Urban Mobilities in Literature and Art Activism 303142798X, 9783031427985

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LITERARY URBAN STUDIES

Urban Mobilities in Literature and Art Activism Edited by  Patricia García · Anna-Leena Toivanen

Literary Urban Studies Series Editors

Lieven Ameel Comparative Literature Tampere University Tampere, Finland Patricia García University of Alcalá Madrid, Spain Eric Prieto Department of French and Italian University of California Santa Barbara, CA, USA Markku Salmela English Language, Literature & Translation Tampere University Tampere, Finland

The Literary Urban Studies Series has a thematic focus on literary mediations and representations of urban conditions. Its specific interest is in developing interdisciplinary methodological approaches to the study of literary cities. Echoing the Russian formalist interest in literaturnost or literariness, Literary Urban Studies will emphasize the “citiness” of its study object—the elements that are specific to the city and the urban condition—and an awareness of what this brings to the source material and what it implies in terms of methodological avenues of inquiry. The series’ focus allows for the inclusion of perspectives from related fields such as urban history, urban planning, and cultural geography. The series sets no restrictions on period, genre, medium, language, or region of the source material. Interdisciplinary in approach and global in range, the series actively commissions and solicits works that can speak to an international and cross-disciplinary audience. Editorial board: Ulrike Zitzlsperger, University of Exeter, UK Peta Mitchell, University of Queensland, Australia Marc Brosseau, University of Ottawa, Canada Andrew Thacker, De Montfort University, UK Patrice Nganang, Stony Brook University, USA Bart Keunen, University of Ghent, Belgium

Patricia García  •  Anna-Leena Toivanen Editors

Urban Mobilities in Literature and Art Activism

Editors Patricia García University of Alcalá Alcalá, Madrid, Spain

Anna-Leena Toivanen School of Humanities University of Eastern Finland Joensuu, Finland

ISSN 2523-7888     ISSN 2523-7896 (electronic) Literary Urban Studies ISBN 978-3-031-42797-8    ISBN 978-3-031-42798-5 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42798-5 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover illustration: khanisorn chalermchan / Alamy Stock Photo This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland Paper in this product is recyclable.

Contents

1 Mobility,  Immobility and the City: Theoretical Orientations and Concepts  1 Anna-Leena Toivanen and Patricia García Part I Itinerant Subjects  25 2 Space,  Mobility, and Belonging: Finding One’s Way Through Pre-Apartheid Johannesburg 27 Sophie U. Kriegel 3 Urban  Ambivalence: Work and Home at Delhi’s Margins 51 Anubhav Pradhan 4 The  Nomadic Subject in Teju Cole’s Open City 69 Aristi Trendel 5 From  the Cartographic Fringes: Map Mobilizations and the Urban 89 Tania Rossetto

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Contents

6 Making  a Pause in Street Life: Not Moving as an Art Practice111 Karolina Izdebska and Maciej Kowalewski Part II Modes of Transport and Places of Transit 129 7 Alienation,  Abjection and the Mobile Postcolonial City: Public Transport in Ousmane Sembène’s “Niiwam” and Yvonne Vera’s Without a Name131 Anna-Leena Toivanen 8 Moving  Away and Traveling Toward: Urban Mobility in Aminatta Forna’s Autobiographical Writing155 Lena Englund 9 Artistic  and Spatial Mobility in China’s Urban Villages175 Federica Mirra 10 Delhi  on the Move: Urban Im/Mobilities in Contemporary Hindi Writings209 Valentina Barnabei Part III Urban Liminalities 233 11 Space,  Borders, and Cognition in Urban Postmigration Literature235 Johan Schimanski 12 What  Lurks in the Peripheries: From Urban Margins to Marginal Genres in Short Stories by Margo Lanagan and Ariadna Castellarnau259 Rosa María Díez Cobo

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13 Narratives  of Border Crossing in Kati Horna’s Photographic Series285 Karla Segura Pantoja 14 Mobility  and Dispossession on the Fringes of Literary Barcelona303 Patricia García Index325

Notes on Contributors

Valentina  Barnabei  is a PhD student in South Asian Studies at Ca’ Foscari University and Heidelberg University. She was a Visiting PhD Student at the Dr. K. R. Narayanan Centre for Dalit and Minorities Studies of Jamia Millia Islamia University of New Delhi. She holds an MA in Languages and Civilizations of South Asia with specialization in literary translation (University of Lausanne) and a BA in Eastern Languages and Civilizations (Sapienza University of Rome). Her current research inquiries on the entanglement of Hindi literary production, eviction, relocation, and changes of the urban landscape in nowadays Delhi. Rosa María Díez Cobo  is assistant professor of English at the University of Burgos. She holds a PhD in Comparative Literature from the University of León. Her research interests revolve around North American and Latin American postmodernist comparative studies as well as the comparative consideration of spatiality in fantastic narratives. She has published several articles and chapters in edited volumes with international publishers, among others, Iberoamericana/Vervuert, Pearson, Peter Lang, and Routledge. She is the author of Nueva sátira en la ficción postmodernista de las Américas (2006) and Arquitecturas inquietantes. Antología de relatos de casas encantadas (2022). Lena  Englund  currently works as a senior researcher at the School of Humanities, University of Eastern Finland. Her research interests include autobiographical writing in all its forms, migration narratives, and African literature. ix

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Patricia  García  is a senior researcher in Comparative Literature at the Universidad de Alcalá, where she currently leads a Ramón y Cajal project (Ministerio de Universidades & European Social Fund) on urban peripheries in contemporary literature. She is the author of The Urban Fantastic in Nineteenth-Century European Literature (Palgrave 2021) and Space and the Postmodern Fantastic in Contemporary Literature (Routledge 2015) and her most recent publications feature in Comparative Literature and Culture, Canadian Review of Comparative Literature, and the Routledge Companion to Literary Urban Studies. She is the chair of the network Fringe Urban Narratives (www.urbanfringes.com). Karolina  Izdebska  is a sociologist at the University of Szczecin. Her research works concern public art and issues of place, space, and memory in art practice. She has published in journals such as Journal of Refugee Studies and International Journal of Maritime History. She is the author of Public Art: From Objects to Post-­ Artistic Practices. A Sociological Bricolage (Warsaw 2021). Maciej Kowalewski  is a sociologist at the University of Szczecin, where he is also UNESCO Chair for Social Sustainability. His research works are in the domains of urban sociology and protest politics and has been published in journals such as Cultural Geographies, Space and Polity, City, Geoforum, and Space and Culture. Sophie  U.  Kriegel  is a PhD candidate at the Department of English Studies at Freie Universität Berlin. She has taught a variety of classes on British and South African culture, media, and the history of the British Empire. Her PhD thesis focuses on mobility and space in South African literature and film. Other research interests include terrorism in the transatlantic context, gendered spaces, and the use of new media. Federica  Mirra  is a Leverhulme Early Career Research Fellow at the Centre for Chinese Visual Arts at Birmingham City University (BCU), where she is undertaking her three-year postdoctoral research, The City as Art: Living Aesthetics in Twenty-First Century China. She obtained her PhD at BCU in 2022, funded by the AHRC-Midlands3Cities Doctoral Training Partnership. Previously, she worked as Research Fellow at the Chair of Chinese Culture and Society, University of St Gallen, as Visiting Lecturer at BCU, and Research Assistant and Curatorial Assistant in Higher Education and the art sector.

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Anubhav Pradhan  is assistant professor with the Department of Liberal Arts, Indian Institute of Technology Bhilai. His work straddles urban planning, heritage, history, and writing as well as colonial cultural contact and the intersections of empire and modernity. He is Deputy Editor of South Asia Research, Council Member of the Committee for Publication Ethics, and Board Member of the Association for Literary Urban Studies. His major publications include Articulating Urbanity: Writing the South Asian City (forthcoming), Literature, Language, and the Classroom: Essays for Promodini Varma (2021), and Kipling and Yeats at 150: Retrospectives/ Perspectives (2019). Tania  Rossetto is associate professor of Cultural Geography at the Department of Historical and Geographic Sciences and the Ancient World of the University of Padova. She is a founder member of the Centre for Advanced Studies in Mobility and the Humanities (MoHu) and teaches about urban landscapes and cultures. Her research interests include visual geographies, image theory, and map studies. She has also worked on the linkage between cartographic theory and literary studies. She is a co-editor of the forthcoming Routledge Handbook of Cartographic Humanities. Johan  Schimanski is a professor of Comparative Literature at the University of Oslo. He has co-led major research projects on border aesthetics, Arctic discourses, Arctic modernities, author museums, and migration literatures. In 2021, he was professor of Border Studies at the Centre for Border Studies at the Universities of Saarland and Luxembourg; he was previously professor of Cultural Encounters at the University of Eastern Finland. Recent publications include the co-edited volumes Border Images, Border Narratives and Transforming Author Museums. A volume of his essays on border poetics translated into German, Grenzungen: Versuche zu einer Poetik der Grenze, appeared in 2020. Karla Segura Pantoja  is part of the LT2D research team at CY Cergy Paris Université. Her PhD thesis on the surrealists exiled in Mexico was based on archival material in Europe, Mexico, and the United States. As a member of the editorial board of the French journal Cahiers Benjamin Péret, she has contributed to digital library projects for the Bibliothèque Littéraire Jacques Doucet in Paris. In 2018, she was granted a research residency at the Musée National Picasso de Paris. She has recently translated Leonora Carrington’s plays into French. She is currently working as an editorial coordinator for AWARE, the Archives of Women Artists Research and Exhibitions.

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Anna-Leena Toivanen  is an Academy Research Fellow at the University of Eastern Finland. She has published widely on mobility-related themes in African literatures, and her most recent articles have appeared in Urban Studies, Transfers, Mobilities, Studies in Travel Writing, and Mobility Humanities. She is the author of Mobilities and Cosmopolitanisms in African and Afrodiasporic Literatures (2021). She acts as the Literary Studies Subject Editor of the Nordic Journal of African Studies. Aristi Trendel  is associate professor at Le Mans University. She has published book chapters and articles on American writers in American and European journals (e.g., The John Updike Review; Philip Roth Studies; The Psychoanalytic Review; The European Journal of American Studies), book reviews, and fiction in literary magazines. She is the author of four books of fiction and a study, Pedagogic Encounters: Master and Disciple in the American Novel After the 1980s (Lexington 2021).

