Researching Far-Right Movements: Ethics, Methodologies, and Qualitative Inquiries 2018044612, 2018046732, 9780429491825, 9780429959066, 9780429959059, 9780429959042, 9781138589179

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Social Movements in the 21st Century: New Paradigms

RESEARCHING FAR-RIGHT MOVEMENTS ETHICS, METHODOLOGIES, AND QUALITATIVE INQUIRIES Edited by Emanuele Toscano

Researching Far-Right Movements

As extreme and far-right movements become increasingly widespread in many countries, the sociology of social movements is called to confront them. This book addresses the specific challenges entailed by the empirical study of such movements, presenting case studies from Japan, Thailand, England, France, Italy, the USA and Turkey. Based on empirical fieldwork, the chapters explore the ethics and politics of researching far-right movements, considering the researcher’s reflexivity and the methodological issues raised by being emotionally linked to a research object that affirms and strives for values that differ markedly from those of the researcher. As such, it will appeal to scholars of sociology and politics with interests in social movements and research methods. Emanuele Toscano is Researcher in Sociology in the Department of Technology, Communication and Society at the Università degli Studi Guglielmo Marconi, Italy.

Social Movements in the 21st Century: New Paradigms Series Editor: Kevin McDonald Middlesex University, UK

Moving beyond the interpretative frameworks constructed to make sense of social movements half a century ago, Social Movements in the 21st Century: New Paradigms seeks to renew our understanding of collective action today. With a focus on social and political actors and experience, this series provides a space for engaging with emerging forms of action and organization, subjectivities, embodiment, and new forms of solidarity. It values theoretical work and methodological innovation, rooted in western and non-western research, and seeks to engage with key questions linking movements to wider social and political transformations, in particular to shifts in contemporary capitalism and globalization. Its focus includes moral imaginations and the production of ethics, emerging organizational practices, the significance of new media, digital technologies and new forms of communication, the role of art and imagination in action, the reconfiguration of public and private, and experiments in contemporary democracy. The series welcomes studies linking empirical work and theoretical renewal. These may include studies of action in workplaces, cities or neighbourhoods and address questions ranging from sexuality to race, with a focus on emerging forms of mobilisation, from digital action to occupations. Moving beyond the 20th century’s progressive and secular paradigm in social movement studies, the series seeks to engage with the breadth of collective action today, whether in the form of religious movements, populist and antidemocratic movements, or violent movements, — as in the form of contemporary terrorism. Titles in the series: Researching Far-Right Movements Ethics, Methodologies, and Qualitative Inquiries Emanuele Toscano

Researching Far-Right Movements Ethics, Methodologies, and Qualitative Inquiries

Edited by Emanuele Toscano

First published 2019 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2019 selection and editorial matter, Emanuele Toscano; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Emanuele Toscano to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Toscano, Emanuele, editor. Title: Researching far right movements : ethics, methodologies, and qualitative inquiries / [edited by] Emanuele Toscano. Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, 2019. | Series: Social movements in the 21st century: new paradigms | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018044612 (print) | LCCN 2018046732 (ebook) | ISBN 9780429491825 (ebk) | ISBN 9780429959066 (web pdf) | ISBN 9780429959059 (epub) | ISBN 9780429959042 (mobi/kindle) | ISBN 9781138589179 (hbk) Subjects: LCSH: Right-wing extremists—Research—Methodology. | Social movements—Research—Methodology. Classification: LCC HN49.R33 (ebook) | LCC HN49.R33 R47 2019 (print) | DDC 303.48/4072—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018044612 ISBN: 978-1-138-58917-9 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-49182-5 (ebk) Typeset in Times NR MT Pro by Cenveo® Publisher Services

Contents

List of contributors Acknowledgements Researching far-right movements. An introduction 

vii x 1

EMANUELE TOSCANO

1 The specificities of researching evil

13

MICHEL WIEVIORKA

2 “Field observer: Simples.” Finding a place from which to do close-up research on the “far right”

23

HILARY PILKINGTON

3 Rapport, respect, and dissonance: Studying the white power movement in the United States

41

LISA K. WALDNER AND BETTY A. DOBRATZ

4 Rethinking the party, the state and the world: The case of Turkish right-wing nationalist youth in Gezi protests

59

DERYA GÖÇER AKDER AND KÜBRA OĞUZ

5 Reporting the “good deeds” of far-right activists

75

DANIEL BIZEUL

6 The dark side of the field. Doing research on CasaPound in Italy EMANUELE TOSCANO AND DANIELE DI NUNZIO

90

vi  Contents 7 Uncustomary sisterhood: Feminist research in Japanese conservative movements

107

AYAKA SUZUKI

8 Militant far-right royalist groups on Facebook in Thailand. Methodological and ethical challenges of Internet-based research

121

WOLFRAM SCHAFFAR AND NARUEMON THABCHUMPON

Conclusions. Doing research on far-right movements 

140

EMANUELE TOSCANO

Index

146

List of Contributors

Derya Göçer Akder is Assistant Professor in the Program of Area Studies, and the Chair of Middle East Studies Program at the Middle East Technical University, where she teaches courses on Middle East Politics as well as on Research Methods and Design in Area Studies. Her recent publications include, with Zelal Özdemir, “Comparing International Dimensions of Revolutionary Situations: The cases of Egypt 2011 and Turkey 2013”, Journal of Contemporary Central and Eastern Europe, 23:2–3 (2015); and with Marc Herzog, “Turkey and the Arab Spring”, in Larbi Sadiki (ed.), The Routledge Handbook for the Arab Spring (2015). Daniel Bizeul  is Professor of Sociology and member of CRESPPA-CSU (Université Paris 8). Among his publications: Nomades en France. Proximités et clivages (1993); Avec ceux du FN. Un sociologue au Front national (2003); and several contributions on reflexivity in sociological fieldwork. Daniele di Nunzio  is a researcher at Fondazione Di Vittorio in Italy. His studies are focused on social movements and affirmation of subjectivity in the context of precarious living and working conditions. With Emanuele Toscano, he carried out research on the CasaPound far right movement in Italy. Among his publications: Dentro e fuori CasaPound, Capire il fascismo del Terzo Millennio (2011); “Musique et subjectivité dans la nouvelle droite radicale italienne” in E. Grassy et al., Politiques de musiques populaires au XXIeme siecle (2015). Recent researches are focused on workers’ collective actions in work fragmentation. Betty A. Dobratz received her PhD from the University of Wisconsin and is Professor of Sociology at Iowa State University. She is first author of White Power, White Pride! The White Separatist Movement in the U.S., which received book awards from the Marxist section of the American Sociological Association and the North Central Sociological Association. It was one of sixteen sociology books included in Choice’s Outstanding Academic Books list for 1998. Her earlier work focused on contemporary Greek politics, including receipt of a NATO post-doctoral

viii  List of Contributors fellowship. With Lisa Waldner, she co-edited The Sociological Quarterly from 2012–2016. With both Lisa Waldner and Timothy Buzzell, she co-edited five volumes of Research in Political Sociology. Her research interests are on right-wing extremism and political graffiti. Kübra Oğuz  is a PhD candidate at the Department of International Relations at the Middle East Technical University. She worked as a Research Assistant in the Program of Middle East Studies at the same institution, and assisted courses on Middle East Politics. Her research interests include political history of Iran, and social movements in the Middle East, mainly in Iran. Among her recent publications: “Review of The Arab Spring: The End of Postcolonialism, by Hamid Dabashi”, Orta Doğu Etüdleri 6:1 (July 2014). Hilary Pilkington is Professor of Sociology at the University of Manchester. She has a long-standing research interest in youth and youth cultural practices, post-socialist societies, and qualitative, especially, ethnographic, research methods. She has been coordinator of a number of large, collaborative research projects, including the FP7 MYPLACE project (http://www.fp7-myplace.eu), and is a member of the coordinating team of the H2020 PROMISE project. Most recently she is author of Loud and Proud: Politics and Passion in the English Defence League (2016); co-author of Punk in Russia: Cultural Mutation from the ‘Useless’ to the ‘Moronic’ (2014); and co-editor of Radical Futures? Youth, Politics and Activism in Europe (2015). Wolfram Schaffar is Professor of Development Studies and Political Science at the Department of Development Studies, University of Vienna. Prior to this post, he worked at the Department of Southeast Asian Studies, University of Bonn; the Chulalongkorn University, Bangkok; and the Yangon University in Myanmar. Recent publications are: “Citizenship, Rights and Adversarial Legalism in Thailand”, in Henk SchulteNordholt, Laurens Bakker, and Ward Berenschot (eds.), Citizenship and Democratization in Southeast Asia (2016); and, with P. Dannecker, “The Thai-Burmese Borderland: Mobilities, Regimes, Actors and Changing Political Contexts”, Asian Anthropology, 5:2 (2016). Ayaka Suzuki obtained a PhD in sociology from Osaka University in 2016, and is currently Assistant Professor at Osaka University Graduate School of Human Sciences in Japan. She is the author of “The Grass-roots Conservative against Gender Equality: The Case Study of Antifeminism Local Movement in Japan”, Osaka Human Sciences, 3 (2017). Naruemon Thabchumpon  is Assistant Professor of the Department of Government, and Director of the Master of Arts in International Development Studies (MAIDS), Faculty of Political Science of Chulalongkorn University. Her expertise lies in comparative political

List of Contributors ix studies, politics of human rights and development in ASEAN, participatory democracy. Recent publications are, with D. McCargo, “Wreck/Conciliation? The Politics of Truth Commissions in Thailand”, in Journal of East Asian Studies, 14 (2014); and “Contending Political Networks: A Study of the ‘Yellow Shirts’ and ‘Red Shirts’ in Thailand’s Politics”, in Southeast Asian Studies, 5:1 (2016). Emanuele Toscano  is Researcher in Sociology in the Department of Technology, Communication and Society at the Università degli Studi Guglielmo Marconi, Italy. Lisa K. Waldner  is a Professor of Sociology and Associate Dean for the College of Arts and Sciences at the University of St. Thomas in St. Paul, Minnesota, USA. She received her PhD from Iowa State University. Her published research is on a variety of topics, including interpersonal relationship violence, sexual coercion, antigay hate crimes, political graffiti and right-wing extremism. With Betty Dobratz, she co-edited The Sociological Quarterly from 2012–2016; with both Betty Dobratz and Timothy Buzzell, she co-edited five volumes of Research in Political Sociology; and authored Power, Politics and Society (2012), which is currently being revised. Michel Wieviorka has a PhD in Letters and Human Sciences, is full Professor at the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales, and is Chairman of the Executive Board of the Fondation de la Maison des Sciences de l’Homme (FMSH). He was director of the Centre d’Analyse et d’Intervention Sociologiques (CADIS, EHESS-CNRS) from 1993 to 2009, and President of the International Sociological Association from 2006 to 2010. His research has focused on conflict, terrorism and violence, racism, antiSemitism, social movements, democracy and cultural difference. His latest books are: Jews, Muslims and the Republic (2017) and Antiracists (2017).

Acknowledgements

This edited book is the fulfillment of a journey to which I have committed a long period of my academic career. It combines contributions from scholars whom, over the years, I have had the good fortune to meet and discuss the study of the extreme right. My initial thanks go to them, for agreeing to share their knowledge and skills with me. Special thanks go to Daniele di Nunzio, colleague and brotherly friend: discussing, doing research, and working in the field with him are always a source of enrichment and constructive engagement for me. I express my deepest gratitude to those whom, from a theoretical viewpoint, guided, advised, and inspired me without ever asking anything in return: Antimo Farro, Michel Wieviorka, and above all Alain Touraine, true inspirations during my academic training; as well as everyone at CADIS (Centre d’Analyse et D’Intervetion Sociologique) of the EHESS in Paris, my “intellectual” home that has always been a source of inspiration, and place for the exchange of ideas. I thank all my colleagues of the International Sociological Association’s RC47, Social Classes and Social Movements, who enliven the intellectual environment and with whom I discussed these issues. To the presidents of RC47, Henry Lustiger Thaler, Antimo Farro, and Geoffrey Pleyers, my thanks for staying true to the principles of research leadership in guiding me and giving all those opportunities to organize panels and roundtables on the topic of far-right movements; a rather unusual topic for this research committee, but that allowed me to meet and engage with many of the authors present in this volume. Finally, a special thank you to Kevin McDonald, curator of the series hosting this volume, for your invaluable advice and revision work in its preliminary phase. I also thank two editors of Routledge, Neil Jordan and Alice Salt, who, with their expertise and professionalism have assisted and patiently guided me to the realization of the book you hold in your hands. My greatest thanks, at the beginning and end of everything, is to my wife Virginia, for always being there.

Researching far-right movements. An introduction Emanuele Toscano

The first decades of the new millennium have been the scene of a growing global entrenchment of political forces and movements openly inspired by radical and populist right-wing values (Mammone, Godin and Jenkins, 2012; Mudde, 2017). The motivations, causes, and determining variables— economic, social, political—of this growing proliferation are complex and diverse, and open to different interpretations according to the analytical categories used, and the theoretical perspective chosen for analysis. With regard to the Atlantic world (e.g., Europe and the United States), there are essentially three factors that underpin the rise of the far right in recent years: first, the social and economic consequences of the Great Recession that began in 2007 with the subprime crisis in the United States, and the austerity measures imposed by the European institutions to deal with its global effects; second, the escalation of military conflicts, humanitarian crises, and associated migratory phenomena that have fostered the emergence of anti-immigrant speeches and nationalist positions; and finally, the growing insecurity caused by the assertion of an Islamic and radical terrorism which, beginning with the attack on the USA’s Twin Towers and Pentagon on September 11, 2001, has repeatedly and painfully struck the heart of the United States and Europe. Along these lines, in Greece, the far-right party Alba Dorata was the third-largest political force in the Parliamentary elections of September 2015 with 7% of the vote. In Hungary, the far-right movement known as Jobbik became, after the 2014 parliamentary elections, the third-strongest party in the country with 20% of the vote. Marine LePen’s National Front of France obtained 27% of the vote in the 2017 presidential elections, the same percentage obtained by the Eurosceptic and anti-immigration party, Alternative für Deutschland, in the March 2017 German elections. In Austria the candidacy of the nationalist party, Freiheitliche Partei Österreichsœ (FPÖ), gained 35% of the votes in the first round of the presidential elections in April of the same year. Although prominent on the Old Continent, it is not only Europe that is affected by this type of phenomena. In the United States, the victory of the Republican Donald Trump in the November 2016 presidential elections was openly supported by American right-wing white supremacists (Lyons, 2017).

2  Toscano In India, Narendra Modi, leader of the Bharatiya Janata Party (Indian People’s Party), won premiership of the country in 2014 supported by the Hindu nationalist extreme right. The social sciences have not been indifferent to the rise of the far right, particularly in Europe where literary contributions are fuelling, on a large scale, a wide range of topics investigating the causes, rise, and diffusion of these phenomena. Many of these studies, defined as “externalist” by Goodwin (2006), obtained “at a distance” and based on second-level data, have focused mainly on the analysis of the macro-social and macro-political determinants that underlie the success of these parties, organizations, and movements, but give little information on the motivations that drive individuals to take part in far-right initiatives, the recruitment methods, and the individual and collective identity of the activists. Some authors, such as Blee and Creasap (2010), have instead emphasized the need to study these phenomena closely to understand, beyond their relevance in electoral terms, their nature, causes, cultural dimension, and above all the meaning given to the action by the social actors who bring these initiatives to life. Qualitative studies and close-range research (Daniels, 1967) can indeed provide interesting information and a better understanding of the individual motivations that entice individuals to participate in this type of movement, along with greater awareness of the internal functioning of these organizations and the role cultural dimension plays in the meanings far-right activists attribute to their actions. This type of research, which involves direct contact and, more generally, the creation of a relationship with the subject through interviews, the collection of life stories, and participant observation, are—in the academic landscape—much less widespread than those based on publicly available materials and data. This is mainly due to the daunting challenges that characterize this specific field of research, but especially because of possible ideological and political differences between researcher and researched that may constitute a further obstacle to the fulfilment of close-range research. For this reason, the need for greater focus on these phenomena through qualitative and internal analyses (Blee, 2007; Goodwin, 2006) must necessarily be accompanied by focused attention to the equally important ethical and methodological implications related to this field. It is precisely these two questions that form the main objectives of this book. The first is to present, without any pretence of being exhaustive, a review of qualitative studies on the far-right worldwide. These include the study of movements and organizations that are very different in terms of size, orientation, practices, and relationship with violence. They range from single-issue movements such as the English Defence League analyzed by Hilary Pilkington; anti-feminist conservative organizations in Japan presented by Ayaka Suzuki; racist movements and organizations such as the White Power Movement studied by Beth Dobratz and Lisa Waldner in the United States; the nationalist components present in the movements in Gezi Park, Turkey, analyzed by Derya Göçer Akder and Kübra Oğuz;

Researching far-right movements 3 movements operating mainly on the Internet and social networks, as in Thai vigilantes on Facebook, discussed by Wolfram Shaffar and Naruemon Thabchumpon; political parties such as the French National Front studied by Daniel Bizeul; and organizations openly inspired by fascism but with a strong cultural attitude in their actions, as in CasaPound Italia, which I researched together with Daniele di Nunzio. The second objective is to present an analysis surrounding the ethical and methodological issues related to the study of “the evil,” to use Michel Wieviorka’s words in his contribution to this book. The study of the farright through close-range research presents its own difficulties linked to the specific attributes of the subject: the ethical implications and difficulties related to field access, and the relationship between the researcher and the social world he intends to investigate, which is often far from his or her own moral convictions and values.

1.  The problem of definition The first question that a researcher interested in studying the far-right deals with is the problem of definition and what it identifies. Literature defines phenomena and organizations attributable to the same party family (Mudde, 1996) in varying and overlapping terminologies (e.g., extreme right, radical right, extreme radical right, populist right). The term extreme right identifies strongly ideologized subcultures, more complex social movements, and even political parties (Merkl and Weinberg, 2005): a large spectrum of phenomena that share a common ideological matrix, characterized by the rejection of universal rights and social equity in the name of sovereign nationalism, while supporting positions of closure with respect to integration and multiculturalism. These tendencies range from outright biological racism to the differentialist one, in which cultural differences are not regarded hierarchically but rather as something to be safeguarded from the processes of massification and homogenization. There are three predominant reasons for this terminological confusion. According to Mudde (2017), the main one is due to the fact that many of these organizations do not recognize themselves in a specific definition, often rejecting their placement on a mostly obsolete left-right axis. A second reason, in Ignazi’s (2003) opinion, is the simplification given to the term extreme right by the mass media and public opinion, with many among them identifying with these latest phenomena. Finally, the third is the lack of convergence by those studying these phenomena to a unique identifying definition and categorization (Merkl, 2003; Blee and Creasap, 2010). Although offering noteworthy analyses, still much of the existing literature on this topic conceptualizes the definition of extreme right by considering only the political parties (Art, 2011; Carter, 2005; Ignazi, 2003); focus is placed on contextual analysis (Lubbers et al., 2002) by means of analytical perspectives of sociological and political science often

4  Toscano associated with the concept of populist extreme right (Betz, 1994; Mudde, 1996; 2007; and 2017), while eliminating the social movements and subcultures attributed to a wider definition of extreme right. With a greater focus on aspects of macro-social (demand-side and supply-side explanations) (Eatwell, 2003) and meso-social (the study of formal organizations such as political parties) order, these analyses had the goal of providing structural explanations, combining socio-economic and socio-cultural elements such as unemployment, immigration, and the emergence of a culture based on fear and safety (Rydgren, 2007; 2008). However, on the micro-social side, for the majority of time the socio-psychological perspective has been dominant, highlighting the “pathological” traits adherent to far-right movements and organizations, with elements such as ignorance, psychological disorders, and frustration considered distinctive (Allport, 1958; Adorno et al., 1950; Lipset, 1960). In recent years, this latter perspective has been largely abandoned by most scholars who deal with these phenomena (Blee and Creasap, 2010). This edited book contains analyses of phenomena seen as quite different in ways of action and organizational dimension, even if they are all still identifiable by ideological and extreme-right positions. For this reason, I decided to use the term far right to describe them as a whole, inasmuch as it is, as emphasized by Art (2011), an umbrella term under which all phenomena, parties, associations, extra-parliamentary, or subcultural movements that differ from the traditional and moderate right, can be grouped. Art accentuates his reasoning by including an expansive view with respect to this differentiation, highlighting that the radical right “uses a language that the mainstream parties avoid using” (p. 11). I believe this reasoning, which Art himself limits to only political parties, can easily be extended to social movements and subcultures of the extreme right, not only with regard to language but also to modalities of action.

2.  Far-right and social movement studies Though the far right, as argued by Mudde (2017), is the most studied among the political party families, there is conversely a smaller amount (although increasing in recent years) of sociological analysis on this issue, particularly starting from the perspective of social movement studies, especially when compared to the vast literature on progressive social movements oriented on leftist values. Among the most widespread approaches to the study of the far right through social movement–specific categories are certainly those of resource mobilization and political opportunity theories (Caiani et al., 2012; Blee and Creasap, 2010; Virchow, 2017). In this perspective, extreme-right movements are analyzed focusing on the organizational networks and their transnational diffusion (Van Hauwaert, 2018), on a range of collective actions, and on the study of the mobilization strategies in the use of material and

Researching far-right movements 5 immaterial resources to broaden its activist and militant base. Within the theoretical framework of social movement studies, it is worth mentioning the sociology of action approach which, albeit not to the extent of those mentioned previously, has dealt with the extreme right issue mainly through the qualitative empirical work carried out in France (Wieviorka, 1992) and Europe (Wieviorka, 1993) by Michel Wieviorka and his research team. This theoretical approach has never demanded much analysis of far-right movements, largely interpreting them as anti-social movements.1 This definition identifies those forms of collective action that oppose the three characteristics of social movements, according to social action theory—the principles of identity, opposition, and totality (Touraine, 1993)—thereby distorting its scope and making it impossible to integrate them into the structure of collective action. Other studies conducted in the United States and Europe, based on a social movement study perspective and close-range research, have enabled investigation into new and unprecedented aspects of activist participation in far-right movements of this kind, focusing attention on a wide range of characteristics: the cultural aspects and the significance of the collective action; gender differences within them; motivations and individual attribution of meaning given to participation and activism; the individual and collective dimension of identity; differences between the “public” façade and internal dynamics. We see this approach demonstrated in studies such as, to name a few, those carried out on the racist movements of the Ku Klux Klan in the United States (Blee, 1993; 2002; and 2007; Ezekiel, 1995 and 2002), and in organizations and far-right movements in the Netherlands (Linden and Klandermans, 2007), in Scandinavian countries (Bjørgo, 1997), Italy (Di Nunzio and Toscano, 2011), France (Boumaza, 2001), England (Pilkington, 2016), and Germany (Virchow, 2007). These studies are often based on ethnographic approaches and the collection of oral histories of activists, which, in addition to highlighting little-investigated aspects capable of providing a better understanding of these phenomena, also raised ethical and methodological questions related to subject peculiarities.

3. Ethical and methodological implications of research of the extreme right Tackling the study of the far right through close-range research brings with it numerous unique ethical and methodological questions, as well as necessarily requiring study of the researcher-subject relationship in specific far-right contexts, again rarely addressed in social movement research discussions. Clearly, any field of research has peculiarities and specific access complexities, and those who usually do empirical research using a wide range of qualitative methodologies are well aware of the potential difficulties and

6  Toscano perils inherent in every field enquiry. The subjectivity of the researcher and social actors involved also influence this process. As illustrated by Boumaza and Campana (2007), the concept of difficulty as applied to research fieldwork has an extremely subjective connotation, and depends on many individual and relational variables, which do not establish a field of research as difficult, a priori. Starting from these essential considerations, it is also possible, through an analysis of the literature, to highlight two main types of problems necessarily faced by a researcher tackling the study of the far right through both a social movement perspective and a survey methodology based on direct field data collection. The first type is related to close-range field access, within which it is often very difficult to negotiate. Difficulties may arise with the wariness and lack of trust that activists often nurture not only towards researchers (and journalists) but also towards the research process as a whole (Nikolski, 2011). Esseveld and Eyerman (1992), and Boumaza and Campana (2007) show that in addition to a lack of trust there is also a stereotyped prejudice towards the researcher, who is viewed as an outsider and part of the “power system”2 they want no part of. On the contrary, the activists may at the same time have instrumental motivations to participate in a research project, seeing it as an opportunity for visibility and legitimation. In this case, the risks involved are that the underlying negotiations—including that of field access—become compromises themselves (Cefaï and Amiraux, 2002): for instance, the acceptance of excessive limitations imposed by activists on the field researcher’s freedom of movement (prior selection of the subjects to be interviewed and even met; interference with the finished research product and/or which parts of the interviews may be reported) make for an emotionally stressful and extremely difficult research process (Boumaza and Campana, 2007). The second problem is related to the positioning of the researcher in the field, his/her relation to the subject, and the emotional dimension of this relationship. The interest in the researcher-subject relationship has emerged over the last decades, especially from a theoretical point of view, thanks to the growing focus on the sociological aspect of emotion in social movements and its role and importance in the collective action (Goodwin, Jasper and Polletta, 2001). From the methodological point of view, however, much of the progress is due to the establishment of the perspective of feminist studies in social sciences, which changed the nature of the research relationship by shortening the gap between the researcher and the actors involved, and transforming it into an interaction in which the subjective and emotional dimensions are measured (Harding, 1987). Moreover, the diffusion of strong subjectivation-focused research methodologies such as sociological intervention (Touraine, 1993) have contributed to the spread of greater awareness regarding the characteristics of the researcher-subject relationship, as well as on the emotional dynamics of the research process. For the most part,

Researching far-right movements 7 social movement studies have commonly focused on analysing progressive movements inspired by values of emancipation: workers’ movements, civil rights movements, new social movements. The methodologies and research practices based on interaction (interviews, oral histories, participant observation) that work well with this type of movement include, as Blee (2007) points out, an empathetic aspect between researcher and researched, in which the core beliefs and visions of the world are generally and at least partly shared—a methodological bridge that is usually lacking in scholars using qualitative techniques, reflecting specific characteristics needed in the relationship between a researcher and subject who have contrasting values, perspectives, and visions of the world (Esseveld and Eyerman, 1992). The close-range study of the far right involves an analysis of the dynamics and emotional dimension of this relationship, which is rarely seen in the literature (Blee, 1998) and remains little investigated, even though it influences the research process as a whole. Further adding to the difficulties of investigative field access compromises and the problematic researcher-researched relationship, is the negative reputation held by researchers for these social movements and organizations, generally bearers of progressive world visions (Avanza, 2008).

4.  This book As mentioned earlier, this volume examines different situations of empirical research on far-right movements and organizations in different parts of the world, from Europe, to the United States, to Asia. In their diversity, they share three analytical elements that constitute the supporting axis, the skeleton, of this book. The first concerns the subject, recognized by various far-right attributes—not necessarily a political party, but also a movement and subculture inspired by far-right tendencies. The second is of a methodological nature: having dealt with and analyzed this type of phenomena through close-range research methodology. Finally, the third concerns the ethical and reflexive dimension of one’s own research and position in the researcher-subject dynamic. In this way, I wanted to try to articulate a multi-voice analysis that took into consideration different worlds and social realities related to the far right, studied “up-close” and with precise categories and that are compared in the issues of ethical guidelines and methodologies presented in the preceding sections, while trying at the same time to provide possible answers and solutions to these questions that are still rarely addressed. The opening contribution of Michel Wieviorka introduces the theoretical questions concerning the role and relationship of the researcher with respect to the subject, the axiological neutrality of the understanding produced, and how the study of evil problematizes these aspects, in terms of both theoretical and methodological analysis. Wieviorka in fact begins with an important consideration: good and evil3 are never separated and

8  Toscano always coexist, often affecting each other; it is therefore necessary to overcome the barriers and fragmentations among those studying social and cultural movements inspired by progressive values and emancipation, and those studying the right, so as to build a common sociological perspective. Starting from his own empirical research on terrorism, racism, and violence, Wieviorka questions the methodological issue of the researcher-study field relationship, presenting two potential mistakes that should be avoided in field access investigation and negotiation: too great of a separation, and disproportionate blending. The coexistence between good and evil highlighted by Wieviorka is a factor that emerges in many of the contributions in this book, sometimes unexpectedly, as in that presented by Derya Göçer Akder and Kübra Oğuz among young Turkish nationalists at the core of the events of Gezi Park in Turkey. The two scholars show, through a close-range methodological choice, two distinct aspects: the unusual localisation of the radical Turkish nationalist right in the Gezi Protest, and the discourses and meanings attributed by the militants to their individual and collective actions in a movement of government resistance, becoming part of an international perspective (known as the “Mediterranean Spring”). Conversely, this coexistence between good and evil is what drives the question put forth by Daniel Bizeul, the ethical dilemma of the researcher in the face of “positive” behaviors and good deeds performed by racist and sectarian activists, such as his reports from National Front militants in France. Even a very radical right-wing activist may have the opportunity to act in a just or generous manner, and Bizeul particularly questions how to report and document, objectively and without bias, this type of behavior in his own research, while at the same time not justifying the political action as a whole. The problems of negotiation and field access; the management of emotions and stress in the course of fieldwork; and the relationship between research desire and researcher security are explored in-depth, among other issues, in the contribution from Dobratz and Waldner. Based on a long-term study of the supremacists and racists of the White Power Movement in the United States, the analysis focuses on the characteristics with which this specific fieldwork is presented to those who want to conduct close-range research, and highlights—starting from the direct experience of the two researchers—the strategies adopted to negotiate access, maintain field presence, and manage tensions and difficulties. Other contributions, by analysing the far right in different contexts, delve into specific aspects of field access, and the complex dynamics of forming the foundation of a relationship of trust with one’s own subject, clearly problematic at its base. Like Geertz with his anecdote of the cockfight in Bali,4 Hilary Pilkington highlights in her contribution how the role of observer was ascribed and recognized by the group observed (The English Defence League in England) only after sharing a common

Researching far-right movements 9 experience with them, continuing with how the creation of a research relationship based on trust and respect does not undermine the axiological neutrality of the research. Similar stances regarding the researcher’s role and the need to build a relationship of mutual trust and respect— even in fieldwork with distasteful movements—are also supported in the contribution from me and Daniele di Nunzio, in which we report some results of close-range research conducted on the far-right organization CasaPound Italia. The contribution also highlights the value close-range far-right research brings, and therefore allows for the exploration of the cultural dimension of far-right movements and organization actions: an example of this is the importance CasaPound Italia attributes to music to strengthen the group’s identity, recruit new potential militants, financially support the movement, and spread material. The ways in which a close-range approach to the action is useful in bringing out the cultural dimensions are also discussed in the contribution of Ayaka Suzuki, who describes her research experience with women activists of a Japanese nationalist and conservative organization. Suzuki problematizes the methodological dimension by reflecting on her chosen approach, that of customary feminist research. This enabled her to underscore the specific characteristics of female participation in this organization, and to reflect on how the methodological choices she made, along with the gender aspect (her being a woman), influenced not only field access negotiations but also the management and fulfilment of the study. Finally, but certainly not least, there is the contribution of Shaffar and Thabchumpon, in which an Internet-based research experience is presented on militant far-right royalist groups in Thailand on Facebook. This contribution shows further peculiarities and problems inherent in research on far-right movements and organizations, and, more generally, in conducting research via social network platforms such as Facebook and the ethical privacy implications this type of study entails.

Notes 1. For a detailed analysis of the concept of the anti-social movement and to grasp its evolution, see Touraine, 1993 (pp. 11–28), and 1997 (pp. 127–133); Wieviorka, 1988 (pp. 17–20), 1991 (pp. 155–157), and 2005 (pp. 15–18). 2. Esseveld and Eyerman (1992) also affirm that this criticism (common to many fields of research and certainly not only in far-right movements) is often faced by the research activists’ active involvement at varying levels of possibility, but also raises other ethical role-boundary issues that can generally be resolved by the same activists’ involvement, but which at the same time generates other ethical and methodological questions regarding involvement limits and process interference. This latter issue becomes more complex when it comes to activists of far-right movements. 3. The categories of good and evil are not used in religious or metaphysical terms, but as the recognition and negation of the subjectivity and humanity of an individual or group by others (cfr. Wieviorka’s chapter in this book).

10  Toscano 4. In his famous work, Interpretation of Cultures (1987), anthropologist Clifford Geertz recounted a story which occurred during a time of participant observation in the Southeast Asian island of Bali. Having been involved, with his wife, in an (illegal) cockfight, he decided to evade the police and run—along with all the Balinese present—rather than stay, explain, and avoid possible arrest. By doing this, he shared a common experience with them, hence becoming recognized by the community by virtue of being a participant observer.

References Allport, G.W. (1958). The nature of prejudice. New York: Knopf Doubleday. Adorno, T.W., Frenkel-Brunswik, E., Levinson, D., and Sanford N. (1950). The Authoritarian Personality. New York: Harper & Brothers. Art, D. (2011). Inside the Radical Right. The Development of Anti-immigrant parties in Western Countries. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Avanza, M. (2008). Comment faire de l’ethnographie quand on n’aime pas « ses indigènes »: Une enquête au sein d’un mouvement xénophobe. In A. Bensa and D. Fassin, eds., Les politiques de l’enquête. Paris: La Découverte, pp. 41–58. Betz, H.G. (1994). Radical Right-Wing Populism in Western Europe. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Bjørgo, T. (1997). Racist and right-wing violence in Scandinavia: Patterns, perpetrators, and responses. Leiden: University of Leiden. Blee, K.M. (1993). Evidence, Empathy, and Ethics: Lessons from Oral Histories of the Klan. The Journal of American History, 80(2), pp. 596–606. Blee, K.M. (1998). White-Knuckle Research: Emotional Dynamics in Fieldwork with Racist Activists. Qualitative Sociology, 21(4), pp. 381–399. Blee, K.M. (2002). Inside Organised Racism: Women in the Hate Movement. Berkeley: University of California Press. Blee, K.M. (2007). Ethnographies of the Far Right. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 36(2), pp. 119–128. Blee, K.M. and Creasap, K.A. (2010). Conservative and Right-Wing Movements. Annual Review of Sociology, 36(1), pp. 269–286. Boumaza, M. (2001). L’experience d’une jeune chercheuse en “Milieu extreme”. Regards Sociologiques, (22), pp. 105–121. Boumaza, M. and Campana, A. (2007). Enquêter en milieu « difficile ». Revue française de science politique, 57(1), pp. 5–22. Caiani, M., Della Porta, D. and Wagemann, C. (2012). Mobilizing on the Extreme Right. Germany, Italy and the United States. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Carter, E. (2005). The Extreme Right in Western Europe: Success or Failure? Manchester: Manchester University Press. Cefaï, D. and Amiraux, V. (2002). Les risques du métier. Engagements problématiques en sciences sociales. Partie 1. Cultures & Conflits, (47), pp. 1–13. Daniels, A.K. (1967). The Low-Caste Stranger in Social Research. In G. Sjoberg, ed., Ethics, Politics and Social Research. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Di Nunzio, D. and Toscano, E. (2011). Dentro e fuori CasaPound. Capire il fascismo del Terzo Millennio. Roma: Armando Editore. Eatwell, R. (2003). Ten Theories of the Extreme Right. In P. H. Merkl and L. Weinberg, eds., Right-Wing Extremism in the Twenty-First Century, pp. 45–70. London and Portland: Frank Cass.

Researching far-right movements 11 Esseveld, J. and Eyerman, R. (1992). Which Side Are You On? Reflections on Methodological Issues in the Study of “Distateful” Social Movements. In M. Diani and R. Eyerman, eds., Studying Collective Action, pp. 217–237. Ezekiel, R.S. (1995). The Racist Mind: Portraits of American Neo- Nazis and Klansmen. New York: Penguins Books. Ezekiel, R.S. (2002). An Ethnographer Looks at Neo-Nazi and Klan Groups. American Behavioral Scientist, 46(1), pp. 51–71. Geertz, C. (1973). The interpretation of cultures. New York: Basic Books. Goodwin, J., Jasper, J.M., and Polletta, F. (2001). Passionate Politics. Emotions and Social Movements. Chicago, University of Chicago Press. Goodwin, M.J. (2006). The rise and faults of the internalist perspective in extreme right studies. Representations, 42(4), pp. 347–64. Harding, S. (1987). Feminism and Methodology, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press. Ignazi, P. (2003). Extreme Right Parties in Western Europe. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Linden, A. and Klandermans, B. (2007). Revolutionaries, Wanderers, Converts, and Compliants. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 36(2), pp. 184–201. Lipset, S.M. (1960). Political Man. The Social Basis of Politics. New York: Doubleday & Co. Lyons, M.N. (2017). Ctrl-Alt-Delete. The origins and ideology of the Alternative Right. Political Research Associates [online]. Available at: https://www.politicalresearch.org/wp-content/uploads/2017/01/Lyons_CtrlAltDelete_PRINT.pdf. (accessed 10 January 2018). Lubbers, M., Gijsberts, M. and Scheepers, P. (2002). Extreme right-wing voting in Western Europe. European Journal of Political Research, 41, pp. 345–378. Mammone, A., Godin E., and Jenkins B., eds. (2012). Mapping the extreme right in contemporary Europe. From local to transnational, London and New York: Routledge. Merkl, P.H. (2003). Stronger than Ever. In P.H. Merkl and L. Weinberg, eds., RightWing Extremism in the Twenty-First Century. London and Portland: Frank Cass, pp. 21–43. Mudde, C. (1996). The war of words defining the extreme right party family. West European Politics, 19(2), pp. 225–248. Mudde, C. (2007). Populist Radical Right Parties in Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mudde, C., ed. (2017). The Populist Radical Right. A Reader. London & New York: Routledge. Nikolski, V. (2011). La valeur heuristique de l’empathie dans l’étude des engagements « répugnants ». Genèses, 84(3), pp. 113–126. Pilkington, H. (2016). Loud and proud. Passion and politics in the English Defence League. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Rydgren, J. (2007). The Sociology of the Radical Right. Annual Review of Sociology, 33, pp. 241–262. Rydgren, J. (2008). Immigration sceptics, xenophobes or racists? Radical right-wing voting in six West European countries. European Journal of Political Research, 47(6), pp. 737–765. Touraine, A. (1993). Le voix et le regard, Paris: Édition de Seuil. (1st ed. 1978). Touraine, A. (1997). Pourrons-nous vivre ensemble? Égaux et differents. Paris: Fayard.

12  Toscano Van Hauwaert, S.M. (2018). On far-right parties, master frames and trans-national diffusion: understanding far right party development in Western Europe. Comparative European Politics, pp. 1–23. https://doi.org/10.1057/s41295-017-0112-z Virchow, F. (2007). Performance, Emotion, and Ideology. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 36(2), pp. 147–164. Virchow, F. (2017). Post-Fascist Right-Wing Social Movements. In S. Berger and H. Nehring, eds., The History of Social Movements in Global Perspective. London: Palgrave Macmillan UK, pp. 619–646. Wieviorka, M. (1988) Sociétés et terrorisme. Paris: Fayard. Wieviorka, M. (1991). L’espace du racisme, Paris: Fayard. Wieviorka, M., ed. (1992). La France raciste. Paris: Édition de Seuil. Wieviorka, M., ed. (1993). Racisme et xénophobie en Europe. Une comparaison internationale. Paris: La Decouverte. Wieviorka, M. (2005). After New Social Movements. Social Movement Studies, 4(1), pp. 1–19.

1

The specificities of researching evil Michel Wieviorka

1.1  Value neutrality The first of these problems is that of the neutrality of the researcher. Since Max Weber, with the popularization, first in the United States, post-World War Two, of the term “value neutrality” (in German, Wertfreiheit, which could be translated as freedom in relation to values), two principal positions have been the subject of heated debates. Both share the view that the choice of research topic, general theoretical orientations, method adopted and type of intervention of the scholar in public discussion are not neutral; rather, they depend on the subjectivity of the researcher. However, some—occasionally on the basis of Antonio Gramsci’s (1975) analyses (in the Quaderni del carcere n°10 in particular)—consider that the viewpoint of the researcher necessarily combines, or should combine, ethics and politics with scientific work. This approach does not differentiate between involvement in the production of knowledge and knowledge produced, seen as the outcome of one and the same practice. In contrast, others, more Max Weber’s perspective as developed in his well-known lecture on Politics as a Vocation (1919), endeavor to separate these two registers, demonstrating a degree of detachment, a capacity for considering their relationship to their object, of being able to distinguish between a possible involvement and a scientific statement. The first of these approaches may lead to scientific production being transformed into ideological discourse, or justification (or its opposite, into blame, which results in the same thing); there is no lack of terms to describe the excesses to which this can lead. These include “guard dogs” or “organic intellectuals”, for example. The second approach, which takes a Gramscian perspective, may seem to be something of an illusion, as the researchers consider themselves to be neutral because they are endeavoring to detach themselves from the realities which they study, as if it were actually possible to be external to one’s object. They do not realize that they are de facto guard dogs or organic intellectuals.

