartheid, 211 Racial capitalism, 76, 80, 85, 160 Racial caste system, 211 Racial discrimination, 197 Racial identities, 215, 217 Racial ideology, 7 Racial injustice, 208 Racialization, 210 Racialized, 1, 137, 149, 210, 212 Racialized exploitation, 76 Racialized violence, 211 Racial justice, 212 Racial minorities, 76, 85 Racial purification, 136 Racism, 17, 24, 29, 79, 136, 137, 143, 145, 147, 148, 159, 162, 165, 168, 169, 178, 185, 208 Racist ideology, 136 Racist organizing, 171 Rajakariya, 225 Rational dehumanization, 144 Rationality, 44, 63, 64, 78, 84, 85, 176, 189, 205 Reaffirm, 267 Real difference, 146 Reality, 123, 128, 131, 187 Re-articulate, 47 Reciprocity, 71, 76, 78, 80, 84, 85 Reclaiming, 48, 66, 72, 138 Reconstruct, 21

INDEX

Reconstruction, 50, 146, 212 Redemocratization, 37, 43 Re-distribution, 159 Reductionism, 164 Reflexive, 6, 91, 92, 110, 111, 117, 118, 216, 217, 236 Reflexively, 164 Reflexivity, 7, 93, 103, 110–112, 115, 118 Refugee, 122 Regenerating, 18 Regeneration, 20 Regime, 195, 222, 223, 229–232, 237, 244 Register, 164–169, 173, 175, 176 Re-historicization, 140 Reimagined, 73 Reimagines, 204 Relational, 168, 216 Relationality, 24, 30, 64, 65 Relational organizing, 79 Relations, 10, 213, 215, 234 Relationships of care, 165 Relations of power, 4, 25 Religion, 38 Religious, 40, 42, 44 Religious identities, 217 Religious organization, 68 Renegotiation, 37, 50, 109 Reorganize, 9, 205 Reorganize equitably, 213 Re-organizing, 176, 179 Reparation, 159 Repatriation, 144 Representation, 110, 206, 211 Repressed, 46 Repression, 148, 162, 166, 175, 176 Repressive, 166 Repressive strategies, 158, 165 Reproduce, 158, 161, 162, 168, 242 Reproducers, 241 Reproducing, 158, 160, 177

295

Reproduction, 240, 241, 262, 263 Reproductive, 39, 42, 43, 223, 230, 235, 237, 242, 243, 264, 266 Reproductive labour, 77, 78, 85, 223, 224, 242, 244, 262, 265 Reproductive labourers, 266 Reproductive labour roles, 264–266 Reproductive productive labour, 231 Reproductive rights, 46 Reproductive roles, 262 Reproductive workers, 266 Resilience, 45, 71, 207 Resist, 65, 70, 71, 73, 77, 164, 167, 178, 205, 206, 209, 211, 213, 215, 216, 258 Resistance, 2–4, 7, 9, 16, 18, 25, 27, 34, 40, 42, 43, 51, 56, 57, 77, 80, 110, 159, 163–165, 167, 168, 170, 171, 173, 174, 176, 183, 184, 212, 236, 260, 267 Resistance movements, 3, 4 Resistance strategies, 173 Resistance work, 166 Resisted, 159, 267 Resisting, 71, 80, 83, 160, 165, 166, 170, 206, 213, 236, 244, 260 Resistive, 3, 110 Resistive practices, 109 Resists, 170, 211, 213 Re-story, 93 Re-storying, 91, 92, 102 Restrict, 122, 125 Restrictions of movement, 129 Rethinking organizing pratices, 213 Revitalization, 18, 19, 27 Revitalizing, 18, 19, 25 Revolutions, 54 Re-write, 149 Rhetoric, 28 Rhetoric of development, 167 Role, 224, 228, 231