List of Figures

Fig. 5.1 Fig. 5.2 Fig. 5.3 Fig. 6.1 Fig. 9.1 Fig. 9.2 Fig. 9.3 Fig. 9.4 Fig. 9.5 Fig. 9.6 Fig. 9.7 Fig. 10.1

Facebook post (on the left) and online news (on the right) reporting the release of the map, Local resistance to the Salvini decree, 9 January 2019 98 Following the migrations of pandemic cartographies 100 Fountain with Europe map, Padova, 2019 103 Akademia Ruchu (1976). The Queue Exiting the Store. © Stowarzyszenie Przyjaciół Akademii Ruchu116 Wan Yan, Paper Crane Tea (2014), installation in Handshake 302, paper. (Courtesy of Handshake 302) 176 Weng Fen, Sitting on the Wall—Shenzhen (I) (2002), c-print, 124 × 164.5 × 4.3 cm. (Courtesy of the artist) 183 Jiu Society, Shenzhen Grand Hotel (2016), exhibition view at the Centre for Chinese Contemporary Art (CFCCA), Manchester. (Courtesy of the artists) 187 Jiu Society, 360° Without Dead Ends (2016), video installation, 3′24″. (Courtesy of the artists) 189 Handshake 302, Baishizhou Superhero (2013), installation in Jianghan Baihuo department store plaza. (Courtesy of Handshake 302) 192 Handshake 302 Academy. (Courtesy of Handshake 302) 197 Group photograph of Xisan villagers at the screening of Villager Reporter (2017). (Courtesy of Xisan Film Studio) 198 Houses in Dakshinpuri seen from the colony’s public park, this latter adjacent to the Jahanpanah City Forest. Dakshinpuri, New Delhi, January 2022. (Photo of the author) 222

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List of Figures

Fig. 10.2 Fig. 10.3 Fig. 11.1 Fig. 11.2

Fig. 11.3 Fig. 11.4

Sign affixed in Nangla Village, South-East Delhi, where once was located the basti of Nangla Manchi. February 2022. (Photo of the author) 225 The place where Nangla Manchi used to be. Nangla Village, Southeast Delhi. February 2022. (Photo of the author) 227 A map of Oslo showing the Akerselva river in the middle, the forests and fjord around the city, and other places mentioned in the text. (Map drawn by Johan Schimanski) 239 One of the waterfalls on the Akerselva river in Oslo, with the old sail factory (now part of the Oslo National Academy of the Arts), taken from Hengelåsbrua (“the padlock bridge”) or Kjærlighetsbroen (“the love bridge”). (Photograph by Johan Schimanski)240 Hengelåsbrua (“the padlock bridge”) or Kjærlighetsbroen (“the love bridge”) on the Akerselva river in Oslo. (Photograph by Johan Schimanski) 241 The covers of Zeshan Shakar’s Tante Ulrikkes vei (2017), Gulraiz Sharif’s Hør her’a! (2020), and Sarah Zahid’s La oss aldri glemme hvor godt det kan være å leve (2018a) showing drawings of post-war blocks of flats. (Covers designed by Rune Mortensen, Helene Brox and Aslak Gurholt (Yokoland), respectively, and reproduced by kind permission of the publishers (Gyldendal, Cappelen Damm and Flamme forlag, respectively))255

CHAPTER 1

Mobility, Immobility and the City: Theoretical Orientations and Concepts Anna-Leena Toivanen and Patricia García

The Mobilities Turn: Theoretical Orientations This volume explores (im)mobilities in urban spaces by focusing on their representation in literary narratives as well as in other arts. It had its genesis at the conference Urban (Im)mobilities and Borderland Narratives (Universidad de Alcalá, Spain), co-organized by the Fringe Urban Narratives network and the Association for Literary Urban Studies, on 14–15 October 2021. Over the course of the conference delegates working across a wide range of georgaphical contexts, including Europe, Africa, China, India, North and Latin America, shared work that built on mobilities research and on the New Mobilities Paradigm. With this book, we

A.-L. Toivanen University of Eastern Finland, Joensuu, Finland e-mail: [email protected] P. García (*) University of Alcalá, Alcalá, Madrid, Spain e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 P. García, A.-L. Toivanen (eds.), Urban Mobilities in Literature and Art Activism, Literary Urban Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42798-5_1

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present some of our key discussions on how uneven (im)mobilities intersect and do so in a variety of manners. Recent decades in the humanities and social sciences alike have been marked by the Spatial Turn (Merriman 2022, 3–4). Literary Urban Studies (LUS) can be seen as one manifestation of the interest in the question of spatiality in literature. More recently, the critical interest in space and spatiality has begun to make room for an approach that differentiates itself from ‘sedentarist’ approaches and acknowledges that mobility is significant for diverse social formations. This ‘mobilities turn’, promoted through what was named the New Mobilities Paradigm (NMP) by Mimi Sheller and John Urry and outlined in their 2006 article, is often associated with fields such as sociology and human geography. While the New Mobilities Paradigm as defined by Sheller and Urry (2006; see also Hannam et al. 2006) might initially seem to resonate mainly with social sciences, scholars have highlighted that the genealogy of mobility studies is firmly rooted in the humanities—in poststructuralist and postcolonial theories in particular (Merriman 2012, 13–14; Aguiar et al. 2019, 4–5; Merriman and Pearce 2019, 493–494; Pearce 2020, 77–79). Moreover, creative forms of research such as artworks and performances have also been pivotal in the formation of the NMP and continue to contribute to the development of mobile methods and epistemologies (Barry et  al. 2023). In this sense, the recent mobilities turn in the humanities—or the humanities turn in mobility studies (Aguiar et al. 2019, 2) or, again, “the mobility humanities” (Kim et al. 2019, 100)—which attests to the growing interest of human scientists in mobility studies is not merely about adopting and applying social science theories to the humanities but is the product of a genuine interdisciplinary dialogue that has contributed to the NMP and the mobilities turn it promoted. In a volume such as this one that approaches (im)mobilities from a humanities/literary studies perspective, it would seem particularly relevant to be vigilant that the NMP and the mobilities turn associated with it does not overshadow previous engagements with mobility-related topics in the humanities (Merriman 2012, 13; Merriman and Pearce 2019, 493–496) and that mobilities can be studied from other perspectives than those strictly in line with the NMP (Pearce 2020, 77). At the same time, it is equally important for scholars in the humanities to acknowledge the ‘newness’ of the NMP framework, namely the centrality it accords to mobility itself as well as its relational understanding of “a diverse array of forms of movement across scales ranging from the body […] to the globe” (Cresswell 2010, 18).

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Mobility studies is a research agenda that places mobility at the center of analysis and that revolves around “the study of various complex systems, assemblages and practices of mobility” (Sheller 2014, 45) and that “works towards a rigorous assessment of the social and spatial aspects of mobile practices within their cultural milieu” (Aguiar et al. 2019, 2). By placing the “actual fact of movement” (Cresswell 2010, 18) at the center of analysis, mobility studies opposes itself to “sedentarist” theories that “treat […] as normal stability, meaning, and place, and treat […] as abnormal distance, change, and placelessness” (Sheller and Urry 2006, 208). The key concept, mobility, “involves displacement—the act of moving between locations” (Cresswell 2006, 2), and this act is “imbued with meaning” (Adey 2010, 33) in contrast to movement, which Cresswell defines as an abstract form of mobility that is “contentless, apparently natural, and devoid of meaning, history, and ideology” (2006, 3). Mobility studies covers a wide range of different forms of mobilities, from the physical movement of people to the movement of object and ideas, as well as forms of non-physical mobilities such as imaginative, virtual, and communicative travel (Urry 2007, 47). For mobility studies, relevant subjects of inquiry range from wide-scale global movements to local, everyday mobilities that entail concrete mobility practices and modes of transportation such as walking, driving, traveling by public transport, and maritime and air travel. Furthermore, the notions of molecular and ‘little’ mobilities draw attention to the different scales and speeds of mobilities and states of becoming in a way that challenges the very existence of immobility (Merriman 2012, 3–7; Adey 2010, 6–9; Merriman 2023). In addition to acknowledging the breadth of different forms of mobility, another key element of the New Mobilities Paradigm is the understanding of mobilities as interconnected and relational (Urry 2007, 10). It is for this very reason that mobility “is never singular but always plural”, as Peter Adey (2010, 18) formulates it. Acknowledging the relational and interconnected qualities of mobilities highlights the way in which individual mobilities—and mobile individuals—are always part of a larger entity. Moreover, recognizing the relationality and interlinked character of mobilities is helpful when considering the multiple positions of a mobile subject—in other words, that there is “convergence between categories of movement” (Averis and Hollis-Touré 2016, 4). For instance, migrants can also be commuters or flâneurs, tourists can be automobilists, diasporic returnees air travelers and so on.

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The multiplicity and interrelatedness of mobilities is also reflected in the concept of mobility systems. Urry’s definition of automobility defines it as a “self-organizing autopoetic, non-linear system that spreads world-­ wide and includes cars, car-drivers, roads, petroleum supplies and many novel objects, technologies and signs” (2007, 118). Drawing on Urry’s definition, Veronika Zuskáčová describes the system of aeromobility as “the assemblage of travelers, aircraft, and infrastructure, together with the countless other components, their relations, rules, signs, and various actors that constitute a dynamic complex system self-expanding in contemporary global society” (2020, 8). The systemic understanding of mobilities moves beyond the individual mobile subject and highlights the non-human aspects of mobility as well as assemblages not only of humans and machines (e.g., driver and car) (Hui 2016, 71) but also of humans and animals (e.g., horse-riding; dogsledding) and, in so doing, underlines the posthumanist trend in mobility studies (Aguiar et  al. 2019, 8; Pearce 2020, 80). While the post-humanist approach might seem problematic in particular for literary scholars, whose work often focuses on “the human subject through the study of textual characters” (Aguiar et al. 2019, 9; see also Pearce 2020, 80), an understanding of the systemic qualities of mobilities and the human/machine/animal assemblages has the potential to provide new insights into the ways in which fictional characters, like humans, “travel with other bodies, technologies and vehicles” and how these encounters produce specific mobile subjectivities (Merriman 2012, 13; emphasis in original). Although mobility studies challenges sedentarism, the intention is not to claim that ‘everything flows’ in the same speed or way, or to see mobility as something essentially positive or progressive, as was the case in 1990s poststructuralist discussions of nomadism (Cresswell 2006, 42–54). The field does not romanticize movement or privilege ‘a mobile subjectivity’ but highlights power structures that regulate the movement of some while simultaneously enabling that of others (Sheller and Urry 2006, 213). The questions of who is on the move, how and why are central to mobility studies. Cresswell refers to such questions of power as the ‘politics of mobility’—a concept that captures the idea of how “mobilities are both productive of [power relations] and produced by them” (2010, 21). A key issue of the politics of mobility is to acknowledge immobility as the underside of mobility, namely that “mobilities are often failed, unrealised, and unachievable”, as Kudzai Matereke (2016, 114) notes. In other words, mobility studies is not interested only in mobilities but also in immobility.

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The question of politics of mobility and the uneven distribution of the mobility resource is connected to markers of difference such as gender, race, class, sexuality, age, and ability. Mobility and immobility should not be understood in terms of a mutually exclusive binarism (Merriman 2012, 7). In effect, mobility studies highlights the different scales between mobility and immobility such as stasis, pausing, waiting, acceleration, and flux. The “dialectic between the fixed and the fluid” is particularly well captured in the city for the simple reason that “the urban is about the rhythms and temporalities that create spaces in constant movement and change” (Freudendal-Petersen et  al. 2020, 1). The mobility/immobility nexus is also relevant from another perspective, namely that of relatively immobile infrastructural “moorings that configure and enable mobilities” such as roads, stations, docks, and railways (Hannam et  al. 2006, 3). These infrastructures encapsulate the intertwinement of spatiality and mobility and further suggest that a mobility studies perspective does not replace spatiality with mobility. Rather, it tries to understand how space is made meaningful through and in intertwinement with movement. Furthermore, spaces are not simply static contexts but are seen to be produced through mobility (Cresswell and Merriman 2013, 7). This is also the case with urban space, which, from a mobility studies perspective, is inherently mobile and a product of people’s movements through and in it (Murray and Upstone 2014b, 193). Cresswell (2006, 3) identifies three different yet interlinked aspects of mobility, namely “mobility as a brute fact” or as an observable empirical reality, mobility as an embodied and experienced practice, and, finally, representations of mobility. While it could be said that the New Mobilities Paradigm and social sciences-oriented mobility studies tend to focus on ‘real-life’ mobilities and whereas literary texts embody representational aspects of mobility, such a characterization is simplistic and fails to acknowledge the relationality of these three aspects and how together they contribute to producing meanings out of mobility (Cresswell 2006, 3). When it comes to representations of mobility, it should be underlined that representations do not merely reflect ‘real-life’ mobilities in a passive manner but actively produce their meanings (Murray and Upstone 2014a, 3; Berensmeyer and Ehland 2013, 22). Literary texts may challenge our understandings of what constitutes the ‘real’ (Merriman and Pearce 2019, 5); this is quite obvious in the case of science fiction but realist texts, with a shift of perspective, can also have a similar effect of challenging the boundaries of ‘the real’. Furthermore, literature and artistic practices have