14  Wieviorka

1.2  “Value neutrality” and evil The discussion on this issue has long been intense, but with the introduction of the theme of evil, there have been significant changes. Those who do not believe in the neutrality of the researcher usually claim to adhere to a school of critical thinking which tends to side with the dominated, the poor, the working class and the excluded. They are to be found in particular amongst Marxist thinkers, in all their varieties. When Weber developed his idea of Wertfreiheit (value-free), it was specifically in opposition to the Marxism of the period. Their main argument, in summary, consists in stating that “value neutrality” is ignorant of the real world, and its conflicts or contradictions, by locating themselves, as they believe, above all that. Consequently, they do not denounce domination, exclusion or exploitation and, in the last resort, are unwittingly at the service of the established order. These academics and researchers of the critical thinking school see themselves on the side of the forces of good. They would like to make their contribution to combating oppression in all its forms. But this argument appears to lose a good deal of its strength when the issue is one of producing knowledge about the forces of evil, and not about the forces of good, whether social movements, the proletariat or oppressed nations. Can the researcher who is interested in racism, terrorism or what I, along with Alain Touraine, have termed social anti-movements (Wieviorka, 2008), do so by denouncing his or her object, by combating it? It is possible to form a relationship with people who are oppressed, workers struggling for rights, nationalist militants, or to speak to some extent in their name. But what happens when we are dealing with murderers, racists or terrorists? Here the relationship to the object in terms of values can only be reversed, but that makes the production of knowledge difficult, much more so than when the issue concerns the forces of good. Usually, in the sociology hostile to the principle of “value neutrality”, which we shall refer to here as critical sociology (we do not restrict the use of this term to those schools of thought which explicitly claim to speak in its name, in particular the Frankfurt School), when the decision is taken to work on evil, there is a further weakness. This is due to the fact that, in practice, good and evil often co-exist, or that evil may even originate in good. Consequently, the researcher is in considerable difficulty if he or she has not chosen to remain neutral in relation to the actors and object of study. For example, the concept of the working-class movement can be associated with the forces of good; it is the salt of the earth and, in the words of Marx and Engels (1848), its emancipation will liberate humanity as a whole: “Proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win.” But in my capacity as a researcher who, along with Alain Touraine, directed a long and demanding research study at the beginning of the 1980s on the working-class movement in France (Touraine et al., 1984), and who subsequently studied Solidarnosc in Poland (Touraine et al., 1982; Wieviorka, 1984),

Specificities of researching evil 15 the reader will permit me to say that the same working-class struggle can, in certain contexts, adopt crisis-type behaviors, including dimensions of racism (or anti-Semitism), and be tempted by violence or betrayal. I would like to quote here the words of the wonderful trade-unionist to whom our book is dedicated. One day he exclaimed, “The working-class movement is a bitch” (in French putain). Similarly, Solidarnosc, in its brief legal existence was, as from summer 1981, caught up in dynamics of decomposition linked to a wider context of economic crisis and political blockage. In our research, we witnessed the emergence of people claiming to be “true Poles”, that is, nationalists with significant anti-Semitic elements. Actual struggles always combine all sorts of meanings and, amongst them, some may slip into forms which fall under the heading of evil. The value-“neutral” sociologist may indeed undertake an analytical deconstruction to understand the various component elements of the action and the way in which they interact, but the critical sociologist will only encounter difficulties. Critical sociology must, to be understood, state what is good and what is evil, whereas the principle of “value neutrality” enables facts to be distinguished from values or values to be treated as facts. This is essential when it comes to dealing with evil. I will illustrate my point of view with the example of terrorism. Since the 1970s, it has become commonplace to find in many articles, books and lectures devoted to terrorism, the remark that it is impossible to propose a definition or a concept thereof, because the person some consider to be a terrorist is regarded by others as a freedom fighter or a resistant. What some consider to be an absolute evil, others consider to be a positive element. In an effort to resolve this contradiction, even though at the same time terrorism was my research subject (and had been for some ten years!), I endeavored to focus on two dimensions which are central to the phenomenon and to combine them. On one hand, terrorism is an instrumental action with its principal characteristic being the mobilization of very limited resources to achieve what is hoped will be a maximum impact—a gunshot, a knife wound, a bomb, even if home-made—to bring down a political regime, for example, or else a minimal organization to confront a whole State. On the other hand, terrorism necessarily includes a rationale of loss of meaning. It is all the more operational and deadly as its protagonist speaks in an increasingly artificial manner in the name of a social representation, such as a class, a nation or a people which, however, in no way recognizes itself in the protagonists’ actions. Discussion of these two elements could take us very far since today the Islamist terrorist is often a martyr whose life cannot be reduced to a mere resource, and there are strong currents of resonance to such radicalism all over the world. However, a value-“neutral” sociology does not need to display its own values at the outset to analyze such a phenomenon. Furthermore, this does not mean to say that there is no intention of countering it but—and this is not the same thing—the time for the production of knowledge is not necessarily

16  Wieviorka the time for the criticism of values. I have also learned a lesson from this research. If good and evil are frequently found together in concrete action, if good can leave the way open to evil, and if, over and above this type of observation, evil is not a metaphysical or religious category in the social sciences, but is the negation or denial of the subjectivity or humanity by one individual or group in respect to others, then research should avoid over-strict compartmentalization. If not, the outcome is that those who study the good, social or cultural movements, the struggle for democracy or for human rights, belong to a different scientific or intellectual world from those who concentrate on extreme forms of violence, on terrorism or on racism. In the present-day humanities and social sciences, the tendency to hyper-specialization and to the confinement of each individual in a niche of specialization is strong. I am therefore advocating that we should resist this trend and develop both theoretical work and empirical studies to overcome this separation.

1.3 Fieldwork In the social sciences there is a wide range of methods to choose from in addressing research topics. Some do not require any actual contact with the actors involved. The researcher works on the basis of documents available or which he or she has patiently assembled, whether archives, texts accessible in libraries, reports of parliamentary commissions, statistical data provided by public or private administrations or organizations, etc. In the digital age, the researcher has access to all sorts of information and documents which increase the number of possible sources, and the most innovative minds happily employ Internet, YouTube or social media, thus producing innovative forms of knowledge. One recent example of this, which concerns a form of evil, is Nathalie Paton’s research on school shooting (Paton, 2015). My approach is that of a researcher who, while never neglecting this type of source, has always had a preference for fieldwork, including when tackling evil directly. Throughout the 1980s, I researched terrorism, then racism, anti-Semitism and more generally, violence, in particular that of riots, as well as extreme-right and nationalist populism. When doing such fieldwork, unless one uses some form of disguise, it is not easy for a researcher to meet active protagonists of evil. They are not in the slightest interested in speaking to a sociologist and usually despise intellectuals and research. This is why some researchers, and more often journalists, conceal their identity, in particular to facilitate participant observation; for example, within a terrorist group or when on the premises of an extreme-right party. But this poses a problem. How can one create a relation of confidence with actors of this type, knowing that it will be shattered the day when some publication reveals the reality? Is it ethically acceptable to not show one’s hand, so to speak, to observe and question actors without them knowing that the aim is

Specificities of researching evil 17 to produce knowledge about them? This question is all the more important because there is a strong tendency, primarily in English-speaking countries, to require that researchers request written consent from the people they interview as part of academic research. Can the researcher live a double life in which he or she hides their identity without being affected, or implementing skills (if only relational) which are going to affect their findings and also perhaps their own personality? In the specialized literature on terrorism, we sometimes see a reference to “Stockholm syndrome”, from the name of the town where, in a bank holdup in 1973, the employees were held as hostages when the police intervened. After six days, the bandit freed them; not only did they refuse to testify against him but one of the hostages fell in love with him. While I would not like to claim that the technique of participant observation, when not correctly implemented, may lend itself to this type of identification, it does seem to me that the humanities and social sciences could only gain from analyzing the possible issues at stake for an observer who participates in the life of a group under the influence of evil during a long period of time. In other cases, actors may have an interest in meeting a researcher. At the end of the 1980s, the leader of the main group of “skinheads” in France, who was known under the pseudonym of Batskin, agreed to participate in a sociological intervention which I had set up. This acceptance led to another ten or so “skinheads” following in his wake. He saw this as an opportunity to make himself better known and to popularize his ideas (Wieviorka, 1992). In contrast, a few years earlier, an Italian terrorist from the extreme Left, a refugee in Paris (like hundreds of others at the time) and who, I had been told, had played an important role in the kidnapping of Aldo Moro, agreed to meet me. He fixed an appointment with me in a very smart Paris tearoom at 5pm. At the time, I was setting up a group for a sociological intervention with actors who had been involved in terrorism in the past, the aim being to get them to analyze the phenomenon. The conversation was pleasant, but brief: “You want me to participate in your research”, he said. “There are only two things which could interest me: money and politics. Money—well, you don’t have any to give me, and politically, I don’t see what I could get out of this sort of participation…”. I never saw him again. There is a further possibility, which is to interview terrorists or persons involved in any other criminal activity when they are in prison; they may have a degree of interest therein and endeavor to instrumentalize their acceptance to talk to a sociologist. Personally, I have always refused to request interviews with people in prison whose freedom of speech, in my opinion, is restricted. Doing research in the field with actors whom the researcher associates with evil is only possible—without concealing one’s identity—if the actors have not totally broken with universal values and reason, and if they accept an exchange of views. This happens very frequently. The researcher can get

18  Wieviorka quite close to the edge of the volcano of terrorism, rampant anti-Semitism and racism. In the first instance, it is relatively easy to meet those who have changed, for example, those who have abandoned the armed struggle. The same also applies to those who have decided to continue the fight politically and ideologically and to avoid paths leading to illegality and clandestinity, or who hesitate to do so. The researcher who intends to do fieldwork with actors of this sort must do a tightrope act because he or she must state clearly who they are. In any event, this is my position. I have always introduced myself as being a sociologist and, as such, have gained the confidence of people, including leaders, who intend to be treated with respect. The researcher quickly learns to use a vocabulary acceptable to them, to speak of the armed struggle and not of terrorism, and problems of immigration rather than of racism, for example. But what impact will the research have on these actors who accept to participate, as I have observed over numerous sociological interventions, in particular with “terrorists” and “racists”?

1.4  The impact of the research on the actors The researcher who studies the actors involved in the struggles of a social movement, in a fight for democracy or for human rights, may hope that their research could be useful for these actors. If, like myself, they are on the side of “value neutrality” as defined by Max Weber (1919), and if they believe, as I do, that society is transformed as a result of conflicts and struggles, they may think that their research is going to raise the capacity for analysis amongst the actors involved, and on this basis increase their capacity for action. If the researcher is very optimistic, he or she may even consider that their research could make a contribution to raising the level of analysis and thereby of the action of society on itself. But what happens when the research focuses on the study of evil or when research encounters evil even when working with actors who appear on the side of good, who promote social movements or who fight for democracy, etc.? The researcher cannot wish to raise the capacity for analysis and consequently for action of those who promote evil! But, in the first instance— and this was always my intention—he or she can endeavor to contribute to helping the actors to turn away from evil, to find a way out of terrorism for example, or to expedite the process if a beginning has been made. The researcher can also contribute to ensuring that those who initiate, for example, racist or anti-Semitic violence or hatred, become capable of understanding the sources of their racism or violence. They will then be in a position to consider other possible rationales of action than those they are envisaging. Here we must be careful to avoid any naivete of the “beautiful soul” in the words of Hegel (1807). If a higher capacity for analysis is to have this type of effect on the actors, favorable conditions and an environment

Specificities of researching evil 19 conducive thereto are required. Some of these must be an integral part of the research procedure. I would like to share an example of what can happen if nothing has been planned in this respect; it often comes back to me and I very much regret it. At the beginning of the 1990s when I launched my research program on racism, I organized a sociological intervention in the French city of Roubaix. Along with a small team of sociologists, we set up a group of roughly a dozen residents from working-class areas—areas usually referred to in French as les banlieues. We knew, in particular through social workers, that the participants were to some extent racist. This group, which was to consider the problems posed by immigration, in the course of about a dozen sessions, started by meeting various people including a member of the European Parliament from the Front national, a socialist MP, the leader of an association, the mayor of the town and three young beurs (young people of North African immigrant background). The participants then began their discussions with the researchers, presenting them an analysis of their racism. To begin with, the group considered this; some of its members, along with the researchers, co-produced with them a theory of racism which demonstrated a very distinct evolution in the direction of a refusal of hatred and contempt. But in the last hours of the research, in the course of a long evening session, these same participants suddenly reversed this image and the researchers, utterly astonished, were subjected to a profusion of racist remarks against a background of the break-up of the group and coarse laughter. The racism had become much more virulent even though the research had enabled members of the group to analyze its sources, which were mainly socio-economic. How should we make sense of this? My interpretation is the following. It is useless and perhaps even counter-productive to put the actors in a position of analyzing their situation if the research does not provide for a review of their material situation and the eventual possibilities for changing it. Here, the research team had created the conditions for the analysis. They had then gone back to Paris and left the members of the group to return to their everyday life, which meant back to poverty, difficulties of all sorts and neglect. The members of the group had acquired a better understanding of their misfortune and had indeed contributed to constructing the analysis. But the research had not provided any solution or perspective, which only made their resentment keener. The conclusion which I drew from this experience is that as a general rule, it is imperative to include in fieldwork some concern to return with the actors to the analysis of their situation. Consideration must be given to the conditions which would enable them to transform the analysis into action there where they live, for example, through social workers, leaders of associations and elected members. If this is not done, the research may actually exacerbate tensions and reinforce negative behavior.

20  Wieviorka

1.5  The more indirect and general effects of research on evil Researchers sometimes imagine that they only have to publish their work to have a direct influence on the way things go and in particular on policy-making. My experience is quite the contrary, because I have met a great many political leaders, often had lively, confident, demanding and friendly discussions with them, but they have never really taken my analyses into consideration. The publication of research on evil can lead to a better understanding and at least contribute to public debate. A good research study will attract the attention of the media, leaders of associations, politicians, professionals in social work or in the field of justice, trade unionists, etc. But it will not prevent specific forms of evil from prospering or developing to the point that the major media are often criticized for giving too much attention or coverage to extreme-right protagonists and, thereby, providing them with a platform. I have not often had the opportunity of seeing my work directly influencing the action of political or institutional leaders; at most, two examples come to mind. The first concerns terrorism. In 1988, I published the findings of almost ten years of research (Wieviorka, 1988). My research was pioneering in that it was based on a long period of fieldwork, but the public authorities showed little interest. In contrast, an important French humanitarian organization, known for its distinctly left-wing positions, got hold of it. I only learned a few years later that, as a result, they stopped supporting some protagonists who resorted to the armed struggle. My book was translated into Spanish, and in Mexico I learned that on the basis of my analysis, the Party of the Democratic Revolution, the main left-wing force, had decided not to support a guerrilla group which had requested its backing. The second example is in France. At the end of the 1990s, I directed a research program on urban violence and some of my conclusions were of very direct interest to the RATP (Réseau Autonome des Transports Publics), the company in charge of public transport (bus and underground) in the Paris Region, which had commissioned and financed my study (Wieviorka, 1999). The RATP offered to pay a researcher from my team for a few months to enable him or her to circulate our findings internally, which was exceptional. I learned, once again some time later, that we had had a tangible impact. Amongst other aspects, the research had shown that the violence of young people in poor working-class areas, who for example threatened the RATP bus drivers by throwing stones at them or attacking them with baseball bats, was associated with a feeling of being confined to the banlieus and of not being able to go anywhere apart from the journey from home to school and back again. They also considered that the monthly travel card and the tickets were too expensive. Our research gave the management food for thought and was at the origin of the “Imagine R” travel card, which

Specificities of researching evil 21 enables schoolchildren and students to travel anywhere on the RATP for a low fixed monthly fee. But apart from these somewhat rare and limited findings, I am rather at a loss as to what the general impact of research on evil might be. At the outset, it must be stated that the greater the evil, the less the space for research. Terrorism can serve as an illustration of this remark. When terrorism is non-existent, or when it is infrequent, research is of little interest to public opinion and even less so to the media and political leaders. When it is very prevalent, and particularly deadly, it is much worse because the authorities are tempted to monopolize what is known about the phenomenon; it becomes primarily a question of repression, war and police intelligence. Thus, the day after the terrorist attacks on 13 November 2015 in Paris, the Prime Minister, Manuel Valls, chose to state that, in this respect, “any explanation was merely a form of justification”. These remarks rightly aroused the indignation of researchers in general. The humanities and social sciences have a large contribution to make in matters of gaining a knowledge and understanding of evil. As we see in all authoritarian or dictatorial regimes, these fields of study are threatened whenever democracy is challenged; this is also the case when market forces prevail and with them, the idea that the knowledge provided by these disciplines serves no purpose. The humanities and social sciences cannot avoid the consideration of their impact and social utility. In my opinion, when it comes to community life in general, there are two extremes in attitude which should be rejected. The first consists, in the name of science, in taking the maximum distance both from the actors involved and any others, on the grounds that scientific discussion is only between scientifics. The second, in contrast, results in merging analysis and action, for example, by transforming the researcher into a consultant in the service of a political power or counter-power. It is up to us to navigate between these two extremes; we must learn to articulate the production of knowledge and its dissemination, analysis and action. In so doing, we must be careful not to confuse roles; we must avoid the transformation of the researcher into an actor, or the political leader or association, trade-union or any other leader into a researcher. Instead, we must create the conditions for dialog and exchange, in which the analysis casts valuable light on the action, leaving the actor free to appropriate what they think fit.

References Gramsci, A. (1975). Quaderni del carcere. Volume secondo, Quaderni 6 (VIII) – 11(XVIII). Edizione critica dell’Istituto Gramsci. Torino: Einaudi. Hegel, G.W.F. (1991). Phénoménologie de l’Esprit. Translated by Jean-Pierre Lefebvre. Paris: Aubier. Marx, K. and Engels, F. (1969). Selected Works, Vol. One. Moscow: Progress Publishers, pp. 98–137.

22  Wieviorka Paton, N. (2015). School Shooting. Paris: Éd. de la MSH. Touraine, A., Wieviorka, M. and Dubet, F. (1984). Le mouvement ouvrier. Paris: Fayard. Touraine, A., Wieviorka, M., Dubet, F. and Strzelecki, J. (1982). Solidarité. Paris: Fayard. Weber, M. (1919). Le savant et le politique. (Préface, traductionet notes de Catherine Colliot-Thélène). 2003. Paris: La Découverte. Wieviorka, M. (1984). Les Juifs, la Pologne et Solidarnosc. Paris: Denoël. Wieviorka, M. (1988). Sociétés et terrorisme. Paris: Fayard. Wieviorka, M., ed. (1992). La France raciste. Paris: Seuil. Wieviorka, M., ed. (1999). Violence in France. Paris: Seuil. Wieviorka, M. (2008). Neufleçons de sociologie. Paris: Robert Laffont.

2

“Field observer: Simples.” Finding a place from which to do close-up research on the “far right” Hilary Pilkington

2.1 Introduction In late November 2013, I met up with Jack1 and Kurt, two English Defence League (EDL) activists, in a city center pub. The meeting was an informal affair arranged to say goodbye to Jack, who was soon to start a 36-month prison sentence for “violent disorder” (committed at an EDL demonstration in Walsall in September 2012). I had sat through the trial with him and wanted to talk a final time before his sentence began. It was also meant to be a farewell to me; I had spent more than a year longer in the field than intended, and I had warned key respondents that I would no longer be going regularly to demonstrations and events with them. As it turned out, it was almost another two years before I finally managed to withdraw. Still, on that night, it felt like the end of an era and Kurt had prepared going-away presents for us both. For Jack, Kurt had turned his old prison phone card into a key ring, inscribed with Jack’s name. Symbolically, it linked their fates, although Jack appeared somewhat offended by the gift; a reflection perhaps of the lack of ownership of his conviction for an offence to which he had pleaded not guilty. Kurt’s present for me was an army-style dog tag inscribed with my name, an invented ID number and status description as “Field observer” (see Figure 2.1.). I was touched by this expression of my withdrawal from the field and struck by the straightforward understanding of the position I had taken up while researching the EDL. At this point, I had been travelling with movement activists to marches, attending meetings and informal events for around 18 months, and had interviewed more than 30 people in the movement. I had struggled with my own feelings about the research and been required, on a number of occasions, to justify my decision to undertake such close-up research with activists in what is widely perceived to be a far right2 and racist movement. Receiving Kurt’s gift made me ask, if our position in the field is “simples” to our research subjects, why do we as researchers find it so difficult to find a place to do close-up research on the far right?

24  Pilkington

Figure 2.1  The researcher’s position from a respondent’s viewing point: “Field observer”. Source:  Photo by Hilary Pilkington

2.2  Close-up research on the far right: Can’t do or won’t do? Social researchers are uncomfortable studying actors on the far right. A lack of sympathy towards members of these groups has led to research findings being cloaked in “a tone of universal disapproval” (Fielding, 1981, p. 15). There is a wider problem with ethnographic research on groups or individuals that are “distasteful,” that is, those “with whom the researcher shares neither political orientation nor way of life, and whose politics and/or way of life are found objectionable” (Esseveld and Eyerman, 1992, p. 217). However, while there is extensive literature on other such groups—substance users, sex workers or criminal gangs, for example—sustained engagement with farright activists for the purposes of academic study remains rare (exceptions include: Billig, 1978; Fielding, 1981; Ezekiel, 1995, 2002; Blee, 2002; Simi and Futrell, 2010; Pilkington et al., 2010; Di Nunzio and Toscano, 2014; Busher, 2015; Pilkington, 2016). I outline below the key obstacles to, and disincentives for, researching the far right in this close-up fashion before drawing on my own experience of ethnographic research with one such distasteful group to suggest why, and how, these challenges might be overcome. Blee (2007, p. 121) suggests the reason for a dearth of close-up research with such groups is the lack of shared values between scholars and far-right movements, as a result of which the methodological bridge facilitating trust and mutual understanding is missing and research becomes fraught with difficulties of access, hostility and mutual fear (Blee, 2002, pp. 14–17). In this context, researchers often distance themselves from those researched either through the adoption of theoretical frameworks that pathologize

“Field observer: Simples.” 25 those studied, or rely on publicly available data such as newsletters, flyers, Internet sites and postings, police and criminal records, newspaper accounts and speeches of self-proclaimed leaders and spokespersons (Blee 2007, p. 120). In light of the growing importance of new media in the organization of social movements, recent studies of the far right have focused also on how such groups use the Internet and digital media to recruit followers and disseminate ideas (see: Back et al., 1998; Atton, 2006; Bartlett et al., 2011; Jackson and Gable (eds.), 2011; Simpson and Druxes (eds.), 2015). Such approaches allow us to see how organizations present themselves, although they fail to reflect the diversity of opinion and motivation within groups, or the divergence between the statements of leaders and the beliefs of grassroots activists, and between the public presentation and the internal dynamics of far-right groups (Blee, 2007, pp. 120–21). The most common criticism faced by researchers studying distasteful groups is that, consciously or unconsciously, they become a legitimizing “mouthpiece” for the organization or cause studied. This concern is rooted in a questioning of the reasons why activists may want to participate in social research; for stigmatized groups, being the subject of a scientific study may provide visibility and possible legitimation, especially if the researcher is thought to be empathetic (Esseveld and Eyerman, 1992, pp. 229–30). Respondents’ enthusiasm for telling their story, in the experience of Smyth and Mitchell (2008, p. 447), was rooted in a desire to set the record straight, or correct a negative societal opinion of the group. This, they note, raises questions about publicizing the views of extreme groups (ibid.). These questions have been prominent recently in discussions of whether researchers should take up the self-issued invitations of Anders Breivik to be interviewed for research purposes (Jakobsen, 2014). Whilst there has been considerable concern that Breivik’s aim is to manipulate researchers and journalists “to serve as his mouthpiece,” long-standing expert on the far right Tore Bjørgo believes interviewing Breivik might yield important understanding of the decision-making process of the terrorist (ibid.). This echoes earlier concerns, during the trial, that, through their interpretation and reconstruction of Breivik’s views, experts were in danger of constructing a more coherent ideology than Breivik himself articulated (Rønning, 2012). A second argument made against close-up research with those with whom we disagree is that it is potentially unethical towards respondents themselves. This critique is rooted in the belief that by building rapport with, for example, far-right respondents, researchers are faking friendship and thus deceiving them. Based on research with anti-abortion activists and conservative evangelicals, with whom they felt no empathy, Smyth and Mitchell (2008, p. 442) argue that building rapport between researcher and research subjects can lead to the exploitation of research subjects. Duncombe and Jessop (2002, pp. 118–19) suggest that by “doing rapport,” researchers create faked friendships; relationships that respondents see as friendship but researchers view as doing their job. Researchers may even exploit the

26  Pilkington stigmatization experienced by groups to deceive respondents into thinking the researcher is supportive of their cause. An added source of tension for researchers studying the far right is the recent trend in social movement studies for research ethics to explicitly include a statement of the political objectives of the research (Gillies and Alldred, 2002, p. 48), and for academics to consciously take on the role of activist-scholars (Gillan and Pickerill, 2012, p. 135). Juris (2007, p. 164) outlines a practice of what he calls “militant ethnography,” which he defines as “a politically engaged and collaborative form of participant observation carried out from within rather than outside grassroots social movements.” Such approaches reject the divide between observer and practitioner (ibid., p. 165) and are premised upon at least a broad political alignment between the researcher and the movement studied. The prospect of studying far right—or other distasteful groups—through such militant ethnography raises important questions about standpoint research and the assumptions we make about power and privilege.

2.3  Introducing the study Whilst acknowledging the difficulties of researching those with whom we do not agree, in what follows I draw on the experience of conducting an ethnographic study of grassroots activism in the English Defence League (EDL)3 to argue that we can and should conduct close-up research with far-right groups. Before addressing each of the obstacles to such research considered above, and illustrating how these issues were negotiated in practice during fieldwork, the parameters of the study are briefly outlined. This empirical study of the EDL was one of 44 ethnographic case studies of youth activism in 14 European countries conducted as part of the FP7 MYPLACE project.4 The EDL is a “feet on the street” movement founded in 2009 to protest against “militant Islam” and disrespect for British troops.5 It has no formal membership, but 25–30,000 active supporters (Bartlett and Littler, 2011), of whom between 200 and 3,000 might attend any individual demonstration. Its leaders and mission statements distance the movement from classic far-right organizations, but its strong anti-Islam(ist) agenda has led it to be characterized as a social movement with a “new far-right” ideology (Jackson, 2011, p. 7)—an “Islamophobic new social movement” (Copsey, 2010, p. 11) or an “anti-Muslim protest movement” (Busher, 2016, p. 20). In the media, it is widely represented as part of the extreme right and 74% of those surveyed in a national poll by Extremis/YouGov (2012) considered it to be a racist organization.6 The study was conducted over three years (April 2012–July 2015) with activists in a number of local divisions of the EDL. The primary objective was to elicit and understand the meanings attached to activism among young activists. To this end, I attended more than 20 EDL demonstrations, travelling to and from with activists, usually by hired coach. This afforded the

“Field observer: Simples.” 27 opportunity to observe social interactions and cultural practices (around alcohol, drugs, food and money), and significantly helped interpret the narratives of respondents elicited from interviews with them. Other sites of observation included EDL divisional meetings, meet and greets, police liaison meetings, the Crown Court trial of two respondents, and social occasions and informal gatherings. Online spaces were incorporated into the study as another site of everyday practice, communication, self-presentation and bonding of respondents (Hallet and Barber, 2014, p. 309), but used primarily for communication and observational purposes. Individuals were approached for interview either after meeting them at demonstrations or through a key informant. There were 35 interviewees in total, constituting the main respondent set. Of these, almost three-quarters were under 35 years of age, and over three-quarters were men. However, interactions and conversations with many more individual activists and family members of activists were recorded in the field diary. Interviews and diary entries were transcribed and anonymized—all respondents were assigned pseudonyms—before data were analyzed using Nvivo 9.2 software.

2.4  Can we do it? Yes we can It is my contention that, while it is understandable that researchers most frequently study movements with which they empathize, there are no insurmountable methodological obstacles to conducting close-up research with distasteful social movements such as those of the far right. The issue is not one of capacity but of choice. This is implicit in Blee’s extrapolation of her understanding of why there is little close-up research with far-right groups. Few academics, she says, “want [emphasis added] to invest the considerable time or to establish the rapport necessary for close-up studies of those they regard as inexplicable and repugnant, in addition to dangerous and difficult” (Blee, 2007, p. 21). The problem is not that we cannot do such research, but that we feel uncomfortable doing so. Below I return to the documented obstacles to, and criticisms of, conducting close-up research with the far right noted above, and reflect on how these were negotiated in the course of this study of the EDL. I conclude by outlining the case for seeking a position from which close-up research with the far right is possible. 2.4.1  Building methodological bridges: Time tells My experience of researching EDL activism did not resemble that described by Blee (see above) of a research terrain fraught with difficulties of hostility and mutual fear. It is important to note, of course, that the EDL is quite different from the far right and white supremacist organizations, which Blee herself studied. The movement is closer to a “populist radical right” movement nominally democratic whilst upholding a core ideology combining nativism, authoritarianism and populism (Mudde, 2007, pp. 25–31)

28  Pilkington than to the inherently antidemocratic movements of the classic extreme right or far right. Nonetheless, while there is not space here to discuss issues of access, trust and the management of relations in the field in any depth (see Pilkington, 2016, pp. 17–31), access was less problematic than anticipated. Approval of my request to travel to demonstrations with local divisions, attend divisional meetings and access the Facebook page was given by a Regional Organizer (RO) and facilitated by a number of division level organizers and admins. The fact that these individuals were prepared to vouch for me generated wider acceptance. The research was always overt and my approach was to be as open as possible. I introduced myself as a researcher seeking sustained engagement with the group in order to understand why grassroots activists became involved with the EDL. My Facebook profile was genuine (although exclusively used for communicating with respondents) and I suggested people Google me or talk to others they knew among my Facebook friends before agreeing to an interview. That is not to say there were no difficult moments: rapid turnover in the movement meant gaining trust was a continual, not one-off, process and I was subject to verification and challenge (in a non-threatening way) a number of times. But, by the time I came to request a formal interview with a regional organizer, he laughed at my suggestion that he may want time to think about it or pass it by those higher up; I had, he said, been to more EDL demos than most of the members. Just being there over time—without exposing those I met to the media, police or oppositional movements—builds trust that the researcher is who they say they are. Who exactly that is, it turned out, is secondary. Through open and sustained research engagement, therefore, it is possible to develop the quality of relations necessary to conduct meaningful ethnographic research without deceiving respondents (that you share their views). The experience of this study suggests that, with time, respondents accept that researchers are seeking to understand how they make sense of the world, notwithstanding their own political alignment. I was, as Kurt put it, simply a field observer. So, what is it that constrains social research on the far right? 2.4.2  Mouthpiece or field observer? Respondents’ understanding of the researcher’s role One of the arguments outlined above against ethnographic research with distasteful groups is that the researcher’s desire to understand might be manipulated by the group for their own purposes of self-legitimation or dissemination of their unsavory message. Crowley (2007, p. 614), on the basis of her research on Fathers’ Rights activists, argues that respondents may allow a researcher access to them in order to gain empathy and potential support and, in this way, fulfil “their self-expansion goals.” This, she notes, was evident in the way that respondents instructed her in the content and validity of their claims and cast her immediately in the ally role (ibid.). In this

“Field observer: Simples.” 29 study of the EDL, it is true that, in the context of respondents’ belief that it was almost impossible to get even factual coverage of the movement in the media, I was seen as a potential alternative channel for “telling it as it is.” This was expressed directly to me during a discussion of an EDL demonstration in Walthamstow (1 September 2012) when EDL demonstrators had been kettled for more than ten hours before being arrested and searched one by one under Section 60 of the Criminal Justice Act7 before being dispersed by police buses. Sharing our experiences of that day, one young respondent commented, “[…] that’s what we need. More people like you in there, like inside” (Jason). The implication was that, having been alongside other EDL members on that day and subjected to the same treatment, I could provide a counterbalance to the negative coverage the EDL received in the media. I did in fact write a blog based on my experiences that day,8 as well as a letter of complaint to the police about the arrest. In neither case was I manipulated into putting “the other side” of the story. I wrote the blog to expose what I believed to be a variation on the much-criticized kettling practice of the police that I had not previously seen discussed, and I sent the letter to express the injustice I felt that I, and many of those around me, had experienced being arrested and searched when it was clear that we posed no threat of violence. The response of respondents who read the blog was that it was a fair account. Their understanding of my role was that I was there to report what I saw but there was no expectation that what I reported would be positive; they themselves were often critical of the movement and certain individuals in it. It was appreciated that I was somewhere between a rock and a hard place, and respondents understood that what I would subsequently write could not reflect exactly what they say (Field diary, 21 April 2014). Indeed, close respondents would refute any suggestion that I was there to “put our [the EDL] side” often before I could answer for myself, since they were acutely aware of the stigma attached to the organization and sensitive to my position. This does not mean, of course, that a researcher’s presence and interventions are never used for representational purposes. Illustrative here is an incident following a day spent with the EDL’s LGBT division leader (Declan). While the purpose of travelling to the town had been to interview Declan, the day had turned into a series of social occasions, and the following day I inboxed Declan to thank him for his time and sent him a group photo I had taken on the seafront. A couple of days later, checking Facebook, I saw that he had posted the image to his personal Facebook page with the comment, “The far left call the EDL ‘homophobes.’ Let’s see now, a married straight woman, a straight teenager and a gay couple holding the EDL flag. Call us homophobes now! ; -)” (Field diary, 23 March 2013). The full field diary entry captured my concerns and reflections on how my presence in the group had produced material and symbolic artefacts which had effects; in this case, this photograph was used to undermine stereotypes of the EDL being anti-gay. I wondered whether I had been naive to send it. However, the posting made no reference to any authority lent the

30  Pilkington representation, because the photo had been taken by an outsider and the image was a genuine representation of the people and their relations to one another as I had encountered them that day. Research is always a product of the relationship between researcher and researched. Those relationships do not have to be based on shared views or profound friendships, but they do have to be rooted in shared understandings of the research purpose and process. I set out my purpose as to understand rather than represent the movement, or individuals in it, either in a positive or negative light. To engage in the research required, both researcher and respondents need to suspend prejudices about the other; in the case of the researcher, prejudices derived from the media image of the EDL as “racist thugs”; in the case of respondents, the common view within the EDL that universities were “training grounds for the UAF.”9 Thus, in sharp contrast to the principles of militant ethnography, the shared goal of this research was to neither advocate for nor defend the movement, but rather to create a better understanding of the activists within it. 2.4.3  Faking friendship? Everyday sites of trust and camaraderie The ethical concerns raised by Smyth and Mitchell (2008) and Duncombe and Jessop (2002) that, by building rapport with research respondents whose views we do not agree with, we might exploit or deceive those respondents by faking friendship were outlined above. Whilst recognizing the importance of being aware of this danger, this notion of rapport seems to me to be too utilitarian to capture ethnographic research relationships. The very notion that rapport can be constructed in order to generate trust and encourage disclosure is not only instrumental, it is also transparent to the interlocutor who is a knowing subject, and, especially in the case of stigmatized groups, alert to the possibility that this is the motivation of any apparently interested outsider. Indeed, in cases where we are establishing a relationship with people to whom we do not feel akin, the usual rapport-building techniques of demonstrating appreciation of respondents’ viewpoints are not available, since researchers are seeking to avoid the impression that they agree with those views (Team Members, 2006, p. 63). In this context, a range of emotional and sensory experiences generate affective bonds regardless of whether the researcher shares beliefs, values or behaviors with respondents, or consciously seeks to generate rapport in the absence of those. In the case of this ethnographic study with EDL activists, trust and camaraderie emerged not from consciously generated rapport but from everyday moments of mutual support, concern, attention and care (see Figure 2.2.). When I nearly fainted on an overcrowded tube train as we travelled to the Walthamstow demonstration muster point, Jack caught me before I fell and found me a place to stand nearer the police-guarded door where there was at least a hint of air. When I was subjected to verbal abuse by someone from another division for filming an incident with a counter demonstrator at the

“Field observer: Simples.” 31

Figure 2.2  Kurt and Jack, waiting for release from the kettle, EDL demonstration Walthamstow, 1 September 2012. Source:  Photo by Hilary Pilkington

Norwich demo, Rachel and Lisa stepped up and told the guy to back off (Field diary, 10 November 2012). When Kurt collapsed during a cigarette break on the journey back from the Preston demo, I went with him in the ambulance to hospital, stayed until he was stabilized, called his mum and kept others on the EDL coach that day informed about his progress. When Jack, at the start of his trial, had to make an important decision about his plea, I sat with him as his counsel explained the options and he worked through the implications of sticking to his not guilty plea. These incidents are the substance of social relationships and it is the entering into social relationships with those we want to understand that underpins the ethnographic method. Is this friendship? Or faking it? While this is not the place for a detailed discussion of the meaning of friendship per se, it seems to me to be unhelpful

32  Pilkington to talk of “real” and “staged” friendship. All social relationships have elements of front and back stage (Goffman, 1990, p. 32). In the case of relationships generated through close-up research, the bonds are first and foremost situational. But so too are friendships established at the workplace or the school gates. Perhaps it is more helpful, therefore, to think about relationships not as either real or fake, but as on a continuum where some have the potential to continue beyond the situation. 2.4.4  Taking a standpoint: Is it always clear whose side we should be on? That sociological research cannot be value-free is widely accepted and, in many traditions, researchers explicitly align themselves with relatively powerless social groups (Smyth and Mitchell, 2008, p. 441). In research on gender, sexuality, race and ethnicity, this starting point frequently leads to the adoption of standpoint positions whereby political (feminist, queer, anti-racist, etc.) positions are stated upfront and guide the research design, process and output. In research on social movements, an approach in which the researcher takes up an active political position—as an activist-scholar or through the practice of militant ethnography—has also been advocated. Such approaches have generated important research findings and interventions, but they do not transfer well to the study of far-right activism because of the way power and powerlessness is understood to operate. Indicative here is the reflection of researcher Raphael Ezekiel on how, in contrast to his earlier research concerned with poverty among young people from African-American communities in inner-city Detroit (Ezekiel, 1984), he felt uncomfortable about his own feelings of wanting to intervene positively in the life of one of the young, poor, white respondents in his subsequent study of racist groups in the same city: On a pivotal afternoon very early in the project, I was driving to Detroit to continue our conversations and thinking about the life of one of the young men. I had been getting a sense of what his life had been and what its onward trajectory was likely to be. What could be done, I asked myself, that would help him have a more competent sense of himself, that would encourage him to take a firmer grasp on his life–to begin to understand that his life mattered and that it could be directed in a hopeful way? I pondered and abruptly shook myself: “What am I doing, worrying about a Nazi?” I thought about it. And then from my gut came the reply: “He is also a kid. It cannot be wrong to be concerned about a kid.” (Ezekiel, 2002, pp. 63–4) In this later study, Ezekiel finds continuities with his earlier work in terms of the stigmatization of the poor, the failure to tackle long-term deskilling and unemployment in inner-city areas, lack of personal connectedness, and

“Field observer: Simples.” 33 warmth that gives meaning and prospect to life (see also Pilkington et al., 2010, p. 229). However, in the first case, as the victims of racism, research subjects are perceived to be a legitimate, powerless group with whom the social scientist may “side”; in the latter case, as the perpetrators of racism, the research becomes dirty and the researcher guilty of failing to keep his subjects at arm’s length.10 This moral over-determination of power and powerlessness obscures a more complex understanding of social relations in which the oppressed can also perpetuate oppression. Of course, not all socio-economically and educationally disadvantaged people take political paths that oppress the rights of others, but that does not take away their own disadvantage or make it unworthy of social research; if the oppression of others through, for example, racism is a possible outcome of disadvantage, indeed it becomes all the more important to understand. If we accept that research is not value-free and that political intent should be openly acknowledged and effective interventions sought, then we must ask who decides what constitutes an appropriate or acceptable political position. In a highly reflective piece that engages directly with the experience of conducting anti-racist research, Back and Solomos (1993, p. 196) recognize that, in the absence of concrete strategies for effecting change, researchers may construct “an elaborate form of credentialism where one simply identifies oneself as doing ‘anti-racist research,’” when what is needed is a more flexible approach (ibid.). The anti-racist political agenda of research, they conclude, sometimes needs to be strategically shelved in favor of a speaking position as an impartial academic in the interests of making a more effective long-term intervention (ibid., p. 194). This raises the possibility that rigid standpoint positions—where they lead to the moral condemnation of non-standpoint positions—may constrain what we know about the world and thus what we can change in it.

2.5 Finding a position to speak from (not necessarily a comfortable one) Methodologically, I have argued, it is within our capacity as social scientists to build the quality of relations necessary for successful research on farright activism without becoming an unconscious mouthpiece for the group or deceiving research subjects that we share their views. What remains as an obstacle to achieving better understanding of far-right activism, therefore, is the identification of a position from which social researchers feel comfortable to conduct such research. This has proved difficult. Back and Solomos (ibid., p. 195) found that strategically adopting a value-free position (as objective, outside experts) at points in their research compromised their anti-racist project, while Smyth and Mitchell (2008, p. 448) experienced guilt as a result of “not telling the whole truth” about their pro-choice views to the anti-abortion activists they were researching. Does establishing the necessary relationships to conduct research inevitably condemn researchers to an uncomfortable speaking position?