296

INDEX

S Sanvidanthmaka virodatha, 257 Savage, 136, 140, 144, 145 Savage other, 136 Scholars, 64, 177, 215, 217 Schumpeterian, 100 Schumpeterian fare, 94 Scientifically managed enterprises, 147 Second Industrial Revolution, 135 Secularism, 166 Securitization lens, 131 Securitized, 131 Self-determination, 70 Self-exile, 131 Self expansion, 237 Self- exploitation, 195 Self-narratives, 92 Self-reflexivity, 76 Self-reliance, 70 Semi-Swede, 124 Sensemaking, 86, 212 Sensitivity, 117 Separation and fragmentation, 237 Serfs, 229 Sewing girls, 224, 241, 242, 244, 258, 263–265 Sexist cultures, 252 Sexual, 38–40, 42, 43 Sexual division, 48 Sexual division of labour, 231, 241, 262 Sexual genitalia, 143 Sexuality, 35, 37, 39–41, 43, 44 Sexualized ideology, 7 Sexual liberation, 45 Sexual minorities, 42 Sexual orientation, 38 Shared absences, 115 Shared discourse, 113 Shop floor girls, 264 Shop floor workers, 264 Shortages, 229

Silence, 147, 222, 267 Silencing, 63 Sina Weibo, 189 Singapore, 159, 165, 171, 172, 175 Sinhalese, 266 Sinhalese women, 266 Situational understanding, 113 Slave, 142–145, 211 Slave (domestic) servant, 141 Slavery, 138, 143, 145–147, 203, 211, 241 Snowball sampling, 74, 110 Social, 9, 35–37, 41, 42, 47–49, 68, 128, 187, 197, 210, 213, 262 Social actors, 196, 198, 236 Social agendas, 40 Social agents, 183 Social bonds, 43 Social change, 60, 67, 161, 166, 205 Social class, 189 Social class identities, 217 Social cohesion, 112 Social control, 184 Social Darwinists, 211 Social-economic, 241 Social equality, 40 social equity, 59 Social events, 145 Social exchange network, 70 Social groups, 34 Social inclusion, 35, 43 Social inequalities, 41 Social inequity, 217 Social influence, 196 Socialism, 2, 159, 160, 162, 166, 184 Social issues, 67 Socialization, 19, 75 Social justice, 28, 45, 169, 214 Social locations, 236 Socially constructed, 213 Social minorities, 41

INDEX

Social movement, 6, 36–39, 41, 45, 50, 54, 58, 184, 204, 207, 209, 212, 217 Social norms, 260 Social organization, 226 Social organizing, 64 Social politics, 55 Social practices, 48 Social problem, 68, 129 Social protest, 53 Social reality, 186–188, 190, 194 Social relation, 47, 238 Social reproduction, 48 Social rights, 25 Social status, 229 Social structures, 187 Social system, 216, 241 Social violence, 121 Societal problem, 129 Societal value, 129 Society, 41 Socio–political, 254 Socio-economic, 100, 136, 195, 232 Socio-economic struggle, 95, 96, 103 Socio-material, 9, 186, 187, 204, 206 Sociomaterially, 205, 212, 213 Sociomaterial reality, 187 Sociomatieral struggle, 213, 214 Socio-political, 44, 59 Socio-structural, 193 Solidarity, 2, 7, 25, 35, 37–39, 47, 48, 50, 69–71, 76–78, 80, 82, 84, 85, 110, 112, 113, 115, 116, 118, 165, 169, 173–177, 179, 209, 217 South, 3, 4, 54, 122 South Africa, 141, 142, 144 South America, 40, 115 South Asian, 158, 177 Southern Europeans, 136 South India, 226, 228 South Korean, 198

297

Southwestern Africa, 140 Sovereignty, 2, 3, 5, 25, 28, 159, 165, 170, 171, 173, 177, 178 Spatial, 57 Spatial actions, 57 Spatial forms, 56 Spatialities, 35 Spatial occupation, 57 Spatial participation, 57 Sri Lanka, 222–226, 231–236, 242, 263, 266 Sri Lankan, 222, 225, 232, 233 State, 41, 44, 123, 130, 165, 166, 172, 177, 207 State violence, 123 Static categorizations, 102 Stereotypes, 73 Stigmatization, 165, 266 Storying, 92 Structural adjustment, 232–234 Structural forces, 258 Structural limitations, 110, 117 Structural power, 184 Structural transformation, 164, 166, 172, 178 Structural violence, 171, 173 Structures, 8, 9, 17, 30, 47, 68, 71, 115, 117, 123, 158, 163–165, 169–171, 173, 176, 184, 187, 195, 207, 210, 213, 215, 241, 260, 267 Structures of difference, 38 Structures of domination, 16, 268 Structures of whiteness, 159 Structuring, 206 Struggle, 4, 6, 8, 9, 25, 27, 29, 35–39, 41, 45, 51, 71, 96, 98, 100, 110, 112, 113, 116, 130–132, 140, 158–160, 165, 167–170, 173–179, 203, 204, 206, 209, 213, 221, 222, 224, 256, 263, 264, 267