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the power to render mobility—an element that is often seen to escape representation (Cresswell 2006, 47; Murray and Upstone 2014a, 5)—representable. Representations of mobility are also closely connected to the realm of the embodied and the experienced. As Roman Kabelik (2019, 143) writes, literary representations “provide sensations and feelings of mobility in its multiple forms and dimensions”. Furthermore, according to Aguiar et al. (2019, 17), literary texts are “vital constituents of the ways in which mobility itself is experienced as an embodied, subjective act that is informed by, and through, the cultural context in which it occurs”. As Lynne Pearce (2020, 81) underlines, because of its high degree of reflexivity and honesty, literature offers a privileged entry into “the full complexity of our experience of mobility”. What could be added is that literary texts and other artistic practices have the power to produce tangible, intensified, and even defamiliarized understandings of mobility that rise above the triviality of the everyday in a way that unveils “the extraordinary experiences of mobility” (Adey 2010, 31). Despite the ongoing humanities turn in mobility studies, the New Mobilities Paradigm and theories of mobilities research are not necessarily well known in certain fields in the humanities. As Pearce (2020, 77) argues, literary scholars have been particularly “slow to engage with the theories, concepts and paradigms developed by mobilities scholars”, and that while many work on mobility-related topics, they have not necessarily heard of the NMP or mobility studies. The same goes for postcolonial studies, a field that, as Amanda Lagji (2019, 229) writes, has “not yet experienced the ‘mobilities turn’ associated with the new mobilities paradigm”. While there are some engagements with mobility studies theories in postcolonial literary studies (e.g., Upstone 2014; Green-Simms 2017; Ponsavady 2018; Toivanen 2021a), most of the work on mobility-related topics in the field does not enter in any explicit dialogue with mobilities research. Indeed, while the term ‘mobility’ features frequently in postcolonial discussions, it is mostly used interchangeably with postcolonial studies keywords such as ‘migration’, ‘exile’ and ‘diaspora’ in a way that ignores the tangibly mobile—or immobile—aspects of these phenomena and that often reduces mobility to a metaphor (Toivanen 2023, 1–2). Representations of mobility practices and their aesthetic features remain the blind spot of postcolonial literary studies, which is somewhat surprising given the paradigmatic position of the figure of the migrant in the field (Toivanen 2021b, 158) and the acknowledgment of the key role of

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movement in the colonial project (Aguiar et al. 2019, 17). When it comes to Literary Urban Studies, dialogue with mobilities research can be particularly fertile, given the inherently mobile nature of the city. Moreover, in Literary Urban Studies, the initial focus on the urban space makes it easier to see the relevance of mobilities as local, everyday practices instead of understanding mobility primarily as wide-scale, transnational movements as in postcolonial literary studies. Of course, to study mobilities in the humanities does not necessarily mean applying mobility studies theories. As Pearce writes, “the NMP-­ inflected ‘mobilities’ does not own the copyright of ‘mobility’”, and human sciences have “the potential to broaden, enrich, and revitalize” sociological understandings of mobility (2020, 77). In a similar vein, Peter Merriman stresses that the NMP or the mobilities turn should not “overshadow the much longer history of academic engagements with practices of mobility” (2012, 13). ‘Mobility’ does not necessarily mean the same thing for literary scholars as for social scientists but, at the same time, interdisciplinary dialogue would definitively be beneficial for both literary scholars and social sciences mobilities studies scholars alike. According to Aguiar et  al., the most inspiring scholarly exchanges result when the humanities “actively enter into dialogue with the research that has emerged from the mobilities paradigm as conceptualised by Sheller and Urry” (2019, 26). The power of the NMP lies in its way of drawing attention to the “entanglement of mobilities of all scales and registers in our daily lives” (Aguiar et al. 2019, 26; emphasis in original). Literary texts and artistic practices are invaluable sites for exploring the human experiences of these interactions and how textual and artistic representations and performances contribute to producing meanings of mobility. In this volume, individual contributions attest to the diversity of humanities approaches to (im)mobility in urban contexts. While some chapters explicitly refer to the NMP and the theoretical discussions of mobility studies, in others the question of (im)mobility is not primarily approached through this specific theoretical frame of reference but from the perspective of other social science and humanities theories that are, nevertheless, helpful in exploring the (im)mobile aspects of the urban experience. Furthermore, while all the contributions touch upon the mobility/immobility theme in different urban contexts, some foreground more tangible and concrete forms of mobility and transport, whereas in others the theme of (im)mobility may be approached primarily as metaphorical movements and border-crossings that take place in the urban

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space. Despite the differences of focus, all contributions attest to the entwinement of the tangible and the metaphorical dimensions of urban mobilities. The contributions are divided into three sections, each of which places the focus on a different aspect of urban mobility: the first section is entitled Itinerant Subjects, the second Modes of Transport and Places of Transit, and the third Urban Liminalities. While most chapters discuss literary texts, some contributions move beyond literary studies, shifting the focus to artistic practices. These chapters explore how art interventions enact politics of mobility in urban contexts. The neologism “artivism”, a combination of art and activism, refers to “a critical process that destabilises everyday urban interactions and practices. […] [It] brings together diverse creations, whether they take the form of verbal or visual signs, graffiti, maps, installations or performances, that all have social change as their political purpose” (Mekdjian 2018, 39, see also Lemoine and Ouardi 2010; Lindgaard 2005; Rosa Dias 2017). The chapters centered on artivisms—Chap. 5 by Tania Rossetto, Chap. 6 by Maciej Kowalewski and Karolina Izdebska, Chap. 9 by Federica Mirra, and Chap. 13 by Karla Segura Pantoja—provide a diverse array of perspectives ranging from photography studies to performance-based interventions and city maps. Before we move on to explain each of these three sections, to emphasize the cohesive dimension of this volume we have selected six keywords that recur throughout the different chapters. These conceptual nodes provide interconnected paths between the chapters and explain the link to the ongoing debate on the role of literary narratives and artistic practices in the urban systems of mobility.

Glossary The term BORDER-CROSSING comprises two different ideas: a frontier and the act of moving through this frontier. “Border-crossing” involves processes of zoning and border control while also alluding to the ability to traversing an established frontier. The experience of crossing material or symbolic borders, as Johan Schimanski and Stephen F. Wolfe write, alters “the borderscape by entering border zones” (2017, 153). The border-­ crosser, therefore, constitutes a negotiating vector through two delimited spaces by embodying their entanglement in the act of crossing them. This figure thus introduces a set of border-related phenomena, such as hybridism, borderlands and in-betweenness, that focus on the ontology and

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phenomenology of indeterminacy, of being ‘between borders’, a crucial aspect that has influenced postcolonial (Bhabha 1994) and feminist thinkers (Anzaldúa 1987) and more recently queer and transfeminist urban geographers (Ahmed 2006; Browne and Nash 2010; Wilson 2014; Ghaziani 2015). In the field of narrative theory, scholarship has shed light on the act of reading as an activity that involves continuous border-­ crossing and border negotiation. Engaging with literature from this perspective is a hermeneutical experience in which liminality operates at multiple levels and is expressed through border figures (Schimanski 2006, 2015, 2016). In the past decades, urban scholarship has provided a wealth of approaches that have enriched the traditional meaning of border-crossing as related primarily to geographical entry points to the city. Urban critics, from Karen Franck, Quentin Stevens’s “loose space” (2007) to Stavros Stavrides “city of thresholds” (2010), have brought to our attention the porosity of clearly bounded spaces in the city and our agency to affect these divisions. These studies have insisted on our capacity to appropriate city frontiers and reinvent them, reminding us that all urban dwellers can be border-makers and border-crossers. The contributions of this volume demonstrate that the image of the border-crosser is a powerful tool for thinking about processes of identity-­ formation across frontier spaces, whether geo-politically or symbolically, as addressed in Chap. 2 by Sophie Kriegel, Chap. 4 by Aristi Trendel, Chap. 9 by Federica Mirra, Chap. 11 by Johan Schimanski, Chap. 12 by Rosa-María Díez Cobo and Chap. 13 by Karla Segura Pantoja. This figure helps us study the politics and aesthetics of thresholds in urban environments, as the chapters in Part III show. The concept of border-crossing also invites us to consider how certain urban locations are perceived as racialized borderlands and are pushed to the margins, while their inhabitants become unwelcome or illegal trespassers into some segregated and policed city areas, as discussed in Chap. 3 by Anubhav Pradhan and Chap. 10 by Valentina Barnabei. Finally, some contributions, for example, Chap. 14 by Patricia García, demonstrate that the creative process of re-­bordering urban spaces is a potentially liberating act that appropriates material uses of public space to meet community needs and desires. ***

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Cities, especially their public spaces, enable ENCOUNTERS with strangers. As a site of “ever-shifting constellation of trajectories”, the city can be seen as a place of throwntogetherness as “the chance of space” may generate unexpected encounters between those on the move (Massey 2005, 151). In effect, urban mobility practices such as walking can be seen to enable encounters with Otherness (Stavrides 2001). Urban encounters produce and maintain difference, frame urban experiences and subjectivities, produce different temporal registers, and may even generate change (Wilson and Darling 2016, 2). “The business of everyday life” in the city necessarily involves mixing with others, and these encounters might not always be pleasant (Bodnar 2015, 2092). Urban public spaces in big cities in particular often suffer from crime, poverty and racism, which have generated attitudes of “wariness towards strangers” (Anderson 2004, 15). Encounters with strangers in the public spaces of the city tend to bring different segments of the society together, producing markers of difference. At the same time, literary texts also represent public spaces as enablers of encounters and identification of marginalized subjects (see, e.g., Flint 2009). Moreover, urban experiences of throwntogetherness may also generate cosmopolitan canopies (Anderson 2004, 15), whereby more convivial encounters with Otherness become possible, facilitating openness to diversity (Anderson 2004, 28). When thinking about the city as inherently mobile, it is also possible to understand the concept of public space through the lens of mobility instead of seeing it from a more traditional perspective as fixed and settled (Smith 2020, 305). The idea of public space as mobile—consisting of fast and slow mobilities but also of pauses (Smith 2020, 310)—finds another manifestation in public transport, which can be defined as a mobile public space (Koefoeld et al. 2017, 726; Tuvikene et al. 2021). To see public transport as a mobile public space involves understanding it as a site for ephemeral encounters, characterized by the intense closeness of individual passengers sharing the limited space of a vehicle, which underlines the embodied aspects of the experience of throwntogetherness (Koefoeld et al. 2017, 726; Wilson 2011, 635). Obviously, encounters in (mobile) public space play a key role in city texts’ production of citiness and in how the meanings of the urban (im)mobilities of different fictional characters and of the differences between passengers are constructed (see, e.g., Amann 2018; Finch 2021). As such, urban encounters can also drive the plot and contribute to character development. Encounters in the mobile space of the city or on different modes of transport are addressed