34  Pilkington 2.5.1  Shifting speaking positions: Opening up space to challenge These problems may be mediated by allowing the researcher’s speaking position to shift organically with the research. In this study of the EDL, I did not offer up a specific political position as a starting point, but encouraged respondents to ask questions about the research (as part of the ongoing informed consent process), and when that touched on my own political and social views, I responded. As the research progressed, therefore, open discussion—and disagreement—became increasingly possible. Early in the research, the trigger for these discussions was often my response to being asked whether I was sympathetic to the EDL (Field diary, 19 August 2012) or whether I identified with any political ideology (Field diary, 5 March 2013). In such instances, I said honestly that I was a Labour voter, identified with the left and not the right and would never join the EDL. Later into the research, the conversations happened more naturally. On a long coach journey back from a national demonstration, a small group of people were bemoaning how removed politicians are from ordinary people’s concerns. One of the group commented that although his parents were Labour, he would never vote for them now, “not since Blair sold out the country,” and the discussion drifted into one about the Labour Party. In the course of the conversation, I was accused of being a “lefty,” providing the space for me to explain why (Field diary, 25 May 2014). On the following day, Ian (a core respondent) rang to warn me that the conversation had led to some subsequent discussion about whether I was a UAF infiltrator. Whilst unnerving at the time, I continued to engage with respondents as before and, in fact, the next time I saw the respondent who had called me “a lefty” in the incident on the coach, he started to tell me animatedly that since our conversation, he had been doing some research on the left’s position on animal rights and halal meat (the issue that had led him into the EDL in the first place). It seemed that allowing respondents to recognize me as “the other” amongst them could open up rather than close down space for dialogue. This was illustrated most directly when, during an interview with three youth division members, Chris commented that my audio recorder “looks like a UAF tool.” Before I had time to get nervous, his friend Ray responded, “It doesn’t bother me. What I would like to do is sit down with them and see their views on why they are against us” (Field diary, 18 July 2012). This desire to listen and be listened to was expressed on numerous occasions. What was interesting about this time was that in the process of the attachment of the UAF signifier to the researcher (via her tools), it was divested of its threat and opened a space for potentially meaningful debate. This unstable, shifting, sometimes unnerving, speaking position is not wholly comfortable and is far from the fixed and stable political standpoint researchers who share the values of their respondents often adopt. However, over the course of the fieldwork, I came to understand it as political in its own way. The research became guided not by an intellectual (politically “neutral”)

“Field observer: Simples.” 35 desire to understand how respondents understood their activism, but a (progressive) political desire to find a language through which to talk about the issues that underpinned that activism. 2.5.2  Close-up research: Reframing the political Acceptance as other, of course, does not resolve issues relating to researching distasteful movements. On the contrary, the more I became accepted for who I was, the more I found myself in situations in which large amounts of alcohol were consumed and racist and sexist comments were freely traded (often under the guise of banter or wind up). These moments felt intensely uncomfortable. While there is not space here to consider these experiences, and the challenges of responding to racism and anti-Muslim sentiments encountered in the field (see Pilkington, 2016, pp. 28–30), it is important to recognize that our own personal discomfort is compounded by an institutionalized distaste for close-up research with the far right. As Back (2002, p. 34) reflects, in relation to the moment he moved from an internet-based study of nationalist movements to a face-to-face interview with Nick Griffin (later to become leader of the British National Party), “the stakes change when one decides to look into the face of racial extremism.” Unlike studies of voting intentions or electoral support for far-right parties using either survey or qualitative interview methods, ethnographic research requires “direct and sustained contact with human agents, within the context of their daily lives (and cultures)” (O’Reilly, 2005, p. 2). When researching distasteful or stigmatized groups, researchers are subject to criticism because of wider societal moral discomfort with the group studied, but there is “an additional stigma that arises from personal contact” (Kirby and Corzine, 1981, p. 13). Kirby and Corzine (whose own research was not on the far-right groups but on gay subcultures) understand this as a process of the contagion of stigma; the extension of labelling, as researchers come to be seen as members of the (morally disapproved) group being studied. I would argue that the problem is less the label than its “stickiness” (Ahmed, 2004, pp. 117–19). Stickiness, Ahmed argues, ensues from the emotions that circulate between bodies and signs, and align individuals with communities (or bodily space with social space). It was this personal contact, the sharing of this affective space, that made the research possible; it marked me as “the researcher bird” (accepted outsider) rather than journalist (threatening outsider). At the same time, by engaging in that emotional space, the researcher becomes a player in its affective economy (Ahmed, 2004) and suspect to the outside world since it calls into question their ability to regain sufficient distance to take up the necessary critical position. So what would we lose by refraining from ethnographic research of the far right? Traditional studies have tended to forefront the analysis of ideological frames and organizational effectiveness and take little account of the people who maintain such movements; individuals appear largely in the form of agglomerated socio-demographics of supporters or voters or

36  Pilkington as an undifferentiated mass following a charismatic leader. Ethnographic research, in contrast, allows subjects to “give their own account” (Fielding, 1981, p. 9) and the researcher to approach and present members of such organizations “as individuals with real lives” (Ezekiel, 1995, Xxxv). When the individuals concerned are active in distasteful groups, this is both difficult and controversial but, as Ezekiel points out, to picture white racists only in stereotype “is to foolishly deny ourselves knowledge. Effective action to combat racism requires honest enquiry” (ibid.). The point here is that ethnography should be employed to unpick rather than enact moral simplifications; it does not ask “whose side are we on?” (Duneier and Back, 2006, p. 553). Indeed, the sustained contact and presence in the everyday lives of respondents that ethnography entails, reveals that the behaviors which make subjects outcasts usually constitute a small part of their everyday lives (Kirby and Corzine, 1981, p. 10). Being part of the whole lives of research respondents allows a range of subject positions other than “member of far-right organization”—shared class allegiances and political origins, gender and a number of life-course experiences—to become stepping stones to mutually trusting and respectful relationships, and provides insight into the intersections of oppression (and thus also the potential sites of cross-cutting solidarities). So why do researchers still struggle to find a comfortable position from which to do close-up research on the far right? For Fielding (1981, p. 16), writing more than three decades ago, the problem lay in the relative infancy of interpretative frameworks (Verstehen methodology) for research. Today, I would argue, the problem is not our methodological capacity to facilitate that “own account” giving process, but that this requires a level of subjective engagement that is experienced as politically and ethically uncomfortable. An institutionalized distaste for close-up research with the far right, enhanced by calls to make explicit, the researcher’s political intention in research practice threatens to place subjects with whose political views (or lifestyles) we do not agree “out of bounds” (Kirby and Corzine, 1981, p. 15) for ethnographic study. The exclusion of such groups from such scrutiny in the interests of the researcher’s own political or ethical comfort constrains our knowledge and understanding and, thus, also capacity for changing the social world. For this reason, over the course of conducting and writing the study of the EDL referred to here, I came to understand the insistence on the ethnographic study of the far right as a political as well as academic stance; to prioritize our own ethical comfort constitutes not the enactment of an active political stance but, on the contrary, a form of political faintheartedness (Laclau, 2005, p. 249).

2.6 Conclusion In this chapter I have argued that there is no insurmountable methodological obstacle to ethnographic research with far-right groups; it is possible to develop the quality of relations necessary to undertake meaningful

“Field observer: Simples.” 37 ethnographic research with distasteful groups. To generate such relations does not require unacceptable epistemological or ethical compromise. The empirical study upon which this chapter is based demonstrated that respondents accept that researchers seek to understand how they make sense of the world, regardless of the researcher’s own political alignment. In this process, sustained (ethnographic) engagement is key; it generates confidence from both sides and renders the relationships increasingly able to withstand challenge and debate, and for the researcher to take up an increasingly political standpoint. What constrains research, it has been argued, is thus not a lack of fit between the values of researchers and researched, but institutionalized distaste for close-up research on the far right. This is compounded by pressure to forefront, and make explicit, political intention in research practice in a way that threatens to place subjects with whose political views we do not agree out of bounds. Rather than withdrawing from the ethnographic study of far-right groups in order to maintain a fixed, politically explicit standpoint, I have suggested that researchers’ speaking position may shift over the course of the research. For Back and Solomos (1993, p. 195), this shift was from an explicit political position to that of objective, outside experts. In my case, it was in the opposite direction; from the field observer status accorded me by respondents, through that of a questioning interlocutor to a more emotionally and politically engaged narrator. This shifting position is neither easy nor comfortable—it requires constant reflection and monitoring— but it allows the researcher to engage with activists as individuals with real lives and allows for the articulation and observation of those lives in all their human dimensions. To see and hear this requires the researcher to take a stand on the moral low ground and to practice “the art of listening” (Back, 2007, p. 12) in a way that does not silence race, but pushes us towards a way of talking about the effects of racialization that might enable us to move beyond its oppressive force.

Acknowledgements The MYPLACE project was funded under the European Union Seventh Framework Programme (Grant Agreement: FP7-266831). The research findings and interpretation expressed in this contribution, however, is the responsibility of the author alone.

Notes 1. Here, and henceforth, all respondents are cited using their assigned pseudonyms. For a full list of respondents and further socio-demographic details of the respondent set, see: Pilkington, 2016: 61–74; 234–7. 2. Elsewhere, the author argues that it is more appropriate to consider the EDL alongside populist radical right rather than “classic far-right” movements on the political spectrum and outlines a rationale for characterizing it as an anti-Islam(ist) movement (Pilkington, 2016: 1–4). Thus, the term “far right”

38  Pilkington is used loosely in this chapter to refer to conducting research across the wide spectrum of movements discussed in this edited volume rather than as a descriptor of the EDL. 3. The full study is published as Loud and Proud: Passion and Politics in the English Defence League (2016, Manchester University Press). 4. The MYPLACE (Memory, Youth, Political Legacy and Civic Engagement) project was funded under the European Union Seventh Framework Programme (FP7-266831) (see: https://myplaceresearch.wordpress.com). 5. For a more detailed outline of the origins, development and current organizational structure of the movement, see: Pilkington, 2016: 37–59. 6. This proportion is of those who had heard of the EDL. See: http://extremisproject.org/2012/10/the-english-defence-league-edl-what-do-people-think/ 7. Section 60 of the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act 1994 allows a police officer to stop and search a person without suspicion. Section 60 stops and searches can take place in an area which has been authorized by a senior police officer on the basis of their reasonable belief that violence has or is about to occur, and where it is expedient to prevent it or search people for a weapon if one was involved in the incident. We were assured by the police officers arresting and searching us that nobody was suspected of having committed an offence, but releasing us was deemed by the senior police officer in charge to be likely to lead to violence. Arresting us all allowed the police to put us on buses and disperse us across London as they saw fit. On exit from the bus, we were all de-arrested. 8. This blog can be found at: http://blogs.lse.ac.uk/politicsandpolicy/when-is-akettle-not-a-kettle-when-it-is-on-slow-boil/ 9. Unite Against Fascism—the most active oppositional movement to the EDL. 10. This is a phrase employed in one review of Ezekiel’s The Racist Mind (1995). See: www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/raphael-s-ezekiel/the-racist-mind/. Accessed: 13.01.2015.

References Ahmed, S. (2004). Affective economies. Social Text, 22(2), pp. 117–39. Atton, C. (2006). Far-right media on the internet: culture, discourse and power. New Media Society, 8(4), pp. 573–87. Back, L. (2002). Guess who’s coming to dinner? The political morality of investigating whiteness in the gray zone. In V. Ware and L. Back, Out of Whiteness: Color, Politics, and Culture, 1st ed. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, pp. 15–32. Back, L. (2007). The Art of Listening, Oxford and New York: Berg. Back, L. and Solomos, J. (1993). Doing research, writing politics: The dilemmas of political intervention in research on racism. Economy and Society, 22, pp. 178–99. Back, L., Keith, M. and Solomos, J. (1998). Racism on the Internet: Mapping neo-fascist subcultures in cyberspace. In J. Kaplan and T. Bjørgo, eds., Nation and Race: The Developing Euro-American Racist Subculture, 1st ed. Boston: Northeastern University Press, pp. 73–101. Bartlett, J. and Littler, M. (2011). Inside the EDL: Populist politics in a digital age. London: Demos. Available at: http://www.demos.co.uk/files/Inside_the_edl_WEB. pdf ?1331035419. Accessed: 28.08.2015. Bartlett, J., Birdwell, J. and Littler, M. (2011). The New Face of Digital Populism. London: Demos, 07.11.2011. Available at: www.demos.co.uk/publications/thenewfaceofdigitalpopulism. Accessed: 06.06.2015.

“Field observer: Simples.” 39 Billig, M. (1978). Fascists: A Social Psychological View of the National Front. London and New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. Blee, K. (2002). Inside Organized Racism: Women in the Hate Movement. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Blee, K. (2007). Ethnographies of the Far Right. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 36(2), pp. 119–28. Busher, J. (2015). The making of anti-Muslim protest: Grassroots activism in the English Defence League. London: Routledge. Copsey, N. (2010). The English Defence League: A challenge to our country and our values of social inclusion, fairness and equality. London: Faith Matters. Crowley, J. (2007). Friend or Foe? Self-Expansion, Stigmatized Groups, and the Researcher Participant Relationship. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 36(6), pp. 603–30. Di Nunzio, D. and Toscano, E. (2014). Taking everything back: CasaPound, a farright movement in Italy. In A. Farro and H. Lustinger-Thaler, eds., Reimagining Social Movements, 1st ed. Farnham and Burlington: Ashgate, pp. 251–63. Duncombe, J. and Jessop, J. (2002). “Doing rapport” and the ethics of “faking friendship.” In M. Mauthner, M. Birch, J. Jessop and T. Miller, eds., Ethics in Qualitative Research, 1st ed. London: Publishing Company: SAGE Publications Ltd, pp. 108–23. Available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.4135/9781849209090.n6/. Accessed: 19.12. 2014. Duneier, M. and Back, L. (2006). Voices from the sidewalk: Ethnography and writing race. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 29(3), pp. 543–65. Esseveld, J. and Eyerman, R. (1992). Which side are you on? Reflections on methodological issues in the study of “distasteful” social movements. In M. Diani and R. Eyerman, eds., Studying Collective Action, 1st ed. London: Sage, pp. 217–37. Ezekiel, R. S. (1984). Voices from the Corner: Poverty and Racism in the Inner City. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Ezekiel, R. S. (1995). The racist mind: Portraits of American neo-Nazis and Klansmen. New York: Penguin Books. Ezekiel, R. S. (2002). An ethnographer looks at neo-Nazi and Klan groups: The racist mind revisited. American Behavioral Scientist, 46, pp. 51–71. Fielding, N. (1981). The National Front, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Gillan, K. and Pickerill, J. (2012). The Difficult and Hopeful Ethics of Research on, and with, Social Movements. Social Movement Studies: Journal of Social, Cultural and Political Protest, 11(2), pp. 133–43. Gillies, V. and Alldred, P. (2002). The ethics of intention: Research as a political tool. In M. Mauthner, M. Birch, J. Jessop and T. Miller, eds., Ethics in Qualitative Research, 1st ed. London: Sage, pp. 32–52. Goffman, E. (1990). The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. London: Penguin Books. Hallet, R. and Barber, K. (2014). Ethnographic Research in a Cyber Era. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 43(3), pp. 306–30. Jackson, P. (2011). The English Defence League: Anti-Muslim Politics Online. In P. Jackson and G. Gable, eds., Far-Right.Com: Nationalist Extremism on the Internet, 1st ed. Northampton: Searchlight Magazine Ltd and the Radicalism and New Media Research Group, pp. 7–19. Jackson, P. and Gable, G., eds. (2011). Far-Right.Com: Nationalist Extremism on the Internet, Northampton: Searchlight Magazine Ltd and the Radicalism and New Media Research Group.

40  Pilkington Jakobsen S. (2014). Breivik wants to be researched. [online] ScienceNordic, April 30, available at: http://sciencenordic.com/breivik-wants-be-researched Juris, J. (2007). Practicing Militant Ethnography with the Movement for Global Resistance in Barcelona. In S. Shukaitis, D. Graeber and E. Biddle, eds., Constituent Imagination: Militant Investigations/Collective Theorization, 1st ed. Oakland: AK Press, pp. 164–175. Kirby, R. and Corzine, J. (1981). The contagion of stigma: Fieldwork among deviants. Qualitative Sociology, 4(1), pp. 3–20. Laclau, E. (2005). On Populist Reason. London: Verso. Mudde, C. (2007). Populist radical right parties in Europe, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. O’Reilly, K. (2005). Ethnographic Methods. London and New York: Routledge. Pilkington, H. (2016). Loud and Proud: Passion and Politics in the English Defence League. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Pilkington, H., Omel’chenko, E. and Garifzianova, A. (2010). Russia’s Skinheads: Exploring and Rethinking Subcultural Lives. London and New York: Routledge. Rønning, A. (2012). Experts risk unifying Breivik’s incoherent ideology. [online] ScienceNordic, April 27, available at: http://sciencenordic.com/experts-risk-unifyingbreivik%E2%80%99s-incoherent-ideology Simi, P. and Futrell, R. (2010). American Swastika: Inside the White Power Movement’s Hidden Spaces of Hate. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield. Simpson, P. A. and Druxes, H., eds. (2015). Digital Media Strategies of the Far Right in Europe and the United States. Lanham: Lexington Books. Smyth, L. and Mitchell, C. (2008). Researching conservative groups: rapport and understanding across moral and political boundaries. International Journal of Social Research Methodology, 11(5), pp. 441–52. Team Members (2006). Writing life-histories: interviewing extreme right-wing activists. In B. Klandermans and N. Mayer, eds., Extreme Right Activists in Europe: Through the Magnifying Glass, 1st ed. London and New York: Routledge, pp. 51–64.

3

Rapport, respect, and dissonance: Studying the white power movement in the United States Lisa K. Waldner Betty A. Dobratz

3.1 Introduction We share our experiences to add to the growing body of work about the practical, personal and ethical challenges of doing research on the white power movement (WPM) in the United States. Our goals are threefold. First, we discuss the strategies employed to gain access to some of the various groups that comprise the WPM in the United States. Second, we elaborate on techniques for establishing and maintaining rapport with those we interviewed. Finally, we sociologically analyze some of the personal discomfort and distress we felt as researchers, and discuss the strategies we employed to address this. Other researchers have addressed some of the difficulties of gaining access to white power (WP) supporters, including dealing with how emotionally exhausting this work can be (e.g., Blee, 1998; 2002; 2007; Simi and Futrell, 2010). In addition to sharing our strategies for gaining entrée and establishing rapport, we want to acknowledge upfront that researchers can and do make different choices about how to interact with respondents whose views they find abhorrent. Even the necessity for active researcher engagement in establishing rapport is not universally agreed upon (e.g., Blee, 2007). We are not disagreeing with these different choices and would argue that researchers need to be cognizant of what fits their individual style, value system, and ethical code, and to act accordingly, if only to maintain one’s authenticity. Indeed some researchers refuse to personally interact with movement members and instead glean knowledge by analyzing websites and documents (Perlstein, 1995). We believe these types of analyses can yield important insights, but some questions about the WPM can only be answered by actually talking with supporters. Our choices were both similar and different from those reviewed here who also interacted with movement members, although all of us shared a similar goal of providing an accurate portrayal of WP supporters. Even between the two of us, there are differences in how we perceived some of the more emotionally challenging aspects of doing this type of research and the strategies

42  Waldner and Dobratz employed to mitigate any distress. Indeed, we did not even always agree on whether or not something was emotionally challenging. While it feels strange to write about ourselves in the third person, we do so to accurately describe our own individual reactions and experiences while collecting data from white power supporters. We also compare our reactions to other researchers who have actively engaged with white power supporters and shared some of their reflections in their written work and interviews with third parties.

3.2 Background Betty Dobratz has been involved in research on the white power movement since the early 1990s and co-authored White Power, White Pride with Stephanie Shanks-Meile. She has written several journal articles and book chapters on the white power movement, including some co-authored with Lisa Waldner (e.g., Dobratz et al., 2009; Dobratz and Waldner, 2006; 2012; 2013; 2014; 2016). Both of us were interested in understanding what attracts individuals to right wing extremist movements in the face of stigma and increasing scrutiny from law enforcement. Using a social movements lens, we have also examined the various tactics movement members endorse in their quest to advance movement goals. Our individual involvement with white power supporters is different. Betty initially established contact with WP supporters beginning in the early 1990s, and because of her prior relationships was able to gain access for Lisa by vouching for her. Usually this occurred over the phone or e-mail and Betty was asked to verify that Lisa was white and not Jewish. Lisa’s German surname was definitely an asset. Lisa was involved with some of the interviews that took place between the late 1990s and 2007 and was present at a limited number of events, always accompanied by Betty. In short, Betty interacted with more white power activists over a longer period of time. She also interacted with a greater variety of individuals and interviewed Klan members, Christian Identity adherents, skinheads, and neo-Nazis. In contrast, Lisa mostly met and interacted with neo-Nazis. Some of the differences between us regarding reactions and coping mechanisms are probably somewhat due to Betty’s longer involvement in data collection. In describing her emotional reactions to interviewing racists, Kathleen Blee reveals feeling horrified, scared, bored, and finally numb (Smith, 2002). We too felt some of these things but never bored or numb. In all, 159 white power supporters from various locations throughout the United States completed interviews or questionnaires between 1992 and 2007. In-person interviews were often conducted at events such as Klan rallies, Aryan Nations conferences, or National Socialist Movement events. Some respondents were interviewed over the phone. Those who were unable or unwilling to be interviewed were given a questionnaire that was based on the interview schedule. Interviews or questionnaires were conducted

Rapport, respect, and dissonance 43 with both leaders and rank and file members from a variety of white power organizations. The interview schedule was not static but changed over time. While not an exhaustive list, some of the groups represented included Ku Klux Klan chapters, Christian Identity adherents, National Socialists, various skinheads, Odinists, World Church of the Creator, and White Aryan Resistance (WAR). While we do not consider ourselves ethnographers, we were present at some events so there was some limited nonparticipant observation, but the focus was on conducting interviews and collecting questionnaires. Our positioning in relation to our respondents was closer to the complete observer side of the participant-observation continuum (Lofland and Lofland, 1984), or what Aho (1990) calls nonparticipant observation. The overwhelming majority of white power researchers are upfront about their identity as scholars (we do not personally know of any who are not) and do not try to infiltrate groups by pretending to share racist ideology. Blee (1991; 1998; 2002) also relied on interviews but did attend some events. In contrast, Pete Simi spent much more time in the presence of skinheads, even staying overnight in their homes. While some of his respondents were open to formal interviews, he often had to avoid directly questioning them to maintain rapport. In situations where respondents were wary of direct questions, he relied more on just hanging out with individuals and casually asking questions (Simi and Futrell 2010). For us, group events such as Klan rallies and neo-Nazi demonstrations were used to identify potential respondents for interviews. Group events included both public and private rallies, demonstrations, and other events. Private events, even those that include activities such as cross burnings, are not intended for the public at large and as a result are less overtly political and more social. In other words, these private events are less about gaining media attention or attracting new recruits, and more about meeting other like-minded people, socializing, sharing ideas, and providing opportunities to purchase white power merchandise. In some cases, these events (e.g. Aryan Nations) were designed as opportunities to bring together different types of racists (e.g., Klan, Christian Identity, Skinheads, etc.) to find common ground (Dobratz and Shanks-Meile, 1997; Blee, 2007).

3.3  Complications of gaining access Gaining access or entrée into a social world is often one of the most difficult aspects of research, and many potentially sociologically interesting projects never get off the ground because the researcher failed to develop an adequate network of informants who could smooth entrée by vouching for them and introducing them to others. Successful researchers tend to be those who are flexible in their recruitment of research participants, and as a result often employ multiple tactics and strategies (Berg, 2009). Flexibility can encompass many things, but here we mean being open to

44  Waldner and Dobratz different ways of collecting data. Of course, not using the same exact methodology in data collection is not ideal. Consistency allows the researcher to rule out the possibility of found differences as not real but rather as an artifact of data collection. However, flexibility is necessary when trying to reach difficult to recruit or less accessible populations. As a result, we supplemented our face-to-face interviews with both paper and pencil questionnaires and telephone interviews to gain additional perspectives. This allowed us to include the views of those willing to share information with us but who were not available for an in-person interview, or communication was only through phone, US mail, or e-mail. One advantage of questionnaires is that the respondent can remain anonymous, which is especially important in encouraging honest participation in research on sensitive and stigmatizing topics (Babbie, 2014). However, very few people tried to hide their identity from us while being interviewed or filling out the questionnaire. Regardless of the instrument, we asked what name, if any, the respondent wanted us to use in writing up the material. A small percentage who had been mostly open with us became more cautious about revealing their identity for possible publication. A large majority of our interviewees were like Blee’s (2002) 34 interviewees who typically wanted their names associated with any statements. We should also note that some movement leaders and supporters had public movement names that were not their actual legal names. For telephone interviews, Betty arranged with her university to accept collect calls from anywhere in the US and never checked university records to determine the originating telephone number. Most phone interviews were prearranged, so Betty typically knew whom she was interviewing even if they called on their own without our specific request. While currently the availability of Skype allows researchers to conduct interviews from anywhere in the world and has greatly expanded the ability to interview far-flung respondents, this was not an option for the majority of the time we have been actively collecting data. Additionally, the use of Skype does not address the issue of accommodating respondents who do not want to reveal identifying information, including how one looks or sounds. Access is also complicated because there is no official roster of all WP organizations that exist in the United States, much less membership lists for each group, so researchers often have to gather samples of convenience; but even then, it is challenging to cold-call or approach complete strangers and ask them to essentially let you into their world. For that reason, successful researchers tend to be more assertive and not afraid to approach someone and ask for an interview. Asking for interviews got easier over time, although Betty remembers calling someone to request a phone interview and hearing the person who answered the phone telling the appropriate interviewee that the caller seemed nervous. An additional factor complicating access to WP groups is the stigma attached to being a supporter. Because of stigma, some WP advocates keep

Rapport, respect, and dissonance 45 their activism or support a secret for fear of losing a job or straining relationships with others who are not WP supporters (Futrell and Simi, 2004). For some, poverty is a consequence of their WP activism due to job loss or taking jobs with WP organizations for low pay (Blee, 2002). They may also fear attracting attention from law enforcement (Simi and Futrell, 2010). This is not mere paranoia, as some WP groups and individuals are monitored by the US government, and in 2009 “white supremacist lone wolves” were labeled by the Department of Homeland Security as the number one domestic terrorism threat (USDHS, 2009, p. 7). Some of the WP marchers at the 2017 “Unite the Right” rally in Charlottesville, Virginia were identified on social media through the Twitter account @YesYoureRacist, which posted photographs of marchers and uncovered their identities. As a result, some lost their jobs (Judkis, 2017; Tucker, 2017). That event attracted international media coverage as violence erupted between marchers and counter protestors, resulting in the death of a young woman who was hit by a car driven into the crowd by a white nationalist. The fear of law enforcement infiltration is one of the reasons WP supporters are suspicious of outsiders, including academic researchers (Dobratz and Shanks-Meile, 1997; Futrell and Simi, 2004; Simi and Futrell, 2009; 2010), and this has become even more apparent since the Oklahoma City bombing (Blee et al., 2007). While some respondents find talking to a professor to be a “big deal” and are interested in the possibility of a more accurate portrayal beyond what is provided in the media (Blee, 1998; Blee in Smith, 2002), others are not especially trusting of academic researchers who are thought to be just another instrument of ZOG (Zionist Occupied Government). There is also the fear that researchers are really infiltrators acting on behalf of law enforcement or, worse, are really undercover police officers. This is also not mere paranoia—the US government and local law enforcement have used informants to investigate WP groups (e.g., Gardell, 2003; Kaplan, 2000; Langer, 2003). Robert Balch’s (2006) students played “spot the fed” (federal law enforcement agents from agencies such as the Federal Bureau of Investigation [FBI] or the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms [ATF]) during fieldwork at Aryan Nation events. All of this paranoia can lead to some uncomfortable and even dangerous moments. Blee (1998; 2002) recounts several tense interviews and precarious situations in her published work. She never asked anyone to accompany her on interviews for fear of placing another person in danger, and recounts having a gun pulled on her (Blee in Smith, 2002) and being worried that a cross burning was going to end badly with everyone dying (Remark by Joane Nagel in Blee, 2007). Pete Simi received threats of physical violence on more than one occasion and learned quickly how to both blend in to avoid those who were not as tolerant of his presence (Simi and Futrell, 2010). While not having a gun pulled on us, we have also experienced a few precarious situations where we were unsure about our safety, and we assume

46  Waldner and Dobratz that every WP researcher has their own stories about precarious and even dangerous encounters with movement members. To be fair, some researchers also have stories about witnessing acts of kindness and generosity (e.g., Dobratz and Shanks-Meile, 1997). While not a testament to personally witnessing acts of generosity, Blee writes this about her respondents for her first book, Women of the Klan: “It was fairly ordinary people—people with considered opinions, people who loved their families and could be generous to neighbors and friends—who were the mainstay of the 1920s Klan” (1993, p. 604).

3.4  Strategies for gaining access With the availability of social media, we have been using Twitter and Facebook as one of many means of contacting potential participants for another project not related to WP groups, but at the time of active data collection for most of this project, these tools were not yet available. Therefore, the primary ways of obtaining access were telephoning, mailing, or e-mailing group leaders and asking to meet or requesting permission to attend an event. Other researchers have also used this approach with success (Simi and Futrell, 2010; Aho, 1990). While Blee used referrals, she also located racist women through parole officers, corrections officials, journalists, and other sources. Initial encounters are extremely important for continued access because if it goes well, these individuals can vouch for you and help locate other willing participants. Once Betty gained Knights of the Ku Klux Klan leader Pastor Thom Robb’s trust, she was able then to interview several other members of his family who were active in the movement. Having these contacts is also important to obtain access to what Futrell and Simi (2004) call “free spaces”, or locations and situations where supporters freely express themselves. These events include cross burnings, protests, rallies, WP music festivals, and other gatherings. Free spaces can be physical or virtual, organized and more formal (e.g., WP music concert), or informal (e.g., backyard barbeque or bible study), and large or small gatherings. While free spaces are usually more private settings where access is controlled, it is any space “where white power members meet with one another, openly express their extremist beliefs, and coordinate their activities” (Simi and Futrell, 2010, p. 2). To the extent that WP activists feel free to express their racist beliefs at public rallies or demonstrations, free spaces are also the physical space at a rally or demonstration that is designated for WP supporters. Access to these spaces is controlled by law enforcement to prevent violence breaking out between activists and counter-demonstrators at public events. Being in the same space as WP activists at a public rally or protest is helpful for developing the rapport needed to gain access for interviews as well as private free spaces. Access to the latter are important for a variety

Rapport, respect, and dissonance 47 of reasons, including providing entrée to a more diverse membership. Some WP supporters, for reasons already discussed, are not comfortable with being the public face of their organization. Others are not necessarily formal members of any racist organizations or groups but hold beliefs that are central to the ideologies of the WPM, and want an opportunity to interact and socialize with like-minded persons. While there is some heterogeneity in the beliefs and ideologies of WP groups, core or bedrock values are uniformly anti-immigrant, anti-Semitic, and racist. Having the ability to interact with and possibly interview these less-public WP adherents provides a more nuanced view of members. Private spaces also afford the opportunity to interact not only with leaders but also with rank and file members who may not always strictly adhere to their leader’s beliefs. Finally, the ability to access both public and private free spaces reveals that there are often differences between how WP supporters act at a public rally or demonstration and how they behave in a more private space (Dobratz and Shanks-Meile, 1997), and is yet another example of what Goffman (1956) terms “front stage and backstage behavior”. The backstage behavior at a private free space can be quite different from front stage behavior at a public event that is designed to be “over the top”, often with the overtly political goal of attracting media attention and potential recruits. Getting access to public free space is dependent on obtaining permission from WP leaders who are holding the rally or event and law enforcement. Even if you have never met the leader, that can be accomplished by making a phone call or sending an e-mail, but more often than not it is also dependent on having someone vouch for you. In the beginning, Betty tried to get access to movement leaders at these public events by obtaining press credentials. As explained in her co-authored book, White Power, White Pride, to minimize physical violence between protestors and counter-protestors, law enforcement often attempted to keep these groups separate and only allowed the press to be near WP protestors. Being treated as media allowed Betty to have better access to what was happening, as well as an opportunity to try and interact with movement members. Law enforcement determines who is “press” and often does not recognize a sociologist as equivalent to a reporter. In one instance, Betty asked the police for press access well in advance of an event, did not hear from them, asked again, and was curtly told no and that she would never get in. Irritated, Betty pursued alternatives including the mayor, American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), and Thom Robb, the leader of the KKKK (Knights of the Ku Klux Klan). The ACLU explained that Betty did not have to be a member to have the right of association with the Klan as long as the Klan was willing to have her associate. She obtained permission and was able to attend a courthouse rally in proximity to the Klan, and subsequently conducted an interview at another site (see Dobratz and Shanks-Meile, 1997, pp. 169−170). While obtaining media credentials was an access strategy, this occasionally backfired as some individuals at an event verbally

48  Waldner and Dobratz taunted Betty and her co-author, and called them, among other things, “Jewsmedia” (Dobratz and Shanks-Meile, 1997, p. 5). Obviously, having a “Jewsmedia” label is not compatible with a research goal of collecting data, yet in this instance they were eventually able to conduct some interviews with WP supporters.

3.5  Establishing and maintaining rapport Once initial access is gained, maintaining it requires continued rapport building. Access and rapport are mutually reinforcing because gaining initial access allows the opportunity for rapport building, and the development of rapport can lead to the ability to ask more sensitive questions and possibly gain more access, including private free spaces. Not everyone agrees that efforts at rapport building initiated by the researcher are always necessary. In writing about her experiences in interviewing former 1920s Klan members, Blee argues that she “made few efforts to establish such rapport or to shy away from controversial topics”. Rather, she argues that “the apparent ease of rapport in these interviews stemmed largely from the informants’ own racial stereotypes. These elderly informants found it impossible to imagine that I—a native of Indiana and a white person—would not agree, at least secretly, with their racist and bigoted world views. Even challenging their beliefs had no effect on their willingness to talk. They simply discounted my spoken objections as ‘public talk’ and carried on the ‘private talk’ they assumed as universal among whites” (1993, p. 604). It is not that Blee had no rapport with her respondents; rather, her whiteness was enough for her respondents, negating the need for any special efforts on her part. In subsequent work interviewing currently active racist women, she argues that she became more afraid once she realized that “my white skin color would provide me little protection” (2002, p. 15). Indeed, Blee (1998) argues that her life history interviews with racist women were not based on empathy and rapport through trust, but rapport based on fear. It was respondents who attempted to build rapport by pointing out their mutual vulnerability. Respondents might remind Blee that she could be harmed or endangered but also would point out that Blee could endanger them as well because she probably had “really good connections to the police” (1998, p. 392). Blee (2007) points out that many of the practices of feminist scholarship, including the goal of intersubjectivity or understanding the respondent’s truth and respecting it, being authentic with research respondents and promoting egalitarianism require empathy work; but these practices work best when we, as researchers, like the groups we are studying and share their values. She argues that these practices may be less possible and desirable with less attractive subjects. For Blee, one of the dangers of seeing the world through the eyes of extreme racists is that their worldview “might not seem unusual anymore”, and she advises researchers to “contrast their [racists’]

Rapport, respect, and dissonance 49 world with other worlds” (Blee et al., 2007, p. 28). We certainly agree with the need to take a critical approach when evaluating what your respondents say, and perhaps that is easier to do when you do not like the ideas of the groups you are studying. We were not necessarily critical in the sense of challenging interviewees at the time of the interview. We discuss this more fully in a later section. Blee questions the possibility of applying the values of feminist scholarship to investigating WP groups. She asks, “Would it even be possible, to say nothing of desirable, to strive for an empathetic connection, an authentic exchange, or rapport with a member of the Klan?” (2007, p. 12). While we cannot say that we achieved empathetic connection with most of our informants, we did strive to build rapport to keep people talking. We used several strategies for building and maintaining rapport, including finding common ground, being respectful, focusing on the goal of understanding, and role-taking.

3.6  Our strategies for building and maintaining rapport While we reject all of the core values of WP groups, that does not mean there is no common ground or things we can’t agree on. People are complicated, and as a result we tend to share more in common than not if we are willing to look beyond differences. As Pete Simi writes, “In many ways the form of Aryan lives was far more ordinary than I expected. They work, play, raise children, attend school, surf the web, and listen to music, among other routine, everyday activities” (Simi and Futrell 2010, p. 130). In other words, Aryans have ordinary lives, just like us. It is not difficult to relate to and even somewhat empathize with WP members’ worries around providing for family, saving for retirement, and raising children. As sociologists, it was also easy to relate to the common frustrations around themes of working class and middle class struggles, and the perception that the system was rigged in favor of the elites. We just did not believe that it was a Jewish conspiracy. To find common ground, it is typical to divulge personal information about yourself. This is more difficult to do when you do not share values. Blee discusses this problem when she elaborates on why it is hard to use standard ethnographic practices when interviewing racists. She writes, “If I was interviewing anybody else [not racists], if they said something about their family, I would be likely to respond with something about my family, to establish rapport. But I’m not going to talk about my family with racist activists” (2007, p. 18). Betty recalls a brief interaction with a young man she hoped to interview who recognized her last name, and learned that her brother had been his high school history teacher. She admits this felt a “little too close to home”. Sociologists conducting research often encounter attitudes and beliefs that at minimum they do not agree with, and at worse find these beliefs

50  Waldner and Dobratz as a threat to one’s own well-being. In discussing the issue of rapport and making an emotional connection with respondents, Blee argues that it is “a very different matter to think about developing an emotional tie to a racist activist whose life is given meaning and purpose by the desire to annihilate you and others like you” (2007, p. 12). Yet she acknowledges that at times, she did develop some empathy towards some of her respondents. “It was disturbing to find that I came to like—or, rather, feel empathy toward—some of them on a personal level. Them, not their ideas or actions. And these were people whose beliefs included wanting to kill people like me” (2007, p. 18). In an earlier publication, Blee posits that developing empathy “would violate the expected boundaries between scholars and intensely ‘unloved’ groups” (2002, p. 13). We understand how those targeted by WP groups because of their race, sexual orientation, or other personal characteristics would find it challenging to develop common ground. How can you look for common ground, much less empathy, when you find yourself and those you care about under attack? For Lisa, her personal biographical details also made it challenging, knowing what many WP supporters believe about same-sex relationships. Remembering that “people are complicated” was helpful. Lisa has also always placed a high value on her work role and, specifically, the research role. This identity as a researcher is high on what Sheldon Stryker (1980) calls an identity salience hierarchy, or how an individual ranks the roles important to their identity, and explains why she was willing to spend time with homophobic WP adherents. Another important component of establishing rapport and maintaining access is being respectful. Simi and Futrell argue that some “scholars and other observers have questioned the ethics of building too much rapport with Aryans; getting close is akin to sympathy. To avoid this dilemma, some researchers suggest using an open and honest approach, emphasizing to Aryans that they do not share their views of racial extremism and are not open to recruitment” (2010, p. 130). This is the approach taken by Blee. She reports often challenging her respondents to explain contradictions and letting respondents know up front that she did not agree with their views. Interestingly, she found that doing so did not damage rapport, as they had expected her to be a “race traitor” and to not agree with their views (Blee, 1998; 2002; Blee et al., 2007). In contrast, Pete Simi admits to being deceptive by pretending to agree with some of their ideas, laughing at racist jokes, and not openly disagreeing with his informants. Simi reports this caused him much discomfort and distress, and is probably one of the reasons he found fieldwork emotionally exhausting. His justification for his deception is twofold: he was doing ethnographic work in a very risky setting and attempting to understand his informants from their point of view (Simi and Futrell, 2010). While Blee told everyone upfront that she did not agree with their views, during interviews she held back her reactions to racist language and describes herself as adopting a more 1950s style of interviewing,

Rapport, respect, and dissonance 51 of becoming a “tape recorder” (Blee in Smith, 2002; Blee, 2007). She refused to even nod or engage in other forms of reciprocity to keep informants talking. As she puts it, “I’m not going to nod when I am listening to someone spew a bunch of racist garbage” (2007, p. 18).

3.7  Our choices We made a different choice than either Blee or Simi. For us, being respectful does not mean feigning agreement, but also means not reminding people that we do not share their views. We agree with those who argue that researchers should avoid debating with respondents or attempting to change their views (Rubin and Rubin, 2012). While everyone knew we were sociologists with no interest in joining WP groups, we did not feel it was necessary to remind everyone that we did not share their views, nor did we openly agree with racist, anti-Semitic, or homophobic statements. For us, respectful listening did not involve pretending to agree with racist or anti-Semitic views, but it did involve not actively challenging those views, along with nodding or engaging in other behaviors designed to keep people talking. Although not intended, Betty came to realize that this nodding could have been taken by some as agreement. However, she believes most interviewees viewed this as simply acknowledging that she understood the point they were making. Other than nodding, we did not react to racist language and ideas. Even persons with what we believe to be abhorrent views deserve to be treated respectfully, if only for the fact that they have agreed to give up their time and share their views. It is much easier to engage in respectful listening when you see them as human beings rather than simply as racists. Having this more holistic view is easier when you share some common ground. Having said this, we are not criticizing the choices made by either Blee or Simi, nor are we suggesting that their choices were disrespectful. We faced different circumstances and made choices that felt right for us. This is not to say that our choices were comfortable or without cost; it was draining to spend several hours listening to views we found distasteful and carefully monitoring our reactions. The most significant reason for engaging in respectful listening is that it can facilitate understanding, which is the point of the research enterprise. Joel Charon (2001) argues that understanding is dependent on “constructing their truth” (emphasis ours). Relatedly, Simi and Futrell argue, “understanding requires that researchers, to some extent, attempt to take on the perspective of their research subjects, if only for a time” (2010, p. 130). Herbert Blumer conveys the methodological implications for doing so. He writes, “It signifies immediately that if the scholar wishes to understand the actions of people, it is necessary to see their objects, as they see them…not on the basis of the meaning that these things have for the outside scholar” (1969, p. 50). What George Herbert Mead (1934) called role-taking, or actively viewing a situation through the eyes of another, is

52  Waldner and Dobratz not only a strategy for developing this intersubjectivity but for us was also important for maintaining respect for respondents. If individuals are willing to become research respondents and take on any risks associated with that role, we do have an obligation to attempt to fully understand their viewpoint. Intersubjectivity does not mean, of course, that one accepts as one’s own the worldview of respondents.

3.8  Staying safe While being honest and authentic is important for rapport building, there is also a safety dimension. It is important to be aware of what respondents can discover about you and to decide in advance how to handle questions or confrontations in a way that builds rather than erodes trust. While some of this information might be past writings that could potentially anger movement supporters, this could also be personal information. In the age of Google, it is not so difficult to obtain copies of journal articles or academic papers, or to discover personal details about a researcher that might put them at odds with WP supporters. While doing research for the book Inside Organized Racism, Kathleen Blee had already written a previous book as well as several journal articles. Because she portrayed WP members accurately (even if they did not necessarily agree with her evaluation), she did not have trouble with recruiting interviewees—although she does recount being threatened on more than one occasion. Personal details are also more easily discoverable. Besides publishing research on same-sex relationships, Lisa is married to a woman. While some WP supporters may not see same-sex relationships as an issue, many still do. Before going into the field, it is important to find out what kind of information respondents can find. Doing a personal Google search at least provides information, true or not, that potential respondents could discover. Having this knowledge in advance allows one to make better decisions about how to respond to queries. One such strategy is deflection.

3.9 Deflection Pete Simi faced many attempts at recruitment from the skinheads he studied and sometimes requests for agreement. Learning to deflect by saying “we’ll see” when asked to agree with a specific racist remark, was a survival strategy while he was in the field. Deflection is not only about fending off questions about your personal views on issues, but it also may be needed to sidestep direct questions a researcher may receive from respondents about their personal lives. Blee recounts being careful not to reveal anything about her personal life (Blee in Smith, 2002), and as previously discussed, she made a conscious choice not to share details with racists about her family. In contrast, Lisa tried to reciprocate with some details when she

Rapport, respect, and dissonance 53 could but also needed to deflect when doing so put her at risk. For example, in one interview someone asked Lisa about other research interests. Lisa has published in journals on violence in interpersonal relationships and, more specifically, in same-sex relationships. She decided not to share that detail but deflected to discuss other aspects of her research on relationship violence. When Lisa was asked about her relationship status and whether or not she had children, she shared that she was divorced and had children. She did not share that she was in a committed relationship with another woman. At the time these incidents occurred, Google and social media applications such as Facebook did not exist, limiting the amount of personal information that was publicly available. Deflection and redirection of personal questions is a necessary survival tactic. The take-away here is to decide ahead of time, and this is important for any project, how much of your personal life you are willing to share before beginning the data collection process. While doing formal interviews, we followed a structured interview schedule. While at WP events, like Simi, we were mindful of the need to blend in and to not go out of our way to call attention to ourselves, even if that meant that some individuals would mistake us for racists. For example, at one rally counter-protestors called Betty a “Nazi grandmother”. Betty was not happy, as neither label was accurate. On another occasion, Lisa and Betty were at what was supposed to be a WP concert. The owners of the space had no idea that they had rented their basement to a neo-Nazi group. Once they realized this, the police were called. Betty and Lisa had been in the basement talking to the neo-Nazi who had rented the space. He told us that he had booked the space for a “family reunion”. The police came and told us to leave or we would face arrest. We all had to walk single file past a line of police officers and their dogs. In both situations, others assumed that one or both of us were group members. We did nothing to challenge that assumption because doing so would have been disrespectful to the hosts who had allowed us to spend the day with them, and would have jeopardized our rapport with the group. Additionally, local law enforcement would not have necessarily cared whether we were members or not. It is important to be mindful of safety and not take access for granted. As previously discussed, Simi learned how to quickly detect when someone was uncomfortable with his presence and how to stay out of their way. We have also been in situations that were somewhat precarious. Once we got into a car driven by a group of white supremacists who took us on a tour of Toronto. While this was an example of their generosity and hospitality (Lisa had not previously been to Toronto), we were not initially sure about the wisdom of getting into the car. At the aborted WP concert, once the police made us leave the building, the agreement was to regroup at a nearby gas station. We did so, and the man we had been talking to shortly beforehand—the one who had told us that he had booked the event as a

54  Waldner and Dobratz “family reunion”—suddenly turned on Lisa and demanded to know who had given her permission to be there. Lisa was stunned because she had been around him for several hours that day and had chatted amicably. We were able to quickly defuse the situation and spend more time with the group, but it is important to realize that this can happen and to be prepared to deal with it.