298

INDEX

Struggling, 27, 264, 267 Studies, 262 Studying alternative organizing, 184 Subaltern, 8, 66, 137, 142, 163, 169, 214 Subaltern agency, 163, 173 Subaltern articulations, 163 Subaltern communities, 138, 168, 170 Subaltern epistemologies, 206 Subaltern identities, 110 Subalternity, 163, 173, 177 Subaltern knowledge, 210 Subaltern negotiations, 163 Subaltern other, 138, 146 Subaltern politics, 163, 164 Subaltern positioning, 112 Subaltern rationality, 163 Subaltern study, 163 Subaltern voices, 158 Subjectivation, 48 Subjectivities, 34, 48, 49, 92, 237 Subjugated knowledges, 149 Subjugation, 17, 18, 147, 262 Submission, 47 Subordinate, 263 Subservient, 229 Substantive, 196 Subversion, 36 Subvert, 9 Suffer, 251 Suffered, 144 Suffering, 140, 145, 149, 207, 255 Support group cohesion, 118 Suppressed, 147 Suppression, 147 Supremacist, 143, 148 Sustainability, 20, 31 Sustainable, 6, 8, 31, 56 Sustained, 39 Swahili, 75 Swede, 124

Swedish, 123, 124 Swedish citizenship, 125 System, 9, 34, 43, 56, 147, 166, 207, 210, 213, 222, 229 Systematically, 8, 41, 42, 78, 176, 207, 216 Systematic rational dehumanization, 146, 148 Systemic, 176, 212 System of exploitation, 147 System of knowledge, 18 System of research, 16, 26 Systems of knowledge, 16, 17 Systems of organizing knowledge, 16 Systems of power, 22 Systems of practice, 16

T Tacit, 212 Tamil, 222 Tanseeq, 126 Tanseeqat, 126 Taylor, Frederic Winslow, 137, 145 Tea plantations, 222, 223, 226, 235 Tea pluckers, 224, 241, 242, 244, 245, 249, 263, 264, 266 Tea pluckers and sewing girls , 222 Technocratic managerialism, 178 Telengana India, 166 Temporalities, 35, 44, 48, 50 Territorialization, 209 Territorial occupation, 58 Theorists, 268 Theorize, 163 Third world, 1, 222–224, 235, 236, 242, 252, 262, 267 Third world/postcolonial, 237, 242, 263 Third world women, 225, 235 Third world work regimes, 237 Tikanga, 30

INDEX

Tino rangatiratanga, 28, 165 Tird world country, 222 Tokenism, 19 Townes, 145 Transformative infrastructure, 178 Transformative knowledge practices, 164 Transgenerational, 214 Transnational, 34, 35, 44, 46, 209 Transnational coalitions, 38 Transnational imagination, 47 Transnationalization, 38 Transnational movement, 47 Transnational solidarity, 37 Transversalization, 35 Trauma, 123, 124, 205, 214 Triple exploitation, 236 Trust, 111–113, 116, 117 Truth, 213 Tundu’ system, 228 Typologies, 97, 102

U Ubordination, 262 Ubuntu, 71, 76, 78, 80, 84 Undocumented, 114 Undocumented/illegal immigrants, 110 Undocumented immigrant, 110, 111, 114 Undoing, 214 Unequal, 8, 56 Uneven distribution of resources, 110 United States, 135–137, 148, 159, 207–209, 215, 217 Universalizing, 36 Unjust, 252 Unpaid, 230, 264 Unpaid domestic labour, 239 Unpaid domestic work, 245 Unproductive, 241, 242