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in Chap. 2 by Sophie Kriegel, Chap. 5 by Tania Rossetto, Chap. 6 by Maciej Kowalewski and Karolina Izdebska, Chap. 7 by Anna-Leena Toivanen, Chap. 8 by Lena Englund, and Chap. 10 by Valentina Barnabei. *** Some mobilities, such as tourism or migration journeys, tend to be long-­distance and non-daily and can have life-changing effects (Kellerman 2012, 1). Mobilities in urban space, on the other hand, are frequently seen as EVERYDAY MOBILITIES that consist of traveling shorter distances and that, through their repetitiveness—as in the case of commuting—can be seen as “routine cyclical rides” (Kellerman 2012, 5). In addition to exploring the meanings of long-distance, non-daily mobilities, mobility studies is interested in mundane, seemingly trivial mobility practices. ‘Banal’ everyday urban mobilities such as pedestrianism, cycling, automobility, or travel by public transport play a pivotal role in the way in which the meanings of urban space and of specific places in the city are “constituted by the movement as much as by their morphological properties” (Jensen 2009, 140). From the perspective of the mobile subject, repetitive everyday urban mobilities “produce a place characterized by a high degree of homeliness and routine” (Jensen 2020, 141) and serve as a way of establishing a sense of belonging in the city through movement. Of course, with their diverse mobility systems and mobile infrastructures, cities are complex spaces to navigate. Indeed, urban mobilities require knowledge that enables urbanites to “work the city” (Buhr 2018, 340; emphasis original). For this reason, being on the move in an unfamiliar city may be an alienating experience; literary texts can be particularly powerful in conveying such ‘extraordinary’ experiences of urban mobility (see, e.g., Rosello 2016; Toivanen 2019). Beyond the scale of the individual, everyday urban mobilities also produce the rhythms of the city (Amin and Thrift 2002, 18)—a space which is seen to be inherently polyrhythmic (Lefebvre 2004). Rhythms of the city are the “coordinates through which inhabitants and visitors frame and order urban experience” (Amin and Thrift 2002, 17). The concept of rhythm further strengthens the intertwinement of movement and spatiality to include temporality, allowing for an understanding of a mobile sense of place (Edensor 2014, 163, 165). From the perspective that the concept of rhythm gives us, it is possible to look at the intertwinement of space and time of the city as a wider entity but also to analyze this relationship from

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the perspective of an individual fictional character (see, e.g., Rodríguez Gonzáles 2016). In this volume, different aspects of urban everyday mobilities, such as their repetitiveness and banality, are addressed in Chap. 3 by Anubhav Pradhan, Chap. 7 by Anna-Leena Toivanen, Chap. 8 by Lena Englund, Chap. 10 by Valentina Barnabei, Chap. 11 by Johan Schimanski, and Patricia García in Chap. 14. *** FLÂNERIE is undoubtedly one of the most well-known keywords related to urban walking. Although there are some earlier references, we are greatly indebted to Baudelaire and Benjamin for the popularity of the flâneur. Developed in the context of modernity as an approach to urban life and as a way of experiencing the streets by walking, the image of the flâneur formed through foundational literary texts such as Poe’s “The Man of the Crowd” or Baudelaire’s “Les Foules” (The Crowd) is that of a male urban stroller who explores the city on foot, alone, and observes the life that takes place in it. However, as Baudelaire himself wrote in “Les Foules”, the capacity to wander leisurely, without aim, in the city, observing the crowd while remaining anonymous is “an incomparable privilege” (2009, 22). Since the publication of Janet Wolff’s pivotal essay “The Invisible Flâneuse” (1985), followed by Elizabeth Wilson’s response (1992), feminist critics have questioned the universality or even possibility of this figure in its female version (Parsons 2000; Kern 2019). Postcolonial criticism has also challenged traditional approaches to the flâneur by exploring its potential as a black urban wanderer traversing a predominantly white city (Msiska 2010; Minnaard 2013; Hartwiger 2016; Cole 2018; Aatkar 2020). Clearly, Mark Turner’s contention that the flâneur is “a tired figure by now, exhausted surely at having to bear the burden of so many discussions of urban modernity” (2010, 307) has been thoroughly contradicted. Indigenous, cyber, tourist and post-tourist, transcultural, black, migrant, pregnant, queer, cruising or parkour-flânerie are some of the iterations that over the past few years have broken away from the paradigm of the “vrai flâneur” (Huart 1841, 122) by providing critical and imaginative alternatives to the white-male-heterosexual able-bodied European character idly strolling alone through the streets of European metropolises. The twenty-first-century flâneur/flâneuse is an ethnographer (Jenks and Neves 2000; Coates 2017) who, in their desire to come to grips with urban life,

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is aware of the multiple embodied markers that mediate their capacity to move around in the city (Wrigley 2014; Elkin 2016) and provides “ex-­ centric” perspectives to the urban space they traverse (Marfè 2012; Aatkar 2020). Contemporary flânerie, as the act of aimless walking, is also vindicated as a resistance practice against the capitalist logic that drives us to stay in interior spaces to maximize consumption (Solnit 2001). A disputed term still today, current revisitations of flânerie inspire vibrant critical perspectives on urban walking practices (Comfort and Papalas 2021). Some contributors to our volume participate directly in this critical expansion of flânerie. They push the term in new directions by presenting metamorphoses of this figure from gender, decolonial and transcultural perspectives in a variety of cultural contexts and art forms: cases in point are Chap. 2 by Sophie Kriegel, Chap. 4 by Aristi Trendel as well as Chap. 14 by Patricia García. *** Technology-enhanced mobilities in urban space often involve the process of becoming a passenger—or that of “doing passengering” (Laurier et  al. 2008, 3). PASSANGERING involves mobile infrastructures, which, in turn, play a pivotal role in the production of urban mobile subjectivities such as the user of the metro (Höhne 2015, 314). The concept of passengering captures the idea of assemblage, namely that mobile humans are “almost always part of an assemblage that includes material objects that are gathered together” to ensure different mobility practices (Dant 2014, 369). The notion of passengering involves the systemic aspects of mobility and the embeddedness of the passenger in mobility systems in a way that moves beyond the idea of a “solitary individual on the move” (Adey et al. 2012, 171). In so doing, the “figure of the passenger casts the sovereignty of subjectivity into doubt” (Adey et al. 2012, 172). Yet, at the same time, scholars have underlined that passengers are not merely passively transported or ‘moved’ by others. Passengering entails agency in the form of the intentionality of purpose, which refers to directing one’s “consciousness to where the mobile subject is to go”, while the driver’s agency entails the intentionality of progress, namely how the mobility will be realized (Dant 2014, 370). In addition to its non-human systemic and componential aspects, in many cases passengering involves human encounters (see, e.g., Wilson 2010). Passengering, particularly by public transport, is an experience of

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what Alasdair Pettinger (2012, 132) refers to as “shared travel-ness”—a concept that captures the copresence and interaction between passengers in the mobile space of the vehicle (129). While the narrative transitions that portrayals of travel by public transport in city literatures generate may often be relatively small in scale (Toivanen 2021c, 3), scenes of encounters and interaction in urban public transport can, nevertheless, play an important role in character and plot construction and in the way in which texts produce citiness. Passengering and the systemic/assemblage qualities of urban mobilities are addressed, in particular, in Part III of this volume, in Chap. 7 by Anna-Leena Toivanen, Chap. 8 by Lena Englund and Chap. 10 by Valentina Barnabei. *** Different manifestations of STASIS are as central to mobility studies as are mobilities themselves. Mobilities research does not romanticize mobility, give priority to a mobile subjectivity, or ‘celebrate’ mobile ‘flows’ (Sheller and Urry 2006, 211). On the contrary, mobility studies recognizes immobility as the unavoidable underside of mobility (Matereke 2016, 116). By highlighting questions of power that inform mobilities, it is possible to see mobility not only as freedom or connection but also from the viewpoint of stasis and confinement (Glick Schiller and Salazar 2013, 190). A relational understanding of mobility and immobility moves beyond binary oppositions and instead highlights their interdependency. Cities are often associated with pronouncedly mobile imagery such as flux and accelerated speed. Such a characterization overshadows not only moments of inertia and stasis but also the diverse scales between mobility and immobility that are integral to urban life such as pausing and waiting. Pausing, according to Judie Cidell (2020, 154), “refers to a temporary cessation of motion with the intention of resuming that motion”. Pausing can be voluntary or involuntary but it entails the idea of continuing movement, whereas in the case of waiting “there might not be an intention to move, or even the ability to do so” (Cidell 2020, 154). Waiting, as conceptualized by David Bissell (2007, 277), is pivotal to “the fabric of the mobile everyday”. According to Bissell, “transportational mobilities are constituted as much through the in activity, the pauses and various suspensions experienced as part of the journey through time/space through the necessarily hybrid event of waiting” (2007, 294; emphasis original). Moreover, being a passenger inside of a vehicle “implicates confinement”

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(Adey et  al. 2012, 172), leading to conditions of stagnation-in-­ movement—a trope that has been used to challenge modernist associations of mobility with freedom in literary texts (see, e.g., Davidson 2012). Immobility can also be associated with marginalized, socially deprived urban spaces as in the case of the ghetto (Jaffe 2012) or the slum or bidonville (Pieprzak 2016), which are built on the notions of social difference and urban deviance that needs to be contained. In this volume, the link between social exclusion, socially deprived urban areas and immobility is addressed by Anubhav Pradhan in Chap. 3, by Federica Mirra in Chap. 9, and Valentina Barnabei in Chap. 10. Moreover, gendered fears of physical or sexual violence affect women’s mobilities in the city and lead to particular strategies of urban mobility that are dictated by fear and that can even end up producing immobility (Loukaitou-Sideris 2014). In our volume, the potentially violent, gendered aspects of urban (im)mobilities are addressed in  Chap. 2 by Sophie U.  Kriegel and Chap. 14 by Patricia García. The mobility-immobility nexus is also central in Chap. 5 by Tania Rossetto, Chap. 6 by Karolina Izdebska and Maciej Kowalewski, Chap. 12 by Rosa-María Díez Cobo, as well as Chap. 13 by Karla Segura Pantoja.

About This Book The chapters in this collection merge literary analysis and artistic practices with questions of (im)mobility as developed in the fields of urban studies, sociology, migration studies, postcolonial studies and gender studies. The different contributions employ a framework that is sensitive to the intersecting dimensions of power and discrimination that shape the kinetic features of the urban. Authors examine how urban mobilities and mobility systems in the city are constructed and narrated from the perspective of race, nationality, disability, class, gender and other social categories and status markers. Part I: Itinerant Subjects provides a re-examination of mobile subjects from the points of view of racial segregation, informal urbanism and transculturality. Moreover, contributions in this part of the book highlight that mobile subjects can also be non-human as in the case of maps, and that they can be involved in activism through artistic practices. The first three chapters in this section engage with literary figures such as the black migrant mine worker, the homeless waste worker, and the Afrodiasporic transcultural walker to examine the discourses of race, class and gender that map the characters’ itineraries in a variety of contemporary

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megacities, including Delhi, New York and Johannesburg. Sophie Kriegel’s chapter concentrates on urban spatiality and the role of (im) mobility in the construction of collective identities in two South African novels from the 1940s, namely Alan Paton’s Cry, the Beloved Country and Mine Boy by Peter Abrahams. Kriegel’s reading of urban (im)mobilities highlights the meanings of race, class and gender. Anubhav Pradhan provides an analysis on informal urbanism and its literary representations in the context of South Asia. Focusing on Delhi, Pradhan analyzes the entanglement of home and work in the novels A Free Man (Aman Sethi) and Bicycle Dreaming (Mridula Koshy). Through the theoretical lens of ambivalence, the chapter engages with itinerant and homeless city characters, their embodiment of mobility, dispossession and the resignification of family and labor. Aristi Trendel approaches urban mobilities in Teju Cole’s novel Open City through the figure of the Afrodiasporic transcultural flâneur and from the perspective of the formation of nomadic subjectivity à la Rosi Braidotti. The last two chapters move us beyond the literary sphere and reflect on the potential of artistic practices and performances to instigate social change. In a creative take on the theme of mobilization, Tania Rossetto discusses the ability of maps to move people. Merging literary analysis, post-humanism, postcolonial theory and critical geography, Rossetto engages with four case studies: the novel La mia casa è dove sono (My Home Is Where I Am 2010) by Igiaba Scego; the map Resistenze locali al Decreto Salvini (Local resistance to the Salvini decree) and its engagement with urban protests; COVID-19-related maps that trace solidarity networks and Fonteuropa, impersonated as a talking subject to express critical concerns about current the state of Europe. Karolina Izdebska’s and Maciej Kowalewski’s chapter addresses symbolic practices of standing still in the city. Discussing a wide set of performances by Polish art activists, the authors explore how the act of stopping in public space merges artistic performance with political protest. Part II: Modes of Transport and Places of Transit gathers contributions that study how accessibility to public and private transportation determines physical as well as social mobility. Authors also explore how representations of transport establish links between urban, suburban and rural spaces in literary narratives and artistic representations. A bus journey to Dakar and out of Harare, car rides in Koidu in Sierra Leone and aeromobilities connecting African and European cities, metro journeys in contemporary Delhi, and artistic depictions of a hotel in Shenzhen are some of the examples discussed that shed light on the ways in which literary and