3.10  Dissonance and stress Interviews can be both physically and emotionally exhausting. The Rubins (2012) argue that doing interviews is exhausting because focused and intensive listening is required. Add to this the burden of listening to someone who holds values that are at odds with one’s own and there is an emotional toll. Blee talks about the emotional labor that is involved in doing this, and we agree this is an apt description. Arlie Hochschild (1983) distinguishes between two types of emotional labor, including the evocation and suppression of emotion. Suppressing emotion by not reacting to a racist’s jokes or ideas is emotional labor, as well as managing emotions through the building of rapport. The nodding and other behaviors that we engage in to encourage connection and to build rapport are physical manifestations of emotional labor, especially when we are encouraging racists to share views that make us feel uncomfortable. Managing that discomfort while also trying to encourage dialogue is more work than either single task. Besides the strain of going into the field and sometimes encountering potentially dangerous situations, there is the added stress or worry about giving racists a platform and increased credibility. When scholars take a movement seriously by studying it, they have to contend with the possibility of increasing its credibility. Our own thoughts on this is that one cannot defeat something one does not understand. Understanding is necessary to counteract racist movements. Yet, we have to be cognizant of the potential to lend credibility. Blee argues that, “It seems obvious that researchers should not actively seek to empower people like the Klan, but is it possible that the very nature of this research, the process of eliciting and conducting interviews with Klan members and Nazis, is itself empowering by suggesting to them and their political descendants their importance to American history?” (Blee, 2007, pp. 15−16). We do not have an answer to the question of whether this is empowering or not, but the thought that we could be empowering these groups is a painful realization and a source of stress. For Betty, to completely eliminate this possibility of legitimization, it would mean that researchers like us no longer engage in such research, and that would leave a major gap in the literature on the WP movement. It is also stressful finding a disconnect between what we actually find and what we expect to find. We expect people with despicable views to be despicable people, and that is often not the case. Like Blee, we are making a

Rapport, respect, and dissonance 55 distinction between the person and their ideas. And also like Blee (1993; 1998; 2007), we have found many of those we met and interviewed to be intelligent, charming, and otherwise quite engaging. There is mental stress or cognitive dissonance (Festinger, 1957) involved in reconciling the abhorrent views of a person who is in other ways the opposite of abhorrent. People are complex and complicated. It is stressful to deal with role conflict. As sociologists, we are supposed to understand and oppose racism, sexism, and homophobia. And yet, does interviewing racists somehow provide credibility to their views? How does a feminist research role that values treating respondents with respect and intersubjectivity conflict with the sociologist’s role of opposing systems of oppression, namely racism, sexism, and homophobia? It is yet another reason why Blee says that it is much harder to conform to research expectations when you are studying groups that you do not like.

3.11  Managing stigma Finally, we discuss the challenge of managing stigma. We often assume we know the personal values and political opinions of researchers based on what they study. People sometimes assume that sociologists who study the WPM share the racist and anti-Semitic values of their respondents. We along with Blee have found that at times we, too, take on the stigma of those we study. We have already shared examples of when we have taken on this group’s stigma by not calling attention to ourselves by informing the police officers in the basement or the counter-protestor at a rally that we were not WP supporters. Taking on this stigma is a cost of maintaining respect for respondents. When you have been invited into their space to share their world, it does not seem appropriate to distance yourself from your hosts. Even other sociologists sometimes assume that you must be in agreement with those you study. At a professional meeting of sociologists, Betty was pressed about her research by an audience member who asserted that sociologists typically do research on groups they support, rather than ones they do not. James Aho was the subject of an attack in his local newspaper, written by a mistrustful colleague, because of his research on the extreme right (Perlstein, 1995). Related to managing stigma is the realization of how others see you if perceived as a white power supporter. In the basement at the cancelled WP concert, when we all had to walk single file past the police, Lisa realized that the police assumed she was a neo-Nazi and went through all three stages of Charles Horton Cooley’s looking-glass self (1902) in just a matter of seconds. The sense of mortification was especially strong, and the only thing that kept Lisa from calling attention to herself by distancing herself from these neo-Nazis and letting everyone know she was really a sociologist and not “one of them” was a stronger need to be respectful of the people she was with who allowed her to share their social world.

56  Waldner and Dobratz

3.12 Conclusion Even with the potential risk of enhancing credibility, there is value in having face-to-face interaction with individuals who hold values with whom we not only disagree, but may even find dangerous. We need researchers who are able and willing to interact and engage with white power activists. Doing so requires a careful balance of methodological, ethical, and professional challenges. We earlier posed the question of whether or not there is a conflict between adopting a research perspective that values respect and intersubjectivity, and the sociologist’s role of opposing systems of oppression including racism, sexism, and homophobia. We think that is a false dichotomy. One can respect the essential dignity of those who participate in the WPM and choose to become research respondents without respecting or endorsing the values and beliefs that justify systems of oppression. We cannot combat what we do not understand. While we did not always make the same choices as others, that is not to say we disagree with or disapprove of different choices. Ultimately, one must be comfortable in one’s own skin. There is value in applying sociological concepts to understand how researchers process challenging research situations, and we hope that sharing our experiences and reactions is useful to others who are either actively doing or contemplating research on “unloved” groups.

References Aho, J. (1990). The Politics of Righteousness. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Babbie, E. B. (2014). The Practice of Social Research. 14th Edition. Boston: Cengage Learning. Balch, R. W. (2006). The Rise and Fall of Aryan Nations: A Resource Mobilization Perspective. Journal of Political and Military Sociology 34(1), pp. 81–114. Berg, B. L. (2009). Qualitative Research Methods for the Social Sciences. 7th Edition. Boston: Allyn and Bacon. Blee, K. (1991). Women of the Klan: Racism and Gender in the 1920s. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Blee, K. (1993). Evidence, Empathy, and Ethics: Lessons from Oral Histories of the Klan. The Journal of American History, 80, pp. 596–606. Blee, K. (1998). White-Knuckle Research: Emotional Dynamics in Fieldwork with Racist Activists. Qualitative Sociology, 21, pp. 381–399. Blee, K. (2002). Inside Organized Racism: Women in the Hate Movement. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Blee, K. (2007). Voyeurism, Ethics, and the Lure of the Extraordinary: Lessons from Studying America’s Underground. Social Thought and Research, 28, pp. 3–22. Blee, K., Decker, S., and Legerski, L. (2007). Interview with Kathleen Blee. Social Thought and Research, 28, pp. 23–33. Blumer, H. (1969). Symbolic Interactionism. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall. Charon, J. (2001). Symbolic Interactionism. Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall. Cooley, C. H. (1902). Human Nature and the Social Order. New York: Scribner’s.

Rapport, respect, and dissonance 57 Dobratz, B. A. and Shanks-Meile, S. L. (1997). White Power, White Pride! The White Separatist Movement in the United States. NY: Twayne. Dobratz, B. A., Shanks-Meile, S. L., and Waldner, L. K. (2009). White Separatism in the United States: Framing of Love and Hate. In A. Kalaitzidis, ed., Global Politics in the Dawn of the 21st Century, 1st ed. Athens: ATINER, pp. 75–88. Dobratz, B. A. and Waldner, L. K. (2006). In Search of Understanding the White Power Movement: An introduction. Journal of Political and Military Sociology 34(2), pp. 1–9. Dobratz, B. A. and Waldner, L. K. (2012). Repertoires of Contention: White Separatist Views on the Use of Violence and Leaderless Resistance. Mobilization 17(1), pp. 49–66. Dobratz, B. A. and Waldner, L. K. (2013). Thoughts on Continuity and Change in White Power Movement Recruitment Strategies in the United States. [blog] Mobilizing Ideas. The Center for the Study of Social Movements at the University of Notre Dame. Available at: http://mobilizingideas.wordpress.com/2013/10/01/ thoughts-on-continuity-and-change-in-white-power-movement-recruitment-strategies-in-the-united-states/#more-5916. Dobratz, B. A. and Waldner, L. K. (2014). Ballots and/or Bullets: Strategies of the White Power Movement in the United States. In Y. A. Stivachtis and S. G. Abbott, eds. Addressing Integration and Exclusion: Democracy, Human Rights and Humanitarian Intervention, 1st ed. Athens: ATINER, pp. 255–268. Dobratz, B. A. and Waldner, L. K. (2016). The White Power Movement’s Populist Connection to the Tea Party Movement in the United States. Athens Journal of Social Science, 3(3), pp. 19–31. Festinger, L. (1957). A Theory of Cognitive Dissonance. Evanston, IL: Row & Peterson. Futrell, R. and Simi, P. (2004). Free Spaces, Collective Identity and the Persistence of U.S. White Power Activism. Social Problems 51, pp. 16–42. Gardell, M. (2003). Gods of the Blood. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Goffman, E. (1956). The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. London: Penguin. Hochschild, A. R. (1983). The Managed Heart: Commercialization of Human Feeling. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Judkis, M. (2017). Charlottesville White Nationalist Demonstrator Loses Job at Libertarian Hot Dog Shop. Washington Post [online]. Available at: https://www. washingtonpost.com/news/food/wp/2017/08/14/charlottesville-white-nationalist-demonstrator-fired-from-libertarian-hot-dog-shop/?utm_term=.cf2dd514a2d0. [Accessed on 30 Sept. 17] Kaplan, J., ed. (2000). Encyclopedia of White Power. Walnut Creek, CA: Alta Mira. Langer, E. (2003). A Hundred Little Hitlers: The Death of a Black Man, the Trial of a White Racist, and the Rise of the Neo-Nazi Movement in America. New York: Metropolitan. Lofland, J. and Lofland L. H. (1984). Analyzing Social Settings: A Guide to Qualitative Observation and Analysis. 2nd ed. Belmont, CA: Wadsworth. Mead, G. H. (1934). Mind, Self, and Society from the Standpoint of a Social Behaviorist. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Perlstein, R. (1995). Sleeping with the Enemy. Lingua Franca. November/December, pp. 79–83. Rubin, H. J. and Rubin, I. S. (2012). Qualitative Interviewing: The Art of Hearing Data. 3rd Edition. Los Angeles: Sage. Simi, P. and Futrell, R. (2009). Negotiating White Power Activist Stigma. Social Problems, 56(1), pp. 89–110.

58  Waldner and Dobratz Simi, P. and Futrell, R. (2010). American Swastika: Inside the White Power Movement’s Hidden Spaces of Hate. Lanham, MA: Rowman & Littlefield. Smith, D. (2002). The Women Behind the Masks of Hate. The New York Times [online]. Available at: http://www.nytimes.com/2002/01/26/books/the-women-behindthe-masks-of-hate.html. [accessed on 21 Mar. 2017] Stryker, S. (1980). Symbolic Interactionism: A Social Structural Version. Menlo Park, CA: Benjamin Cummings. Tucker, J. (2017). Berkeley White Supremacist Electrician out of a Job after Virginia Rally. SFGate [online]. Available at: http://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/article/Berkeleywhite-supremacist-electrician-out-of-a-11824760.php. [accessed on 1 Oct. 2017] U.S. Department of Homeland Security (USDHS) (2009). Rightwing Extremism: Current Economic and Political Climate Fueling Resurgence in Radicalization and Recruitment. Office of Intelligence and Analysis, (U//FOUO), April 7.

4

Rethinking the party, the state and the world: The case of Turkish right-wing nationalist youth in Gezi protests Derya Göçer Akder Kübra Oğuz

4.1 Introduction It is almost impossible not to see the emphasis on the diversity of the Gezi process in any statement that is made on the resistance. There is a wellknown picture of two protestors holding hands and running from tear gas, while one carries the flag of the Peace and Democracy Party (Barış ve Demokrasi Partisi, BDP) and the other the Turkish national flag with the picture of Atatürk on it—a third protestor is making the Bozkurt sign with both hands, the sign that is attributed to right-wing Turkish nationalists. This picture has been iconic for depicting the diversity in the ideological backgrounds of protestors and the comprehensiveness of the Gezi process. Although the Gezi movement is being increasingly researched and analyzed, little has been done to understand the man in the lower right corner of that picture.1 This article will present and build upon our fieldwork, and will include analyses based on our own experiences, the interpretations and perceptions of that man, and his own explanations as to why the right-wing nationalists were on the streets. Further, based on these self-perceptions as well as the literature on Turkish nationalism, what his presence tells us in terms of the nature of the transformation of Turkish right-wing nationalism. The academic debate on the Gezi movement so far has revolved around two main axes. First, the heterogeneity among the participants has caused a great deal of soul searching as to how to study this amalgam. Debates on methodological individualism and criteria for determining the class nature of the street politics were points of discussion in journals and conferences.2 The main binary here revealed itself between viewing the Gezi movement as predominantly middle-class based on various surveys quantifying the middle classes on the street in the summer of 2013, and as a predominantly working class movement based on a historical materialist reading of recent history and the foreseeable outcomes of the movement. Secondly, the debate also produced a great deal of writing on the transnational character of the movement, culminating in Tuğal’s depiction of the summer of 2013 as a part of a chain of predominantly middle-class revolutions and revolts across the globe. Although it looks as if the debate is part

60  Akder and Oğuz of the former debate on the class character of the upheaval, the assumption that there is a global wave of revolts against a neoliberal world order itself constitutes a debate in its own right (Özdemir, 2015; Göçer and Özdemir, 2015). Research into the global connections between different revolts is, of course, very valuable3 but should not come at the expense of research into the different components of the Gezi movement. Each gives a different perspective on not only their own stories but crucially on the government and the power relations which they oppose. In this chapter, apart from contributing to the scholarly debate on the right-wing nationalists’ presence in Gezi, we want to discuss an issue rarely touched upon regarding researching right-wing nationalists in Turkey: as researchers who perceive themselves on the opposite side of the political spectrum, we encountered methodological challenges throughout our research with right-wing nationalists. First, we both come from a middle-class background, by means of which we did not have the obstacles pointed out by many other researchers in the literature (Bolak, 1996). Moreover, we were both part of the Gezi Resistance, sharing shared similar grievances with the interviewees vis-à-vis the political administration in Turkey. Hence, we were able to converse from an empathetic point of view when the topic was the Gezi Resistance or even opposition to the then-government in general. Our social status as academics has been helpful in terms of building trust with the participants. Our university, thought to be one of the best universities in the country, also helped us gain trust, even though members of the university are widely labelled as leftists. Thus, although we were hesitant to show any political affiliation, the interviewees mostly considered us in line with this general association. Furthermore, most of our interviewees were born after 1990, and complained that the older generation lacks the tools to understand their generation. In that sense, our considerably young age has been an asset in terms of building rapport with the interviewees. Gender has had the most ambivalent position among these dynamics. On one hand, it allowed us to enter an environment in which a leftist male would have difficulty. As the struggle between left and right has been a male-dominated one, we, as two women, were not stigmatized (like male leftists) for non-acceptance in the nationalist environment. Women who are not perceived as “radicals” are considered less of a threat in these circles, and perhaps even a candidate for “conversion”, as some of our interviewees jokingly expressed their “hopes” for us. On the other hand, their outright will to put forth their ideas and questions about gender equality and LGBTI+ issues put us in an uncomfortable position. We were two women coming from different political backgrounds than our interviewees. One of us (Derya) comes from a militant leftist family and has been part of leftist circles since her early childhood. Kübra comes from a Republican-Kemalist secular-nationalist and supposedly left-leaning family, providing her with familiarity to Kemalist, reflexes of secularism, orientalism and Arabophobia. Both of us have leftist and feminist worldviews.

Rethinking the party 61 We believe that discussing the challenges that these aspects posed to us before, during and after the fieldwork would be highly informative in terms of doing fieldwork in an environment within which the researchers do not ethically and/or ideologically agree. Right-wing secular nationalist youth were outspokenly—and almost proudly—active during the resistance in Istanbul, Ankara, Mersin, Adana and other cities. Throughout our research, we have encountered various small-scale nationalist youth groups that were on the streets, yet hardly present both in the studies on Gezi protests and mainstream discourse. This absence has two main reasons. First, the leader of the NMP Devlet Bahçeli denounced4 the party members who participated in the protests, even though he later criticized the recent oppressive attitude of the government in general and towards the protestors. Thus, despite the critical mass of young secular and right-wing nationalists, these people were not supported by their organizations and hence were not the subject of press releases or TV discussions.5 One party member who was active during the protests explains this situation: [I participated] completely independently, because the chairperson specifically told us “not to take part” and that he would “discharge the ones who do”. We participated completely independent of the party… There were friends that we met [on the streets], leftists, liberals etc., and they were asking us where we are from. And we were telling them that we are there [on the streets]. But they were asking again from which organization we are. But we were hesitating then; one thinks about the possible course of events in case we were on the streets as an organization because then there was the risk of clashing with the people there apart from the police. That’s why I still think whether it was better for the idealists to take part in the name of the organization. But I believed that we should have supported it at least on a discursive level. I always held this belief and I still do. Second, as explained above, scholarly works on the resistance focused more on the internationalist aspects of the protests6 and/or the class composition of the participants and the class character of the whole protests.7 This led to the neglect of more locally oriented voices in Gezi, including the right-wing secular nationalists. Thus, despite the mainstream rhetoric on Gezi and a couple of media appearances, right-wing secular nationalists were absent in the discussion. As the main goal of our research project, we tried to reach people from different political backgrounds as much as we could. Our interviews showed that the way the participants interacted with what we call “the international”, varies even among the same political group or people with similar political perspectives. More importantly, we have seen that there is a new wave of right-wing nationalist politics in Turkey which conservative and supposedly nationalist

62  Akder and Oğuz AKP government cannot address. The AKP government in recent years, combined with its way of implementing neoliberal policies, has generated new voices within the nationalist politics, generally assumed to be the potential base that it shared with nationalist parties, MHP being the leading one. This new generation of nationalist politics came together on the street with other oppositional fragments almost for the first time in the history of nationalist politics in Turkey. With their own interpretations on Gezi and their peculiar experiences with “the international”, these nationalists are a different mixture of old and new methods of doing politics, which would gain momentum in the future. Thus, we thought we should broaden our research on these groups in order to posit them within our analysis on Gezi and the international in general.

4.2  Field research All the nationalist groups and individuals that took part in our research can be considered as a part of what Tanıl Bora calls “Turkish radical nationalism” (Bora, 2003). Pan-Turanism, or Pan-Turkism, is a main pillar of this branch of nationalism. Emerging as an elite ideology with its initial connections to Kemalist cadres and Kemalist ideology, it should be considered within its historical context as having roots prior to the foundation of the Turkish Republic. Radical nationalist elitism is greater than that of the populist and anti-communist propaganda years of the 1960s and 70s under the leadership of Alparslan Türkeş—a man still regarded, even after his death, as the honorary leader of right-wing nationalism. In the 1990s, Turkish right-wing nationalism and the idealist nationalist movement experienced a peak, at the end of which the party was able to extend itself outside its traditional circles and reach out to the “young urban upper-middle class constituency” (Bora, 2003, p. 447). Since the time of Alparslan Türkeş, Islam has been considered to be an inseparable feature of both the society and the party. With the rise in Turkey of Islamist politics in the 1990s, a political rivalry between MHP and Islamist parties emerged. The party under the leadership of Devlet Bahçeli made some controversial decisions from the late 1990s to the early 2000s. Recently, Devlet Bahçeli has been heavily criticized for turning the party into a one-man-rule and not raising his voice against the authoritarian tendencies of AKP. The cracks inside the party are one of the reasons why young right-wing nationalists took to the streets during the Gezi resistance. However, we want to point out that this innerparty opposition is related to the ideological and organizational history of the party, and this diversity in the younger generation of MHP followers is overlooked in the literature. However, it is important to note that these differences affected two main things: their perceptions of “the international”, and our methodological approaches to each group and individual. We conducted eleven semi-structured interviews with young nationalists, six in Ankara and five in Istanbul, during which we asked similar questions

Rethinking the party 63 to all interviewees. We also added some extra questions on nationalist politics in general and their overall analysis of Turkey and the opposition. Additionally, we organized one focus group with three members from one group, along with using participant observation in two meetings of the same group. Apart from these, we have followed their online magazines and social media accounts, listened to their songs written in their unique jargon, and followed their jokes on gender and ethnicity in Turkey. It is important to mention here that, as individuals who consider themselves on the left side of the political spectrum, conducting research on ultra-nationalists posed some challenges for us. It was sometimes very difficult for us to be able to continue the interviews or not interrupt the meetings—at least with our facial expressions—especially upon hearing racist or sexist arguments on the Kurdish issue, gender, etc. Yet, it was an unusual experience for us to encounter their ideas on issues such as how to organize in a more egalitarian way, among others, thought to be traditionally unexpected topics for the Turkish rightwing, which usually has a strict top-down hierarchical organization. The complex structure of these youth groups is something new to the Turkish political scene: criticizing the one-man-rule in MHP, rethinking gender relations, etc., while at the same time keeping to the ultra-nationalist principles of the nationalist tradition on the key issues of politics in Turkey, most notably the Kurdish issue. We find dividing the fieldwork into three temporal phases highly practical for analytical purposes. Moreover, these phases help clarify the shifts in the positions taken throughout the research by researchers and interviewees as they pose different issues to tackle. We thought out every step thoroughly before beginning the interviews, knowing that the rapport-building needed with nationalists would not rely on the same dynamics as those used with the broad range of Gezi participant interviewees. Finding individuals and groups to talk to was our first challenge—we had no prior contacts with any right-wing nationalist circle. Furthermore, these youth groups rarely have their own organizational website or social media account, except for one that we interviewed. That group was easy to reach as they replied to our Facebook messages quickly. For the rest, we had to go through all our personal and professional contacts that might lead us to these circles. In the end, we found two individuals to interview, who then introduced us to the rest of the group. However, this method of contact also affected their perception of us. Our contact person’s profile, together with the way he/she introduced us and our project, helped shape the interviewees’ perceptions about us before the interviews took place. We therefore thought that we should be careful about the way we reached out to these groups, considering we had no prior contact with them and because of the pre-existing, mainly ideological, divide between us. The second issue needing pre-handling seemed to be a relatively unimportant one at first glance, yet we believe that it affected the entire interview process: where to hold the interview. Throughout the project, we made sure

64  Akder and Oğuz to let the interviewees choose the location since we wanted them to feel as comfortable as possible. We thought it might not be easy for them to talk about a political issue in a public place with which they are not familiar. However, it posed certain challenges to us as individuals and researchers when it came to the right-wing nationalists. One group took Kübra, who did the interview alone, to a dim and desolate second floor of an old heavymetal bar in the Beyoğlu district in İstanbul, where it was hard for her to feel comfortable. However, she had little bargaining room to change the location because the interviewee explicitly—and almost arrogantly—told her to leave the choice to them, as “they are the one to be interviewed”. Not wanting to jeopardize the research, she complied with the leader of the group on this matter. However, her apparent discomfort with the location affected her behaviors throughout the interview. The experience with other interviewees was relatively more comfortable for the researchers. One of the focus groups was conducted at Türk Ocağı in İstanbul, an old association of nationalists with a location inside an ancient Ottoman cemetery that is visited by people with linkages to right-wing nationalist circles. The rest of the interviews were held at public cafes and bars where both sides felt relatively comfortable. Therefore, we believe that although it is important to make the interviewees feel comfortable in talking about oppositional politics, the researcher should bear in mind that her comfort is also a non-negotiable component of the research. The problems we encountered during the fieldwork itself have been the most challenging. From the beginning, we were clear, open and consistent about who we are and why we were conducting the research. As Hintz and Milan notes, “as interviews are unequal relations, with the interviewer creating and controlling an artificial situation and defining topics and questions”, we tried to come up with solutions to bridge this gap (Hintz and Milan, 2010). Additionally, Ergun and Erdemir state that “…for the field researcher, there is neither a comfortable insider nor a comfortable outsider position and that access to the field and reliable data can be achieved through a dialectical process involving constant negotiation” (Ergun and Erdemir, 2010). Similarly, we felt varying degrees of uneasiness throughout the research, deriving from both the nature of fieldwork and the peculiar problems of conducting research with right-wing nationalists. During the interviews, the first thing we tried to secure was the acceptance from the interviewee, both individual and groups. Since anti-communist street fascism of the 1970s, the struggle between left and right wing has occurred in a male-dominated scene in Turkey. Combined with these groups’ alleged stance for gender equality, we believe that being woman helped us be accepted in their environment, although coming from a highly sexist point of view. Secondly, as the main interviewer, Kübra’s age (which is close to most of the interviewees) and Derya’s position as a “hoca” (professor) at the university helped us gain trust and acceptance. Thirdly, these groups consider themselves an essential part of Gezi resistance, which has been

Rethinking the party 65 a turning point in their political lives. However, if we look at the scholarly works on right-wing nationalism in Turkey, we rarely see accounts based on actual fieldwork. Thus, they considered our study as a means of publicity that, in return, increased the importance they attached to the research. Furthermore, all groups consider education highly respectable, thanks to the inherent elitism of their branch of nationalism. These aspects contributed to gaining the trust of the group leaders, which then helped us build rapport with the rest of the groups. One of the groups was openly hierarchical; however, one did question the notion of hierarchy even though they had a de facto leader. During one of the meetings of the latter group, where we were present as participant observers, some group members implicitly showed their doubt about our presence,8 yet we were able to express ourselves openly thanks to the confidence of the group leader in our study. In that sense, inner group dynamics might help if the researcher can highlight the right aspects of the researchers and the research in order to gain trust and acceptance. Each group and each member were aware that we were there as outsiders. However, one still needs to obtain consent—even to become an outsider—in order to conduct research in a certain social circle. Considering the incongruence with the group, we found it preferable to be overt outsiders in terms of the purposes of the research and for ethical and/ or ideological reasons. All groups had sexist and racist perspectives in varying degrees, which brought up the question of whether or not social scientific research without empathy is possible. Shariff mentions the need of the ethnographer to “allow the subjects of the research to speak through the research” (Shariff, 2014). However, we believe that empathy is not an absolute feeling that reflects itself upon the shifting roles of outsider and insider for the researcher. One group has been the most adamantly racist among all; the interviewees at some point even legitimized European colonization of Africa based on social Darwinism. Similarly, according to them, Turks should be the one and only rulers in Turkey based on cultural superiority. Their leader explained some of these claims as follows: …Germans, Italians, the French can live together, they can show the will to live together but Turks and Kurds can’t and they already don’t, and what we go through is the problems coming out of it. You will probably find these words wrong but the main principal we support is this.9 That’s why I always talk about benefiting from social Darwinism. I feel attached to evolution theory and I want my group members to feel the same. There is a process in which some are higher than some others, or even much higher. If this wasn’t the case, we wouldn’t have the world system that we have today. Another group questioned the sincerity of Kurdish participants in Gezi, implying that they were plotting with AKP against the Resistance. In one of the group meetings, one member was making homophobic jokes about

66  Akder and Oğuz LGBTI+ members. These are some examples of what made us question our aim with the research, and whether it is appropriate to interfere and vocalize our ideas about these issues. Thus, when the subject was the Kurdish issue and the language turned especially sexist, we felt like we were betraying both our research agenda and ourselves, which was initially to understand an oppositional social movement. There was a fluid positioning process on the part of both the researchers and interviewees. The interviewees also changed tone and language when discussing these two different topics. In that case, we decided to keep up with the research and kept silent during these and many other political issues, allowing us to build a rapport—albeit very shaky—which was felt on both sides. We tried to play the invisible researcher as much as we could. However, the interviewees themselves filled the gap we left open with our silence. Most of the members knew that we had opposing worldviews. However, some group members misunderstood even our silence during some occasions, beginning to make jokes about recruiting us. We believe that fieldwork without empathy can seldom be achieved. We tried to build this empathy via our attachment to the same social mobilization and similar stance against the government. The shared grievance made it easy for both sides to feel attached and build rapport. The position of an outsider creates a double burden on the researcher after the fieldwork is finished. On one side, she does not want to feel like she represents groups and individuals with whom she does not ideologically agree. On the other, there is an extra tension on the researcher who kept her outsider position during the research in terms of framing these groups, as these individuals and groups might easily misinterpret our framing. As researchers, we still feel the tension of being accused by these groups of manipulating the data because of the mistrust on the left in interpreting the right. In fact, two group leaders wanted to be informed when we made our publications, and one kept asking whether we had published yet. Neither of the interviewees participating in the broader project asked us such follow-up questions.

4.3 Research purpose and scope: Exploring Gezi protests and nationalist protestors The existing literature on Gezi has two shortcomings. First, although it is widely stated that nationalists were also present in Gezi, there has never been any research conducted on the nationalist participants of the Gezi resistance. Thus, a scientific account on the right-wing nationalists’ presence is absent, though such an account would contribute to the overall analysis on Gezi and its international linkages. Secondly, the claims made on the “globalness” of Gezi do not include the perceptions of “the international” by these groups both during and after. Thus, our research fills a double gap: one, we provide a humble analysis on the reasons and motivations behind the participation of right-wing secular nationalist youth groups in Gezi; and

Rethinking the party 67 two, we try to understand what this new wave of nationalist politics demonstrates about the discussions of globalness on Gezi. The presence of nationalists in Gezi was so prevalent that it was easily manipulated by the government. These nationalists were from various political orientations, making it difficult to put them into one pot. The members of Turkish Youth Union (Türkiye Gençlik Birliği, TGB) were among the most organized and active participants during the resistance. Traditionally distant from Turkish right-wing nationalism, the organization can be considered to be the foremost representative of pseudo left-wing nationalism. The second group of nationalists, predominantly being Republican People Party (Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi, CHP) electorates, was the unorganized neo-nationalists (ulusalcı). Despite the threat of being pulled out of the party, some members of MHP and its youth organization, the Grey Wolves (Ülkü Ocakları), were also present. Some members of nationalist organizations close to MHP were on the streets without an organizational decision to participate. Apart from these, unorganized right-wing nationalist individuals and nationalist youth groups that do not have an organic tie with a political organization also took to the streets during Gezi. Even though AKP does not attract the traditional votes that go to MHP, it is able to ideologically incorporate MHP’s conservative nationalist electorates with its supposedly nationalist and conservative discourse. The postGezi period polls show that MHP constituency accepted AKP’s narratives on Gezi (KONDA, 2014; GENAR, 2013); however, these critical young individuals and groups signify a social segment that AKP’s discourse was not able to embrace. Gezi was the first time that a criticism towards AKP was expressed on this extensive social level within the MHP base. Considering all these points, it is not their secular nationalism that is different, but the way they integrate their secularism with politics is new to both nationalist politics and Turkish politics in general. Furthermore, we conducted two interviews with the members of an ultra-nationalist group that is more radical in their association with the ideas of Nihal Atsız without being critical of it. Their criticism towards AKP and MHP derives merely from the criticisms of hardliner Atsız tradition. As a prominent Turkist and nationalist writer and intellectual, Nihal Atsız has a significant impact on right-wing secular nationalism in Turkey. His thoughts and works are considered a milestone of a Turkist-Turanist tradition in which religion and conservatism are almost absent and any kind of foreign influence is condemned, be it intellectual or socio-economic. Although other right-wing nationalist groups that are included in this study have been influenced by him, this ultra-nationalist group focuses more on his thoughts with a racist perspective that is not that apparent in the rest of the participant groups. Thus, even though we interviewed representatives of all the above-mentioned nationalists, the individuals and groups on which we based our research fall under the new MHP-related generation that is critical of traditional nationalist politics, yet still feeling attached to MHP. This group of right-wing

68  Akder and Oğuz nationalists indicated the strengthening of secular nationalist politics that reconsiders the issues of institutional hierarchy, new ways of communication in politics, gender rights, national-international linkages, etc., while maintaining the ultra-nationalist views of the nationalist tradition in expressing their criticism towards both AKP and MHP. More importantly, these groups and individuals have a different understanding of the connection between the local and global, despite the traditional conservative attitude of nationalists in Turkey towards the “outside”. These critical nationalists made their most powerful public move in Gezi. Some of these people are still active in MHP, yet they do not raise their criticism towards the party through organizational means. Some others, mostly born after the 1990s, were members of MHP youth organizations, but broke away in order to engage in independent groups. These youth groups were able to reach out to and organize others. Five of our participants were associated with a group which does not have any organic link with another nationalist organization or party. Although the group acquired its current name in the first half of 2014, they were a small group publishing an online magazine with a different name. Currently, they are active in many cities such as Ankara, Konya, Adana, etc., with Istanbul being the center of their activities. Four of our interviewees in this group were formerly members of MHP-related organizations.

4.4  The Party, the state and the world These youth groups interpret their position vis-à-vis the state very similarly to leftist groups, targeting the state. Although they separate the state from AKP and put the former almost in a divine position, this changed after the treatment of protestors during the Gezi resistance. One member of these right-wing nationalist groups explains this situation in these words: And our nation is statist. It never says something against its own state, police or military. That’s why I absolutely didn’t expect such a harsh reaction from the police when I first participated. But when I was tear gassed for the first time, when I couldn’t breathe, I realized what kind of a situation I was in. The state was treating its own people as terrorists. The state is not only turning its back against its own people, but the harsh treatment of people comes from Islamists, whose culture the nationalists feel is “foreign” to them. In their eyes the Islamist culture is closer to the Middle East than to Central Asia or Europe, the former is where Turks come from and the latter is where they are going to go. Another young right-wing nationalist wittingly explains his thoughts on the Middle East as follows: I’m a guy who doesn’t like the Middle East. I always question why we crossed through south of the Caspian Sea instead of north. We’ve passed there once with European Huns, we already knew the way.

Rethinking the party 69 Indeed, throughout our wider fieldwork, right-wing nationalist youth showed the most radical hostility to Arabs and Middle Eastern politics and culture, although there was almost a shared orientalism towards the region. Their positive cultural references are mostly from European history; their reference to political and administrative matters are mostly from the United States. Their pragmatism is almost directly taken from an American strand of pragmatism. They admired the way European nations were formed and developed. Here one can see the amalgam of the admiration towards what is seen to be Western ideals and uniqueness of Turkey: We are a Western country especially in terms of abstract concepts such as democracy, human rights, pluralism, etc. The emphasis on secularity is really important here. But for Turkish nationalists “Turkey is only in Turkey” and in nowhere else. One of the issues on which right-wing secular nationalists clearly agreed with each other was the reasons for participation in Gezi resistance. Very similar to the common arguments during and after the protests, they all claimed that the limitations to civil liberties, authoritarianism, JDP’s Islamist and sectarian policies, and the changes in the regime’s republican identity were the main reasons for taking part. According to all of the respondents, in the absence of a reliable alternative, streets were left as a viable way of doing politics, which also shows the disappointment with MHP as well. One of the respondents who was very active in Grey Wolves for years but left the party (teşkilat) almost a year after the resistance, puts the reasons why he and his friends were on the streets in these words: When we first took to the streets, we were there because we think that since unlawfulness and authoritarianism is on a level that it is impossible to show a political reaction through political parties, and that this reaction could only be expressed through struggling all together on streets. As I told you, it was authoritarianism which pushed us to streets. Because in Turkey different social layers and groups no longer have the right to say something. In an environment where the prime minister can limit what party representatives and even party leaders are going to say, where it is impossible to make your voice heard; we believed that it is impossible to make politics with the lead of a party or ideological organization, and that it is only possible via groups which raised themselves on their own, have certain potentials and believe that they can raise their voice through a current that goes beyond the society. Almost all respondents added that environmental concerns and police treatment of protestors were also important in the initial phase; however, they mention that the reasons listed above were the main causes of their taking to the streets. Following this line of thought, all respondents believe

70  Akder and Oğuz that nationalist tradition in Turkey has close ties with streets and it should continue to be so. Some base this argument upon the Turkmen tradition and some upon the political atmosphere in the 1970s; however, all agree that nationalist politics have a deep connection with street politics. It is important to note here that all participants had participated in nationalist protests before the Gezi resistance. One respondent who is experienced in nationalist networks and politics clarifies this point as follows: Generally, we always believed that the street is an alternative since we no longer believe that the goal would be achieved through politics. Turkish nationalist movement is rooted in the heart of streets, the street is not a remote thing to Turkish nationalism. It is a movement that brought itself into being before the 1980 coup, and it refined itself in time. For a person who was raised in this movement, who identifies himself with it, the street is already not a distant option. One of the main focuses of this study is to understand whether the protesters consider Gezi as part of a “global wave” and whether they were affected or inspired by other mobilizations around the world. On this matter, our right-wing secular respondents are divided into two: one group highlights the authenticity of the resistance and rejects any kind of inspiration from outside; the other group, which consists of two out of eight respondents, acknowledges such an interaction. The former group claims that the society does not follow international news, thus, such a claim has no base. One member of a right-wing nationalist group was against any kind of identification of Gezi with any other mobilization in the world: I don’t see it, I don’t see that there was a unification with some outer dynamics in Gezi. If there was, it would harm us. We could manage to tell people that we were honorable. I do not discuss whether that is right or wrong, but both in right and left it is labelled as being subjected to America, or others or anyone and it would weaken you. So we are lucky that such a thing didn’t happen…. I was really against this Occupy Gezi thing. Gezi is Gezi. It was meaningless to parallel Gezi with Occupy Wall Street. And it didn’t become popular. We continued to say Gezi. Occupy Gezi wasn’t used that much. Contrarily to this group, the other two were arguing that there is a global economic and political crisis which pours people into the streets in other parts of the world, and they explicitly mention that they were inspired by this structural phenomenon. One of these respondents explains how he was affected from the global condition as follows: I indeed thought about the Occupy movement when I participated in Gezi. I don’t know how similar they are as there was not any despotic government but a system that exploits people. Now it goes beyond

Rethinking the party 71 exploiting the working class or the peasantry, it demoralizes the middle class. It’s a system of bigwigs that cannot fulfil the needs of the middle class that we talk about here. This system has no tolerance towards the other, a system that never ends exploitation. It’s the same system that we see in Turkey. Very much like this system affected the events there, I can tell that it affected the people who participated in Gezi as well. But I’m not sure if I can make a direct connection like this. Still, we can talk about such an influence because I, as a person who took part [in the protests], thought about it. A point that is common among all respondents was their attitude towards the Arab Uprisings. They all read it as a Western plan, and think that it has undemocratic underpinnings and claim that this is how it is considered among nationalist community (camia). In the words of one respondent: “For Turkish nationalists, Arab Spring was not a reaction of Arab society to their own economic infrastructure, social, strategic base; rather, it was the result of a pre-planned project.” Regarding how they posit Turkey in the world, all respondents argue that Turkey’s recent foreign policy has been disappointing. According to them, AKP separated Turkey from her traditional global alliance with democratic countries and turned it into a sectarian country. However, foreign policy was not directly influential on their participation in Gezi. Furthermore, they claim the “Turkish nation” is not knowledgeable to follow foreign policy issues, thus we cannot claim that AKP’s foreign policy towards either other states or the Arab Spring was directly effective during Gezi. This common argument could be seen in one respondent’s words as follows: “It was the people who made Gezi. Our nation is not that knowledgeable. They are not knowledgeable enough to follow Turkey’s foreign policies and then to get angry about it and take to the streets.” We want to note that they make a clear distinction between “the West” and the Middle East, and that Turkey should stand with the former. One respondent who was active in MHP stated that: In such a social structure, in a society where even Turkish conservatives are so eager to enter the EU, despite its recent decrease, it was disturbing for Turkish nationalists to see that much of the marginalization and neglect of Europe, the destruction of the feeling of the level of contemporary civilization which has been a foundational philosophy of Turkey, the evolution of her into a more Middle Eastern, Baasist, and one-man type school. And it was reflected in Gezi. Although their take on foreign policy is similar, they are divided in terms of the coverage of Gezi in foreign media and diplomatic reactions to the government on Gezi. The majority thinks that Gezi was “our problem” and that we shouldn’t play into AKP’s hands by turning it into an

72  Akder and Oğuz international issue. The second group claims that international media coverage and diplomatic criticisms are valuable in terms of putting pressure on politicians in charge.

4.5 Conclusion These right-wing secular nationalist youth, with their references to Wagner, with their open discussion of the rights of marginalized communities, and with their resistance attitude towards the police during the Gezi protests were a puzzle for the researchers. We both come from relatively republican and leftist backgrounds, from a corner of Turkish politics that is distant to nationalism in general and to this right-wing nationalism in particular. In our pursuit of this puzzle, we have seen that it is partly explained by how these nationalist youth position themselves on the map; how they connect Turkey to the West; how their nationalism compares vis-à-vis European nationalisms; how they are so passionate about disassociating themselves from the Middle East; and how AKP’s authoritarianism, Islamism and foreign policy are all associated with what generally passes in Turkish political discourse as the “swamp” called the Middle East. In that sense, they share a global temporality with far-right movements everywhere but especially with Europe—which is ironic, to say the least, given the anti-Turkish and anti-Muslim rhetoric that seems prevalent in several nationalisms across Europe. Still, their resort to the street politics against the police, their uneasy and temporary alliance with other factions in the Gezi Resistance can partly be explained by how international and transnational politics infiltrate into and constitute domestic politics. These are both structural and agential explanations to the mobilization of nationalist youth. Part of this puzzle has to be solved reflexively, by analyzing the researchers’ position in the field. Since the field is composed of many constructed and designed situations, yet not fully controlled or determined by the researcher—beyond literal and interpretive readings—there is also the possibility for a reflexive reading of the field (Mason, 2002). Indeed, that is the most needed in our case, when researchers and interviewees are from opposing political views. From the effort of conversion and recruitment of the researcher to the attempt of intimidation, the interviewees are very active partners of the interactive situation. Yet so are the researchers who cannot hide their political tendencies or socio-economic backgrounds despite or because of their intentions. Hence, the part of the puzzle that is the mobilized nationalist youth against the state which it swore to protect, emphasizing the rights of marginalized communities instead stems from the presence and participant observation of the researchers. In short, we, to a limited extent of course, were also forming the puzzle that we then had to solve. Therefore, as mentioned above, it is crucial to see fieldwork with far-right movements as a temporal process that has stages, and that just as crucial is the need to not just analyze the field but also reflect upon it both during and after as much as possible.