299

Unproductive labour, 238–240, 242 Unproductive labourer, 238, 239 Untrustworthy, 113 Unwaged workers, 242 Upper caste, 158, 168 Upper caste Indians, 159 Upper class, 169 Upper class privilege, 158 Upper middle class, 128 Useful labour, 238 U.S. slavery, 211 Utilitarian, 193 Utu, 70 Utu feminism, 6, 65, 66, 70–72, 76–80, 84–86 Utu feminist knowledge, 71

V Value maximization, 193 Value production system, 195 Victimization, 47, 48, 236, 267 Victims, 73, 236, 252, 267 Violation, 58 Violence, 34, 43–48, 51, 57, 58, 128, 129, 148, 160, 165, 171, 177, 207, 208, 210, 213, 229 Violence against women, 47, 129 Violent, 137, 138, 147, 205, 210 Violent commodification, 140 Violently erasing, 168 Virtual coordination, 209 Visible, 56, 140, 146, 208 Voice, 167, 168, 170, 173, 174, 176, 178, 206, 214, 222, 255 Voice infrastructures, 167, 168, 170, 171, 173, 178 Voicing, 167, 171 Vulnerability, 49, 93, 98, 103 Vulnerable, 58, 98 Vulnerable population, 113

300

INDEX

W Waged, 242 Waged labourers, 242 Waged productive labour, 265 Waged worker, 244, 245 Wage-labour, 238 Wage slavery, 241 Ways of being, 217 Ways of knowing, 72, 117, 210, 214 Weaponization, 210 Weibo, 189, 192, 194, 196, 197 Weibo-based, 188, 193 Weibo-based fan groups, 190 Weibo-based fan networks, 192 Weibo platform, 188, 191 West, 16, 21, 22, 30, 103, 122, 145 Western, 3, 5, 8, 53, 54, 75, 77, 124, 135, 136, 138, 169, 206, 215 Western academic imperialism, 72 Western Europe, 225 Western feminist, 72 Western feminist theorizing, 66, 72 Western Ideology, 205 Western institutions, 75, 96 Western knowledge, 18, 20, 21, 158 Western narratives, 144 Western nation, 136 Western science, 21 Western superiority, 136 Western thinking, 8 Whakapapa, 24, 165 Wh¯anau, 167, 168 Whanaungatanga, 24 Whenua, 165 While colonialism, 205 White Americans, 135 White American women, 139 White/Black people, 215 White bodies, 210 White culture, 158, 159, 162, 164 White domination, 210 White Europeans, 143

White European women, 139 Whiteness, 72, 148, 158, 159, 162–164, 168–170, 173, 174, 176, 178, 213 Whites, 211 White slave owners, 140 White structures, 169 White supremacist, 9, 28, 136, 145, 147, 148, 213 White supremacists repeating, 175 White supremacy, 28, 205, 207, 211, 213 White supremacy culture, 215 Woman/Women, 34, 37–42, 44–46, 48, 50, 70, 71, 73–85, 100, 101, 103, 222–225, 227, 229–231, 233–237, 239, 241, 242, 244–249, 251, 252, 256, 259, 262–267 Women and girls, 222, 224, 267 Women estate workers, 231, 234 Women genitalia, 143 Women of colour, 236 Women’s domestic labour, 239, 240 Women’s domestic work, 240 Women’s experiences, 72 Women’s ICCO, 79, 81–84, 86 Women’s ICCO discourse, 77–81, 83–86 Women’s labour, 242, 243, 263 Women’s labour roles, 266 Women’s movements, 34, 42 Women’s oppression, 235 Women’s productive, 224, 242, 244, 262 Women’s reproductive, 223, 237, 262 Women’s reproductive labour, 262 Women’s reproductive rights, 55 Women’s sexuality, 143 Women’s struggle, 45 Women’s subjugation, 235

INDEX

Women’s unpaid domestic labour, 240, 242 Women’s unpaid labour, 241 Women’s unwaged slavery, 241 Women workers, 234–236, 262, 263, 267 Work, 230 Worker indebtedness, 228 Workers, 223, 237 Working-class, 165 Working–class women, 241 Working-class movement, 232 Work regimes, 242, 262, 265, 267 World/postcolonial, 224

301

X Xenophobia, 7, 80 Xinjiang, 184, 185

Y Young female, 234 Young girls, 231, 234, 245, 250, 252, 254, 256, 259, 260, 266 Young women, 234

Z Zone, 252–257, 259, 260, 264