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visual representations of transport and places of transit are used to convey a sense of isolation, abjection, and displacement and also the potential for emancipation in and emotional attachment to the urban space. In her chapter, Anna-Leena Toivanen discusses the poetics of mobility and the alienating, abject aspects of travel by public transport in (post)colonial African urban contexts by analyzing “Niiwam” by Ousmane Sembène and Without a Name by Yvonne Vera. Lena Englund’s chapter analyzes autobiographical urban and transnational mobilities by exploring the meanings of different modes of transport in Aminatta Forna’s memoir The Devil That Danced on the Water: A Daughter’s Quest and her essay collection Notes from a Life in Motion: The Window Seat. Federica Mirra addresses the socio-spatial phenomenon of urban villages, informal settlements that cluster in big cities in China. Providing a range of examples from Chinese visual artists and collectives, Mirra explores the different mobility and migration systems that these sites articulate, with a particular focus on transience and interdependence between the city and countryside. And finally, Valentina Barnabei examines two contemporary Hindi short story collections, Trickster City and A City Happens in Love, to discuss the ways in which access to public and private transportation affects the lives of specific groups—young people, inhabitants of informal settlements, and residents of resettlement colonies—in Delhi. Part III. Urban Liminalities moves to the geographical urban margins and engages with the theme of mobility as it operates in borderlands featuring in literary narratives and other art forms such as photography. The four chapters in this section reflect on how urban peripheries harbor special types of mobility experiences and demonstrate that these interstitial, satellite areas are a fertile ground for hybrid narrative genres. Contributors explore mobility in its intersection with transitionality in a wide range of literary and visual forms, including contemporary suburban fantastic narratives, Norwegian diasporic literature, liminal spaces in photographic tales and recent Catalan novels set on the outskirts of Barcelona. Building on the cognitive turn in border studies, Johan Schimanski offers a theorization of border-crossing and urban peripheries in the context of postmigration literature in Norway. His chapter engages with border figures and geographical, geopolitical, cognitive and textual border-crossings in Sarah Zadid’s poem “alle må forlate toget” (‘everybody must leave the train’, 2018). Rosa María Díez Cobo’s chapter focuses on the Weird in Margo Lanagan’s Black Juice and Ariadna Castellarnau’s La oscuridad es un lugar, arguing that the manifestations of the ‘spatial unusual’ in these short story

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collections are closely linked to mobilities toward urban peripheries. Karla Segura Pantoja explores the work of photographer and photojournalist Kati Horna (1912–2000) and its engagement with personal exile, surrealism and political events such as the Spanish Civil War and the rise of fascism. Segura Pantoja argues that Horna’s art builds an intimate yet critical space in her art through the use of liminal images such as thresholds, door sills and other border figures. This blurs boundaries between interior and exterior spaces and empowers the domestic as a politically charged terrain echoing the events of the urban surroundings. Patricia García focuses on contemporary narratives set in low-income mass housing environments on the peripheries of Barcelona. Her analysis engages with the various mobility regimes in Paseos con mi madre (Javier Pérez Andújar), La travesía de las anguilas (Albert Lladó) and El lunes nos querrán (Najat El Hachmi), all of them authored by descendants of migrants. With the later novel, García also addresses the issue of gendered mobility and its intersection with race and class in urban peripheries. With this wide range of approaches and geographical case studies, we hope that our book contributes to the ongoing humanities turn in mobilities research and offers a fresh take on the aforementioned debates in the field, not only by discussing urban mobile subjectivities, modes of transport and mobility systems but also by highlighting the symbolic qualities of urban border-crossings. While our primary focus is the intersections between mobilities research and Literary Urban Studies, the exploration of other examples from the visual and performing arts will hopefully be of appeal to a broad audience interested in artistic interventions that unveil the ideologies of mobility in the city.

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Hui, Allison. 2016. The boundaries of interdisciplinary fields: Temporalities shaping the past and future of dialogue between migration and mobilities research. Mobilities 11 (1): 66–82. Jaffe, Rivke. 2012. Talkin’ ‘bout the ghetto: Popular culture and urban imaginaries of immobility. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 36 (4): 674–688. Jenks, Chris, and Tiago Neves. 2000. Walk on the wild side: Urban ethnography meets the flâneur. Journal of Cultural Research 4 (1): 1–17. Jensen, Ole B. 2009. Flows of meaning, cultures of movement: Urban mobility as meaningful everyday life practice. Mobilities 4 (1): 139–158. Jensen, Hanne Louise. 2020. The train commute. In Handbook of urban mobilities, ed. Ole B. Jensen et al., 136–143. London/New York: Routledge. Kabelik, Roman. 2019. Narrative senses of perspective and rhythm: Mobilising subjectivity with Werther and Effi Briest. In Mobilities, literature, culture, ed. Aguiar et al., 139–162. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Kellerman, Aharon. 2012. Daily spatial mobilities: physical and virtual. London/ New York: Routledge. Kern, Leslie. 2019. Feminist city: Claiming space in a man-made world. London/ New York: Verso. Kim, Jooyoung, et  al. 2019. Exploring humanistic layers of urban travel: Representation, imagination, and speculation. Transfers 9 (3): 99–108. Koefoeld, Lasse, Mathilde Dissing Christensen, and Kirsten Simonsen. 2017. Mobile encounters: Bus 5A as a cross-cultural meeting place. Mobilities 12 (5): 726–739. Lagji, Amanda. 2019. Waiting in motion: Mapping postcolonial fiction, new mobilities, and migration through Mohsin Hamid’s Exit West. Mobilities 14 (2): 218–232. Laurier, Eric, et al. 2008. Driving and ‘passengering’: Notes on the ordinary organization of car travel. Mobilities 3 (1): 1–23. Lefebvre, Henri. 2004. Rhythmanalysis: Space, time and everyday life. Trans. Stuart Elden and Gerald Moore. London: Continuum. Lemoine, Stéphanie, and Stéphanie Ouardi. 2010. Artivisme: art, action politique et résistance culturelle. Paris: Alternatives. Lindgaard, Jade. 2005. Artivism. Vacarme 31: 30–33. Loukaitou-Sideris, Anastasia. 2014. Fear and safety in transit environments from the women’s perspective. Security Journal 27 (2): 242–256. Marfè, Luigi. 2012. Italian counter-travel writing: Images of Italy in contemporary migration literature. Studies in Travel Writing 16 (2): 191–201. Massey, Doreen. 2005. For space. London: Sage. Matereke, Kudzai P. 2016. “Africa, are we there yet?”: Taking African mobilities seriously. Transfers 6 (2): 112–119.

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Mekdjian, Sarah. 2018. Urban Artivism and migrations. Disrupting spatial and political segregation of migrants in European cities. Cities 77: 39–48. Merriman, Peter. 2012. Mobility, space and culture. London: Routledge. ———. 2022. Space. London/New York: Routledge. ———. 2023. Mobility/fixity: Rethinking binaries in mobility studies. Mobility Humanities 2 (1): 6–21. Merriman, Peter, and Lynne Pearce. 2019. Mobility and the humanities. In Mobility and the humanities, ed. Peter Merriman and Lynne Pearce, 1–16. London: Routledge. Minnaard, Liesbeth. 2013. The postcolonial flaneur: Ramsey Nasr’s “Antwerpse Stadsgedichten”. Dutch Crossing: Journal of Low Country Studies 37 (1): 79–92. Msiska, Mpalive-Hangson. 2010. Sam Selvon’s the Lonely Londoners and the structure of Black metropolitan life. In African diaspora and the metropolis, ed. Fassil Demissie, 5–27. Murray, Lesley, and Sara Upstone. 2014a. Mobilising representations: Dialogues, embodiment and power. In Researching and representing mobilities: Transdisciplinary encounters, ed. Lesley Murray and Sara Upstone, 1–20. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. ———. 2014b. Conclusion. In Researching and representing mobilities: Transdisciplinary encounters, ed. Lesley Murray and Sara Upstone, 191–193. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Parsons, Deborah. 2000. Streetwalking the metropolis: Women, city and modernity. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pearce, Lynne. 2020. “Text-as-means” versus “text-as-end-in-itself’”: Some reasons why literary scholars have been slow to hop on the mobilities bus. Transfers 10 (1): 76–84. Pettinger, Alasdair. 2012. “Trains, boats, and planes”: Some reflections of travel writing and public transport. In Travel writing: Critical concepts in literary and cultural studied, ed. Tim Youngs and Charles Forsdick, 127–134. London: Routledge. Pieprzak, Katarzyna. 2016. Zones of perceptual enclosure: The aesthetics of immobility in Casablanca’s literary bidonvilles. Research in African Literatures 47 (3): 32–49. Ponsavady, Stéphanie. 2018. Cultural and literary representations of the automobile in French Indochina: A colonial roadshow. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Rodríguez Gonzales, Carla. 2016. The rhythms of the city: The performance of time and space in Suhayl Saadi’s Psychoraag. Journal of Commonwealth Literature 51 (1): 92–109. Rosa Dias, Fernando (ed.). 2017. Special Issue: Arte e Activismo Político. Convocarte—Revista de Ciências da Arte (4). Rosello, Mireille. 2016. Disorientation and accompaniment: Paris, the metro, and the migrant. Culture Theory and Critique 57 (1): 77–91.

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Schimanski, Johan. 2006. Crossing and reading: Notes towards a theory and a method. Nordlit 19: 41–63. ———. 2015. Reading borders and reading as crossing borders. In Borders and the changing boundaries of knowledge, ed. Inga Brandell, Marie Carlson, and Önver A. Çetrez, 91–107. Swedish Research Institute in Istanbul: Transactions. ———. 2016. What is a border figure? Border Culture: The Blog of the EUBORDERSCAPES Project Research Group for Border Crossing and Cultural Production, https://bordercult.hypotheses.org/92. Accessed 29 April 2022. Schimanski, Johan, and Stephen F. Wolfe, eds. 2017. Border aesthetics. New York/ Oxford: Berghahn. Sheller, Mimi. 2014. Sociology after the mobilities turn. In The Routledge handbook of mobilities, ed. Peter Adey, David Bissell, Kevin Hannam, Peter Merriman, and Mimi Sheller, 45–54. London: Routledge. Sheller, Mimi, and John Urry. 2006. The new mobilities paradigm. Environment and Planning A: Economy and Space 38 (2): 207–226. Smith, Shelley. 2020. The movement of public space. In Handbook of urban mobilities, ed. Ole B. Jensen, Claus Lassen, Vincent Kaufmann, Malene Freudendal-­ Pedersen, and Ida Sofie Gøtzsche Lange, 304–312. London: Routledge. Solnit, Rebecca. 2001. Wanderlust: A history of walking. London: Verso. Stavrides, Stavros. 2001. Navigating the metropolitan space: Walking as a form of negotiation with otherness. Journal of Psychogeography and Urban Research 1 (1). ———. 2010. Towards the city of thresholds. New York: Common Notions. Toivanen, Anna-Leena. 2019. Cartographies of Paris: Everyday mobilities in Michèle Rakotoson’s Elle, au printemps and Alain Mabanckou’s Tais-toi et meurs. Journal of Urban Cultural Studies 6 (1): 59–78. ———. 2021a. Mobilities and cosmopolitanisms in African and Afrodiasporic literatures. Leiden: Brill. ———. 2021b. Zombie travels: Middle passage journeys and clandestine migrant mobilities in contemporary francophone African and Afrodiasporic fiction. In Cultural mobilities between Africa and the Caribbean, ed. Birgit Englert, Barbara Gföllner, and Sigrid Thomsen, 156–175. London: Routledge. ———. 2023. On the move in the postcolonial metropolis: The Paris Metro in Francophone African and Afrodiasporic fiction. Urban Studies 60 (15): 3061-3077. Turner, Mark. 2010. Zigzagging. In Restless cities, ed. Matthew Beaumont and Gregory Dart, 299–315. London: Verso. Tuvikene, Tauri, et  al. 2021. Public transport as public space in European cities. Leibzig: Leibniz-Institut für Länderkunde e.V (IfL). https://nbn-­resolving. org/urn:nbn:de:0168-­ssoar-­72914-­5. Accessed 29 April 2022. Upstone, Sara. 2014. “Footprints are the only fixed point”: The mobilities of postcolonial fiction. In Researching and representing mobilities: Transdisciplinary encounters, ed. Lesley Murray and Sara Upstone, 39–56. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan.