Rethinking the party 73

Notes

1. For example, see Öğütle and Göker, 2014; Saraçoğlu, 2015; Yörük, 2014; Tuğal, 2013; Gürcan and Peker 2015a; Gürcan and Peker 2015b; Boratav, 2013; Ercan and Oğuz 2015. 2. Research team is composed of Prof. Dr. Meliha Altunışık, Assist. Prof. Dr. Derya Göçer Akder, Zelal Özdemir and Kübra Oğuz, who have presented various papers in many conferences including BRISMES Annual Conference 2015, WOCMES 2014, ISA 2016. 3. We believe that there should also be more systematic research into the transnational and international dimensions of revolutionary situations even in the absence of a global wave, as revolutions and revolts are generally international in character (Göçer Akder and Özdemir, 2015. For a general discussion, see Halliday, 1999. 4. “Devlet Bahçeli: Gezi’nin arkasında PKK var”.Milliyet Online, http://www. milliyet.com.tr/devlet-bahceli-gezi-nin-arkasinda/siyaset/detay/1719905/ default.htm (Accessed: 17.01.2017). 5. For samples from media analysis at the time, see Çandar, 2013; Traynor and Letsch, 2013; İnce, 2013; Babul, 2013. 6. See Tuğal, 2013; Özkırımlı, 2014. 7. For discussion on class see Boratav, 2013; Gürcan and Peker 2015b; Yörük, 2014; Saraçoğlu 2015. 8. “Are you ‘sampling’ us?” was the question after one of our observation sessions into their regular meetings held when the “chief” was in town, as he was living in another city. We were there with the permission of the chief but he did not ask the consent of the participants prior to our arrival. This in a way raises an issue of research ethics. As researchers, we are expected to have informed consent of all our interviewees. However, the hierarchy in these right-wing organizations prevents us from having our independent dialogues with each and every interviewee and all interaction goes through the consent of the chief. 9. We would like to draw attention to the acknowledgment of the political disagreement between the researcher and the interviewee here. Equally important is the joy that comes from this defiance of the presumed position of the researcher.

References Anon. (2013). Devlet Bahçeli: Gezi’nin arkasında PKK var. Milliyet. [online]. Available at: http://www.milliyet.com.tr/devlet-bahceli-gezi-nin-arkasinda/siyaset/ detay/1719905/default.htm (accessed on 17 Jan. 2017) Babul, S. (2013). Gezi Parkı direnişçileri kim, kendilerini nasıl tarif ediyorlar? T24. [online]. Available at: http://t24.com.tr/haber/gezi-parki-direniscileri-kim-kendilerininasil-tarif-ediyorlar,231272 (accessed on 4 Jun. 2013) Bolak, H. C. (1996). Studying one’s own in the Middle East: Negotiating gender and self-other dynamics in the field. Qualitative Sociology, 19 (1), pp. 107–130. Bora, T. (2003). Nationalist Discourses in Turkey. South Atlantic Quarterly, 102(2/3), pp. 433–451. Boratav, K. (2013). Korkut Boratav, Gezi Direnişi’ni değerlendirdi: “Olgunlaşmış bir sınıfsal başkaldırı…”. Sendika17. [online]. Available at: http://sendika17.org/2013/06/ her-yer-taksim-her-yer-direnis-bu-isci-sinifinin-tarihsel-ozlemi-olan-sinirsiz-dolaysizdemokrasi-cagrisidir-korkut-boratav/ (accessed on 22 Jun. 2013) Çandar, C. (2013). Postmodern bir direniş. Radikal. [online]. Available at: http://www. radikal.com.tr/yazarlar/cengiz-candar/postmodern-bir-direnis-1136001/ (accessed on 3 Jun. 2013)

74  Akder and Oğuz Ercan, F. and Oğuz, Ş. (2015). From Gezi Resistance To Soma Massacre: Capital Accumulation and Class Struggle in Turkey. Socialist Register, 51, pp. 114–134. Ergun, A. and Erdemir, A. (2010). Negotiating Insider and Outsider Identities in the Field: “Insider” in a Foreign Land; “Outsider” in One’s Own Land. Field Methods, 22(1), pp. 16–38. GENAR (2013). Gezi Parkı Profili. İstanbul: GENAR. Göçer Akder, D. (2015). Pretending not to Talk about the International: Challenges of Designing and Conducting Research about the International. Paper presented at BRISMES 2015. Göçer Akder, D., & Özdemir, Z. (2015). Comparing International Dimensions of Revolutionary Situations: The cases of Egypt 2011 and Turkey 2013. Journal of Contemporary Central and Eastern Europe, 23(2−3), pp. 181–194. Gürcan, E. C., & Peker, E. (2015a). A class analytic approach to the Gezi Park events: Challenging the “middle class” myth. Capital & Class, 39(2), pp. 1–23. Gürcan, E. C., and Peker, E., eds. (2015b). Challenging Neoliberalism at Turkey’s Gezi Park: From Private Discontent to Collective Class Action. New York: Palgrave Macmillan US. Halliday, F. (1999). Revolution and World Politics: The Rise and Fall of the Sixth Great Power. Durham: Duke University Press. Hintz, A. and Milan, S. (2010). Social Science is Police Science: Researching GrassRoots Activism. International Journal of Communication, 4, pp. 837–844. İnce, E. (2013). Gezi Parkı direnişçileri taleplerini açıkladı. Radikal. [online]. Available at: http://www.radikal.com.tr/turkiye/gezi-parki-direniscileri-taleplerini-acikladi-1136367/ (accessed on 5 Jun. 2013) KONDA (2014). Gezi Raporu: Toplumun “Gezi Parkı Olayları” algısı, Gezi Parkındakiler kimlerdi? İstanbul: KONDA. Mason, J. (2002). Qualitative Researching. London: SAGE. Öğütle, V. S. and Göker, E., eds. (2014). Gezi ve Sosyoloji. İstanbul: Ayrıntı Yayınları. Özdemir, Z. (2015). Researching Global Waves of Social Movements: Surprising Absence in Gezi Resistance. Paper presented at BRISMES 2015. Özkırımlı, U., ed. (2014). The Making of a Protest Movement in Turkey: #occupygezi. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Saraçoğlu, C. (2015). Haziran 2013 Sonrası Türkiye’de İdeolojiler Alanının Dönüşümü: Gezi Direnişi’ni Anlamanın Yöntemleri Üzerine Bir Tartışma. Praksis, 37. Shariff, F. (2014). Establishing Field through Shared Ideology: Insider Self-positioning as a Precarious/Productive Foundation in Multisited Studies. Field Methods, 26(1), pp. 3–20. Traynor, I., and Letsch, C. (2013). Turkey divided more than ever by Erdoğan’s Gezi Park crackdown. Guardian. [online]. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/ jun/20/turkey-divided-erdogan-protests-crackdown (accessed on 20 Jun. 2013) Tuğal, C. (2013). Resistance Everywhere: The Gezi Revolt in Global Perspective. New Perspectives on Turkey, 49, pp. 157–172. Yörük, E. (2014). The Long Summer of Turkey: The Gezi Uprising and Its Historical Roots. South Atlantic Quarterly, 113(2), pp. 419–426.

5

Reporting the “good deeds” of far-right activists1 Daniel Bizeul

5.1 Introduction There are few truly ethnographic or investigative inquiries into political organizations. This is particularly the case for those defined as nationalist, populist, identitarian or extreme right.2 One of the reasons is that their worldview is antagonistic to that of almost all social scientists. In principle, it is an antinomy of the sociological enterprise, which is based on the conviction of common humanity among all humans, irrespective of racial or ethnic origin, religion, sex and sexual orientation and physical and intellectual capacity. Another reason is that their projects pose a threat to the most vulnerable and socially discriminated categories of the population, in particular Arabs or Africans, Muslims, and to people close to the researchers because of their own activities, such as social workers, artists, journalists or students (Bizeul, 2016). Most researchers are filled with revulsion at the idea of getting involved with these groups, let alone forging close relationships for several years. Those who do, however, arouse suspicion and irritation not only from their colleagues, but also from their friends and relatives (Aho, 1990; Bizeul, 2007; 2008). Do they have hidden affinities with these circles? Aren’t they likely to let themselves be fooled and lose their souls? Is it not inevitable that they serve the image of the organization by showing it in an ordinary light? They run the risk of naiveté, lack of critical sense and complacency, because of an already existing or developed proximity during the investigation. Two aspects are under scrutiny in the report, especially when it becomes public in the form of a book. First, are there accounts or statements that confirm, at least in part, what is already known from various sources, and which in fact make these groups condemnable in the eyes of most citizens, such as excesses, violent acts, racist and negationist convictions? Without this kind of evidence, the researcher will be suspected of being an adept of the party, which seeks to erase its negative image, of being blind in accordance with the Potemkin principle or of reporting the views of the partisan group with the naively anthropological concern of conveying its culture. Second, in addition to situations and words that call for reprobation, is there also a clear

76  Bizeul indication of a distancing, or the use of vocabulary that expresses aversion and anxiety, leaving no doubt as to the moral integrity of the researcher? The first point is related to the requirement of truth, which implies that the researcher must employ all acceptable means to depict the world as it is, and in the most impartial way. This is a decisive criterion for the entire investigative work. The history of social sciences is marked by a number of texts in which researchers present the results of their studies by indicating how they proceeded to approach reality, in particular with what questions in mind and what conceptions of the social world. On this point, related to the question of knowledge construction, there is little substantive difference between researchers, once certain artificial oppositions have been overcome, such as those between objectivity and historical narrativity (Delacroix, 2010). This is less the case when it comes to writing style, because it presents the researcher’s moral posture. In the studies on nationalist or racist circles, two main approaches appear. Some claim that it was an ordeal for them to have to deal with individuals with whom they have nothing in common, or whom they dislike. Several admit their fear, use an ironic tone or resort to pejorative terms (Avanza, 2008; Dematteo, 2007; Igounet, 2012). Others, instead, abstain from these terms and any hostile judgment, without hiding the radical positions of their respondents, especially in racial and religious matters, in line with similar investigations of groups also deemed dangerous or immoral (Fielding, 1981; Blee, 1991; Aho, 1990). Reporting situations in a neutral manner, however, is likely to make the researcher appear in personal and professional settings as a discreet sympathizer, or as someone who has been influenced without being aware of it. However, using a distanced tone is one thing; describing situations where activists considered as sectarian are generous or acting with a sense of justice is another. Yet, even the most criminal, nationalist or racist supporters also have “positive sides,” according to usual criteria, and can even appear exemplary on particular occasions. In this sense, it is possible to speak of the good deeds of individuals, according to an outdated, sometimes ironic formula: in other words, of actions commonly qualified as just or virtuous that arise from the will to act according to the good, and which are then detached from any calculation, aim of communication or public relations, or any hope of an individual gain. When good deeds are performed by extreme right-wing activists, how do we account for them without taking the role of a judge of virtue, nor being involved unwillingly in the party propaganda, seeming to validate a vision of the world or a political project? This problem was posed to me during an investigation into the National Front (FN),3 which took place from mid-1996 to mid-1999, mainly in the Paris area. It was an overt and immersive inquiry, using investigative techniques that led me to interact with officials and leaders, participate in some activities with activists and become relatively close to thirty of them. Some of these activities took place within the framework of the Entraide Nationale, a charity founded in 1996 by Jean-Pierre Blanchard, a former educator at

Reporting “good deeds” 77 the Salvation Army and a Protestant pastor, who became close to Le Pen. He called himself the confessor of Jany Le Pen, second wife of the president of the FN, herself of Protestant religion; he received official support from Jean-Marie Le Pen and became close to Bruno Mégret, the right-hand man of Le Pen who became his rival two years later; he was sponsored by Samuel Maréchal, son-in-law of Le Pen, then director of the FNJ4 and himself the son of a Protestant pastor. The Entraide Nationale was designed to give the FN the image of a social and popular party, able to address the workers and the left-behind, who were as disappointed by those in power—both left and right—thus constituting a promising electoral segment. Other steps in this direction were the creation a few months earlier of several professional unions, and the anti-capitalist speech of Le Pen at Place de l’Opéra during a parade on May 1, 1996. The most wellknown and publicized action of the Entraide Nationale was the distribution of food and clothing to those without resources, in front of the Saint-Lazare station in the center of Paris, two nights a week. This put the organization in competition with recognized associations with a left-wing political orientation and hostile to the FN, such as the Restos du Cœur or the Secours Populaire. Another action, conducted from May to July, consisted in accompanying underprivileged FN supporters to a recreation site in the Paris area once a week. Obviously, the distribution of free food and clothing to needy people by giving of one’s time without expecting anything in return fits into the category of good deed. It is also clear that the commitment of a political party, let alone an extreme right-wing one, in this kind of activity is likely to appear as a communication and public relations operation: in other words, without the character of gratuitousness attached to a good action. Is that enough to completely dismiss the fact that a good deed for some of the activists can be a reality? Or (from the perspective of the individuals or even a single involved individual), can a good deed be at once constructed, and therefore inauthentic, yet sincere and motivated by the idea of the good? If so, how can it be accounted for? I found this problem relatively easy to solve and is the first point of this text. Another problem, however, left me unsure about how to proceed. It imposed itself upon me after an activist demonstrated a reaction that could be described as exemplary or a good action (according to the usual standards), but which was disavowed as inappropriate and ridiculous by the other members of the group. How can one account for the behavior of this activist, who is a “moral” deviant at some point, in a group that is commonly characterized as an “immoral” deviant? This is the second point of the text.

5.2 Good actions useful to self-esteem and the image of the party It is not up to sociologists to decide on the moral quality of individuals, but it is their responsibility to take into account judgments, usually contradictory, coupled with actions. In the case of the FN—as with any other

78  Bizeul partisan organization, but also with any commercial, religious, charitable, criminal or professional one—a sociological investigation shows how good actions serve both the image of the party and the activists. However, it must be distinguished: either good actions occur in the natural course of existence without having been elaborated or anticipated; or they are deliberately designed to serve the image objective and are derived from the art of propaganda. The first occurred many times during my three-year investigation. A minor but significant event, according to the lessons coming from the supporters, was undoubtedly the care given to a seagull in a pitiful condition during a day of recreation. [June 11, 1997, Ravines] Luc, Angèle and Xavier return to the group, made up of about twenty people scattered around, with a wounded gray seagull. There is blood on its wings, ants going through its plumage, and it reacts to nothing. “Some crows must have pecked it,” according to Angèle. They bring it to a beach supervisor, who tells them it needs to be put down. “You are wicked, sir,” says Simone. “We, at the Front National, we have a good heart,” she adds, approaching our group. Someone gives water to the seagull, someone else holds it in the sun to dry its plumage “because the sun is what gives life“; some others affirm that doing that is tiring for it. The pastor notes that it is a sea bird and is used to being wet; many remain indifferent or amused. The seagull is then placed in the shade. Someone demands that it be taken to a veterinarian. I say it is sick and will die, otherwise it would not stay without moving. Angèle and Luc exclaim: “It is not sick!” Finally, Solange decides to take it in her car herself, places it in a cardboard box, and takes it to the veterinary school of Maisons-Alfort, near Paris. The aid to the wounded seagull, although arousing skeptical or ironic reactions among some of the activists, nevertheless allows several of them— in this case the most vulnerable and disadvantaged—to prove their humanity according to a popular standard: having a good heart. This gesture also allows them to reverse the accusation of selfishness (usually made against activists), in a very convincing way, since the only person who issues the idea of slaughtering the animal is the beach watchman, who is young and probably hostile to their party. This gesture also enables them to teach a lesson to socially aware individuals who react in a realistic, not empathetic manner, like the pastor and me in particular. Benevolence towards the seagull can be regarded as one of those actions that some people accomplish without truly reflecting on it or taking glory for themselves, such as giving a coin to a homeless person, picking up rubbish on the edge of a river or shopping for an elderly or handicapped neighbor. When these trivial actions are performed by people accused of being hostile towards foreigners and people of color, indifferent to the poor or basically lacking in heart (as is the case for right-wing activists), they can take on an exemplary value, attesting to having a sense of humanity that is

Reporting “good deeds” 79 usually denied to them. Occurring individually and with discretion, these actions do not serve the image of the party. However, if they converge and appear within a collective, accessing the media and penetrating social networks, these initially innocuous actions change their status and become actions in which sincerity and calculation are combined. The defense of animals, which several groups close to the FN are fighting for, thus serves a two-pronged purpose: it allows them to prove their sense of humanity and to fight those whose practices would be contrary to animal well-being, such as Muslims.5 This first case, in which virtue would exist in its pure state, uncontaminated by the hope of an advantage, therefore has a similarity with the second, where good actions are decided with a view to seeking gain, according to a cost-benefit calculation. Such actions are planned, and their implementation is organized. They are designed and orchestrated for media outcomes, with newspaper and television journalists becoming the major protagonists. During my FN investigation, I participated in many of these actions promoted by the Entraide Nationale. They emanated from national-level leadership, while also involving grassroots activists and supporters. Although these actions were decided on the basis of partisan objectives, grassroots activists were nonetheless animated by a variety of motives, so it would be reductive to regard them as mere performers of a propaganda action, or individuals without moral concerns. Only effective participation in various activities of the party in different settings and over long periods of time provides a more accurate picture of the strategies and motivations involved. An example is the distribution of food and clothing in front of the Saint-Lazare station in early November 1996.6 The operation was launched in the presence of journalists and television cameras, first at the FN headquarters—with a short speech by Jean-Marie Le Pen, followed by Pastor Blanchard—then in front of the Saint-Lazare station in the vicinity of a party van. A few officials were present, with activists and some “strong arms,” and a handful of homeless people from the area that activists persuaded to go out in public. They received a cup of onion soup and a plastic bag containing a box of sardines and a chocolate bar. Everything indicated that this was a low-cost media operation intended to confirm the social and popular character of the party. The journalists’ questions at both the FN headquarters and Saint-Lazare station were aimed primarily at unveiling the communication ploy and, at the same time, suggesting the doctrinal racist character of the FN. A statement from Le Pen at the BBR7 party festival two months earlier had given it renewed proof: “I believe in the inequality of races,” he proclaimed. A front page of National Hebdo gave an even more explicit meaning to the statement by adding a picture taken from a Benetton advertisement, with a black stallion mounting a white mare.8 Many of the activists I knew, especially young people close to Terre et peuple (the movement of Pierre Vial, one of Megret’s acolytes), were satisfied to see their fight for the white race validated (Bizeul, 2003). At the

80  Bizeul headquarters of the party, a journalist from TV channel France 2, an elegant and confident young man with an assertive tone, asked three questions that ranged from neutral to controversial, depending on the evasive answers he received: “Who will benefit from this action?”; “Will anyone who comes forward have a meal?”; “As a Christian, do you believe in the inequality of races?” In his answers, the pastor tried to reconcile the opposing principles of national preference and Christian charity and muddy the waters at the same time: “Our first goal is to help the disadvantaged of France. But as a Christian, I do not have the right to deny food”; “What would be politically understandable would not be acceptable from a human and charitable point of view.” In front of the station, while dark and raining, the journalists continued their questioning on the same subject for almost an hour, and the party leaders gave the same answers: an unsurprising scenario where each side stated their position. A few homeless people, perhaps a dozen, came to the front of the van, while there were about thirty or forty activists and journalists. A Caribbean woman came forward, hair disheveled, clothes stretched, wearing a sweatshirt with the inscription SOVIET in capital letters. Her presence was so incongruous that supporters thought it was a trick by their opponents to test their racism. Spotlights and cameras immediately focused on her. She answered the journalists’ questions with a half-amused smile. She was asked if she was aware that this action was organized by the FN and Le Pen. She said she learned it when she arrived, adding: “It’s nice, it’s very nice.” This scene was featured in the report broadcast on TV channel France 3, their main point being that the FN “muddies the waters” and hides its real motives. The woman’s words also appeared in the newspapers linked to the FN, but they changed her statement to something completely different, and probably not in line with her convictions: “They are very nice at the FN, it’s nice, and I really like Mr. Le Pen” (National Hebdo); “They are very nice at the FN, it’s nice to help those who have nothing, whom authorities have abandoned to the benefit of foreigners” (Français d’abord). The Caribbean woman is used as a proof of the lack of racism of the FN, made all the more significant because it comes from a woman of “African type” who reportedly approved the national preference and said she liked Le Pen and the activists—which was entirely false. It was a propaganda operation, to which the journalists contributed, albeit reluctantly, while pointing out that they were not duped by the FN’s double game, which was clear to everyone. This operation was designed solely to improve the image of the party and resulted from a decision made at the highest level. One of the preparatory meetings I attended in September 1996 was unambiguous: it was necessary to make a good impression on the day of the launch, in the presence of the cameras, and possibly on other occasions. The administrative head of the party was explicit: “The first month is the most important with the media. It is necessary to keep the action going until the beginning of December.” In April 1998, during a conversation in a car, a

Reporting “good deeds” 81 member of the association confirmed the strictly media-oriented aim of the action: “If it were possible to hold it one month, or during a few religious holidays, like Christmas, it would be perfect.” During an interview at my home, an activist working with a senior leader told me that he and the pastor had worked during the summer to “prepare a media operation” of a charity type. Someone else told me the operation had been presented to Le Pen in an analysis note as “the best action to help de-demonize the FN.” However, this goal was far from having been achieved: out of the sixteen people who came to the September meeting, only one retired social worker and I would become regular volunteers, though others later joined; minimal means were allocated to the operation by the party, allowing few exhibitions; there was high risk of the arrival of opponents ready to fight, with a possible ban on the part of the authorities for disturbing public order. Among the officials of the headquarters, suspicion and irony were widespread: such an operation with a social character was, in the eyes of many, a ridiculous copy of typical left-wing actions. Moreover, the pastor was not really taken seriously. He continually pointed out his closeness to the Le Pens, seeing himself as a key cog in the conquest of power, even though he was a newcomer in the party. Besides, he had just been dismissed from Fraternité Française, a charity led by middle-class women, because of his proclaimed leftist past and “plebeian” convictions, and his direct and mocking tone. The creation of the Entraide Nationale, with the soup distribution operation, was above all for him a means of preserving his engagement within the party. Based on this information, it would be possible to draw an immediate conclusion: the so-called good action, imprinted with social spirit and Christian charity, is a mug’s game from beginning to end. It is a staging of political propaganda that is both inexpensive, with regard to the means used, and highly beneficial in terms of image. It is intended not only for the general public, but also for supporters who can reassure themselves of the social and human character of their party. Contrary to expectations, an increasing number of activists were willing to make donations, benefitting from tax deductions and bring unused clothes.9 Regular or occasional volunteers would help with distribution two evenings a week, even during the cold winter. One activist took on the task of regularly going to the headquarters and preparing the soup to be distributed. A few women with modest resources brought home-cooked meals made with their own means. In other words, the “successful political coup,” as the pastor states in a book about the operation (Blanchard, 1999), was also perceived and used as a good deed, wholly separate from image objectives of some of the least-politically competent activists, particularly women and the unemployed. The analyses of political activism do not ignore the variety of motivations at work among activists, in particular the fact that the official purpose of the party—in this case access to political power, which is always uncertain and often postponed—constitutes only one facet of activist activity (Gaxie, 1977).

82  Bizeul Most activists are ignorant of the calculations of leaders, even if they are not unaware that their decisions meet political objectives. But all are aware of the image benefits represented by a charity in favor of the excluded in front of the cameras. In opposition to the pastor, who would have liked to banish the party’s marks during the distributions in front of the station, activists wanted to color the Entraide Nationale badge in bluewhite-red, the national colors used by the party. The visits of some officials of the headquarters or the sector, such as that of Jany Le Pen, were enough to remind that the action took place under the aegis of the party. It was also the party’s press that published some laudatory reports and relayed the call for donations to supporters, in the same vein as Serge de Beketch on Radio Courtoisie,10 on whose show the pastor guested on several occasions. So, there is no doubt for anyone: acting under the banner of the FN, and improving its image in countering the accusation of being antisocial and racist, was important for the volunteers. But this is probably not enough to explain the commitment of some of them two nights a week, at the worst time of the year, for two or three years in a row, especially after the disappearance of cameras and journalists. The actions of individuals frequently have multiple sides. The side put forward accords to official ends, but is not sufficient to exclude the importance of other sides—which varies from one individual to another and is even different for some from one period to another. In the present case, the conviction of being useful to poor people (many of whom were regulars), gave personal satisfaction and was a duty to be carried out for many of the activists, as with volunteers in all sorts of organizations. Besides the determination to carry out the investigative work seriously and the need to appear reliable to supporters, the regularity of my presence was also due to this feeling of being useful: coming once or twice a week to distribute food or clothing and making cash donations to allow the action to continue, lent a charitable scope that was made more obvious after the disappearance of the initial obligation to perform this action. It was a way to be generous, supportive, and good-hearted through the actions carried out by an organization in accordance with its political convictions—just as others are generous with Restos du cœur, Secours populaire or Secours Catholique, reputed left-wing groups hostile to extreme right-wing projects, particularly with regard to the principle of national preference. According to the pastor, most donations were low, one or two hundred francs (fifteen or thirty euros), and most often the words attached to the cheque would signal modest people, who wished to help others and were happy to do so on behalf of a party they support. The statements appeared plausible, though I did not have access to the accounts, nor did I try to verify them. Among volunteers, it is possible to distinguish those for whom the service of the party is paramount, and those for whom the charitable dimension prevails. If there is some ruse among the former when they refute

Reporting “good deeds” 83 accusations of acting as activists above all (especially when it comes to officials or Pastor Blanchard), there is a real sincerity among the latter, who are outraged that their sense of solidarity can be questioned.

5.3 Exemplary behaviors in discrepancy with the partisan group A different situation could arise. The behavior of one or more persons may appear irreproachable in the eyes of an observer, or according to the usual morality, and lead to disapproval within the group. Consequently, the sociologist finds himself in the front line, alone with his conscience one might say, deeming an action positive while it is criticized by the members of the group. It is impossible for a sociologist to draw on this criterion, since he is not a judge of virtue; nevertheless, in his heart he may feel admiration for the person who exhibits an inflexible morality according to criteria to which he adheres. This action took place during the distribution of food in front of SaintLazare station one winter evening. Besides Pastor Blanchard and myself, the other protagonists were: Chantal, a former executive secretary now retired, catho tradi,11 accustomed to anti-abortion protests and actions, known for her criticism of self-absorbed executives and candidates interested in seeing their heads on a poster, and for her incisive tone and dry wit; Remy, a sturdy man, aged forty, unemployed, ex-warehouseman, close to the PNFE12 (as shown by the sticker he affixed one day), with a volcanic temper and ready to fight at the slightest word that displeases him, hostile towards immigrants of color, intellectuals and everything that seems left wing; Raoul, a man in his sixties, a veteran of the Algerian war, who carries a dagger attached to his calf, ready to ward off any eventuality, as he explained to me the day I shared a room with him during a weekend with volunteers at the castle of Neuvy-sur-Barangeon, led by Holeindre. [Thursday, February 4, 1999, Saint-Lazare station] I am inside the van, serving the soup, Chantal is at my side and prepares the bags, while Raoul is outside and gives them to those who come forward. A man in his thirties arrives, sturdy, aggressive tone, Mediterranean type. He asks what there is to eat. Chantal offers him a bag. He does not want it. She tells him that in the bag there are biscuits, chocolate, sardines. He wants milk. “I’m not going to feed a baby with sardines,” he says nervously. “You have to go and ask a social worker,” Raoul tells him. The guy then threatens to spit into the soup. Raoul pushes him back to allow others to approach. Chantal informs me that another time he swung his bag into the van. He remains a few meters away, continuing to recriminate and threaten. The pastor and Rémy try to reason with him and finally invite him to leave. A few minutes later, about twenty meters from the van, I see Rémy punching him and taking him by the throat. He is slowly dropping. Rémy hits him again. The pastor tries to stop Rémy. He has to come

84  Bizeul between him and the guy, already on the ground, to separate them. One of the homeless, in his forties, then approaches and kicks the guy in the face. Bleeding, he gets up and painfully walks away, promising to return for revenge. On the ground there are bloodstains. Chantal, who followed what was happening, keeps on shouting to not hit the guy. She continues to shout indignantly to Rémy: “He’s completely nuts, you do not hit a man who is on the ground!” For ten minutes she continues her outrage, calling to the pastor to tell him of her indignation. The pastor says that he has done his best to restrain Rémy, and that the last time the guy was here, he had insulted them “for two hours.” He had hit the van and wanted to draw a Star of David on it: “I do not want your soup of Nazis, I will draw a Jewish star on the van.” Chantal is angry again: “Once he was on the ground, he should not be beaten, no one should knock a man who is down!” The pastor walks away. She continues to speak of her indignation, blaming the “lack of principles” of the pastor who says nothing to the man who kicked the guy in the face. Then she sees him just in front of the van, and she wants to go talk to him. Raoul tries to dissuade her in a dry tone: “Let him be, it’s over.” She no longer holds it in and finally leaves the van. I see her talking to the homeless man, it’s a brief exchange, and she goes back up in the van immediately: “I told him what I thought, it’s true, that we do not hit someone who is down, we are not animals.” Raoul tries to convince her that the guy got what he deserved, that he had already insulted and threatened them for the entire evening another time. “That was another guy, bigger and stronger,” she says. There was another guy, Raoul says, but this one was the most aggressive. The pastor comes two or three times, calling each one to bear witness to what he had done to calm the incident, and that the guy deserved it. I nod, with the idea of aligning myself with the others and minimizing the incident, saying: “A good slap is sometimes the best solution.” The pastor reiterates how he interceded between Rémy and the guy: “Oh la la, Rémy, you saw, I had trouble keeping him back!” “The guy I am angry with is the other imbecile who got involved in something that does not concern him, and struck someone on the ground,” says Chantal. The pastor asks me for a little soup in a bowl to clean the bloodstains. He says he has phoned the police, and they told him to call them back if the guy showed up again. A few minutes later, a man approaches the van to request a second bag. Chantal is about to give him one. Raoul prevents the man from passing, telling him firmly: “No, you’ve already had one.” Chantal explodes, turning to me: “Why shouldn’t he have another one? There are some who have been given a second bag. Lucienne, for example, she always gets several bags. I can’t accept it. I have principles. There are double standards.” The man who hit the guy on the ground comes in turn to ask for a second bag. Chantal refuses, telling him that he already had one. “We must give him another,” Raoul says. He takes a bag and hands it to the man. “For him, it’s different, he’s a buddy.” Chantal is suffocating with indignation.

Reporting “good deeds” 85 With regard to the far right, this occurrence is surprising, one might say, because it offers the example of a woman who calls out the other supporters—not because of a concern for public image, nor because of anxiety about possible injuries, but in the name of a principle: do not hit a man when he is down. This principle is stated several times with vigor, in the tone of holy wrath. She stands up to those who trivialize the incident and try to reason with her, all of them being men in this case. It’s true that because she is a woman, and older, all weight is removed from her words, so that her indignation and words are lost in a vacuum. This is manifested at the moment when she opposes the delivery of a second bag to the guy who has struck the fallen man. Raoul disregards her opinion. He probably also wants to “shut up” a bourgeois-style woman who thinks she can teach a lesson to men who make it a point of honor to ensure respect by the use of physical force. It is in the name of another principle, that of fairness this time, that Chantal gets upset again. In expressing outrage against “double standards,” she actually adheres to the same principle invoked by activists when they point out the unequal treatment faced by Catholics, old white women, patriots and veterans—while Muslims, Jews, homosexuals, young Arabs and globalists would be privileged, according to the categories used by the party (Bizeul, 2003). Chantal has reacted in a similar fashion on other occasions, with the concern of being consistent and fair, giving the image of moral intransigence against their actions. Far from being admired, she is seen as crazy. She seems unable to accept a compromise, expresses herself in an abrupt tone and is often irritated and critical of everybody. In the eyes of the activists present that evening, as was in mine at the time, this occurrence differs little from what could have happened in a charitable association receiving homeless or marginalized people who are quick to raise their voices and act in a manner to prove virility: an aggressor already known as such is chastised; the person in charge intervenes between the aggressor and the one who put him on the ground; a woman bursts into anger against the useless violence of a supporter, in this case someone homeless. Putting this occurrence in context—that of an operation carried out on behalf of a political party where activists’ display of virility and preparedness for physical combat are valued—gives it a different meaning. Many among the activists and officials stand out as heroes deserving of respect: ex-Legionnaires, ex-paratroopers or veterans of the Algerian war. Le Pen or Holeindre, among others, are typical examples. Some others, who are younger, impose the physical presence of the party against the opponents: students of the GUD,13 ex-skinheads, fans of fighting. They are lone warriors, or “fachos,”14 according to a word they sometimes use with pride. Some others are comparable to the suburban sub-proletariat, and to the unemployed and demoralized workers who say they have suffered aggression from

86  Bizeul young people of immigrant origin. These are the impulsive, or the “excited,” according to the word in use within the party. Even if grassroots activists and candidates in an election wish to stand out from these lone warriors trained for a fight, they still consider them useful during a demonstration or a leafleting. Thus, there is an accepted division of roles between the two. On one hand, the impulsive supporters are little appreciated because of their loud mouths, eagerness to do battle, the difficulty in monitoring them, especially if they have been drinking. On the other, to do without them would seem inept when too few activists are on the job. The solution therefore is to confine them to tasks without visibility, away from the public, such as poster campaigns or other kinds of manual work. The background atmosphere of many activities involving activists is marked by anxiety about a provocation or hostile action, a feeling of persecution and a justification for the use of physical force. An occurrence similar to the one described would have had a different scope within a charity organization such as Restos du Cœur or Secours Catholique, because it would have involved views, world experiences and political convictions free from a spirit of violence. It is likely that most volunteers would have avoided resorting to physical violence against an aggressive man, or would have condemned excessive use of violence, as did the FN woman. Seen as a deviant within the party, she would have appeared to be right and in accordance with the ideals of an association with a charitable mission; except perhaps in the case of associations composed chiefly of working-class men willing to defend order and their honor by the use of blows.

5.4 A meaning defined within a narrative and argumentative framework Some of the investigative fieldwork focusing on far-right organizations use a certain tone when describing situations, or add warnings so that the readers understand from the outset that they are dealing with a dangerous and immoral group (Blee, 2002).15 This is typically the case with covert investigations by young reporters.16 It is also the case, though in a more marginal way, with sociologists induced to mark the distance from personal convictions, probably also as an academic precaution. In doing so, researchers cast doubt on the solidity of their approach, which is placed on a polemical register, in the manner of a supporter of the opposing side. They suggest that these warnings are necessary to enlighten the reader on the dangerous or abject nature of the respondents or their projects. The consequence is twofold: doubt is cast upon their integrity as observers, their actual adherence to the principles of truth and intellectual integrity; and the solidity of the sociological enterprise, i.e., the ability to account for the reality in a sufficiently rigorous and reliable manner, so that a reader does not need any signpost indicating how to interpret and think. The opposite risk is that of

Reporting “good deeds” 87 naiveté, with the likelihood of endorsing the rhetoric of the party and validating its message—with which I had to fight to reach a report “worthy of a sociologist.” In this respect, the “good action” is a typically ambiguous object, which can serve contrary purposes. Whether presented alone or as a counterpoint to unfavorable cases (as activists do), it plays the same role as a defense witness in a court of law, providing a kind of ontological evidence for moral integrity. This is a moral-based approach, devoid of analytical scope, suggesting that these people have mitigating circumstances; they are not entirely bad. However, it is not the task of researchers to carry out investigations motivated by the desire to denounce the extreme right, racism or populism, thus opposing a logic of advocacy to one of accusation. The framework that defines their raison d’être is not the court or the rendering of a final judgment, but the seminar classroom where only an argumentative and empirically based exchange should prevail. The only consequent way to satisfy the so-called ethical requirements is to subsume them under epistemological requirements; in other words, to give them body in connection with the principles that establish the enterprise of knowledge in social sciences, which depends on the principle of common humanity. This involves focusing on the facts and reporting on them without unduly worrying about the approval or disagreement of any readers, i.e., going beyond stereotypes and principles of judgment inevitably involved in the research work. This does not in any way mean being naïve about the antagonisms of interest and perspective that regulate exchanges within any group and between groups. One solution is to rely on a type of writing that combines the use of ordinary logic, concern for empirical evidence and a history of how documentation and analysis have been produced. This type of writing has a demonstrative dimension and aims to account for situations from a defined angle, arising from the need to solve what appears as an enigma, which is not only realistic and related to daily experience, but also theoretical and conducive to general conclusions. It is within this narrative and demonstrative framework that any situation or information can be understood and takes on scope or meaning. The only consistent way to give meaning to a “good action,” and to use it in a text, is thus to remove it from any moral or judicial judgment in order to put it in a narrative and argumentative perspective in relation to the issues defined by the researcher. The same applies to what could be called “bad action,” with which an entire part of sociology has confronted itself from the point of view of “deviance” and “social problems,” with the idea of showing that what is at stake are judgments of one group or individuals towards others; that these judgments arise from the balance of power at a given moment and within a given framework; that the behaviors perceived as reprehensible are the products of social mechanisms; and that individuals are neither “bad” nor “good” as such.

88  Bizeul

Notes

1. English translation from French by Daniel Bizeul and Emanuele Toscano. 2. I am grateful to Emanuele Toscano for allowing me to analyze issues of moral and political judgment when recounting an ethnographic investigation into a political party deemed “dangerous” and “anti-humanist.” I also thank Raphaël Challier, Matthieu Gellard, and Emanuele Toscano for their views and suggestions regarding this text. The terms used to label a group, particularly a partisan group, are inevitably linked to judgments that may be perceived as rather benign or unfavorable, depending on who uses them and in what context. For convenience of writing, and because my problem here is not the exegesis of the terms, I keep to the most ordinary uses. 3. The National Front was officially established in October 1972 to bring together the heterogeneous forces of the extreme right in view of the forthcoming elections. Jean-Marie Le Pen became its president. Deemed insignificant for many years, the electoral base of the FN increased in the 1980s, shortly after the right was defeated and the left came to power during the presidential election of 1981 with François Mitterrand. Beginning in the 1990s, the party became a major player in French media and political life. It won several important town councils in the south of France, obtained elected representatives at the regional level and finally saw Le Pen confront Chirac in the second round of the 2002 presidential election, after he eliminated Jospin (former prime minister, candidate of the left, and well ahead in the polls). He received about 18% of the votes, while Chirac had 82%. 4. Front National de la Jeunesse, or National Youth Front. 5. There is a group called National Circle of Animal Friends, linked to the party and with a close relationship with Brigitte Bardot, which supports the FN and animal welfare through her foundation (Fondation Brigitte Bardot). 6. The operation described here is split in two and dealt with from two separate angles (Bizeul, 2003): as a propaganda action elaborated and orchestrated at the FN headquarters, yet involving varied motives among the actors in its implementation, and also according to the moments (pp. 73–84); and as a moment of conflicting cooperation between journalists and activists with antagonistic visions of the world and political commitments (pp. 192–197). 7. BBR (Blue-White-Red) refers to the colors of the national flag, which the FN used as a distinctive mark to differentiate itself from the other parties. The party symbol is a three-color flame. 8. National Hebdo, n. 635, September 19, 1996. 9. Donations to various categories of associations are tax deductible up to 66%, to a limit of 20% of taxable income. 10. Beketch is a journalist who was editor-in-chief of Minute and National Hebdo, and who helped create Radio Courtoisie, where he hosted a controversial and often outrageous program. 11. Catho tradi stands for Catholique traditionaliste, meaning a fundamentalist view of Catholicism. 12. French and European Nationalist Party, which emphasizes the pre-eminence of the white race, attacks the supposed omnipotence of the Jews and honors Hitler’s memory. 13. Groupe union défense, a student organization founded in 1968 within the framework of the Faculty of Law of the Rue d’Assas in Paris, known for violent actions parallel to those of extreme leftist groups. 14. Facho stands for fascist. 15. The author concludes her inquiry among women activists in far-right organizations in the United States (Blee, 2002) with “five major lessons,” such as

Reporting “good deeds” 89 encouraging direct links with minorities and developing positive representations of them in the media (p. 188) and exposing racist supporters in high schools, in convivial places or at concerts (p. 190). 16. Among many books of this kind, one of the first, reporting the daily reality of activists while warning against a party with anti-immigrant aims is Tristan (1987); one of the latter, which collects the incriminating scenes testifying to a racial vision of social relations is Checcaglini (2012).

References Aho, J. (1990). The Politics of Righteousness. Idaho Christian Patriotism, Seattle: University of Washington Press. Avanza, M. (2008). Comment faire de l’ethnographie quand on n’aime pas ses ‘indigènes’? Une enquête au sein d’un mouvement xenophobe. In A. Bensa and D. Fassin, eds., Les politiques de l’enquête, Paris: La Découverte, pp. 41–58. Bizeul, D. (2003). Avec ceux du FN. Un sociologue au Front national, Paris: La Decouverte. Bizeul, D. (2007). Des loyautés incompatibles. Aspects moraux d’une immersion au Front national. Sociologies [online]. Available at: http://sociologies.revues.org/226. Bizeul, D. (2008). Les sociologues ont-ils des comptes à rendre? Enquêter et publier sur le Front national. Sociétés contemporaines, 70, pp. 95–113. Bizeul D. (2016). Front national: parti fascisant ou parti banal? De la difficulté de se faire un jugement sur une organisation hétérodoxe. In N. Guillet and N. Afiouni, eds., Les tentatives de banalisation de l’extrême droite en Europe, Bruxelles: Éditions de l’université de Bruxelles. Blanchard, J-P. (1999). La faim justifie les moyens, Paris: Déterna. Blee, K. (1991). Women of the Klan: Racism and Gender in the 1920s. Berkeley: University of California Press. Blee, K. (2002). Inside Organized Racism. Women in the Hate Movement. Berkeley: University of California Press. Checcaglini, C. (2012). Bienvenue au Front. Journal d’une infiltrée. Paris: Éditions Jacob. Delacroix, C. (2010). Linguistic turn. In C. Delacroix et al., eds., Historiographies. Concepts et débats, Paris: Gallimard, pp. 476–490. Dematteo, L. (2007). L’idiotie en politique. Subversion et néo-populisme en Italie. Paris: CNRS Éditions. Gaxie, D. (1977). Économie des partis et rétributions du militantisme. Revue française de science politique, 27(1), pp. 123–154. Fielding, N. (1981). The National Front, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Igounet, V. (2012). Robert Faurisson. Portrait d’un négationniste, Paris: Denoël. Tristan A. (1987). Au front. Paris: Gallimard.