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PART I

Itinerant Subjects

CHAPTER 2

Space, Mobility, and Belonging: Finding One’s Way Through Pre-Apartheid Johannesburg Sophie U. Kriegel

This chapter discusses how (im)mobility is used as a spatializing practice to create places of meaning for people by asking who is allowed to move and what movement does it take to become South African. The novels Cry, the Beloved Country (Paton 2002) and Mine Boy (Abrahams 1989) offer a starting point for such an analysis because they are carriers of cultural meaning and commonly recognized as part of the South African literary canon. Both works explore questions of (national) belonging through their main characters and movement within Johannesburg. Even though both novels employ similar spatializing strategies, their answers to the question ‘Who is South African?’ differ. Cry, the Beloved Country and Mine Boy prioritize different identity discourses as relevant for the formation of collective identities thus arriving at different ideas of nationhood despite a similar use of mobility.

S. U. Kriegel (*) Freie Universität Berlin, Berlin, Germany e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 P. García, A.-L. Toivanen (eds.), Urban Mobilities in Literature and Art Activism, Literary Urban Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42798-5_2

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South Africa has a complex history of colonization, institutionalized racism, and patriarchal constraints which makes it necessary to approach these literary texts by considering postcolonial, intersectional, and feminist theory. For this purpose, the chapter highlights how the New Mobilities Paradigm, postcolonial studies, and intersectional theory can be combined to achieve a more comprehensive understanding of South African texts that negotiate belonging. Mobility studies theories can be a very productive analytical tool of literary criticism, as Marian Aguiar et al. (2019, 4) pointedly observe in their call for a deeper engagement with the framework. Movement and mobility are constitutive elements of storytelling (Berensmeyer and Ehland 2013, 11) and can offer insights into the process of how belonging is constructed.

At the Intersection of Mobility and Postcolonial Texts A literary analysis of space and mobility gives the opportunity to explore the construction of (national) belonging from different perspectives. It is impossible to understand how people relate to each other when forming a nation without considering identity. Apart from citizenship, politics of belonging also derives from identity and the emotion it carries because identity relates to how people define themselves and each other. This act of definition requires a constant negotiation of boundaries along hegemonic discourses to establish who is ‘us’, who is ‘them’, and ultimately who am ‘I’ (Yuval-Davis et al. 2006, 1–3). In recent years, postcolonial literary criticism has increasingly employed mobility studies theories to inquire into the intricate ways in which people define themselves through mobility. The car is one of such recurringly explored forms. Lindsay Green-Simms (2017) links global modernity with the car’s symbolism of freedom and independence in West Africa, Stéphanie Ponsavady (2018) questions the contradictory link between the colonial discourse on ‘progress’ with the actual development of transportation systems in French Indochina. Other kinds of mobility become central to Anna-Leena Toivanen’s (2021) discussion of cosmopolitanism, which uncovers common themes in franco- and anglophone literature of the 1990s to 2010s. Toivanen demands an enhanced dialogue between both fields to change the frequent misleading perception that mobility equates either to the cosmopolitanism of Western metropolitan subjects or migration. This

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discourse still prevails despite Kudzai Matereke’s (2011) call for a change in perception, more than a decade ago. These few examples of postcolonial literary research into mobility show how crucial boundaries, whether material or immaterial, are to forming a sense of ourselves and others. The bodily experiences of mobility in the spaces that surround us find their way into literary texts. Literary works show how meaning is given to social practices (Demissie 2009, 1) and material spaces (Said 1994, 6). Every literary narration is somehow grounded in space because humans embed all spaces in narratives (literary or not) to cognitively organize them and make them relatable (Tally 2014, 2). We need narratives to construct a place and a people to which they belong. However, we also commonly use spatial relations to express non-spatial relations like class, race, gender, and their various intersections (Beck 2013, 109). Analyzing literary spaces makes it possible to explore the construction of belonging from two perspectives simultaneously. First, it looks at how humans make sense of material spaces around them with their geographical, architectural, and infrastructural constraints. Second, literary analysis explores the hegemonic discourses that people use to organize non-spatial relations about how they relate to each other and create communities. Both processes rely on the use of defining borders so that a person can categorize, compare, and comprehend their physical and social place. Movement and mobility are essential to this process because mobility allows for the mapping of these spaces and the transgression of boundaries that are fundamental to the formation of belonging. That is why literary criticism that explores notions of belonging should pay attention to questions of (im)mobility. Recently, the humanities have seen an increased interest in the relationship between power and mobility. The so-called mobilities turn has led to the theorization of such approaches as the New Mobilities Paradigm. Mimi Sheller and John Urry popularized the paradigm to track the power of discourses and practices of mobility in creating movement and stasis (2006, Urry 2007). Tim Cresswell (2006) has contributed to the paradigm by linking mobility to collective identities, where he is especially concerned with the meaning that is appointed to certain mobilities and how that affects representation and the understanding of citizenship. Mobility can be defined as the ability to move or to be moved (Beck 2013, 111), but it always involves moments of control that (re)enforce power (Massey 1994, 149–150). Place is significant here, since mobility can also be understood as moving from A to B, which is why an analysis of

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mobility should always consider the construction of space and how it is linked by mobility, as Cresswell has pointed out in his discussion on mobility as an interpretative framework (2006, 2–6). This co-constitutive relationship between space and mobility stresses the relational character of both concepts. Mobility allows the construction of space as a simultaneous and interrelated process of materially embedded practices (Massey 2005) and space allows to define mobility as an overcoming of difference between two spaces (material or immaterial) (Frello 2008). An analysis that looks at both generates greater insights into how belonging is negotiated on an individual and collective level. In South Africa, questions of mobility and belonging to a new nation became particularly relevant after the end of apartheid in 1994 that also ended the legal restrictions on the mobility of black and colored people. The transition drew attention to experiences of mobility, interaction, and the dynamism of space (Robinson 1998, 163). However, the abolished apartheid laws were based on previously existing discourses that already structured mobility before 1948, the beginning of apartheid. Employing the New Mobilities Paradigm for literary texts from the 1940s leads to a better understanding of the origin and still impactful consequences of discourses on racialized mobility in South Africa. In combination with other areas of critical inquiry, the New Mobilities Paradigm can be used to question underlying racial and gender bias when it comes to (im)mobility (Frello 2008), which makes it particularly useful in the South African context. In general, the paradigm can be employed in the literary analysis of postcolonial texts with their frequent negotiations of spatial discourses (Lagji 2019). In addition, any inquiry into power structures needs to be aware that categories like race and class are homogenizing and do not do justice to the people that make up the multiplicity of these. In addition, it hides “the permeability of group identities and the movements of poli-vocal subjects” (Lugones 2003, 34). An analysis of space and mobility with an intersectional perspective works toward minimizing the naturalizing character that these essentialist identity categories hold and works toward giving marginalized subjects a voice, as Kimberlé Crenshaw (2018) intended to when she introduced the intersectional paradigm in the context of black feminism in the late 1980s. The use of the terms ‘hegemonic’ and ‘marginalized’ in this text should be understood as “relative structural locations […] rather than fixed positions” (Haschemi Yekani 2011, 30) to underline that identity categories are defined differently depending on locality and context.

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The intersectional perspective that the present chapter applies helps to challenge the notions of mobility and immobility in varied manners. First, it helps to question the underlying identity categories that impact mobility and space and their constructed character. Furthermore, it emphasizes that questions of belonging do not just relate to a migrant experience but that local mobilities are productive in discourses of national belonging as well. Ultimately, it stresses that mobility is not per se positive and always equitable with greater freedom. (Im)mobility is at the core of negotiating spaces of belonging and integral to the imagination as a nation despite differences in class, race, and gender in South Africa.

All Routes Lead to Johannesburg Many narratives set in Johannesburg use the cityscape for intricate explorations of the relation between space, mobility, and belonging because of its symbolic character. There are the more recent novels such as Zoo City (Beukes 2010), Portrait with Keys (Vladislavić 2006), or the sci-fi film District 9 (2009). Nevertheless, already one of the first South African movies, African Jim (1949), as well as the first English novel by a Zulu writer, An African Tragedy (R.R.R. Dhlomo 1928), serve as commentary on the importance of these three concepts. There is plenty of literature on Johannesburg and much of it has been studied already since it is one of the few globally known African metropolises. However, mobility studies can add valuable insights into the existing corpus by revealing not just the importance of im/mobility in the cultural production about the city but also the difference in construction of mobility and immobility. South Africa has experienced many events of intense mobility from European colonization and the Great Trek to the Mfecane, labor migration, and apartheid’s control of movement (Gibson 2019, 35). The city of Johannesburg has not been around for some of these mobilities, but as a locus of national culture, many groups have tried to leave a mark in its young urban landscape. These diverse claims to the city are further manifested in literary narrations such as Cry, the Beloved Country and Mine Boy. Sheila Hones, referencing Massey’s idea of space as relational, points out that literary spaces “emerge out of highly complex spatial interrelations which connect writer, text and reader” while never being fixed or limited to one interpretation (2011, 248–249). Therefore, cities and stories about cities are frequent symbols of centralizing forces and strongly linked to the imagination of the nation-state (Ameel et  al. 2015, 2–3; Diener and

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Hagen 2019, 2–3), showing how city space relates to writers and readers alike. There is no better place than Johannesburg with its history of rapid urbanization, unequal wealth distribution, and colonial history to uncover how complex these relations are. Therefore, it is not surprising that recent scholarship on African societies has had a strong focus on cities as a location of identity formation (Diener and Hagen 2019, 169). Cry, the Beloved Country and Mine Boy show how the association of characters with certain localities is connected with explorations of mobility. The characters’ (im) mobility is constitutive of spatial relations since the differences and hierarchies of various spaces become visible through the characters actions (Beck 2013, 110). The novels negotiate highly complex spatial interrelations that are indicative of the discourses of belonging in Johannesburg and by extension South African society at the dawn of apartheid. Thus, a discussion of these works enables insights into the negotiation of national belonging beyond the literary realm. Johannesburg was founded in 1886 upon the discovery of gold and quickly developed into a wealthy urban center attracting resources, people, and power from all over Southern Africa. The city became a carrier of cultural meaning (Beck 2013, 108) and has since featured heavily in cultural productions as a metropolis that shapes notions of belonging on a local and national level. And if narrative is what turns a space into a place (Tally 2014, 2) then Johannesburg is the place to be in South Africa. From the beginning, Johannesburg’s cityscape was influenced by colonial, capitalist, and patriarchal discourses on mobility and space. The dominating collective in the pre-apartheid period was white. However, before the twentieth-century class had a greater impact as an identity category compared to the apartheid era and white people could be found among the poor and some black people among the middle class (Maylam 1995, 23; Kruger 2018, 31–32). At the beginning of the twentieth century, efforts increased to enforce racial segregation more strictly (Bremner 1998, 49–50). This needs to be seen as part of the discourse on the ‘sanitation syndrome’ that assumed the African body as a source of disease and, therefore, a threat to white settlers. In combination with the ever-present discourse on ‘black crime’ as well as gendered and racialized discourses of immorality local authorities justified the re-settlement of working-class poor in general and Africans in particular (Demissie 2009, 2–3). These circumstances made valuable land close to the city center available for re-­ development and were perceived by poor whites as improving their job security and, therefore, functioned as a form of labor control to divide the

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poor working class (Maylam 1995, 25–26). After the Boer War, many Afrikaners had moved to the city in search for income opportunities. There they had to compete with more skilled European immigrants and the cheaper labor that black people were forced to provide. As John Clare puts it, “all the Afrikaners had to offer were their white skins and the entitlement that gave them the vote” (2010, 313). In this regard, class and race have always been closely linked in the South African context, as also suggested by my analysis. Cry, the Beloved Country focuses less on a class discourse than on highlighting the re-development of the urban space along racial lines that took several decades (Maylam 1995, 28) and followed popular practices of city planning in the British Empire. The popular ideas of urban planning at that time lent themselves particularly well to the creation of racially segregated cities (Sapire and Beall 1995, 8). Mixed-race slums were cleared and new neighborhoods for Europeans-only were established according to designs of the garden city and modernist movements. Yet, in 1940s Johannesburg, there were still mixed neighborhoods like Sophiatown, New Clare, and Alexandra, where white, black, and colored people could legally own land and lived together (Bickford-Smith 2016). Both novels set the racially mixed spaces in relation to racially homogenous ones through their characters’ mobility. Historically speaking, the ability to move varied greatly from individual to individual depending on race, class, and gender. The pass laws in different forms had restricted the mobility of predominantly black and colored male workers since the early eighteenth century. The legislation made it mandatory to carry a document that specified which areas could be accessed by a pass carrier. Women were occasionally less restricted and were particularly vocal in their protests. On occasion, they achieved more relaxed pass laws for themselves, for example, between the 1920s and 1940s. Legislation on mobility functioned as a form of influx control to limit migration to the city. It increased with the efforts of racial segregation after World War I. The restrictions on mobility had a spatializing component since they prescribed where people could move and, hence, live in the city. The migration of black workers was channeled to campgrounds of the gold mines or the houses of white employers. ‘African residential areas’ were built far away from the city center forcing the non-white workforce into long commutes between their place of work and living (Demissie 2009, 5). This shows that heightened mobility is neither always voluntary nor freeing, especially when it derives out of the commodification of people

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and their labor. During the first half of the twentieth century, an ever-­ decreasing number of black and colored people could live outside of the mines and employers’ homes. Nevertheless, in pre-apartheid South Africa, class was still an influential factor on the ability to move and a small, educated, black middle class could find exemptions from carrying passes (Crankshaw 2005, 354). Cry, the Beloved Country and Mine Boy are of particular interest to a literary analysis because they link these materially embedded historic discourses of spatial segregation and (in)voluntary mobility with questions of belonging that surface in the South African paradox of defining cities as privileged ‘white’ spaces while they heavily depended on the labor and mobility of black and colored people to maintain their self-portrayal as part of ‘white’ urban modernity. The novels employ similar aesthetic strategies when they use the mobilities of their main characters to map the urban space and define the city as a symbolic place to gain knowledge to transform the South African nation. Both novels are also similar in how they employ female side characters to reinforce traditional gender stereotypes. Part of the construction of female characters is a different presentation of their mobility and the spaces in which they are encountered by readers. This sets them into a particular relationship with the male main characters and the new nation these wish to achieve. Despite similarities in mapping the national symbol that is Johannesburg and the gendering of mobility, the novels diverge in their imagery of the new national collective and claims of belonging.

Cry, the Beloved Country: Shaping a Nation Between Urban Modernity and the Countryside Cry, the Beloved Country constructs Johannesburg as a fragmented city in which neighborhoods are presented as racialized and connected by streets as racially mixed spaces. The historical fragmentation of the city was furthered by the 1933 proclamation of it as ‘white’ resulting in the removal of most black people to the South and West of the city and the establishment of ‘white’ suburbs in the North (Bremner 1998, 50). The specific regional distribution of a racialized population derived from the location of the gold mines and industry which had accumulated in the South and Southwest of the city. By the 1940s, the period in which Cry, the Beloved Country is set, only a few freehold townships still existed, in which

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non-white people were allowed to live. The ones featuring most frequently in Cry, the Beloved Country are Sophiatown (5 kilometers from city center) and Alexandra (20 kilometers Northeast from city center), both of which are described as predominantly ‘black’ spaces with a distinctive absence of colored people. In addition, the narrative employs other locations characterized by a majority of black and poor people like Orlando and Pimville. The novel connects the ‘white’ suburbs with ‘black’ townships and slums through a positivist construction of mobility that is only limited by financial means and a lack of knowledge of modernity but not by an increasingly oppressive governmental control of black urban life (Maylam 1995, 31). Cry, the Beloved Country, internationally perceived as the first anti-­ apartheid novel, anchors its sympathetic portrayal of African nationalism (Clare 2010, 361) in the description of actual urban places in Johannesburg, which gives the plot an apparent authenticity and its message of racial reconciliation legitimacy. The book tells the story of Kumalo, a black Zulu priest, who journeys from the countryside to Johannesburg to find his son, sister, and brother. Historically, Johannesburg has always drawn workers. This process increased during the 1920s and 1930s and reached a height with World War II, the rising costs of living (Bonner 1995, 119), and the intensifying social and legal practices of racial discrimination. The racialized and gendered limitations on mobility and residency meant that fit black men moved to the city and most women, children, and elderly stayed in the countryside. It was not uncommon that ties to the countryside eventually broke off (Sapire and Beall 1995, 10). The novel embeds this historic phenomenon into a narrative about the ‘race question’. It tells how segregating policies lead to the destruction of Zulu society in the countryside and offers the urban as a ‘white’ space that teaches both races to reconcile and “rebuild the tribe”, as Cry, the Beloved Country phrases it recurringly. Patterns of (im)mobility enable Kumalo to acquire the knowledge he needs to rebuild his rural home. This knowledge is derived from contact with characters of different gender, race, and class within the city space. Kumalo’s journey introduces various spaces which can be grouped into three different spatial complexes according to their function for the narrative and the way these are constituted by racialized mobility: freehold townships and slums inhabited by black characters, the suburbs, central business districts as ‘white’ spaces in relation to the reformatory as a ‘semi-­ white’ space, the countryside as the cradle of a new Zulu nation. The

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depiction of the freehold townships such as Sophiatown and Alexandra next to slums and squatter camps construct a particular imagery of black urban modernity as fragmented, emotionally instable, and challenging. These spaces that are mostly shown as inhabited by black characters are constructed as isolated neighborhoods that force the character to frequently travel long distances across town in order to connect them. Kumalo retraces his son’s steps in the city from his former workplace in Doornfontain (36) to several female landlords in Sophiatown (36) and Alexandra (43–44) until he learns of his son’s time in the reformatory and eventually finds his pregnant girlfriend in Pimville. He retraces his son’s social decline, visualized through his move into less desirable neighborhoods and further away from the city center (57). The priest travels within the city first by foot to save money and later by bus, car, and train. The recurring description of Kumalo’s mobility constitutes the different ‘black’ spaces as isolated from each other and creates a fragmented experience of black urban modernity. On many of his journeys, Kumalo is accompanied by a black priest from Sophiatown who functions as his companion and guide. The priest’s presence gives Kumalo comfort, anchors him spiritually, and provides emotional continuity in a black urban modernity that is otherwise presented as a place of struggle for Kumalo. This underlines the representation of black urban modernity as emotionally challenging and the need for Christian guidance. Except for Kumalo, all black characters that have come to Johannesburg from the countryside are presented as becoming morally corrupt. Kumalo’s sister turns into a negligent mother, illegal liquor seller, and potential prostitute (27–30). His son becomes a thief and, by accident, the murderer of a white man, who later turns out to be the son of the major landowner in Kumalo’s village (57, 66–67, 87). Kumalo’s brother lives with a woman who is not his wife (31–34) and even those black characters that are already anchored in the city are presented as lacking, sometimes morally, sometimes in other ways. Though generally portrayed in positive terms, the woman, who offers Kumalo accommodation in Sophiatown, is a widow unable to bear children (26, 31). Black female characters are especially turned invisible since their womanhood is contrasted against that of white female characters. The narration follows the established discourses of portraying white women as pure and African women as unclean, criminal, and amoral (Parnell and Mabin 1995, 46). The few positively portrayed black female characters are compared to animals or children (10–12, 100), or are

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defective in their womanhood, since they are childless (31). The narration does not offer them an opportunity to fulfill the ideal of womanhood that is so strongly associated with biological, caring motherhood in South African literature (Driver 1990). The construction of an emotionally instable black urban modernity is embedded in the common discourse of modern literature about the ‘vice of the city’. In the South African context, it also references the fear of white parts of the population about ‘black crime’ resulting from African urbanization. The press discourse in Afrikaans and anglophone media during the 1940s (Bonner 1995, 115) voices the prevailing fears. Johannesburg’s urban modernity means for black characters their lives are fragmented, emotionally instable, and impacted by high rates of crime, which can be understood as urban modernity alienating the black subject from its emotional, spiritual, and moral roots. In contrast to the negative portrayal of black urban modernity, the reader encounters the white spatial complex as a space that is cohesive, emotionally stable, and natural for white characters. The urban spaces in which the white characters are mostly depicted are the suburbs, the reformatory, the streets. The main white character is Jarvis, the landowner and farmer from Kumalo’s village. He travels to Johannesburg by plane to support his son’s family after his son was murdered by Kumalo’s son (116). The Jarvis’s family relations are portrayed as intact (except for the death of Jarvis’s son illustrating the threat of ‘black crime’ to white families). The mothers and wives are caring (119–124), the children bright and respectful (199–204). In the suburb ‘Parkworld’, which is the only place in the novel not named after an actual neighborhood (though a Parktown existed), Jarvis learns about the ‘racial question’ through his son’s writings. The son was an activist for racial reconciliation acknowledging the problems arising from segregationist policies (122–123). The suburb is for Jarvis a place of learning. Simultaneously the city is a place of teaching, where the white man teaches the solutions to the ‘racial question’. This comes in the form of writings by Jarvis’s son that inspire him to support Kumalo’s village with an agricultural reform in the second half of the novel (206–216, 225). It also comes in the form of an encounter with a white priest that helps Kumalo to understand that ‘the tribe needs rebuilding’ (95–98), and a white worker at the reformatory representing progressive ideas (of the time) about the rehabilitation of those that committed ‘black crime’ (57, 87, 93). The city offers spaces for mixed-racial