6

The dark side of the field. Doing research on CasaPound in Italy Emanuele Toscano Daniele di Nunzio

6.1 Introduction The present chapter is based on the results of qualitative research fieldwork, carried out from 2009 through 2011, on CasaPound Italia1 (CPI), an Italian far-right movement. More specifically, the analysis presented below is focused on some specific aspects, notably the attention to the cultural meaning and the expressive/symbolic dimension of their collective actions, as well as focusing on the experience of embodiment and commitment of CasaPound’s activists, mainly through music, tattoos, and clothing. The second part of the chapter focuses on the methodology chosen to realize the research, the ethical implications, and the challenges linked to researching far-right movements from a close-up perspective, in particular, the ethical and political dilemmas arising as a consequence of methodological and theoretical choices used by the researcher, dealing with the whole research project (theoretical framework, research design, role of the researcher, data collection, findings’ presentation) (Brymer and Farris, 1967).

6.2  What is CasaPound? In the complex and articulated political landscape of the European radical right that in the last several years has found new strength and consensus, the CasaPound experience in Italy has surely been one of the most peculiar. Because of this, there is a growing interest about CasaPound Italia, not just at a journalistic level,2 but also within Italian and international academics. To date, in fact, there is a consistent literature on the movement that, beginning with our pioneering research (Di Nunzio and Toscano, 2011) has focused and studied some peculiar and specific aspects, such as its communitarian dimension (Cammelli, 2015), the construction and use of identity within the activists (Gattinara and Froio, 2014), their communicational aspects (Bartlett et al., 2012; Toscano,2015), their use of language and rhetoric (Castriota and Feldman, 2013), and their tensions with democracy (Di Nunzio and Toscano, 2012).

The dark side of the field 91 Starting as a political far-right movement that emerged at the end of 2003 with the occupation of a building in a multiethnic suburb in the center of Rome, in the following years CasaPound grew to a national level to the point of having its own candidates elected in several municipalities and cities3 all around the country. It has achieved an electoral consensus that, though still marginal, shows a trend of strong growth.4 Initially focused on the housing emergency, CasaPound movement’s collective actions have switched to target more typical far-right issues, such as opposition to immigration policies, the centrality and defense of national identity, and opposition to the Euro, which is considered a tool of control on national economies and a depletion of national State sovereignty. Contrarily to other far-right movements and organizations in Italy, CasaPound has been able to combine political and social dimensions with cultural ones in its collective actions, strengthening the former through the latter. More specifically, the role played by music and bands and their centrality in CasaPound’s collective action have allowed this organization to increase spaces of aggregations and opportunities for interaction, notably concerts and cultural events, to integrate alongside more typical activist initiatives, such us rallies, leafleting, and billposting. Moreover, CasaPound has been able to actualize symbols and style codes of the Italian far right, calling into question cultural references, modes of action, and communication practices. Thus, the CasaPound Italia experience is unique to similar experiences in other countries, such as England or Germany (Brown, 2004), which have seen a radicalization of the traditional style codes of skinhead culture. Researching a far-right movement like CasaPound through an ethnographic approach, as the one we conducted, allowed us to analyze in-depth some of the more peculiar aspects, such as the cultural dimension of collective action, and understanding the meaning given by individuals to their commitment and embodiment into the movement through music, style, tattoos, and clothing.

6.3  The cultural and political context The birth of CasaPound can be ascribed to the assorted galaxy of extreme right groups and organizations that took form in Italy under the shadow of the Movimento Social Italiano (MSI).5 This articulated set, attributable to what Griffin (2003) defines as “groupuscular right,” is characterized by very small political groups, strong ideologies, and meta-political peculiarities that are the result of deep transformations in far-right movements, most notably among the youth, and rooted in the past. At the end of the seventies, “Hobbit Camps”6 were frequently seen, rallies that had the purpose of gaining new generations of “comrades”—aligning themselves with fascist ideology. They were centered around mainly cultural themes and practices such as music, art, communication, and social issues that, until then, right-wing

92  Toscano and di Nunzio organizations had not concerned themselves with—women’s issues, the ecology, youth unemployment. These rallies are, first of all, the expression of a need by young people involved in far-right politics to find a prominent role in the affirmation of their self-determination path, from both political and cultural points of view (Tarchi, 2010). Many of these sensibilities converged on the Nuova Destra—inspired by the French Nouvelle Droite created by Alain de Benoist—that had been radical critics of the radical right political culture expressed by politicians of MSI, considered out-to-date and too oriented by the “order and legality” binomial (Germinario, 2002). This criticism of the political rigidity of MSI, flattened on pro-American positions on one side and heavily oriented on traditional political practices on the other, far from the social and cultural transformations seen at the end of the seventies, has been linked to new demands by young far-right activists to have a leading role in the affirmation and expression of their own cultural and individual specificity. A CasaPound activist, engaged in the turmoil of that period: During the eighties, the Fronte della Gioventù (Youth Front, the MSI youth organization, n.d.a.) was a very peculiar reality. We were a strong and solid group of people, who wanted to do something different, trying to differentiate from a very discouraging conformist framework, notably the Reaganian hedonism7 in a situation of generalized detachment of young people from politics, we went in a different and opposite direction. We catalyzed some energies and needs that found a way of expression in the so-called “parallel organizations”: Fare Verde, interested in ecology issues, Fare Fronte, our first student organization. Some other persons and I proposed creation of an artistic organization that had the aim to change the way of doing politics on the far right. In a political world in which the moment of leafleting and billposting was fundamental for the commitment of young activists, we wanted to focus on new forms of communications, in which music and art had surely a significant role. One of the most interesting attempts at innovation is related to language and the symbolic universe of meaning that, starting from the dissolution of MSI in 1995, has been radically renewed, allowing the Italian far right to extend its political and cultural influence and attract a wider and growing number of young people. One of the symbolic terrains that have mainly contributed to these changes has been the musical one, as has happened in other national contexts (Corte and Edwards, 2008; Brown, 2004; Shekhovtsov, 2013). Through the creation of independent music labels, a growing number of concerts and musical events, and a renewal of the songs’ lyrics and cultural style codes, the Italian far right has slowly created its own space in the cultural landscape, mainly that of the new generations. The role played by music in the Italian far right is wide-themed and largely debated, more notably from an historical rather than a sociological perspective. Some analysis focused on far-right alternative music and its fundamental role played in

The dark side of the field 93 the redefinition of the cultural community of right-oriented youth in the seventies and eighties; the latter flattened between the cultural hegemony of the left, the tensions created by the “years of lead” (Anni di Piombo),8 and the political and cultural immobilism of MSI (Di Giorgi and Ferrario, 2011; Tarchi, 2010). Other analysis focused on more recent forms of alternative right music, from both a cultural studies perspective (Marchi, 1997) and highlighting the subcultural dimension and its links with the more extremist far-right fringes (Caldiron, 2001). The experimentation of new communication forms is linked to the need for the far-right young activists to find spaces and occasions for the expression of their own subjective specificity, as groups and as individuals, that they cannot find in the organizational structure of a traditional party such as MSI, nor the mainstream communication channels and media. Many of these experiences were formed and grew in the eighties and nineties, such as the “Art Division”9 in Rome (similar to MSI’s youth organization, ending in 1990), the indie music label Tuono Records in Vicenza (strongly linked with the Fronte Veneto Skinhead), and the fanzine “AssaltoSonoro” in Milan (Marchi, 1997). The music label RupeTarpea10 —founded in 1993—soon became an important point of reference for the “not in line” far-right musical scene. The expression “not in line” is associated with many cultural and political practices of these far-right movements and, now, to CasaPound initiatives. As this activist, key witness of that period and founder of the RupeTarpea music label, says: The expression “not in line” has been used to identify this variegated fringe that came up after Fiuggi.11 The dismantling of MSI party also blew up its youth organizations […]. There has been a kind of free exit of all these youth energies that are able to become self-sufficient and autonomous.12 The countercultural turmoil expressed by this communicational and relational form, defined by the same far-right actors as meta-political, is not related only to the simple need to find spaces of self-affirmation. The term meta-political, borrowed by the Nouvelle Droite (Tarchi, 1995), refers to a dimension that goes beyond the traditional political action. As remembered by another witness of that period, now engaged in CasaPound as a lawyer for the organization, these initiatives were animated by “a strong activism attitude, but carried out beyond the political dimension: the cultural activities, music, fanzine, ecology, party organization, cooperative work, are all becoming a way to express and spread our world view” (Di Tullio, 2006, p. 37). Moreover, as affirmed by Hebdige (1988) and many other authors from the cultural studies approach (Hall and Jefferson, 1976), the countercultural phenomena are defined mainly as a research of independence, of alterity, in opposition to a condition of subordination to culture and practices, in this case of the conservative political right. Culture here means, in general terms and referring to Stuart Hall, not just as a simple “descriptive sum of ‘mores and folkways’ of societies,” but as “the sum of all social practices

94  Toscano and di Nunzio and the sum of their inter-relationship” (Hall, 1980, p. 60). In this sense, the music and associated rituals (concerts, events) are expressions of a kind of cultural action that comes up alongside the political one, enriching the latter of an emotional and relational dimension that contributes to creating and strengthening a collective identity (Eyerman and Jamison, 1998) and the spirit of belonging to an imagined community (Anderson, 1983).

6.4  Music, body, emotions Starting from the comparison with these previous experiences, we are now able to draw a more accurate analysis of the role played by the cultural dimension in CasaPound collective actions. Even if framed in this consolidated countercultural trend of young and radical far right, CasaPound has been able to revitalize its language, cultural codes, and references. The cultural dimension of action, understood as expression and representation of subjective and collective resistance to a dominion (Touraine, 2005), is built and strengthened through musical expression and the associated aggregative forms, concerts, and gatherings. As highlighted by Corte and Edwards (2008) in their study on “white power music,” the role played by music can be explained in three main aspects: 1) a concert, a gathering, an album release, is the occasion for strengthening and widening the core of activists; 2) music spreads content that aims to consolidate identity and peculiarities of the political and cultural area; 3) it’s an important financing source to sustain the movement’s political activity. We consider an additional aspect as fundamental, the emotional dimension. Through music and related activities (concerts, fanzines, merchandising), CasaPound activists aim to build up world view and interpretations directly related and inspired by fascist values, but in the meantime they aspire to give answers to the ambitions of young generations that “give their contempt”13 to a societal model from which they feel exploited and marginalized. CasaPound activists are described in songs and lyrics as non-compromising youth who do not accept any cultural and social dominion, and “get pushed into life,”14 as sung by Gianluca Iannone, CasaPound leader and ZetaZeroAlfa (ZZA) front man and singer. The music band ZZA came out in 1999 and since then has played a key role in the aggregation of the first core group of activists that will create future CasaPound movements.15 As remembered by the ZZA front man during an interview: Here everything has been built around the band. Everything started in a pub (the Cutty Sark n.d.a.), just for fun. So, music is a fundamental part, it’s inside the movement. This means that when a new album is released, there is big attention on it. Our music tradition was used to sing about torment, death… alternative music was sad and self-pity. We completely changed this attitude, singing about more frivolous stuff, without the heaviness of this tradition.

The dark side of the field 95 CasaPound consensus, mainly within the new generations of young Italian fascists, is due to the recovery of a goliardic and playful dimension that clearly breaks with the post-war neo-fascist tradition, and in particular with the content of its music and lyrics. This tradition was based on a kulturpessimismus (referring to Evola’s concept of kalyjuga16) that characterizes Italian neo-fascism since the end of the Second World War. Feeling like “exiles in their homeland” (Tarchi, 1995), it’s one of the peculiar characteristics of Italian neo-fascist tragic and crepuscular pessimism, that has little to do with the historical fascist vitalistic traits, associated, for instance, to Futurism (De Felice, 1975). It is a cultural pessimism that fed a collective consciousness in which the “nobility of defeat” is celebrated, as well as an apology (and anesthetization) of the ghetto, in which Italian neo-fascism felt relegated and locked up. As an example, we can refer to the song lyrics of the band Amici del Vento in 1978, “They made laws and tricks to shut our mouth, of our names prison walls are overflowed.” In 1988, songwriter Francesco Mancinelli, in his song Generazione’78, commemorates the comrades killed during the firefights in the “years of lead” period with these words: “Those coffins not yet avenged, the wounds almost never healed!” Some years later and with the same attitude, the band 270b is from their song Non scordo: “I can never forget his body on the pavement, and the flower bloomed from his clotted blood, and a fucking journalist was already inventing a story with a plot already seen, to dig dirt on his memory!”17 CasaPound and ZZA distanced themselves from this tradition that had become mired in pessimism, and the feeling of being the historical losers was deeply interiorized,18 changed their lyrical focus to a more positive dimension on an emotional level, trying to recover and valorize what they considered the vitalistic and proactive, passionate, and conflictual attitude of historical fascism. Many music bands gravitating around CasaPound, as well as ZZA, mainly refer to the Oi! music style and attitude, renewing the spirit of rebellion that characterized this kind of music. The Oi! style (or street punk), in fact, can be considered as the re-appropriation of the punk attitude by the working-class culture (Home, 1995), believing in the spontaneity and frankness allowed by this style and its representation of the rabid voice of the street (Worley, 2013). For these reasons, Oi! music has easily become a field of experimentation in which to create an explicit political and cultural style in extreme-right music, even outside Italy (Brown, 2004; Corte and Edwards, 2008). Oi! music provides CasaPound an emotional and significant continuity to the social, political, and cultural dimensions of their collective actions. The theoretical elaboration, in the intentions of CasaPound activists, has to be tied to militancy in the same way as fighting is linked with “fun”: ZZA describes CasaPound activists as “sweating with joy,”19 without surrendering to the depression and sobriety imposed by a bourgeoisie society. Instead, they are “always awake” to the use of their critical conscience, still

96  Toscano and di Nunzio quoting Iannone lyrics. This approach can be traced in the words of one of CasaPound activist during an interview: A new ZetaZeroAlfa album is a political act that strengthens the community. Because new T-shirts come out, a new song chorus that people— perhaps even naively—put on their Facebook or Twitter status. It’s something that gives energy, that allows you to get excited. Negus (1996) underlines how the concept of articulation could properly describe the relationship between music audience and music performers, as it clearly emerges from the quotation above. We can use the concept of articulation according to the two dimensions proposed by Negus (originally taken from Hall, 1981): on one side, articulation as communication, as self-expression of a band or an artist, that takes place in relationship with an audience, that in this particular case is also a group of activists with whom the band shares political values and articulates together cultural meanings. This ties in to the second meaning of articulation, referring to CasaPound music and, more generally, to far-right cultural modes of actions, that is related to the concept of “linkage,” of being together and sharing emotions that strengthen the collective identities and the processes of embodiment and commitment in the CasaPound movement. The countercultural style codes created by CasaPound and ZZA can also be traced in the dancing style, a means of involvement and aggregation in rock music and mass culture. Like the pogo of the English punk that stressed the forms of dancing in rock music (Hebdige, 1979, p. 108), the cinghiamattanza20 (literally slaughter-belt) similarly represents and pushes forward— for CasaPound activists—fundamental aspects of life: vitality, play, fight, in opposition to a mainstream cultural model in which the body is reduced to a piece of merchandise. Cinghiamattanza is “a moment of re-appropriation of our own body, in a society that has with bodies a paranoid, troubled, and crumbling relationship.”21 The cult of the body, for its own corporeity and physical confrontation, is a peculiar trait of Italian right cultural imagery, and not necessarily the radical one (Dechezelles, 2011). In this sense, CasaPound is not so different from the rest of the Italian right political landscape; Blee (2007) emphasizes how far-right activists tend to embody the strong intensity of the movement practices, and music contributes in this sense “to embody the emotional styles of extremist politics” (p. 123). Cinghiamattanza, as social practice, reveals a fascination for the aesthetic of the warrior-martyrized body, of the hero that comes out injured from the battle in the arena, but still standing. As, again, evidenced by the song lyrics: “First, I took of the belt. Two: the dance begins. Three: I take aim carefully. Four: Cinghiamattanza! This leather in the air is formalizing the dance. Only the warrior caste performs cinghiamattanza!” The importance of the embodiment experience in social movement is stressed by McDonald (2006) as a key aspect for understanding collective

The dark side of the field 97 action: “to experience beauty, wonder, grief, we have to open ourselves to something happening to us, we have to make ourselves vulnerable” (p. 218). In fact, questioning one’s own self in the process of affirming one’s individual subjectivity implies at the same time exposing one’s bodily self to risks. This happens in the conviction that the work on oneself and on ones’ own limits has to involve also the dimension of one’s own corporeity (Le Breton, 2004). Moreover, as underlined by Meidani (2007), the body can be considered as the place of the “acting self,” becoming a crucial part of the subjective experience of self-affirmation (Howson, 2004), and an instrument of mediation between the self and the others (Goffman, 1959). In this sense, we can explain the embodiment of political messages by CasaPound activists that are dressed up through T-shirts produced to finance the organization, or tattooed on their own body—i.e., the turtle, symbol of the movement—up to the extreme action of embodiment represented by the cinghiamattanza.

6.5  Studying CasaPound Also highlighted by Blee (2007), close-up research on far-right movements has undeniable usefulness in providing information and data otherwise hardly achievable through quantitative analysis on secondary data. Furthermore, close-up research allows emphasis to be placed on the centrality of cultural aspects that also concern the so-called distasteful movements, as demonstrated by the analysis presented above. In this part of the chapter, we present some reflections about ethical implications and methodological inquiries related to our study. The decision to undertake a close-up research on CasaPound arrived by chance. We published an article in a left newspaper22 proposing an analysis on far-right music, and some days later we were contacted through our Facebook profiles by a man from CasaPound, asking why we were so interested in (and documenting)their “not in line” music. We decided to arrange a meeting in a bar near the CasaPound squatter building, where we met two people (who became our gatekeepers to access CasaPound activists and organization). This quick meeting turned into a very interesting evening, in which we were invited to join a presentation held by CasaPound on the housing emergency in Rome. We were able to meet many activists and have small chats with them, starting to set up the relational conditions allowing us to realize the research. 6.5.1  Uncovered and explicit research As rightly asserted by Kunda (2006), fieldwork is the result of such a personal and subjective activity that the methods for its realization are as many as the researchers. To realize the present research, we decided to set up a methodology based on candor (Ezekiel, 2002): this meant having immediately declared our identity, our political position as openly and actively on

98  Toscano and di Nunzio the left, and very clearly exposing our intentions and reasons for conducting close-up research on CasaPound. We decided to act in this way to overtake some of the ethical issues linked to concealment techniques, notably the matter of being a covert observer (Herrera 1999), or a social scientific investigator whose professional aims are unknown to the subject targets of the study (Miall, Pawluch, and Shaffir, 2005). We also started from a very obvious consideration: nowadays, a quick search on Google or Facebook would have been a very simple way to discover everything about us, our political involvement,23 and cultural references and social networks, and there were no chances (nor intent) to anonymize ourselves on the Web. Building up a “character” to impersonate, trying to infiltrate the movement pretending to be what we are not (and never will be!), has been considered an unbearable choice from a different point of view, as well as being virtually impossible for the reasons explained above. First, the ethical matter of being trusted, a key step from our perspective for the realization of meaningful fieldwork, hardly deals with a relation (the one within researcher and researched) based on a partial knowledge about research’s aims and objectives. Fine (1980) underlines how different degrees of unveiling are possible, distinguishing between three possible strategies of information control: deep cover (when the researcher completely hides his research role, participating in the group pretending to be a member); explicit cover (when the researcher explains as clearly as possible aims and intentions of the research); and shallow cover (a kind of middle ground, when the researcher is explicit on his role, remaining vague on research goal and personal information). On this scale, we’d be probably be positioned closest to the explicit cover. Secondly, we were worried about the potential psychological stress linked to the need for behaving differently from how we would normally have done, considering the risk of being discovered. As Boumaza and Campana (2007) remind us, these movements, groups, and organizations are very suspicious about the possibility of infiltration, and usually researchers are seen as part of the dominant elite. Thirdly, creating a credible character to impersonate is always a gamble, and Erikson (1967) underlines two main limits of this choice: on one hand, it’s hard to believe that a researcher could learn in a matter of hours what others have been practicing for a lifetime, and, on the other hand, the aspects and manner of being and behaving selected to create the personage are always a choice acted on by the researcher, based on what he/she believes meaningful for character portrayal, that are not necessarily the good and right ones. 6.5.2  Ethics of research and responsibility We initially started interviewing our fieldwork gatekeepers (the two young men we initially met in our first contact with CasaPound) to clarify our intention and the kind of interviews we would conduct during our research,

The dark side of the field 99 negotiating with them the modalities and timing to access the fieldwork. The main theoretical objective of our scientific inquiry was to understand—starting from Touraine’s perspective (1992; 2005; 2015)—if and how a process of subjectivation24 would be possible within a far-right movement such as CasaPound, together with the aim of explaining their conflict with democracy and its values. Methodologically, we structured our research on in-depth interviews and participant observation, and it has been mandatory for us to create a trustful relationship, allowing us to create a bridge with people sharing a different (and conflicting) worldview from ours. Thus, we adopted the role of professional researchers (Grills, 1998), being committed to our role in being scrupulous in presenting our methodology and theoretical perspective as frankly as possible, clarifying the scientific intents and the output25 we wanted to produce. Nevertheless, as rightly affirmed by Bruni (2003), researchers who justify their fieldwork activities solely by their status as a social scientist, risk having a naïve and superiority attitude towards those being studied, who become like laboratory guinea pigs. Moreover, Silverman and Marvasti (2008) warn researchers conducting qualitative and ethnographic inquiries from a divine orthodoxy: the researcher’s attitude of always seeing «through people’s claims and know better than they do» (p.310). Our intention was not just to have a quick look beyond the cordon sanitaire (Mouffe, 2005), to snoop around what was going on, but actually crossing it: in this way, we gained the respect of our research object thanks to our approach and our curiosity, managing to negotiate our access to CasaPound. In other words, we operated what in literature is known as passing (Bruni, 2003; Sassatelli, 2000): the ability to get in the game, being recognized for the role fulfilled, the one of researchers dealing with a previously unknown study object, and being able to perform it with competence and skill. Lastly, acting in a professional manner without betraying the trust earned in the field is a matter of respect not only towards the research object, but also to the scientific community of researchers potentially interested in doing ethnographic and qualitative research after us on this specific research object. 6.5.3  Emotional dimension Unlike other researchers dealing with far-right movements and problematic fieldwork (Blee, 1998; Boumaza and Campana, 2007), we never experienced feelings of fear or danger while conducting the research. Only once, while attending a CasaPound rally in an abandoned train station in Rome, we found ourselves in an emotionally tense and uncomfortable situation. We were listening to the concert, quite a bit on one side to avoid being too “exposed”: it was, in fact, a three-day rally with debates, conferences, and concerts with several bands. ZZA (the main band on the line-up) was playing in front of more than 800 people coming from different parts of Italy and

100  Toscano and di Nunzio abroad, and most of them were not aware of us and the reason why we were there. Three bands had already played; it was late in the evening; the vibes and the powerful “palpable energy” (Berezin, 2007) generated by the music (as well as by the booze) coming from the stage were completely felt and shared by the crowd. Suddenly from the audience a collective shout began: “Where are the antifascists?” Everybody started to follow the shout, in the manner of a stadium chant. Many right straight-arms started to give the Roman salute; many people we didn’t know started to look at us, and we felt so uncomfortable that we decided to move away. Reflecting on this episode, we realized how fieldwork could be emotionally stressful: we were in a situation—listening to a concert while having a beer—that at the end of the day was quite similar to many other situations we had experienced before in our life. Perhaps for a while we forgot we were attending a far-right concert, and were abruptly brought back to the reality of the situation through the emotional shock given by that collective and loudly threatening shout. Apart from this episode, more than physical threats or psychological pressure, we have been the object of verbal provocations (Smyth and Mitchell, 2008), during informal meetings, and in some cases also during interviews about our political commitment on the left and our being antifascists. As underlined by Bondi (2005), data collection draws the researcher into a net of relationships that, in the case of qualitative methodology and close-up research, involves other people, shaping the frame where emotions (and conflicts) will be experienced and embodied. Nevertheless, the emotional dimension is related to the entire research process being carried out, not just during the fieldwork. In particular, reporting an objective picture, as true as possible, of the actors ‘subjective social world (relations, worldviews, values, meanings of action), as well as dealing with a moral judgement of this social world, not only affects each step of the research process, but deals with the tension between involvement and detachment felt by the researcher (Esseveld and Eyerman, 1992). These feelings and tensions are even more complicated to deal with if the study object is a far-right organization, such as CasaPound. In the process of carrying out the research, we continuously reflected on our position and relationship with the research object, focusing on trying to be close enough to get the best possible meanings, sense, and interpretations from the actors’ perspective, while at the same time maintaining distance from their distasteful worldview. We reflected on these issues during the fieldwork, and even more during data analysis, when we realized how challenging (and difficult) dealing with the emotional involvement is, and the need for detachment in reporting our research results. 6.5.4  The contagion of stigma Inevitably, every research process is carried out in a specific place and time, which contributes in influencing its success, diffusion, and ability to feed a

The dark side of the field 101 critical debate. When we carried out the research presented in this chapter, speaking about CasaPound was considered almost a taboo, especially on the left. The motivations behind this “forced silence” were mainly related to the idea that speaking about (and researching) CasaPound and other farright movements would have contributed to giving them visibility, contributing in fact to legitimizing their presence. As has happened elsewhere to other researchers (Bizeul, 2007), we have been criticized for our choice of carrying out research on a far-right organization such as CasaPound, even more so as it entailed direct contact with openly fascist activists. With the increasing consent that CasaPound has obtained over the years, interest has also increased (and the aversion decreased) towards our work. This is also because other researchers have started to show interest in this specific object, widening and strengthening the academic debate. Nevertheless, we experienced what Kirby and Corzine (1981) called the “contagion of stigma,” in our case for dealing with openly fascist activists. We have been criticized for our interest in a stigmatized social world such as the fascist one, and our methodology has been questioned as well, both from academic colleagues and, more widely, from the non-academic world. Considering us “guilty by association” (Kirby and Corzine, 1981), we were publicly accused during the period of our fieldwork of being “friends of the fascists” on our Facebook profiles—for the sole reason that some people directly involved in CasaPound were on our friends list and because we liked their FB fan pages, in order to monitor and collect data from them.

6.6 Conclusions The research presented herein highlights what kind of contributions and analysis could be provided by carrying out a close-up inquiry on far-right movements and organizations. Unlike perspectives defined as externalist (Goodwin, 2006), mainly focused on analyzing the context and socio-economic conditions behind a growing far-right consensus, we decided to carry out close-up research through the use of participant observation and in-depth interviews, focusing on understanding the meanings of actions and the commitment and embodiment of activists in this kind of movement. Blee (2007) underlines how studying far-right movements and organizations from a close-up perspective is important for a more complete understanding of a complex social reality that cannot be explained just by macro-variables. Culture and culture practices are key elements that must be known, if the aim is to understand the attraction and durability of the far right: “Music, clothing, style, bodily disciplines, ritual, identity, and performance are critical for recruiting new members and solidifying the commitment of participants in far-right groups” (p. 124). Nevertheless, carrying out close-up research on the far right can be complicated, as field negotiation, activist interviews, direct observation, and documents are more difficult to obtain.

102  Toscano and di Nunzio

Notes 1. The name CasaPound comes from the connection of the Italian word for “house” (Casa) and the name of the American poet Ezra Pound, considered for CasaPound activists as one of their main cultural references, notably for his poetries and writings against usury and banks (Cantos XLV) as mainly responsible for modern war, capitalism, and American cultural-end political hegemony. 2. To give some examples, considering the high number of inquiries on CasaPound from Italian and international journalists, we refer to reportage by Le Monde (Duchemin and Maillard, 2014), El Mundo (Bernabè 2016), Daily Mail (Associated Press, 2017), Vice (Pisani, 2012), Buzzfeed (Feder and Brigida, 2017) and many blogs devoted to political in-depth analysis in France (Boubli, 2014) and Germany (Koch, 2016). 3. Starting from the local election in 2015, CasaPound Italia decided to present its own electoral list, gaining access to local councils in several Italian cities, such as Bolzano, Gaeta, Latina, Lucca, and Todi. 4. In the Lazio Region, from 2013 to 2016, CasaPound Italia has doubled its votes at the local elections, going from 0.56 to 1.18%. In other Italian Regions, CasaPound Italia electoral lists have gained even better results: in Bolzano, in 2016, CPI obtained 6.7%; in Latina, a city in southern Lazio, 3.05%; in Lucca, in 2017, CPI reached 4.9% of the votes and, at the national level, it got a little more 2%. 5. MSI (Movimento Sociale Italiano) is the political party that, after the Second World War, gathered all different political groups directly connected with the fascist experience of the Salò Social Republic. Although present in the Italian Parliament, MSI was the only political party that was excluded from the definition of “Constitutional Arch,” indicating all the political parties that recognized themselves in the democratic values on which the Italian Constitution is based. The MSI experience ended in 1995, when a large majority merged in Alleanza Nazionale and the most radical component founded a new political organization: Movimento Sociale–Fiamma Tricolore. 6. The name is inspired by the saga “Lord of the Rings” written by the English writer J.R.R. Tolkien. This reference has widely inspired generations of young Italian fascists during the seventies and eighties of the last century, combining the epic traits of the main character (Frodo the Hobbit) with the heroic and bellicose mystic of Julius Evola. There were three Hobbit Camps organized from 1977 to 1980 (Tarchi, 2010). 7. This refers to the affirmation, during the eighties of the last century, of a cultural and political model strongly characterized by individualism, in which the idea of social solidarity has been radically re-dimensioned. This model aims to the economic enfranchisement of the citizen from a welfare state perspective, fostering free market expansion and tax reduction. The name comes from the economic orientation imposed at that time by the US President, republican Ronald Reagan (1981–1989). 8. This refers to the historical period in Italy, from the end of the sixties to the mid-eighties in the last century, characterized by a strong radicalization of the political conflict that lead to terrorism, bomb attacks, and armed struggle. 9. Dart (Art Division) was an organization that aims to give a space to creativity and cultural expression of young radical right activists, beyond the excessive conservatism operated by the MSI. Within this organization, many music and artistic experiences took place. 10. The Rupe Tarpea is the name of the cliff on the Campidoglio in Rome, from which during the Roman period traitors were thrown. 11. Fiuggi is the city where the last MSI congress took place in 1995.

The dark side of the field 103 12. Quotation cited in Di Nunzio and Toscano (2011). 13. Entra a spinta, from the album Fronte dell’Essere (2002). RupeTarpea/ Perimetro. 14. ibidem 15. The band was launched through a viral stickering campaign that in one night filled the city of Rome with 15,000 stickers reporting just the name “ZetaZeroAlfa”, without any other reference to music or politics. The viral use of stickering is a rather widespread practice in urban subcultures of Italian cities and concerns groups and movements of any political and cultural orientation. 16. Cfr. J. Evola (1995). Revolt against the Modern World: Politics, Religion, and Social Order in the Kali Yuga, (1° ed., Or. Rivolta contro il mondo moderno, Hoepli, Milano 1934). 17. Non scordo, from the album Cuore Nero (1995). Eversione Musicale. 18. Some authors, including Jesi, have underlined the dismal dimension of the neofascist culture in the seventies, in which a “religion of death” prevailed (Jesi, 1979, p. 63). 19. “Fare Blocco” from the album Estremo Centro Alto (2007). Rupe Tarpea/ Perimetro. 20. Term referring to the title of a ZetaZeroAlfa song (in the album La Ballata dello Stoccafisso (2007) Rupe Tarpea/Perimetro). During the song performance, people in the audience took off their belts and—following a code of behavior formalized over time—started to fight, beating each other. The word “mattanza” (borrowed from tuna fishing in the tonnare in Sicily) is used in common language to describe a brutal and bloody physical confrontation, with a high number of victims. An official video of the cinghiamattanza can be found on YouTube at the following address: http://youtu.be/ drsUhWuyA9I. 21. http://www.casapoundsicilia.altervista.org/le-faq-di-cpi/ (accessed 10/09/2017). 22. We published an articulated analysis on far-right movement music on the cultural pages of Il Manifesto, in April 2009 titled “Profondonero. Note e pratiche non conformi.” 23. Daniele is a researcher working for CGIL, the main Italian trade union; we both have been actively engaged in precarious workers movements and, when we decided to start the research, Emanuele was deeply involved in organizing a rally against Berlusconi and his government (that was held in Rome on December 5, 2009). 24. Subjectivation, according to Alain Touraine, is “the process by which an individual become a social actor” (Touraine, 2015, p. 16), acquiring the consciousness of being able to create, modify (and even destroy) the world around him or her. 25. As we were not sure to be able to conduct the research as we imagined, we initially declared the intention to present the research findings in a paper at the XVII ISA World Congress held in Göteborg in 2010, as we eventually did. After a significant advancement in the fieldwork research, we realized we had enough material to put together a wider publication.

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7

Uncustomary sisterhood: Feminist research in Japanese conservative movements Ayaka Suzuki

7.1 Introduction In Japan, people have associated the term “uyoku” (right-wing, typically the ultranationalist far right) with the activism of groups of “social deviants.” Japan’s uyoku have a distinctive activist culture;1 members carry out activities from large vans and trucks covered in black paint and decorated with the Imperial chrysanthemum, the flag of Japan, and the rising sun military flag. On the Emperor’s birthday and other public holidays, these vehicles blast military music from loudspeakers attached to their roofs and drive through the streets campaigning for causes such as the return of the Northern Territories/Kuril Islands.2 In addition to their distinctive culture, uyoku activists often use violence. For these reasons, they have been regarded by the Japanese as “deviants” and are placed in a separate ideological category from “normal people” (Hori, 1993). Although uyoku do continue to practice such activism, since the 1990s Japanese society has witnessed the emergence of a different kind of rightwing movement. Mirroring the form of traditional leftist social movements, the new right-wing have engaged in activities such as lectures, seminars, signature rallies, soapboxing, and public demonstrations. They have been able to develop a broader membership base—from university students to retired seniors—than the uyoku. It is therefore no longer appropriate to view their members as deviant. The emergence of these right-wing movements captured the interest of both society and academia, and researchers— primarily in the fields of sociology, political science, and history—began to examine them in greater detail in the early 2000s. Since 2008, when I was a graduate student, I have conducted surveys on various new right-wing movements in Japan, focusing on women-centered groups and female activists. The reason behind this choice is the backlash against the gains of feminism and the women’s movement (Faludi, 1991), a reaction that I learned was held by numerous women among those involved. The point of departure for my research was my desire to understand why policy aimed at gender equality could prompt negative reactions from women. In order to explore this question, I have conducted surveys in right-wing women’s organizations, introducing a gender perspective into my analysis.

108  Suzuki In this chapter, while reflecting on the surveys that I have conducted to date, I examine the challenges and possibilities of conducting feminist survey research in right-wing movements from the perspective of sisterhood. The discussion draws on data from interviews and fieldwork conducted from 2008 to 2011 in a conservative and anti-feminism group, here referred to as Association A.3

7.2  The Japanese right-wing 7.2.1  Political ideology in Japan Although the effectiveness of the left-right distinction in political ideology is often called into question, the terms “left” and “right” are still widely used to denote a person’s political orientation (Bobbio, 1995). However, since the substantive meanings of left and right vary greatly depending on the period or region in question, to avoid confusion I will begin by describing the state of left-right ideology in Japan. Japanese society in the modern age is generally separated into “pre-war” and “post-war” periods, referring to the Second World War. After its defeat, Japan was placed under the control of the General Headquarters of the Allied Powers (GHQ) from 1945 to 1952, during which time its political and legal system underwent changes in the process of democratization. Under the Constitution enacted in 1946, the Emperor, who acted as sovereign ruler before the war, was recast as a non-political “symbol of the people.” The rightists in today’s Japan oppose these post-war reformations and seek to restore pre-war legal and social systems, and to independently rewrite the new Constitution that was established under GHQ rule. The distinction between “conservative” and “reformist” in Japan is generally used as an indicator of a person’s political orientation. What then do these labels mean in real terms? Kabashima and Takenaka (1996) argued that there are two axes separating the conservative and reformist positions in post-war Japanese society. The first concerns one’s approval or disapproval of the pre-war political system introduced above, in which the Emperor is sovereign, and of the post-war Treaty of Mutual Cooperation and Security (Treaty) between the United States and Japan. Since the renunciation of military forces—including land, sea, and air forces—is enshrined in Article 9 of the new Constitution, Japan is officially prohibited from having an army.4 However, ever since the withdrawal of GHQ at the beginning of the Cold War, the United States military has retained its bases in Japan, the legal basis for which is provided by the Treaty. Those that seek a resurgence of the pre-war system and the continuation of the Treaty are called conservative or right-wing,5 whereas those that oppose such changes are called reformist or left-wing. The second axis in the division concerns welfare, political participation, and equality. In the 1960s, Japan entered a period of rapid economic

Uncustomary sisterhood 109 growth. As the national standard of living improved, public interest in politics gradually faded. However, in the 1970s, negative side effects of economic growth, such as pollution and environmental destruction, developed into social problems, and the reformist position, which favors the enhancement of welfare over economic growth, began to gain traction. Also important to the discussion of political orientation in Japan is the concept of nationalism. Although it has been subject to various definitions, in view of the current state of political ideology in Japan, this chapter adopts the definition proposed by Ernest Gellner—that nationalism is a political principle that seeks to establish congruence between the political and national units (Gellner, 1983). This nationalism is linked to the conservative or right-wing position in today’s Japan. While these movements appear under various names—uyoku, rightist, right-wing, conservative—I collectively refer to them as “conservative movements.” In my survey experience, many activists involved in Japan’s right-wing social movements place themselves at the center of the political spectrum, and many seem uncomfortable with the use of terms such as rightwing and uyoku, which tend to be associated with the more traditional form of right-wing activism introduced at the beginning of this chapter. For this reason, I use the term conservative movements since this is applicable in the academic context and relatively acceptable to survey participants. On the basis of the previous discussions of Japanese political alignment, I define a conservative movement as a social movement of individuals who support the former pre-war system and the Japan–US Security Treaty, hold a negative stance toward the enhancement of the welfare system and equal political participation, and adhere to nationalistic doctrines that advocate patriotism. 7.2.2  The state of Japan’s conservative movements In the late 1990s, conservative Japanese organizations with activism styles similar to those of left-wing social movements began to increase their power and exert both social and political influence. This development was catalyzed by the establishment of the Japanese Society for History Textbook Reform (TRS) in 1997. The TRS conducted activities aimed at developing and introducing historically revisionist textbooks for junior high school history and civics classes, texts that deny historical facts such as the Nanking Massacre and the Japanese army’s “comfort women” system (Oguma and Ueno, 2003;Takayama, 2009; Schneider, 2008).6 The TRS promoted grassroots activities and was able to mobilize people who were previously uninterested in social activism. Nippon Kaigi, Japan’s largest conservative organization, was also established in the same year. Nippon Kaigi was formed by a merger of several religious organizations, memorial associations for the casualties of war, and war veterans’ associations, all of which had been active since the early post-war years. Its primary aim is to revise the Constitution, and has established local chapters throughout Japan. Its membership includes a

110  Suzuki considerable number of politicians, intellectuals, and actors, and ever since it was announced that fourteen of the twenty members of the Third Reshuffled Abe Cabinet (inaugurated in August 2016) were also members of Nippon Kaigi, the association has received continuous media coverage. TRS and Nippon Kaigi were central agents of the backlash in Japan described at the beginning of this chapter. The term backlash here describes the antagonistic reaction to the development of gender equality policy that feminist movements have obtained. Susan Faludi, a journalist from the United States, was the first person to advocate this term, in the 1980s. She identified various phenomena in the United States as backlash, including the Reagan Administration’s familyism policy and negative images of career women in movies, novels, and commercial advertisements. In Japan, since the Basic Law for a Gender-Equal Society came into force in 1999, it seemed likely that comprehensive initiatives aimed at realizing a gender-equal society would be set in motion at the national and local government levels. In the midst of this development, around early 2000, there was a surge in right-wing magazine articles that scathingly criticized the law and the feminist cause. Conservative organizations also became intensely critical of feminism, holding various events such as symposia, lectures, and seminars, where they espoused their ideologies. These campaigns continued until around 2006, resulting in some municipalities being unable to enact gender equality regulations, or enacting regulations stating that men and women ought to play complementary roles due to gender difference. After the first wave of backlash settled, a new, more radical current surfaced as exclusive nationalism gained momentum within conservative circles. As Internet use became more common and widespread, chauvinistic discourse gradually accumulated in certain online communities.7 Propelled by the development of online discourse, in the late 2000s a succession of “aggressive conservative” groups were formed that adopted a direct and threatening style of activism, involving soapbox speeches and public demonstrations and protests. One such group, the ZainicniTokken wo Yurusanai Shimin no Kai (Association of Citizens against the Special Privileges of the Zainichi),8 established in 2007, carries out hate speeches and hate crimes against Korean residents in Japan (Higuchi, 2016). The association gained widespread public attention with the publication of a book by journalist Koichi Yasuda, titled Netto to Aikoku (The Internet and Patriotism, 2012).

7.3  Methodology and overview 7.3.1  Absence of gender-focused research Many women are involved in Japan’s conservative movements, and yet the majority of the existing research on conservative identity fails to incorporate a gender perspective. This absence of women from the body of research is not limited to Japan. In studying racist movements in the United States

Uncustomary sisterhood 111 from the perspective of gender, Kathleen Blee raised doubts over how female activists are portrayed. She found that female activists were only discussed in their capacity as the wives or girlfriends of male activists, and that women’s autonomy has not been properly covered in academic research (Blee, 1996; 2002). A similar situation exists in Japan, where the presence of female activists in conservative movement activism has been concealed. I have chosen to focus on female participants in conservative movements for two reasons. First, even if women are involved in the same movements as men, it stands to reason that their experiences within that movement will be different because of gender. The limited media coverage of female participants in conservative movements suggests that female activists tend to be seen by male activists and men outside the movements through the lens of a sexualized existence (Kitahara and Paku, 2014). Second, it is necessary to more closely examine the meaning behind women “making waves” and “creating currents” in backlash initiatives, because women should arguably be expected to have different reasons than men for resisting the Basic Law for a Gender-Equal Society and feminism in general. 7.3.2  Methodology: Feminist research As a survey method, feminist research focuses on women’s experiences and hearing their stories. In Second-Wave Feminism, as the movement’s theory and practice took root in academia, feminist researchers began to voice their criticism of academic knowledge as being androcentric. In social science in particular, conventional survey methods were also called into question (Smith, 1974). Is it possible for a researcher/observer to be objective and neutral? Are women included in the academic knowledge that has been constructed in such methods? Beginning with these questions, feminist researchers have argued that existing academic knowledge and the methods by which it has been constructed actually contribute to the fixation and reproduction of gender inequality, rather than correcting it. Feminist research is a survey method that grew from efforts to incorporate women’s experiences into academic knowledge. Ropers-Huilman and Winters described the purposes of feminist research as:“[a]ddressing omissions and misrepresentations, hearing and authoring women’s stories and information about diverse women’s lives, and valuing multiple ways of knowing (Ropers-Huilman and Winters, 2011: 674). The most distinctive feature of feminist research as a social research method is that it is sensitive to the relationship between researcher and respondent, one that can easily become asymmetrical. It addresses this potential imbalance by allowing the researcher to present and publish her or his own thoughts. The act of analyzing a certain person’s experience has a violent dimension in that it causes a person’s experience to be repositioned in a different context (Acker, Barry and Esseveld, 1983). Feminist research gathers the stories of women as respondents and aims to establish equal

112  Suzuki relationships to ensure that the process of constructing knowledge does not itself become repressive. Here the researcher adopts a recursive approach toward maintaining a non-oppressive relationship with the respondent. 7.3.3  Overview of the survey and target organization I conducted the survey of Association A, predominantly female, conservative, and anti-feminist, from 2008 to 2011. The Association is a grassroots group that operates out of Ehime Prefecture, an area of Japan that had an active anti-gender–equality movement. Formed in 2004, the Association is opposed to gender equality and aims to promote “family values” in society. With 764 members (as of 2011), its activities include organizing lectures (conducted annually, with about 150 participants), seminars (bimonthly, with about ten participants), and the publication of the Nadeshiko Report9 newsletter (six times a year). The Association has continued to conduct activities since its formation, making it a rare example of a Japanese grassroots organization that is opposed to gender equality and has campaigned vigorously over a long period. Since its beginnings, Association A has sought to place women at its core. Key positions are held by women, and according to the newsletter, “Most of our members are women, and they have various backgrounds—some have jobs, and some are full-time homemakers.” The newsletter also states that the bimonthly seminars are “gatherings centred on women where participants can receive advice about daily life and study together.” Association A cites six points as grounds for its opposition of gender equality: (1) respect for masculinity and femininity; (2) emphasis on family ties; (3) reconsideration of sexual self-determination; (4) sex education that considers children’s developmental stages; (5) guarantee of freedom of expression; and (6) respect for traditional culture. All of these points reflect the criticisms of gender equality observed in the conservative media: at the height of the backlash, the conservative media was awash with a discourse asserting that gender equality, among other things, denies masculinity and femininity, destroys families, encourages free sex through reproductive health/rights and sex education, criticizes words such as shujin (master) and kanai (wife) as discriminatory,10 and destroys traditional culture. The directors who established this association were citizens who opposed the enactment of the ordinance for the promotion of gender equality in Matsuyama City, Ehime Prefecture. Although the gender equality ordinance was eventually enacted in Matsuyama, subsequently the association interviewed and petitioned government officials from Ehime Prefecture and Matsuyama and held a seminar, to which they invited conservative prefectural assembly members. I met the head of Association A and its members for the first time in May 2008 and conducted interviews with members in February and March 2011. Twenty-three (eighteen women and five men) agreed to participate in the

Uncustomary sisterhood 113 interviews, and all were introduced to me by the head of the Association, Respondent Y (a woman in her fifties). As the association is centered on women, I asked her to introduce me to as many female members as possible. The respondent profiles show that 22 of the 23 were in their fifties or older, and the most common occupation (open response), with ten responses, was homemaker. However, where participants answered homemaker, most were describing post-retirement status, and some answered homemaker despite holding part-time or non-regular jobs. Eleven respondents—including all five male participants—had attended a four-year university or received higher education. All except two also belonged to another organization: eight to Nippon Kaigi, four to the Institute of Moralogy,11 and two to the Textbook Reform Society. Many also belonged to religious organizations, including Buddhist and Shinto groups, and eleven belonged to two or more organizations besides Association A.12 The following section traces the process leading up to the survey, presents details of the trial-and-error procedures implemented during the survey, and tries to identify the kinds of women who are actually involved in the conservative movement.

7.4  Entering the field of the conservative movement When I decided to begin my investigation in 2008, the backlash in Japan had almost subsided, and very few organizations were still conducting activities that focused specifically on gender equality. I learned about Association A by chance, when I discovered their website, which contained an outline of the association and its activities, and a blog that introduced current topics and books recommended by association members. The critiques of gender equality mainly originated from conservative magazine and newspaper articles. The majority of those articles were written by male right-wing intellectuals and politicians, and the only female-authored articles to be found were pieces by five right-wing politicians and journalists. It occurred to me that there was a paucity of data for elucidating the opinions held by women participating in grassroots conservative movements while residing in their local areas, unlike the case of male intellectuals and specialists. Upon reading the website, I learned that Association A publishes a bimonthly newsletter and wondered if it might be possible to use this as a source of data on these less-publicized perspectives. Accordingly, I sent an email to the address given on the website, requesting permission to read the newsletters. In this email, I stated that I was a graduate student majoring in gender studies and that I wished to study the opinions of people who were opposed to a gender-equality policy aimed at improving the lives of all women. The head of Association A, Respondent Y, replied almost immediately. Since an academic conference would be held in the local area where the Association operated at that time, I arranged to attend this conference, where I would meet her in passing.

114  Suzuki Respondent Y met me at an unstaffed train station in a rural area about twenty minutes from the city by train. I headed for the meeting place without knowing the reason she chose that particular station. Before leaving my hotel, I had informed a fellow graduate student, who was also attending the conference, of my plan for the day and instructed her to call me if she did not hear from me after three hours. When I thought back on that day, this was an unnecessary precaution; however, at the time there was little research and therefore little information on Japan’s conservative movements, and I had no inkling as to what kind of people the activists would turn out to be. Respondent Y arrived in a red car. She was small in stature and wore a black sleeveless dress, and my first impression was of a stylish woman. After we greeted each other, she invited me to accompany her to a movie screening organized by a citizens’ group, and I decided to go with her. Because the screening was organized by a different conservative organization, the event was held at their local public hall. Most of the participants were middle-aged men, and there were just fewer than fifty people in the audience. Before the film began, Respondent Y introduced me to some other members of Association A who were there at the venue. Before long, it was time for the film to begin, and the participants took their seats; I sat next to Respondent Y. The front stage was decorated with the Japanese flag, and the event began with the audience singing the Japanese national anthem. All participants stood and sang the national anthem with great vigor. Because the same Japanese national anthem has been in use since before the war, and because for those who suffered in the war the settlement of responsibility and colonial debts has not always been sufficient, it is quite common for Japanese people to hold a negative view of the national anthem. This was probably the first time that I heard a large chorus of it. Of course, the sight of national flags and people singing the national anthem is entirely absent from Japan’s left-wing citizens’ movements. This was my first experience of the conservative movement culture. The film was The Truth about Nanjing, by the Japanese nationalist filmmaker Satoru Mizushima. It depicts the courage with which former Japanese military and government leaders who were sentenced as Class-A war criminals in the Tokyo War Crimes Tribunal were executed with their heads held high. In short, the film celebrates people who were convicted of Class-A war crimes. When I glanced at Respondent Y as she sat beside me in the audience, I saw her crying—I could also hear other participants making sniffling noises as though they were also crying. When the film ended, the audience applauded rapturously, impressed with what they had seen. After the screening, I conversed with Respondent Y and two other members of the association over coffee. When asked for my opinion about the film, I found myself at a loss for words on how to respond. My honest opinion would surely contradict their expectations, and it might have caused an argument. As the purpose of my visit that day was to gain access to the newsletter, this might prevent me from doing so. In the end, I said, “I learned a lot of

Uncustomary sisterhood 115 things that I did not know.” This was neither a lie nor my true feeling, but became my basic stance when conducting subsequent surveys. The women responded by telling me that Japanese history education did not teach children the truth, and it seemed as though I had given them the impression of being a “serious young person.” Although I could not obtain copies of their newsletters that day, I later received a message from Respondent Y informing me that she had uploaded PDF versions to the website. After analyzing the articles for my master’s thesis in the fall of 2010, I began to consider attempting an interview survey with members of Association A. I exchanged many emails with Respondent Y about conducting the survey, which resulted in my conducting interviews with participants introduced to me by Respondent Y, who agreed to participate.

7.5  Hearing the voices of women in the conservative movement There were some things that puzzled me a great deal when I began conducting the interviews. Despite Association A’s opposition to gender equality, most of the members whom I interviewed already knew the term gender-equality policy, but knew very little about the initiatives that the government sought to implement. Moreover, contrary to my assumption that all members of conservative movements are zealous activists, it turned out that many of the members, despite having joined the association, were largely inactive.13 This is to a great extent because Respondent Y, as the leader, planned and managed the activities almost single-handedly. Only when the association was shorthanded would she request direct help from members with whom she had a close relationship. During the survey process, I revised the interview structure to better accommodate the actual conditions of Association A, with relatively low participation or awareness of legislative activity. Using semi-structured interviews, I asked respondents about their backgrounds and motives for joining the association, and their thoughts and opinions on the gender-equality policy; the remainder of each interview was dedicated to hearing the stories that the respondents wished to share. Several tendencies came to light in the stories of the members, who were largely uncommitted to the activities of the association. The first tendency concerns their support for gender roles. The respondents were strongly in favor of the breadwinner/caregiver (husband/wife) family structure and found value in that style of family life. The women emphasized the practice of “elevating the husband” as a necessary means of maintaining desirable relationships in the family. For example, Respondent B (a woman in her fifties) stated that she thought, “The husband is, after all, the master of the household, and order is maintained when the family members respect the father.” The women who shared their experiences with me had actually lived out their family lives through the practice of withdrawing themselves while elevating their husbands.

116  Suzuki The second tendency was that the women, despite having upheld gender roles throughout their lives, did not necessarily describe such experiences in admirable terms. One respondent also spoke about problems concerning the state of the family and her own worries when describing the process by which she came to realize the importance of gender roles. Respondent C (a woman in her seventies) worked on a family-run farm and had gone to live with her husband’s parents after they married. She spoke of her problematic relationship with her in-laws as follows: “I was told not to disobey his parents if possible, because it might lead to discord in the family, so I thought that this was what I had to do. Well, I kept telling myself that in various ways, you know, and I’ve worked hard up to now.” The female respondents from Association A had lived within gender roles, as mothers, wives, and daughters-in-law, sometimes enduring suffering to preserve harmony and maintain desirable relationships in the family. The interview process altered my perspective on the women involved in the conservative movement. To be sure, the female members of Association A are unique insofar as they believe in rightist doctrines and participate in a conservative movement. However, the barriers and oppression that they faced were similar to those that most women experience living in Japan, where it is still difficult for women to pursue a career, and balancing work and domestic chores/child-rearing can be problematic; it is quite common for women to relinquish their jobs before bearing their first child. Furthermore, in rural areas, customs such as the preferential treatment of sons over daughters regarding academic progression continue to persist. I myself come from a rural area. If my parents had disapproved of my going to university, and if I had spent my whole life in that rural town, as the women I interviewed had, I may have been overtasked with housework and child-rearing/caregiving, silently enduring my life thinking that I was doing it “for the family.” I began to feel that the respondents were living as women while bearing difficulties in living that were fairly similar to my own experiences. The difficulties that these women described seemed to be the same ones suffered by my mother, also a homemaker, which I have watched for a long time.

7.6  Possibilities and challenges of feminist research The success of a survey depends on the cooperation of respondents. However, respondents do not simply cooperate: they also have their own intentions, strategies, and so forth. Blee (2002; 2018) identified the social position of the movement as a factor in obtaining activist cooperation in surveys. According to Blee, as racist movements in the United States are situated on the fringe of society, activists sought to use survey responses as a means of delivering their message to society. Why then did the female activists in this Japanese conservative movement agree to participate in my survey? It would seem that this was partly

Uncustomary sisterhood 117 due to Respondent Y playing the role of gatekeeper and holding certain kinds of educational motives toward me as the researcher. The members of Association A were almost thirty years older than me, and this age difference worked in my favor during implementation. In other words, the respondents, including Respondent Y, agreed to participate in the survey partly out of a desire to “teach a young person, corrupted by feminism at university, how to live a desirable life” through their “superior” life experience. Respondent Y’s educational motives to impart her values to me manifested in her choice of interviewees—they belonged to other right-wing organizations in addition to Association A, and were adherents of a variety of religious practices. Respondent Y’s decision to introduce me to followers of Buddhism, Shinto, Christianity, and new religious movements was motivated by her intention to expose me—as a researcher and young woman—to religious doctrines. The homes of these female respondents were also scattered across different areas. Some lived in Matsuyama City, where the association was based, and some lived in distant places, an hour from the city by train. Others lived in small mountain villages, or industrial areas along the coast, and one even lived at the foot of a mountain with no train or bus access. The fact that I journeyed through Ehime Prefecture while conducting the interviews also seemed to be a consequence of Respondent Y’s desire for me to “discover the local charms of Ehime.” The female members, who hardly participated in the association’s activities and knew little about the gender-equality policy, were also deliberately selected. Respondent B, introduced above, was previously an enthusiastic community volunteer; however, she had no connections to political activism. She stated that even when she attended lectures in Association A, she often had to leave early to care for her father-in-law. Her choice of joining the association seemed to reflect an extension of her volunteer work, in that she wanted to help Respondent Y, whom she had known for many years. She also stated that because Respondent Y was campaigning passionately against gender-equality policy, she had also taken this stance. Ultimately, she did not criticize the law on gender equality of feminism but rather focused on how she had lived her life for her family as a full-time homemaker, and her gratitude to her mother-in-law for firmly teaching her how to tend to the home. As I listened to Respondent B’s story, I was puzzled as to why Respondent Y had introduced this woman to me. After the interview, Respondent Y drove me to the station. In the car, we had the following conversation: Respondent Y: How was your conversation with Respondent B? Me: She did not seem to know much about the Basic Law for a GenderEqual Society, but I could tell she that cares a lot about her family. Respondent Y: That is right. I wanted you to learn about her way of life itself. You see, that way of life itself embodies the importance of the family.

118  Suzuki Although my relationship with Respondent Y was by no means the equal one sought in feminist research, it would seem that it was a kind of sisterhood. The term sisterhood here means solidarity among women, and was a slogan of Second-Wave Feminism (Tuttle, 1986). The concept of sisterhood is sometimes also introduced in feminist research with the aim of establishing an equal relationship between researcher and respondent. Bloom (1997), for example, examined changes in relationships between researchers and certain female respondents from the perspective of sisterhood. It may be problematic to apply this label to relationships with women who oppose feminism. Further, there is space for more detailed investigations into whether sisterhood can transcend differences in political ideology. Nevertheless, I believe that it (or a similar relationship) existed between Respondent Y and me, because we were both women and because her various educational motives explained above were directed toward me, a young woman who will likely marry and have children in the future. It can thus be said that her choices stemmed from a desire to “improve” my life as a woman. Indeed, there is little doubt that she also intended to “draw the young women studying gender away from gender studies.” The results of my survey were certainly impacted by this uncustomary sisterhood.

7.7 Conclusions Feminist research is useful for studying female activists in conservative movements from the perspective of gender; however, there are of course areas of study where contradictions exist. The purposes of following the feminist research methodology vary among researchers, and many studies serve more practical aims, such as using knowledge created by surveys to further women’s liberation (Acker, Barry and Esseveld, 1983) or to empower respondents and promote reformative action through surveys (RopersHuilman and Winters, 2011). At all times during the survey, I had to consider whether it is appropriate to empower people who are female but are nevertheless opposed to gender equality and feminism. At the height of the backlash in Japan, discussions focused on the question of how Japanese feminist researchers and activists should resist it. However, my experience of conducting feminist research in the conservative movement has helped me to realize the importance not only of resisting such movements, but also of considering the ways in which feminist ideology can be delivered to women, and of recognizing the sort of gender-equal society that would also allow for the inclusion of women who oppose it.

Acknowledgements I would like to express my deepest gratitude to E. Hamanishi for his constructive comments and warm encouragement.

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Notes 1. See Jo (2015) and Higuchi (2016) for the culture of old right-wing movements in Japan. 2. This refers to the territorial dispute between Japan and Russia. Although the Japanese government maintains claims to the four islands—Etrofu/Iturup, Kunashiri/Kunashir, Shikotan, and Habomai—these areas are currently under Russian administration. 3. I have anonymized this association in my articles because, due to the fact that it carries out its activities in a small local area, there is a high risk that members of the association would be identified. 4. Although in actuality Japan does maintain military forces, within Japan these are called “self-defence forces” rather than an army. 5. As discussed below, in Japan a peculiar situation exists in that although contemporary conservatism is linked to nationalism, it also supports the presence of a foreign military in Japan. 6. Textbooks for use in Japanese elementary, junior, and public senior high schools are authorized under a system where books compiled by private publishers are reviewed by the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology, and then selected by each local education board from a list of approved books. 7. In Japan, the Internet diffusion rate among individuals rose from 9.2% in 1997 to 57.8% in 2002 and 83.5% in 2016 (Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications “Information Technology Database,” http://www.soumu. go.jp/johotsusintokei/field/tsuushin01.html, accessed December 30, 2017). See Kaigo (2013) for xenophobia on the Internet in Japan. 8. Zainichi is a word for foreigners living in Japan. However, the term is mainly applied to Korean residents in Japan. See Chapman (2004) for the history and present conditions of Korean residents in Japan. 9. The term nadeshiko means fringed pink. In Japan, the flower is often used as a symbol of the chastity and modesty of the “ideal” Japanese woman. 10. Shujin is a word used by married women to refer to their husbands, or by a third party to refer to a woman’s husband; in Japanese, it is considered a polite expression. Kanai is used by married men to refer to their wives. It means “person inside the house.” 11. An ethics think-tank. 12. See Suzuki (2017) for details on the interviews conducted with respondents from Association A. 13. Respondent Y’s stance was that the women did not have to commit to participating in activities. Commenting on Association A’s 1,000-yen annual membership fee, she stated, “It’s only 1,000 yen, but I think it’s amazing that so many people continue to contribute money each year.”

References Acker, J., Barry, K. and Esseveld, J. (1983). Objectivity and Truth: Problems in Doing Feminist Research. Women’s Studies International Forum, 6 (4), pp. 423–435. Blee, M. K. (1996). Becoming a Racist: Women in Contemporary Ku Klux Klan and Neo-Nazi Groups. Gender & Society, 10(6), pp. 680–702. Blee, M. K. (2002). Inside Organized Racism: Women in the Hate Movement, Berkeley: University of California Press. Blee, M. K. (2018). Understanding Racist Activism: Theory, Methods, and Research, New York: Routledge.

120  Suzuki Bloom, R. L. (1997). Locked in Uneasy Sisterhood: Reflections on Feminist Methodology and Research Relations. Anthropology & Education Quarterly, 28(1), pp. 111–22. Bobbio, N. (1995). Destra e sinistra: Ragioni e significati di unadistinzionepolitica. Roma: Donzelli Editore. Chapman, D. (2004). The Third Way and Beyond: Zainichi Korean Identity and the Politics of Belonging. Japanese Studies, 24(1), pp. 29–44. Faludi, S. (1991). Backlash: The Undeclared War against American Women, New York: Anchor Books. Gellner, E. (1983). Nations and Nationalism, Oxford: Blackwell Publishers. Higuchi, N. (2016). Japan’s Ultra-Right, Melbourne: Trans Pacific Press. Hori, Y. (1993). Sengo no Uyoku Seiryoku (Right-Wing Forces in the Postwar Period), Tokyo: Keiso Shobo. Jo, G. (2015). The Revival of Japanese Right-Wing Thought and the Coincidental Collaboration of the Left and Right. Seoul Journal of Japanese Studies, 1(1), pp. 29–56. Kabashima, I. and Takenaka, Y. (1996). Gendai Nihonjin no ideology (Ideology of contemporary Japanese), Tokyo: Tokyo Daigakusyuppankai. Kaigo, M. (2013). Internet Aggregators Constructing the Political Right Wing in Japan. JeDEM, 5(1), pp. 59–79. Kitahara, M. and Paku, S. (2014). Okusamawa Aikoku (I married a patriot), Tokyo: Kawadeshoboushinsha. Oguma, E. and Ueno, Y. (2003). Iyashino Nationalism: Kusanone Hosyuundou no Jissyouteki Kenkyu (Healing nationalism; an empirical study of grass-roots conservative movements), Tokyo: Keio Gijuku Daigaku Syuppankai. Ropers-Huilman, R. and Winters T. K. (2011). Feminist Research in Higher Education. The Journal of Higher Education, 82(6), pp. 668–90. Schneider, C. (2008). The Japanese History Textbook Controversy in East Asian Perspective. The Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, 617, pp. 107–22. Smith, E. D. (1974). Women’s Perspective as a Radical Critique of Sociology. Sociological Inquiry, 44(1), pp. 7–13. Suzuki, A. (2017). The grass-roots conservative against gender equality: The case study of antifeminism local movement in Japan. Osaka Human Sciences, 3, pp. 117–35. Takayama, K. (2009). Globalizing critical studies of “official” knowledge: Lessons from the Japanese history textbook controversy over “comfort women.” British Journal of Sociology of Education, 30(5), pp. 577–89. Tuttle, L. (1986). Encyclopedia of Feminism, Essex: the Longman Group Ltd. Yasuda, K. (2012). Netto to aikoku: Zaitokukai no “yami” wo Oikakete (Internet and patriotism: Chasing the “darkness” of the Zaitokukai). Tokyo: Koudansha.

8

Militant far-right royalist groups on Facebook in Thailand. Methodological and ethical challenges of Internet-based research Wolfram Schaffar Naruemon Thabchumpon

8.1 Introduction Facebook in Thailand has developed into a central platform for political contestation. Since 2005, the political scene has been characterized by a rift between two camps, namely, the Yellowshirts and the Redshirts. The deepening of the divide and the dynamics of political contestation have led to a radicalization of the camps, attracting political actors to the side of the Yellowshirts, who are openly using violence, intimidating opponents, and pushing an ultra-royalist agenda. They can be described as vigilante groups, yet, considering their political agenda and the power constellation in which they operate, they are also reminiscent of the Fascist groups in Europe of the 1920s and 1930s. This paper discusses the specific political, technical, and legal background that has made Facebook in Thailand a major political battlefield. It will be argued that Yellowshirt-affiliated far-right groups are a genuine phenomenon of Facebook. The focus of this paper will be not only on the question of how to characterize the specific nature of these Facebook groups, but also on methodological and ethical issues of conducting research into this new phenomenon.

8.2  Right-wing groups on Facebook in Thailand 8.2.1  Witch hunts on Facebook in Thailand Aum Neko is a political activist addressing gender, LGBTIQ1 issues, and democracy and human rights (Political Prisoners in Thailand, 2013). While a student at Thammasat University, she took part in several provocative campaigns, among them anti-school uniforms, and for democratic rights such as freedom of expression and freedom from censorship (Fah, 2013). In her campaigns, she uses protest forms like those of Femen, a group of activists who became famous for their provocative campaigns for women’s rights and gender issues (Femen, 2017). After the coup d’état in 2014, many

122  Schaffar and Thabchumpon activists close to the Redshirt movement and openly opposed to the military takeover, were summoned to report at tribunals for what the junta called “attitude adjustment.” Those who did not appear were prosecuted. Aum fled to France, along with many other pro-democracy activists. When King Bhumibol died on 13 October 2016, Aum Neko posted several videos on her Facebook account and commented on the king’s death in language deemed insulting by Thai standards. In the tense atmosphere in the days following the king’s death, she became the target of severe verbal attacks and the outrage of several people who demanded her extradition to Thailand. Other voices went further and proposed the hiring of contract killers to assassinate her. A central arena for this witch hunt was Facebook; it involved not only Aum’s account, which was flooded with comments, but also a royalist right-wing Facebook group called the Rubbish Collector Organization (RCO), run by doctor of medicine and political activist Rienthong Nanna, where a campaign against Aum was coordinated. This group was founded in 2013 with the aim, it stated, “of cleaning Thailand of social rubbish,” meaning Redshirt individuals who are not loyal to the monarchy (Yongcharoenchai, 2014). Membership of this group reached its first climax in the summer of 2015 with 250,000 followers (Schaffar, 2016). Its core activities were campaigns to search for postings on the Internet that would fall under the Thai definition of lèse-majesté, and to reveal the identity of the people allegedly behind such postings. The official purpose was to report alleged cases of lèse-majesté to the authorities, whereby a person found guilty could be sentenced to up to 15 years in prison per instance. However, the group also served as a forum for organizing direct action against those accused. This was the case with Aum Neko, which was taken up by Rienthong Nanna himself and his followers as an “emergency case” (Postings of Rienthong Nanna, 14 and 15 October, 2014). Her address in Paris was published and people were encouraged to go there to “deal with her.” Aum left Paris for a couple of days, hoping that the witch hunt would fade away. However, when she was spotted in a restaurant in Paris having lunch, her picture and the address of the restaurant were uploaded to the RCO group, and she barely escaped a mob gathering at the restaurant to attack her (Prachatai, 2016; Smith, 2016). This incident is just one example of many which illustrate the activities of witch-hunting groups on Facebook. The groups behind such campaigns operate not only from within Thailand, but also abroad. The RCO is a central actor in Thailand today and owes its prominence to the public relations activities of its leader, Rienthong Nanna (Yongcharoenchai, 2014; Samabuddhi and Jikkham, 2014; Nanuam, 2014). Apart from this, there are minor groups, more or less institutionalized, run by monarchist activists in Thailand and abroad who sometimes collaborate directly, sometimes only loosely, with Rienthong and his project. In this dense network, people exchange information, discuss strategies, and coordinate campaigns.

Far-right Thai Facebook groups 123 For a Thai living in Thailand or abroad, Facebook has become the main means of communication (Zephoria Digital Marketing, 2016). However, through groups such as RCO and its affiliates, Facebook is also a realm of tight surveillance and fear (Schaffar, 2016; Pinkaew, 2016; Pirongrong, 2016). After the death of King Bhumibol, videos of mobs attacking people wearing color instead of black—in other words whose behavior was interpreted as inappropriate—were shared on social media. 8.2.2  Facebook-based right-wing groups Where did these groups come from, and how did they emerge? The background is the polarization between these two aforementioned political camps, which has been deepening for the past 10–15 years. The Redshirts are originally supporters of Thaksin Shinawatra, who was elected in 2000/2001 and managed to bring back double-digit economic growth rates to Thailand after the Asia Crisis of 1997/1998 (Pasuk and Baker, 2008; 2009; Pye and Schaffar, 2008). His program is often described as a dual-track economic policy: on one side, privatizations, neo-liberal restructuring and the embracing of globalized economic strategies; on the other, social rifts, caused by the restructuring policies, cushioned by comprehensive social protection programs such as the universal coverage healthcare program. Moreover, investment in infrastructure, especially in the poor provinces in the north and northeast, meant a qualitative change in Thai politics. This Keynesian program not only brought about growth but also—despite Thaksin’s rather authoritarian record—earned him the sustained support of the population in the north and northeast. After he was re-elected in 2005, however, royalist-conservative elites in Bangkok feared his growing power and started campaigning against him, together with the urban upper-middle class, NGOs, and other groups (Pye and Schaffar, 2008). This movement was later called the Yellowshirts—after their “corporate design” of wearing yellow as a sign of loyalty to the king. Their main criticism of Thaksin was that he and his network used populist policies and vote-buying to win the support of the poor (Pasuk and Baker, 2008). The split deepened considerably with the 2006 coup d’état, when Thaksin was deposed and a military government took over with the declared aim of breaking popular support for Thaksin. This coup, through which the royalist conservative camp took power by violent and unconstitutional means, became a pattern of politics in the years to come and formed the ideological and strategic identity of the two blocks (Pavin, 2014). In all elections since 2001, the block of Thaksin and the parties affiliated with him have been able to rely on a clear electoral majority, especially among the poor and lower-middle class population in the north and the northeast (Naruemon and McCargo, 2011). Whenever a Redshirt party was elected to power, however, the Yellowshirt block—consisting of Bangkok upper-middle class and royalist elites—mobilized demonstrations in Bangkok, using their exclusive

124  Schaffar and Thabchumpon access to the judiciary and military to oust the Redshirt-supported government and install a royal-conservative administration. In concrete terms, the elections of 2001, 2007, and 2011 were won by the Redshirt parties. In 2006 and 2014, the Yellowshirt camp took power through a coup d’état; twice the ruling Redshirt party was dissolved by a verdict from the constitutional court, and several times a Redshirt-supported Prime Minister was disqualified and removed from office by a court ruling. This led to a situation of deepening polarization: on one side, the Redshirt block, with the poor and lower-middle class and farmers in the north and the northeast, in the numerical majority; on the other, the Yellowshirt block, with royal-conservative elites and upper-middle-class in Bangkok (numerically not the majority) who could defend their dominant position through exclusive access to the judiciary and military. This polarization led to a stalemate where no block could become hegemonic. Though the actors in Thailand seem to be unique, the reality of an increasing political polarization fits the global picture. In Turkey, the deep divide between secularists and AKP-conservatives; in Egypt, between the secular military and the Muslim brotherhood; and the polarization of society in the US and in France, are the most iconic examples of a worldwide trend. This polarization between two antagonistic camps was also typical of the situation in Europe in the 1920s and 1930s, the advent of fascist regimes (Saage, 2007; Bosworth, 2009). 8.2.3  Legal background and political practice of Internet censorship in Thailand It is against this background that vigilante groups have emerged on Facebook in recent years. It was after the first coup d’état in 2006 that the military government employed wide censorship measures (Thai Netizen Network 2012; 2014). Posting comments to newspapers’ blogs, as well as phone-in radio shows and TV programs, was very popular in Thailand and evolved as a major forum for political debate up until 2006. The Computer Crime Act—actually drafted by the Thaksin administration—was implemented and used to suppress any political organizing against the military. Central to this act is the provision that the owner of a blog or web page with a comment function is liable for the content. This puts enormous pressure on web journals and all the media houses and newspapers that run web pages with popular open comment functions. Instrumental to the suppression of political debates is Article 112 in the Criminal Code on lèse-majesté, which penalizes alleged disrespectful behavior towards the monarchy with up to 15 years in prison. Since the start of political polarization, charges of lèse-majesté have been increasingly used as a weapon against political enemies. The number of lèse-majesté charges skyrocketed from a couple in the years preceding 2006, to more than 500 in 2006 and 2007. This political abuse and instrumentalization have been

Far-right Thai Facebook groups 125 possible because it is not known what exactly falls under lèse-majesté: Article 112 does not give any clear definition; court trials are held behind closed doors; and any reporting about controversial utterances or pictures may itself count as lèse-majesté. What is evident from recent court rulings, however, is the fact that the scope of Article 112 was considerably broadened to cover not only the king and the heir to the throne, but also the entire royal family, the king’s pet dogs, former kings, and even kings of different ancient dynasties (Streckfuss, 2011). Since the 2014 coup d’état, and especially since the new king ascended the throne in December 2016, Article 112 has been used even more excessively against political opponents who speak out against the military. In May 2017, Prawet Prapanukul, a human rights lawyer, was arrested and faces up to 150 years in prison for sharing, 10 times, an allegedly disrespectful Internet link (Lefevre, 2017). The increasing use of lèse-majesté allegations against political opponents has not only led to an atmosphere of fear, but also has shifted lèse-majesté into the center of the political struggle over freedom of expression. After the detention of prominent people like the director of a popular blog, Prachatai, most blogs fell silent, and newspapers either closed down their comment functions altogether or severely censored them. In this situation, YouTube and Facebook evolved into forums for political debate, as the providers and servers outside the country could be used to upload and share political messages. These channels also served as a battleground over freedom of expression and lèse-majesté, and were used to publish openly insulting comments about the monarchy. Legal standards of freedom of speech drew on the laws of the United States, where it ranks high and is limited only by concepts of hate speech or related issues. When it became increasingly clear that censorship—even with the cooperation of companies like YouTube, etc.—was almost impossible, the Thai administration changed its strategy and set up vigilante groups to help the Ministry of Interior scan information flows on the Internet. The cyber scout program, initiated by Prime Minister Abhisit in 2010, was aimed at teenage schoolchildren. The major component was training in Internet technologies and strategies on how to detect defamatory content, with the Royal Thai National Police offering 500 Baht ($15) to anyone providing information on pictures of anti-coup or other postings that result in an arrest (Saksith, 2010; Rook, 2011, Wong et. al., 2017; Freedomhouse, 2017). This program is clearly modelled on Chinese Internet vigilantism programs (Chang, Zhong, and Grabosky, 2016: 3–4). After Yingluck Shinawatra was elected in 2011, resting on the support of the Redshirts, the program was reduced, but after the 2014 coup it was re-introduced by the Ministry of ICT in cooperation with 200 schools. By 2015, there were over 120,000 cyber scouts, spanning 88 schools (Saksith, 2014; Wong et. al., 2017; Freedomhouse, 2017). Today’s cyber scouts, however, do not seem to get any money; instead, they earn points for successfully incriminating neighbors in the hope of being featured on the cyber scouts website (Gilbert, 2016).

126  Schaffar and Thabchumpon From 2011 on, other groups went online and started doing the work of the cyber scouts themselves. The first groups were run anonymously and bore names such as Witch Hunt or Social Sanction (Thai Netizens Network, 2012; 2014). The abbreviation used by the group was “SS,” and it was not chosen by accident. It points to the fascist character of the groups, which will be discussed in Section 2. 8.2.4  The emergence of privately organized censors on Facebook In 2013, the RCO was founded and soon became the central organizer of campaigns (Pinkaew, 2016; Pirongrong, 2016; Schaffar, 2016). The background was the mobilization of the Yellowshirt camp against the Redshirtsupported government of Yingluck Shinawatra. During this mobilization, the RCO was founded by Rienthong Nanna and soon became the dominant group active in the complex censorship architecture of Thailand (Freedomhouse, 2017). The activities of Rienthong actually fused two different strands: he brought together state-sponsored vigilante groups (cyber scouts) with the idea of private initiatives such as the SS group. However, he expanded these initiatives and made the RCO a prominent and public player. While the cyber scouts and the SS group organized and operated their groups anonymously, Rienthong invited journalists to the opening ceremony of the RCO, gave interviews to mainstream media and newspapers, and presented himself and his entire personality as part of the project (Yongcharoenchai, 2014; Samabuddhi and Jikkham, 2014). With this strategy, he managed to gain the open support of many well-known and influential people from the urban-middle class and royalist elites in Bangkok, including professors of the large and traditional universities, celebrities of the pop culture industry, businesspeople, and politicians. At its height, the RCO had more than 250,000 followers on Facebook. The activities of the RCO slowed down in late 2015, when Rienthong formally stepped down as chairman, and his personal Facebook account was deleted on the orders of the Ministry of Interior.2 The RCO maintained a low profile with its activities throughout 2016 until the death of King Bhumipol in October of that year. In the days and weeks following, a number of activities unfolded in a network of different groups, with Rienthong, again, serving as one of the central organizers. The witch hunt targeting Aum Neko described above was one of several campaigns coordinated by Rienthong in those days when Thais, both in Thailand and abroad, were bullied, intimidated, and attacked. What is remarkable is the level of violence unleashed on the victims, as well as the oftentimes informal nature of the mob performing the witch hunts, later broadcasting and publishing detailed footage of the campaigns on Facebook. In the case of Aum, what is also remarkable is the transnational character of the network, which brought together key figures in France and Thailand in close coordination.

Far-right Thai Facebook groups 127

8.3  The nature of right-wing/vigilante groups in Thailand What is the nature of these groups, and how can they be analyzed? This question has to be approached from different perspectives. First, we will briefly discuss the political character of the groups. We will then address their organizational structure and argue that they constitute a genuine Facebook phenomenon. Lastly, we will discuss the transnational character of the groups. 8.3.1  Vigilante or fascist groups? According to their self-perception, as well as drawing on their origin, the groups discussed here may be described most straightforwardly as vigilante groups. Vigilantism has a broad array of meanings, the most common being a situation in which citizens take the law into their own hands. Abrahams (1998, p. 7) identifies, as typical backgrounds to the emergence of vigilantism, situations and spaces such as “frontier zones, where the state is viewed as ineffective or corrupt, and is frequently short-lived.” The Internet can be described to some extent as such a frontier zone, where—in the case of Thailand—the state and its regulatory and policing capacity have proven to be too weak or, in the perception of the groups, not willing to contain the spread of content that insults the monarchy. Vigilantism on the Internet has been discussed by Juliano (2012) and Trottier (2017), albeit from a very different perspective than the examples presented here. In Western countries, some Internet-based vigilante groups have their roots in progressive hacker communities who, by means of sometimes semi-legal activities, act as watchdogs against state surveillance, or— reversely—act as whistle-blowers, calling for state intervention in cases of corporate abuse of data, etc. As such, they often appear in a positive light, as part of a progressive social movement. Such groups do exist in Thailand, too. The Thai Netizen Network, whose studies have been cited throughout this text, is one prominent example. The RCO constitutes a different example of an Internet-based vigilante group, the major difference being its ambiguous relationship to the state. Clearly, the Thai groups have a self-perception of vigilantism in the progressive sense and draw their legitimacy from this. Having their roots in the cyber scout program (initiated by the state to counter the growing number of cases of defamatory postings on the Internet) and keeping pace with the changing modes of communication in social media, the Thai “netilantism” might resemble groups in Europe or the US helping the state to chase criminal activities such as child pornography, the trade of illegal items, etc. Rienthong, too, pointed in his interviews to the fact that the state is neither willing to nor capable of prosecuting the ever-growing cases of lèse-majesté, thereby giving his activities an additional political facet. Candy (2012), in his conceptual sketch of vigilantism, discusses further criteria or dimensions of vigilantism and isolates four points: (1) youth

128  Schaffar and Thabchumpon as investigators; (2) appeals to moral dichotomies; (3) miming of legal discourses; and (4) violence as community maintenance. Strikingly, all characteristics are borne out in the case of the RCO. However, the last criterion—the use of violence as community maintenance—points to another, more complex political dimension of the phenomenon. Despite the parallels with vigilante groups, and despite this self-perception, we will propose analyzing groups like the RCO as fascist groups. This interpretation is not in contradiction to the analyses above but adds a crucial political dimension, which is the foundation for our discussion of the methodological issues and ethics of research. It is difficult to use the term “fascism” as an analytic concept. The notion is strongly associated with a specific period in European history between the 1920s and 1940s, when ultra-nationalistic parties in Italy took over the government and transformed the entire society (Bosworth, 2009). “Fascism” derives from a term for Italian vigilante groups—Fasci Italiani di Combattimento (FIC)—that were supported by the capitalists in northern Italy, with the aim of fighting the increasing influence of organized labor and communist groups in factories and among rural laborers. Under Mussolini’s leadership, these vigilante groups grew strong enough to abolish the parliamentarian system and establish an authoritarian regime based on violence. In Italy and most other European countries, vigilante groups were instrumental to the rise of fascism. In Austria, for example, there was the Heimwehr, diverse groups and remnants of the imperial army in rural areas, supported by clerical-conservative elites and acting to counter the successful organization of social democrats, communists, and organized labor (Tálos, 2013). The RCO, with its supporters from the upper-middle class and from royalist elites, neatly fits into this pattern. 8.3.2  The Rubbish Collector Organization as a genuine phenomenon of Facebook The Thai far-right groups which are active on Facebook have to be distinguished from other far-right movements and organizations. What gives them a unique quality is the fact that they are not groups that simply make use of Facebook, but rather groups that emerged on Facebook and owe their very existence to the interplay of the specific political polarization in Thailand, genuine Thai legal provisions, and certain technical specifications of Facebook itself. The difference from other right-wing/neo-fascist groups can be seen in research conducted into how groups in Europe and the US are using the Internet (Tateo, 2005; Caiani and Parenti, 2013; Froio and Castelli Gattinara, 2015; Caiani and Kröll, 2015). These studies analyze existing right-wing groups, which have a consolidated organizational structure, and which have been active in various campaigns and modes of mobilization.

Far-right Thai Facebook groups 129 More often than not, these groups have been exposed to censorship and the surveillance measures of the local or national authorities—on the basis of national legal restrictions on the public use of fascist political symbols or on the use of racist or sexist expressions or other forms of hate speech. The focus of such studies was on how right-wing groups are making use of the opportunities offered by Internet-based communication, circumventing national legislation banning fascist activities and using the Internet for in-group organization as well as outreach. The increased accessibility of the Internet has significantly impacted the possibilities of such groups: it is far easier to recruit new members, increase networking and—through the use of offshore servers—publish documents and propaganda material which previously would have been subject to national legislation (Tateo, 2005; Caiani and Parenti, 2013; Froio and Castelli Gattinara, 2015; Caiani and Kröll, 2015). Whereas the possibilities of the Internet are perceived as positive opportunities when used by democratic social movements in authoritarian contexts (van Laer and van Aelst, 2010; Etling, Faris, and Palfrey, 2010), the same features appear dangerous when it comes to right-wing and fascist mobilization. The groups discussed in this chapter, however, constitute yet another case. Existing groups have not shifted their activities to the Internet but have come into existence on the Internet. As sketched out above, they exist on Facebook, through Facebook, and unfold their activities mainly on Facebook, with occasional spill-overs to the offline world, as in the case of bullying or physical attacks. The groups do not exist independently of this platform. In the case of the Thai groups, it was a specific conjuncture which brought about these Facebook-based groups: 1) Censorship, with the legal basis of the Computer Crime Act, has made the Internet a central arena of contestation over freedom of speech. 2) Lèse-majesté—as the crucial criminal offense prosecuted in connection with the Computer Crime Act—has drawn the monarchy into the center of Internet-based contestation over freedom of speech. Despite the highly politicized character of Facebook in Thailand today and the abundance of potentially controversial issues under the military dictatorship, no other issue comes close to drawing the attention of the public and the authorities. 3) The limited capacity of the Thai authorities to censor Facebook, and the failure of the government to have lèse-majesté recognized internationally as an offense or threat to Thai national security has established Facebook as an arena of relatively free speech. 4) A program of outsourcing censorship through the cyber scout program, based on the Chinese censorship programs, has unleashed a specific dynamic and led to the establishment of self-organized censoring groups such as the RCO. Despite the highly local character of the factors which have led to the emergence of the Thai groups, we can observe similar groups in other parts of Southeast Asia. In the Philippines, the election of Rodrigo Duterte in June 2016 was accompanied by highly aggressive activities of Facebook-based

130  Schaffar and Thabchumpon groups such as the “Duterte Cyber Warriors,” or groups calling themselves “Duterte Defence Squad” which, when abbreviated, relates to the infamous “Davao Death Squads,” DDS (Simpeng, 2016). It remains to be seen to what extent Facebook serves as a new battleground for right-wing mobilization and intimidation, independent of the specific legal, social, and political provisions in a country. 8.3.3  The transnational character of the groups and their campaigns Another distinctive feature of the Thai vigilante groups is their transnational character. Earlier studies, such as the ones on Italian neo-fascist groups, have analyzed the networking of existing groups beyond national borders. What Caiani and Kröll (2015), and Caiani and Parenti (2013) call trans-nationalization, however, is more a process of international networking: right-wing groups from different countries get in contact via the Internet, publish hyper-links to like-minded groups abroad, and become Facebook friends with other groups. Despite the often informal and local character of such networking activities, it is similar to the creation of an international network between different national chapters of like-minded parties (Maan et al., 2017). Thai Facebook-based right-wing groups, however, are transnational in a different sense—much closer to the original definition of transnationalism. The concept was coined by migration studies and captures the notion that migrant workers, at home in more than one country, constitute with their activities and social contacts a space which transgresses national boundaries (Bauböck and Faist, 2010). Especially relevant to this discussion are studies on the political dynamism in these transnational spaces, such as studies on so-called political remittances (Rother, 2009). Seen through this lens, the Facebook-based groups constitute cases of transnational social spaces. The groups bring together individuals inside Thailand and Thais living abroad on the common basis of loyalty to the monarchy. The groups form a loose network of differently integrated relationships. National boundaries do not play much of a role for organization; however, they do play a role for the perceived tasks to be fulfilled. The domestic Thai concept of national security which sees defamation of the monarchy as a security threat is transmitted across the national boundaries by individuals who act on this normative basis and enact this norm outside Thailand. The Thai diaspora perceives the nation state of their host countries as incapable of understanding and pursuing lèse-majesté offences. This is why, in the sense of vigilante groups, they have to take it into their own hands. What is important to note is that the transnational space is highly ethicized and gendered. When it comes to mobilizing against individuals outside Thailand on the ground of lèse-majesté, it is exclusively ethnic Thais who are targeted, and the victims are mostly women. Foreigners, who might

Far-right Thai Facebook groups 131 have uttered equally insulting comments about the monarchy, are rarely singled out as a target. This can be explained by the ethicized moral concept of Thainess. Loyalty to the monarchy is seen as a crucial component of the ethnic identity of being Thai. Ethnic Thais, irrespective of where they live and their actual nationality, are expected to obey this rule. Consequently, if a Thai is living abroad in France or the UK, when it comes to the monarchy, what matters is not the existing law of the host country but the holistic moral view that being Thai must entail loyalty to the monarchy. Very much in line with Candy’s definition of vigilante groups (Candy, 2012), violence is used as a tool to maintain group cohesion.

8.4  Specific methodological challenges The specific character of the Thai vigilante groups—being Facebook-based, the ambivalent character of vigilante or fascist groups, their transnational character—needs a tailored methodology. The research underlying this chapter has been conducted by using an account and joining the Facebook groups. Facebook distinguishes between open and closed groups—the information of an open group can easily be viewed by just clicking on the profile. Discussions are displayed on the timeline. Data was collected by taking screenshots which comprised the posting, plus the comments on the right-hand side of each item. Here, a complex cascade of comments and re-commenting was accessible. The bulk of information was drawn from these screenshots. Where possible, individual users were addressed and asked for a quick interview, also through the messenger function of Facebook, which gives direct access to every profile that posted or shared content. This approach immediately raises questions of how we can conceptualize a Facebook posting or a conversation in the comment space of a posting (Paechter, 2012). Moreover, it has to be discussed as to what ethical consequences we have to take into account. Most central is the question of how we deal with standard requirements of informed prior consent, anonymization, and legal issues of intellectual and other property rights (cf. Tscherwinka, 2014). The transnational character of Facebook groups further raises the question of what legal standards have to be applied in cases where legal standards differ between countries. 8.4.1  Prior informed consent Welker and Kloß (2014, p. 45) argue that a coherent comprehensive research ethic cannot be formulated because of the dynamic development and the heterogeneity of social media. We agree with von Unger et al. (2014) that this applies also to every other field of social science research beyond social media. Von Unger et al. argue that “the responsibility of the researcher vis-à-vis the online user can serve as [a] key category for research ethics.”

132  Schaffar and Thabchumpon According to a model proposed by Funiok (2000, p. 2), the researcher is identified as an actor who bears responsibility vis-à-vis the user as the affected party. The process of data collection and its analysis is an act which has to be questioned according to ethical provisions—among other considerations, with respect to the consequences for the user, in the event the results are published. The institutions or authorities to which researchers have to justify their decisions are their conscience, but so, too, is the public in the form of the scientific community, the recipient of the research results. Generally speaking, there is a consensus—albeit no binding norm— concerning the fundamental ethical requirement that people who become the object of research have to agree to the project in question. In the German-speaking area, this consensus is defined by guidelines published by the Codex of Honor 1 of the German Society of Sociology (DGS). Here, the principle of prior informed consent is defined: it must be guaranteed that participation in research projects is voluntary and on the basis of as much information about the objectives and methods as possible (BDS&DGS, 2014, p. 2). However, the applicability of such norms is not clear. It says, “the principle of prior informed consent cannot always be put into practice—for example, if comprehensive information about the project would flaw the results of the research in a way which cannot be justified. In such cases, different forms of informed consent have to be chosen.” Moreover, it stresses that the interviewees must not be exposed to any danger. Persons who are included in the research as objects of observation or interview partners or in another way—in connection with the analysis of personal data—must not be exposed to any danger or disadvantage through the research. The partners must be informed of any risks which surpass the usual risks of daily encounters. The anonymity of all partners must be guaranteed. Clearly, taking screenshots of conversations between members of a Facebook group without seeking prior informed consent breaches this concept. We could only justify our research activities on the basis of the consideration that prior consent would flaw the results. However, there are debates about the question as to whether the prior informed consent principle applies here. 8.4.2  Right-wing groups as exceptions The notion of “informed prior consent” and other principles of research ethics are questioned whenever groups (e.g., from the right wing) are being researched that are in a dominant position to groups perceived as vulnerable. Here we find different positions: some argue for a prioritization of the interests of vulnerable groups over those of the interests of other groups, and justify undercover research (von Unger, 2014, p. 27). Others argue that, in such cases, the research must be restricted to an analysis of documents

Far-right Thai Facebook groups 133 and expert interviews in order to prevent a distinction being made between groups “worthy of protection” and those “unworthy of protection” (Hopf, 1991). The question of informed consent is relevant especially in cases where publication of the researchers’ conclusions might result in disadvantages for those who were interviewed. In the current debate, there are also voices advocating that, when dealing with right-wing groups, all information should be communicated openly, not least in order to guarantee the researcher’s security and safety.3 However, at the base of these issues is nothing less than the general question of what critical social science should and may do. 8.4.3  To what extent is Facebook public? As far as Facebook is concerned, it is still unclear to what extent the published data are public or private. The EU initiative “for more security in the Internet” (klicksafe.de) conceptualizes Facebook, as well as all the data displayed there, as public. “Court decisions concerning the question of if and to what degree privacy in social networks is acknowledged, are still pending” (as of October 2015). Facebook itself offers a specific distinction between public and private. In the setting of a group, a group can be defined as either private or public. The RCO is defined as a public group, and we viewed the conversations of the group and collected the data exclusively in this open mode. Facebook profiles can also be specified as either public or private, with a specific audience defined by the owner of the profile. We used such specifications to construct and assess the research situation accordingly: if a party or political organization holds a demonstration in a public place, taking notes, taking pictures, and recording would be permitted under social science research ethics. The activities on a public Facebook page can be conceptualized accordingly. If a party or a political group, however, holds a meeting in a (private) meeting room for only invited members, sneaking into this meeting and recording it would not be allowed, or would qualify as undercover research, and would have to be judged to be unethical. Any activity in a private group, or any posting in a private mode on Facebook would count as such, and screenshots in such groups would have to be judged accordingly. However, this parallel finds its limits: in a Facebook conversation in an open group, every participant can be identified through their respective Facebook profile. In an offline situation, this would mean that we record a public meeting plus all the biometric data of the participants. Clearly, this would be problematic. Even if research into the group’s activities can be justified, anonymization will play a crucial role. 8.4.4  Anonymization According to the fundamental principles of social science research ethics, results have to be anonymized when they are published. There are, however, exceptions: for example, when the publication of names and organizations

134  Schaffar and Thabchumpon serves the empowerment of marginalized groups; or when anonymization does not grant anonymity, because the groups are too well known (von Unger, 2014, p. 24). Another exception is given in a study by Siri et al. (2012) on “Parties and political communication on Facebook,” which analyzes the Facebook profiles of politicians. Here, the authors argue that the open profile of a politician corresponds to a pamphlet or an information folder delivered by election campaigners on the street. In the same vein, the Facebook site of Rienthong, the founder of the RCO, was treated as public in our study. He has specified his site as public, and he appears as a public figure, very much in the manner of a politician. However, his followers and those who post comments were anonymized when the data were published. Nevertheless, we have used the Facebook identity of the commentators to trace back their profiles and to draw personal data from there—without asking for consent. 8.4.5  Legal issues Apart from the question of whether prior informed consent has to be sought when taking a screenshot of a Facebook group, the question of who owns the data on Facebook raises legal questions about intellectual property rights. Facebook, in its terms and conditions of use, makes clear that the entire content of a profile is owned by the user him/herself. However, the user also agrees to far-reaching exploitation rights for Facebook itself. You own all of the content and information you post on Facebook, and you can control how it is shared through your privacy and application settings. In addition: 1) For content that is covered by intellectual property rights, like photos and videos (IP content), you specifically give us the following permission, subject to your privacy and application settings: you grant us a non-exclusive, transferable, sub-licensable, royalty-free, worldwide license to use any IP content that you post on or in connection with Facebook (IP License). This IP License ends when you delete your IP content or your account unless your content has been shared with others, and they have not deleted it. Facebook, terms of service, https://www.facebook.com/terms.php In principle, a researcher citing such data for an analysis can be reported by the owner. Facebook provides for an online reporting site to claim copyright infringements. However, this view, as mentioned before, is contested. Many initiatives assume that the data are public (klicksafe.de), and fundamental rulings in how far content can be viewed as private are pending. This situation is further complicated by a clause through which Facebook itself

Far-right Thai Facebook groups 135 claims intellectual property rights. Theoretically, Facebook could allow or forbid third parties to use the content. In Berlin, the District Court and the Superior Court of Justice have already ruled this clause to be illegal; however, a final decision is still pending. What is even more difficult is the question of who owns postings and comments which have been deleted. This often happens precisely in social media contexts where comments, especially hateful and violent comments, are deleted after a while. Sometimes, it is exactly such comments that reveal a certain effect of intimidation which the researchers will want to detect and document. According to most understandings of the principles of “prior informed consent,” interviewees have the right to withdraw their approval to use interview data any time during and after the interview, as long as this is possible. If we interpret a Facebook conversation as an interview, deleted data should not be used. But if we interpret a Facebook conversation as a statement in public, an ex-post deletion will not affect the research process. However, even in the latter interpretation, using such data conflicts with the “right to be forgotten,” as discussed in the European Union (Mantelero, 2013). Finally, the transnational character of Facebook-based groups makes it difficult to assess the legal status of a posting. A picture of the Thai monarch might be considered a criminal offense under the strict lèse-majesté law, whereas it is not libel under any other national law. Publicly calling for violence against a person might be judged differently depending on the country.

8.5  Preliminary results and issues for future research In this article, we have discussed figures who have emerged on Facebook and are playing a crucial political role in present-day Thailand’s unfolding authoritarian regime. We have discussed groups like the RCO and others affiliated with it, forming a transnational network of groups that conduct witch hunts against fellow citizens who are regarded as disrespectful to the monarchy. We have characterized such groups as a contemporary form of fascism, which is based on Facebook as a medium of communication. The character of being entirely Facebook-based, and the transnational character of the groups and their activities, however, poses serious methodological and ethical questions. In this chapter, we have discussed some of the challenges resulting from the social organization and political orientation of the groups, as well as from research ethics and legal considerations. We have done so while treating Facebook as a purely technical device that is used by political figures and leads to the construction/establishment of a transnational space. However, recently Facebook has increasingly been emerging as a key player in its own right: the company is put under pressure by Thai and other authorities, negotiates with different state authorities, and selectively

136  Schaffar and Thabchumpon adjusts to the pressure (TechCrunch, 2017). It thus plays a more and more active and political role of its own, shaping and distorting the construction of the transnational space. Much more research will have to be done, ideally simultaneously at the level of the social phenomenon and at the methodological level. This will further our understanding and empower us to engage in political contestation in these times of rising authoritarianism.

Notes

1. The acronym LGBTIQ stands for Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans, Intersex, Queer. 2. The question as to why the Ministry of Interior closed Rienthong’s account is the subject of much speculation and rumor. While his activities were instrumental in paving the way for the military coup d’état in May 2014, the exact relationship between him—a retired general—and the new military administration in power, remains unknown. In an interview in April 2014, he publicly claimed to have direct connections to the army (Nanuam, 2014); later statements from the military, however, denied such connections. 3. Cf. debates at the International / Interdisciplinary Symposium “Methods and Methodology in Researching the Far Right” at the University of Applied Sciences Dusseldorf, Germany, March 2011.

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Conclusions. Doing research on far-right movements Emanuele Toscano

1.  Close-up research In selecting and putting together the contributions that make up this edited book, I tried to structure the volume in order to give the reader dual usage: on one hand, each chapter provides the presentation of a case study that focuses on a specific national context, allowing those interested to focus their attention only on the specific national fieldwork of his/her interest. Each chapter, in a different and original way, also presents a qualitative research fieldwork that highlights peculiar aspects of organizations, movements and political formations that can be traced back to the label of far right: the xenophobic White Power Movement in the United States; the English Defence League in England; the Front National in France; the CasaPound movement in Italy; the nationalists present during the revolts at Gezi Park in Turkey; associations in defense of traditionalist values in Japan; and the vigilantes of the Rubbish Collection Organization operating on social networks in Thailand. On the other hand, I imagined a more transversal use of the text, for those wishing to explore some recurring aspects that are independent of the national context. In fact, all of these contributions highlight several relevant aspects, some of which are still not greatly detailed in the literature, on far-right movements and organizations researched from a social movement studies perspective. To begin with, the research experiences gathered in this volume highlight the profound differences within the far-right universe, composed by subculture, social movement and extreme right-wing party (Merkl, 2005), as shown by the different cases presented. In addition, as highlighted elsewhere (Blee, 2007a), research such as those proposed here, carried out with close-up approaches and methodological techniques, allow us to clearly bring to the forefront the complexity of the far right on different levels: organizational, cultural, political. Close-up fieldwork research affords us the opportunity to go beyond the interesting and important considerations provided by the literature produced by studies based on “externalist” approaches (Carter, 2005; Eatwell, 2005; Goodwin, 2006). Wherein these are based in arguments

Research on far-right movements 141 that concentrate on socioeconomic factors and developments—immigration, unemployment, social change (demand-side factors), or that refer more to the messages that reach voters—programs, leadership, media (supply-side factors): close-up research instead focuses more on aspects related to the cultural, relational and emotional dimension. In fact, these studies expand on the subjective peculiarities of the activists, the way in which participation is structured, highlighting the meanings given to collective action by the social actors who take part in the initiatives of these movements, organizations and parties. At the same time, these studies that necessarily rely on direct, and often repetitious, contact with their research object raise unavoidable questions related to the ethical dimension of close-up research, the relationship between the researcher and object of study, the negotiation of access to the field, and the positioning of the researcher within the latter. These issues have always had a place in the methodological debate that accompanies qualitative and ethnographic studies, but that pave the way to unprecedented depths of reflection and understanding (Esseveld & Eyerman, 1992) when applied to the study of the far right. All of the qualitative methods and techniques of close-up research—interviews, ethnographic and participant observations, collection of life stories, etc.—are, in fact, made more complex when we are immersed in contact with distasteful movements. In the recent history of sociology, especially in the United States (which has dealt with fringe social worlds considered to be deviant), the question of “which side are you on” has stirred up a complex and comprehensive debate over time (Becker, 1967; Hammersley, 2005, for example). The study of farright movements and organizations raises complex ethical and methodological questions, mainly related to the positioning of the researcher with respect to his research object. In fact, if the researcher empathizes with the research object (which is frequently the case among the scholars who deal with progressive social movements) and the most complex methodological node is to add “distance” between oneself and one’s object of study in order to make the proposed analysis as objective as possible through qualitative and ethnographic techniques, one of the key issues that the study of the far right involves is reversed, that is, to shorten this distance (Esseveld & Eyerman, 1992).This is because the study of social movements has largely always focused on those where political perspectives and social and cultural orientations are in harmony with those of researchers (Blee, 2007b). There are many reasons for this: first of all, the substantial disparity in terms of greater impact and social and cultural significance of progressive social movements when compared to those of the far right, which leads the academic community to take more interest in the former. Furthermore, creating “distance” between the researcher and object of study is, in nearly all cases, a laborious operation (though complex and sometimes painful) involving the researcher alone; contrarily, shortening the “distance” necessarily involves a proactive role of the social actor (individual or collective)

142  Toscano being studied, who must accept being approached by the researcher, thereby making the question much more complex, while creating new lines of thought with respect to the social, cultural and emotional dimensions of the relationship between researcher and his/her own fieldwork.

2.  Reflexivity, fieldwork and researchers’ concerns The contributions presented in this edited book have the objective of demonstrating how to shorten this distance, which, though difficult, is possible. It is in this way that the possibility exists to conduct close-up research on farright movements and organizations, with the conditions of constantly questioning their role as researchers, the possible risks and potential of this kind of fieldwork research, as well as the inevitable reflection on the relationship with the object of study, and the embodiment of the researcher inside his/ her fieldwork. There are four main recurring elements, shown in various ways, in every contribution: 1) the inevitable coexistence of good and evil within the research fieldwork; 2) the affective experience of the researcher involved in the fieldwork; 3) the concerns of possibly being contaminated through the research development; and 4) the ethical implications related to the research. Michel Wieviorka presents these elements in his chapter, questioning how good and evil are never realistically present as something “pure,” but rather coexisting, making it difficult to isolate one from the other in order to highlight their respective peculiarities, consequently making the work highly complex for those who venture into the study of evil. The same question— the coexistence of good and evil and their relationship to the value system that orients the researcher’s actions—is at the base of the contribution of Daniel Bizeul: in the course of his ethnographic study carried out among the Front National militants, he has in some cases come across “good deeds” performed by the extreme right-wing activists he observed, raising ethical and methodological questions about how to report these without becoming involved emotionally or prejudicially, yet integrating them into the rest of his analysis. The management of distance with the object of study and the organization and positioning of the researcher within the complex system of social and emotional relationships that close-up research necessarily involves are some of the aspects that recur most often throughout the book, transversely among the chapters. The reflections on the ethical dimensions of research are mainly based on the relationship between the objectivity of the analysis, the nature of the interpersonal relationship with the social actors being studied, and the emotional involvement that research fieldwork brings with it. Hilary Pilkington describes these aspects well, reporting direct experiences in which the management of distance and her position in research fieldwork involved complex, thoughtful and even emotional work on the relationship built with the English Defence League activists. The ethical

Research on far-right movements 143 questions of research on far-right movements and organizations are also related to the often-reported risk that the research transforms—intentionally on the part of the respondents—into a type of mouthpiece for them to publicize their ideas and political positions. This results in tensions in managing the relationships within one’s own fieldwork, as evidenced by the research experience told by Derya Göçer Akder and Kübra Oğuz. Some tensions existed due to the pressure exerted by some militants to know what had been written and reported (and in what way) of the interviews made, much of it coming from those belonging to nationalist and far-right organizations present in the Gezi Park protests in Istanbul in 2014. A thought-provoking view on positioning and relationship with the studied fieldwork is further articulated in the contribution of Ayaka Suzuki, in which the author chooses to use a feminist and gender-focused perspective to study female participation in conservative movements in Japan. The ethical implications related to the research are not the prerogative of scholars who choose to carry out research based on direct contact with distasteful and deviant actors using survey techniques based on in-depth interviews and ethnographic observations, but are also shared by those who study the far right through Internet-based research. In their contribution, Schaffar and Thabchumpon analyze Internet-based far-right movements in Thailand through the study of vigilante groups operating on Facebook, as well as questioning the ethical issues raised by reporting comments or statements without the consent of the author and, more generally, around what is or is not “public” on a social network. Finally, a further, equally important issue is that related to “contamination,” with the stigma associated with the object of study that one has chosen to investigate. To enter into direct contact with social actors openly displaying racist, anti-Semitic, violent and disdainful positions toward diversity in fact exposes the researcher to the risk of being considered in some way “infected” by these positions and the social stigma associated with them, often for simply having developed an interpersonal relationship due to research needs. With respect to this subject, a fundamental reference is certainly the article by Kirby and Corzine (1981), in which the two authors highlight both the problems and consequences that can arise during empirical research with subjects considered as deviant. Although referring to a completely different field of research (their studies concern gay and homosexual subcultures, which in the seventies were still socially regarded as deviant), methodological observations and reflections on how the academic—and even more-widely non-academic—communities react to those who conduct research on deviant fieldwork, remain extremely worthwhile and generalizable, even for those who conduct close-up study of the far right. Regarding the classification proposed by Goffman (1963) on the categories of stigmatized groups,1 it is above all the scholars who study the behavioral deviants who are—according to Kirby and Corzine—more exposed to the risk of being considered guilty by association.

144  Toscano The scope of the negative reactions usually concerns the research object considered deviant, but is mostly of the methodology used: it is not so much the study of deviant social worlds itself, but the contact with them through research methods based on interpersonal interaction that exposes the scholars to the risk of “contagion” (Kirby & Corzine, 1981). The theme of “contagion from stigma” emerges in the research experience conducted on CasaPound by myself and Daniele di Nunzio: focusing on various aspects of the CasaPound movement’s actions, concentrating on the cultural dimension and the centrality of music in their collective action, highlighting the emotional and reflective aspects of activist participation in the movement, and doing all these through research based on observation and in-depth interviews, often triggered very critical reactions, resulting in explicit accusations of “aiding and abetting” the fascists of CasaPound simply because we shared the results of our research with them. The problems related to the risk of “contamination” from stigma associated with the studied object and the fear of being judged guilty by association are recounted by Betty Dobratz and Lisa Waldner regarding their study on the White Power Movement in the United States; due to the fact that, in the opinion held among both academics and non-academics, it is often assumed that one must necessarily share the stance and world-view of one’s research object. Thus, contributing to the risk of “contagion of stigma” is the widespread belief, highlighted by Smyth and Mitchell (2008), that the understanding of a social phenomenon can only take place through what Luff (1999) defines as shared identity and experience. The latter position is rejected by Smyth and Mitchell, who based their critique on the Weberian premise that “one need not have been Caesar in order to understand Caesar” (Weber, 1947, p. 98). This book demonstrates how close-up research on far-right movements and organizations can offer unprecedented possibilities of analysis and experimentation from a social movement studies perspective, as well as for sociologists interested in the analysis of the emotional component of collective action, the mechanisms to activate participation and the subjective motivations that drive the actors’ involvement therein. In the past, these movements have aroused limited interest on the part of social movement scholars due to the lack of significance and low impact that the far right has had on the social, political and cultural orientations of the established European and world democracies. From the beginning of the twenty-first century, the importance, growth and threat that far-right movements and organizations have exerted in different parts of the world require a profound rethinking of this interest—relatively limited until now—for far-right movements by scholars from the perspective of social movement studies. The advance of populist thinking and far-right political organizations also demonstrates the need to confront this uncomfortable field of research in order to understand more in-depth and “from within” the mechanisms of participation, and the meanings and motivations attributed by activists to their involvement in openly racist, xenophobic and violent movements.

Research on far-right movements 145 Studying and understanding far-right and distasteful movements through a close-up approach is increasingly emerging as a key challenge for empirical social research today, with all its ethical and methodological implications—as we have seen—that this fieldwork brings with it.

Notes

1. Goffman (1963) suggests there are three types of stigmatized groups: 1) those formed by people with physical disabilities, 2) racial and religious minorities, and 3) behaviorally deviant.

References Becker, H.S. (1967). Whose side are we on? Social Problems, 14 (3), pp. 239–247. Blee, K.M. (2007a). Ethnographies of the Far Right. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 36(2), pp. 119–128. Blee, K.M. (2007b). Voyeurism, Ethics, and the Lure of the Extraordinary: Lessons from Studying America’s Underground. Social Thought & Research, 28, pp. 3–22. Carter, E. (2005). The extreme right in Western Europe: Success or failure? Manchester: Manchester University Press. Eatwell, R. (2005). Ten theories of the extreme right. In P.H. Merkl and L. Weinberg (eds.) Right-Wing Extremism in The Twenty-First Century, London: Frank Cass Publishers, pp. 45–70. Esseveld, J. and Eyerman, R. (1992). Which Side Are You On? Reflections on Methodological Issues in the Study of “Distasteful” Social Movements. In M. Diani and R. Eyerman (eds.) Studying Collective Action, pp. 217–237. Goffman, E. (1963). Stigma. Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity. New York, London, Toronto: Simon & Shuster Inc. Goodwin, M.J. (2006). The Rise and Faults of the Internalist Perspective in Extreme Right Studies. Representation, 42 (4), pp. 347–364. Hammersley, M. (2005). Taking Sides in Social Research: Essays on Partisanship and Bias. London & New York: Routledge. Kirby, R. and Corzine, J. (1981). The contagion of stigma: Fieldwork among deviants. Qualitative Sociology, 4(1), pp. 3–20. Luff, D. (1999). Dialogue across the divides: “Moments of rapport” and power in feminist research with anti-feminist women. Sociology, 33, pp. 687–703. Merkl, P.H. (2005). Introduction. In P.H. Merkl and L. Weinberg (eds.) Right-Wing Extremism in The Twenty-First Century, London: Frank Cass Publishers, pp. 1–17. Smyth, L. and Mitchell, C. (2008). Researching Conservative Groups: Rapport and Understanding across Moral and Political Boundaries. International Journal of Social Research Methodology, 11(5), pp. 441–452. Weber, M., Henderson, A.M. and Parsons, T. (1947). The theory of social and economic organization. New York: Free Press.

Index

AKP government (Turkey) 62 Alba Dorata (Greece) 1 Algerian war veterans 85 Alternative für Deutschland 1 American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) 47 Amici del Vento 95 anonymization 133–134 anti-abortion activists 26 anti-Muslim protest movement 26 anti-Semitism 55 Arab Spring 71 Aryan Nations 42, 43, 45, 50 AssaltoSonoro (fanzine) 93 Atatürk 59 Atsiz, Nihal 67 Austria 1 backstage behavior 47 Bahçeli, Devlet 61, 62 Balch, Robert 45 Bardot, Brigitte 88n5 Basic Law for a Gender-Equal Society (Japan) 110 Batskin 17 BBR (Blue-White-Red) 88n7 beurs 19 Bharatiya Janata Party (Indian People’s Party) 2 Bhumibol, King of Thailand 122, 123 Bjørgo, Tore 25 Blanchard, Jean-Pierre 76, 79 Blee, Kathleen 27, 42, 45–46, 48–49, 50, 54–55, 111 Blumer, Herbert 51 Bora, Tanil 62 Breivik, Anders 25 British National Party 35

Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms (ATF) 45 CasaPound Italia (CPI) 2, 90–101; cinghiamattanza and 96–97; close-up research on 97–101; comrade 91; contagion of stigma and 100–101, 144; cultural/political context 91–94; electoral list 102n3; electoral performances of 102n4; emotional dimension of studying 99–100; gatekeepers 97; history 90–91; Movimento Social Italiano and 91–93; music and 94–97; origin of name 102n1; research ethics and responsibility 98–99; uncovered and explicit research on 97–98 Charon, Joseph 51 Chirac, Jacques 88n3 Christian Identity 42–43 cinghiamattanza 96–97, 103n20 close-range/close-up research 2, 140–142; ethical and methodological implications of 5–7; on far right 24–26; field access in 6; field observer 23–37; positioning of researcher in 6–7 Computer Crime Act (Thailand) 124, 129 conservative Japan 108 contagio of stigma 100–101 Cooley, Charles Horton 55 copyright infringement 134–135 coups d’ état 122, 125 Criminal Justice Act 29 Criminal Justice and Public Order Act 1994 38n7 critical sociology 14–15 cross burning 45

Index 147 Cutty Sark n.d.a (pub) 94 cyber scouts 126 Dart (Art Division) 102n9 Davao Death Squads 130 de Beketch, Serge 82 de Benoist, Alain 92 deep cover 98 deflection 52–54 dissonance 54–55 Dobratz, Betty 42, 49 double standards 85 Duterte, Rodrigo 129–130 Duterte Cyber Warriors 130 Duterte Defence Squad 130 Ehime Prefecture 112 emotional labor 55 Engels, Friedrich 14 English Defence League (EDL) 2, 23; anti-Islamist agenda of 26; anti-racist political agenda and 33; close-up research on 35–36; Criminal Justice Act and 29; friendship with 30–32; LGBT agenda of 29; media image as racist thugs 30; membership 26; observation sites 27; regional organizers 28; researcher’s role 28–30; speaking positions of researcher 34–35; study of 26–27 Entraide Nationale 76–77, 79, 81 evangelicals 26 evil: effects of research on 20–21; value neutrality and 14–16 ex-Legionnaires 85 ex-paratroopers 85 explicit cover 98 externalist studies 2 extreme radical right 3 extreme right 3, 75; definitions of 3–4; ethical/methodological implications of reserch of 5–7 Ezekiel, Raphael 32 Facebook 46, 52, 63, 97, 98; anonymity in 133–134; Facebook-based rightwing groups in Thailand 121–136; intellectual property rights and 134–135; Internet censorship in Thailand and 124–126; legal issues 134–135; prior informed consent 131–132; privacy 133; privately organized censors 126–127; research on far-right movements and

28; Rubbish Collector Organization aa a phenomenon 128–130; witch hunts in Thailand 121–122 fachos 85 Faludi, Susan 110 Fare Fronte 92 Fare Verde 92 far right: close-up research on 24–26; definitions of 3–4; ethical and methodological implications of 5–7; good deeds of 75–87; pathological traits of 4; rise of 1; social movement studies and 4–5 fascism 3; as an analytic concept 128; Internet and 135; Italian neo-fascism 95; street 64; vigilantism and 128 Fathers’ Rights activists 28–30 Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) 45 Femen 118 femininity 112 feminist research 107–114; in Japanese conservative movements 107–114; methodology 111–112; possibilities and challenges of 116–118; purposes of 111; sisterhood and 118; target organization of 111–112 feminist scholarship 48–49 field observer 23–37; in close-up research 24–26; English Defence League (EDL) study 26–36; faking friendships 30–32; finding position to speak from 33–36; methodological bridges 27–28; versus mouthpiece 28–30; shifting speaking positions 34–35; taking standpoint 32–33 fieldwork 16–18 Fondation Brigitte Bardot 88n5 Français d’abord 80 France 1; skinheads 15; working-class movement in 14–15 France 2 (TV channel) 80 France 3 (TV channel) 80 Fraternité Française 81 free spaces 46–47 Freiheitliche Partei Österreichsoe (Germany) 1 French and European Nationalist Party 83, 88n12 French National Front 2 friendship, faking 25–26, 30–32 Front National 19 Front National de la Jeunesse 88n4 front stage behavior 47

148  Index Fronte della Gioventù 92 Fronte Veneto Skinhead 93 Futurism 95 Gellner, Ernest 109 gender equality 110, 112 General Headquarters of the Allied Powers (GHQ) 108–109 Generazione’78 (song) 95 German Society of Sociology (DGS) 132 Germany 1 Gezi movement (Turkey) 59–72; academic debate on 59–60; acceptance from interviewees 64–65; Arab Uprisings and 71; field research 62–66; focus groups 63; heterogeneity among participants in 59; interviews with young nationalists 62–66; Islamist culture and 68; Kurdish participants in 65–66; locations of interviews 63–64; nationalist politics and 70; overview 59–60; as part of global wave 70; positions of youth groups on different issues 68–72; pragmatism of participants 69; problems of field researchers 64–65; reasons for participating in 69; rightwing secular nationalist youth in 61, 66–68; transnational character of 59–60; Turkey’s foreign policy and 71–72; Turkish state and 68 Gezi Park, Turkey 2 globalists 85 good deeds, of far-right activists 75–87; exemplary behaviors 83–86; narrative/ argumentative framework 86–87; party image and 77–83; political motivation in 81; self-esteem and 77–83 Google 28, 52, 53, 98 Gramsci, Antonio 13 Great Recession of 2007 1 Greece 1 Grey Wolves (Ülkü Ocaklari) 67 Griffin, Nick 35 groupuscular right 91 guard dogs 13 Hall, Stuart 93–94 hate crimes 110 hate speeches 110, 125, 129 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 18 Hobbit Camps 91 Hochschild, Arlie 55

homophobia 54–55 homosexuals 85 Iannone, Gianluca 94 identitarian 75 identity salience hierarchy 50 India 2 informed prior consent 131–132 Inside Organized Racism 52 Institute of Moralogy 112 intellectual property rights 134–135 Internet 3, 16, 110; censorship in Thailand 122–126; as data source 25; diffiusion rate in Japan 119n7; as a frontier zone 127; lèse-majesté 122, 124–125, 129; right-wing groups’s use of 130; security 133; vigilantism on 127–129 Islamophobic new social movement 26 Japan: Basic Law for a Gender-Equal Society 110; conservative 108; economic growth in the 1960s 108–109; gender equality 112; Internet diffusion rate 119n7; political ideology in 108–109; post-war 108; pre-war 108; reformist 108; self-defence forces 119n4; Treaty of Mutual Cooperation and Security 108 Japanese conservative movements 107–114; absence of gender-focused research on 110–111; directors 112; feminist research in 107–114; investigations 113–115; opposition of gender equality 112; political ideology 108–109; possibilities and challenges of feminist research 116–118; right-wing 108–110; state of 109–110; survey of 112–113; target organization 112–113; uyoku 107, 109; women’s voices in 115–116 Japanese Society for History Textbook Reform (TRS) 109–110 Jews 85, 88n12 Jewsmedia 48 Jobbik (Hungary) 1 junta 122 kanai 112, 119n10 Kemalist ideology 62 Knights of the Klu Klux Klan (KKKK) 47 Ku Klux Klan 42–43, 48, 54 kulturpessimismus 95

Index 149 Le Pen, Jany 82 Le Pen, Jean-Marie 77, 79 Le Pen, Marine 1 les banlieues 19 lèse-majesté 122, 124–125, 129 looking-glass self 55 Mancinelli, Francesco 95 Maréchal, Samuel 77 Marx, Karl 14 Marxism 14 masculinity 112 Mead, George Herbert 51 Mégret, Bruno 77 meta-political 93 militant ethnography 26, 32 Mitterrand, François 88n3 Modi, Narendra 2 Moro, Aldo 17 Movimento Social Italiano (MSI) 91–93, 102n5 Movimiento S, electoral list 102n3 Muslims 85 MYPLACE (Memory, Youth, Political Legacy and Civic Engagement) project 38n5 nadeshiko 119n9 Nadeshiko Report 112 Nagel, Joan 45 Nanking Massacre 109 Nanna, Rienthong 122, 126 National Circle of Animal Friends 88n5 National Front (France) 1, 76, 88n3; aid to wounded seagull 78–79; distribution of food and clothing 79–81; good deeds of 77–83; image of 77–83 National Hebdo 79, 80 National Socialists 42–43 National Youth Front 88n4 nationalists 75 Neko, Aum 121–122 neo-fascism 95 neo-nationalists (ulusalci) 67 neo-Nazis 42–43, 53, 55 Netto to Aikoku (Yasuda) 110 Nippon Kaigi 109–110, 112 Non scordio (song) 95 Northern Territories/Kuril Islands 107 Nouvelle Droite 93 Nouvelle Droite 92 Nuova Destra 92

Occupy Gezi 70 Occupy Wall Street 70 Odinists 42–43 Oi! music 95 organic intellectuals 13 Pan-Turanism 62 Pan-Turkism 62 parallel organizations 92 Party of the Democratic Revolution 20 Paton, Nathalie 16 Peace and Democracy Party (Baris ve Demokrasi Partisi) 59 Philippines 129–130 pogo 96 Politics as a Vocation (Weber) 13 populist extreme right 3, 4 populist radical right 27 populist right 3 populists 75 Prachatai (blog) 125 Prapanukul, Prawet 125 pre-war Japan 108–109 prior informed consent 131–132 private talk 48 public talk 48 qualitative studies 2 racism 54–55 radical right 3 Radio Courtoisie 82 Redshirts 121–124, 125 reformist Japan 108 Republican People Party (Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi) 67 research: impact on actors 18–19; indirect and general effects of 20–21 research on far-right movements 140–142; CasaPound Italia 97–101; close-up research 140–142; contagion of stigma and 100–101; emotional dimension of studying 99–100; English Defence League 23–37; ethics and responsibility 98–99; feminist research 107–118; fieldwork 142–145; Gezi movement (Turkey) 59–72; good deeds 75–87; prior informed consent in 131–132; reflexivity 142–145; researchers’ concerns 142–145; stigma and 143–144; uncovered and explicit 97–98; white power movement 42–56

150  Index researchers: choices 51–52; criticisms faced by 25; deflection by 42; dissonance 54–55; faking friendships 25–26, 30–32; lack of sympathy towards far-right members 24; as mouthpiece for far right 25, 28–30; neutrality of 13; rapport building 48–51; role of 28–30; shifting speaking positions 34–35; staying safe 52; stigma 54–55; strategies for gaining access 46–48; stress 54–55; taking standpoint 32–33 Réseau Autonome des Transports Publics (RATP) 20–21 Restos du coeur 77, 82, 86 right-wing groups: as exceptions 132–133; Facebook-based 123–124, 128–129; Japanese 108–110; transitional character of 130–132 Robb, Thom 46 role-taking 51–52 Royal Thai National Police 125 Rubbish Collector Organization (Facebook group) 122, 126, 128–129 Rupe Tarpea 102n10 RupeTarpea music label 93 same-sex relationships 52 Satoru Mizushima, Satoru 114 school shootings 16 Second-Wave Feminism 111, 118 Secours Catholique 82, 86 Secours populaire 77, 82 self-defence forces 119n4 September 11 attacks (2001) 1 sex education 112 sexism 54–55 sexual self-determination 112 shallow cover 98 Shanks-Meile, Stephanie 42 Shinawatra, Thaksin 123 Shinawatra, Yingluck 125, 126 shujin 112, 119n10 Simi, Pete 45, 48, 49, 52–53 skinheads 17, 42–43 Skype 44 social anti-movements 14 social Darwinism 65 social deviants 107 social media 3, 52, 53 social movement studies 4–5; field access in 6; positioning of researcher in 6–7; problems in 5–7 Social Sanction (Facebook group) 126

Solidarnosc 14–15 Star of David 84 stigma 56, 143–144 Stockholm syndrome 17 street punk 95 stress 54–55 Stryker, Sheldon 50 subjectivation 103n24 suppression of emotion 55 telephone interviews 44 Terre et peuple 79 terrorism 15, 17, 21 Textbook Reform Societ 112 Thai Netizen Network 127 Thailand: attitude adjustment in 122; Computer Crime Act 124, 129; coups d’ état 122, 125; Facebook-based right-wing groups in 123–124, 127–131; far-right royalists in 120–135; fascist groups in 128; Internet censorship in 124–126; privately organized Facebook censors in 126; vigilantism in 127–128; witch hunts on Facebook in 121–123 Thammasat University 121 Tolkien, J.R.R. 102n6 Touraine, Alain 14 Treaty of Mutual Cooperation and Security (Treaty) 108 Trump, Donald 1 Truth about Nanjing, The 114 Tuono Records 93 Türkes, Alparslan 62 Turkey 2; AKP government 62; Arab Uprisings and 71; foreign policy 71–72; Gezi movement in 59–72; Islamist culture in 68; Islamist politics in 1990s 62; Pan-Turanism 62; rightwing nationalism in 62; street politics and nationalist politics in 70; Western ideals and uniqueness ofd 69 Turkish Youth Union (Türkiye Gençlik Birligi) 66–68 Twitter 45, 46 270b (band) 95 Unite Against Fascism (UAF) 34, 38n9 Unite the Right rally 45 United States 1; November 2016 presidential elections 1; racist movements in 5, 110–111, 116; rise of far right in 1; September 11 attacks (2001) 1; Treaty of Mutual Cooperation and

Index 151 Security 108; value neutrality in 13; white power movement in 41–56 urban violence 20 uyoku 107, 109 Valls, Manuel 21 value neutrality 13, 18; critical sociology and 14–15; evil and 14–16 Vejjajiva, Abhisit 125 Verstehen methodology 36 Vial, Pierre 79 vigilantism, in Thailand 127–128 Waldner, Lisa 52–53 Weber, Max 13, 18 Wertfreiheit 13 White Aryan Resistance (WAR) 43 white power movement (WPM) 2, 41–56; choices for researchers of 53; deflection 52–54; dissonance and stress in interviews 54–55; feminist scholarship 48–49; free spaces 46–47; front stage and backstage behavior of members 47; gaining access into 43–48; law enforcement infiltration

of 45; music 94; rapport with 48–51; safety of researchers 52; same-sex relationships and 52; stigma and 56; targeted groups 50 White Power, White Pride 42, 47 white supremacists 1 Witch Hunt (Facebook group) 126 Women of the Klan (Blee) 46 working-class movement 14–15 World Church of Creator 42–43 Yasuda, Koichi 110 Yellowshirts 121, 124 @YesYoureRacist (Twitter account) 45 Youth Front 92 YouTube 125 zainichi 110, 119n8 ZainicniTokken wo Yurusanai Shimin no Kai (Association of Citizens against the Special Privileges of the Zainichi) 110 ZetaZeroAlfa (ZZA) 94–96., 99, 103n15 ZOG (Zionist Occupied Government) 45