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interactions that enable learning and teaching experiences for white and black characters. Most of these mixed-racial interactions take place in the streets though the white characters are usually not shown in their movements between different neighborhoods. Instead, the main character, Jarvis, is mostly portrayed in “Parkworld” (119–129) presenting his world as more cohesive. The white reformatory worker is shown to leave his workplace by car to travel to Pimville and Sophiatown in order to help Kumalo. When Urry (2007) discusses the mobility turn, he includes from the very beginning the role of automobility and the varying social implications that the connecting of places by car can have. It has been argued that driving in a car creates a certain distance between the outside and inside. Gordon Pirie (2015) confirms the centrality of this form of mobility to South African daily life, when he explores the changes in the racialized experiences of using automobiles over the course of the country’s history. According to Pirie (2015), cars allowed white people to escape the racial tension of a shared urban space; therefore, riding a car can be read as traveling in an encapsulated, mobile extension of one’s own place, since the driver/owner has control over the inside of their vehicle. In this regard, one could understand the white character’s mobility by car as taking their own piece of white space with them even when they physically move into a black spatial complex. Furthermore, as drivers, the white characters have control over where the car goes and whom they accept as passengers. Therefore, they occupy a hegemonic position of the mixed-racial interactions that take place during these car rides. White characters are presented in positions of power regarding racial relationships, they learn and teach the non-­ white other about a solution to the ‘racial question’. Their presence in the modern city is neither marked by fragmentation that requires excessive mobility nor emotional instability. The unchallenged mobility of white characters through the city is underlined when their portrayal is contrasted with the experience of black urban modernity focalized through Kumalo. His character describes the city in child-like language (13–18, 20, 31) and he needs guidance to map the urban space that holds the knowledge to a better future for a potential new nation. Urban modernity is naturalized as white in that it impacts the white characters in a positive way. This is further highlighted by Jarvis’s decision at the end of the novel to move to the city and overlook the agricultural development and his farm from a distance. Black urban modernity is characterized by hardship, instability, and fragmentation which undermines the legitimacy of the presence of black

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people in the metropolis since it is contrasted with a more stable and cohesive life of black characters in the countryside—albeit one marked by poverty due to the migration of labor and lack of knowledge about modern agricultural practices (206–225). Even though the mobilities of black characters are frequently depicted, they cannot be equated with greater freedom or a claim to urban modernity, which locates their claims of belonging in the countryside. Kumalo eventually learns to navigate the city without the company of the priest or the reformatory’s employee. Discussing actual migrant workers, Franz Buhr (2018) has demonstrated that their access to urban resources depends on the degree to which they can navigate urban spaces. The participation in urban life depends for migrants on their urban apprenticeship, and Kumalo is a great literary example of this process. However, the independent mobility takes the form of train and taxi rides and rarely shows him walking. This comes at the expense of a certain intimacy with his surroundings since he is separated from direct contact with people and places during the time of moving. Historically speaking, roads and railway lines also served as buffer zones to segregate colonial cities along racial lines. The female side characters in the novel have a compensatory function in this regard. They serve as examples of different aspects of black urban modernity and as sites of engagement for Kumalo (and the readers). There is the representation of single women falling victim to the ‘vice of the city’ in the figure of Kumalo’s sister, Gertrude, who turned to prostitution and illegal liquor brewing and eventually abandons her son to stay on in the city (27–30, 185). Another example is the nameless girlfriend of Kumalo’s son, who only manages to have a healthy family once she joins Kumalo in the countryside. Other minor female characters point to the economic and social struggle of living in the city, like a single, female landlord that is portrayed as criminal (139–142) or the voices of mothers being concerned about poverty, the housing shortage, and unhealthy living conditions (48–55). The exemplary character of these encounters underlines the negative aspects of black urban modernity. In that sense the women portray the more abstract discussions that the men have about the effect of racist policies. The lack of portrayals of female characters as mobile in combination with traditional notions of womanhood further highlight how women are used to define the urban. Kumalo encounters different women across the city in search for his son, each giving him information to get one step closer to his goal. The women are positioned in the periphery of the city, circumscribing its border. The female figures

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mark the territory and metaphorically the knowledge that Kumalo needs to acquire to unite his family, return to the countryside, and play his part in the rebuilding of the ‘tribe’. The peripheral position of black women in the cityscape (none is shown in the central business district or central suburbs) and the lack of visible mobility situates them at the often-overlooked intersection of race and gender (Carastathis 2016, 49). This renders their contribution to the project of nation-building invisible and points to the exclusionist politics of situating someone or something at the periphery (Ameel et al. 2015, 9). Following Yuval-Davis in her analysis of the function of women for nation-building projects (1997), such a portrayal of gendered mobility does not surprise. Female characters’ recurring function is to raise and educate the next generation, including the infantilized Kumalo. Characters that do not conform to traditional notions of women as caring mothers, daughters, and wives are portrayed as negative or completely absent. Female immobility allows Kumalo to actively map (black) urban modernity and learn what it takes to ‘reconcile the races’ and claim a place for black people in a potential new South Africa.

Mine Boy: Leadership and Black Urban Modernity Mine Boy is another canonized work of South African fiction that addresses the racial tension and struggle for nationhood in the 1940s. It was published in 1989 by Peter Abrahams, a Cape colored writer, and tells the Story of Xuma, a Zulu migrant worker, who comes to work in the mines in Johannesburg. The novel addresses questions of belonging from a Marxist perspective looking “to a future in which blacks not just do things for themselves but give the white man orders” (Clare 2010, 361). In this respect, it differs from Cry, the Beloved Country since it does not shape black experience into a narrative that reflects whiteness to maintain hegemonic racial hierarchies in a new South African society. However, Mine Boy features frequent depictions of mobility by the main character much in the same way as Cry, the Beloved Country. Xuma comes to Johannesburg to find work in the mines and in the process creates a new space of belonging when he eventually becomes “a citizen of Malay Camp” (168). Johannesburg is again presented as a fragmented city made up of differently racialized spaces. Those are set into relation by Xuma walking between them. The act of walking is often associated with the flâneur and urban modernity in European fiction. In literature on African cities, migrant workers, such as the figure of Xuma, are the key image of African

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urbanity (Gibson 2019, 44). In addition, the act of walking, in postcolonial novels, can be read as a practice of resistance as it undermines discourses on controlling racialized mobility without being outside of them. Walking has the “capacity to reinterpret the infrastructural ordering of the city” without openly challenging it (Boehmer and Davis 2018, 7). The character of Xuma represents an approach to urban modernity that incorporates globally disseminated discourses on urban modernity, flânerie, and Marxism but does so to construct a decisively South African narrative on the ‘racial question’. Mine Boy presents an image of complex agency where the ability to move cannot be understood as simply agential because it combines exploitative mobility where the “workers transform into an embodied commodity of labor” (Aguiar et al. 2019, 20) with acts of walking that reinterpret and undermine the segregated infrastructural ordering of literary Johannesburg. As in Cry, the Beloved Country, the readers encounter spaces that are differently racialized: the ‘white’ suburbs and central business district; the mines as racially mixed; Malay Camp as a racially mixed but predominantly ‘black’ space; different spaces of ‘nature’. These spaces are connected through patterns of (im)mobility that enable Xuma to grow into a “native leader” (136–137). This knowledge is again derived from contact with characters of different gender, race, and class within the city space thus highlighting the central role of urban modernity in transforming the South African nation. Mine Boy is set in Johannesburg, with many of the mentioned places corresponding directly to existing neighborhoods. Abrahams’s reworking of the racialized features of different neighborhoods heightens the contrast between differently racialized spaces. Malay Camp is Xuma’s first destination in the city and the place where he will feel like home. It is a racially mixed space, and its description invokes features of other mixed neighborhoods  such as Malay Location and Sophiatown. The neighborhood is described as predominantly ‘black’ while it also references the literary discourse of ‘vice of the city’ by referring to poverty, prostitution, and violence (7–8, 18–21, 27–28, 77–78). Similar to Cry, the Beloved Country, the people Xuma encounters are marked by apparent dysfunctionality. There is Leah, a mother figure, who illegally sells alcohol and lives without a husband but cares for the character Eliza like a daughter. Eliza, a teacher, wants to live like a white person which renders her unable to be in a romantic relationship with Xuma. In addition, there are characters that use violence and alcohol as escapes from a life of humiliating hardships. Unlike Paton’s novel, Mine Boy does not conclude that urban modernity is

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detrimental to black people’s lives but rather stresses the effect of class and the warmth that a new surrogate family at the home of Leah provides. Malay Camp becomes a space for Xuma that he calls home and identifies as a place of emotional relevance for the nation when he proclaims to be a citizen of Malay Camp (168). The ability of black urban modernity to provide new social networks of belonging, in the shape of surrogate families and citizenship, is further underlined by the way Xuma moves through the neighborhood. He mostly walks within and between different quarters. Walking as a form of bodily mobility forces the character into direct contact with his surroundings and can, therefore, be read as an intimate and direct way to engage with the city. Walking allows him to get into direct contact with the people of Malay Camp and to learn about the joys and sorrows of black urban modernity. Examples of such encounters include him participating in dancing with strangers in the streets (54–55) but also a passage in which he strikes a policeman after being unjustly accused and finds shelter from the police chase in the home of a colored person (15). Walking as a form of physical mobility enables Xuma to engage directly with the experience of black urban modernity and highlights its potential for social networks that can lead to intimate ways of belonging. Nevertheless, walking should not be understood as a positivist and enabling form of mobility. In Mine Boy, it is also a consequence of historical racist, segregating policies that limit access to other forms of mobility financially, legally, and socially for non-white people. The novel illustrates particularly well that mobility does not always mean freedom. The narration employs the trope of the migrant worker journeying from the countryside to the city center that the novel constructs as ‘white’ space. Xuma walks from Malay Camp to the central business district contemplating how Eliza’s desire for a ‘white’ life complicates their relationship since he rejects anything ‘white’. The focalization of the city center through Xuma offers readers an alienating experience, when Xuma sees white characters eating in restaurants he has no access to and is later stopped by police in demand of his pass. Walking makes Xuma physically vulnerable to the violence of segregating policies which is further demonstrated by his experience of the city center as cold and the dissonance he feels toward white people that he thinks are not his people (62–63). However, it also allows for direct contact with them when he meets his direct superior from work. Patty invites him for drinks to his apartment. The invitation marks the beginning of a key scene in the novel. In the apartment, Xuma learns,

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mostly through Patty’s white girlfriend, that Eliza is right in desiring “the white man’s things” (64–65) because this way of living is good and should be available to all since it is not ‘white’ (65–66). This insight, offered by the girlfriend, guides Xuma in his understanding that modernity is a race-­ neutral concept and points toward his growth into a “native leader” (68). The idea of modernity as race-neutral is problematic since it does not question the concept of modernity on a systemic level which would point toward the racism, sexism, and exploitation that European notions of modernity are based on. This is also reflected in the use of walking as a preferred choice of mobility in the novel. As already mentioned, walking allows for a mental reconfiguration of one’s experience of the city and its infrastructure along the lines of already established social, economic, and architectural constraints. The use of mobility in Mine Boy speaks to the novel’s message favoring a reform of existing discourses and hegemonic structures instead of overturning the notion of modernity as unitary, progressive, and beneficial for all. The novel thus highlights that a decisively South African answer to the ‘race question’ that makes use of Eurocentric discourses on flânerie, urban modernity, and Marxism is a challenge in that a use of concepts that intersectionally disadvantage groups always also contributes to the (at least partial) continuation of established asymmetrical power relations. The remaining two spatial complexes of ‘nature’ and the mines, I discuss with a focus on gender because a comparison of both shows better the link between belonging, gender, and mobility in the novel. Women are essential for nation-building since they are widely perceived as responsible to birth, raise, and educate the next generation, whether they want it or not (Yuval-Davis 1997). In Mine Boy, women are markers of group identity and their mobilities quite literarily map a community’s territory as well as metaphorically its respective knowledge. The main three female characters in the novel each introduce Xuma to a different problem complex of black urban modernity, similar to the female characters in Cry, the Beloved Country, which are further defined by the spaces and mobility that are associated with them. Leah is the first character that Xuma meets in the city (2); she helps him to map Malay Camp and to learn the unspoken rules of the local community. She is presented as a mother figure and conforms to the overly common trope of the strong, black mother in South African fiction (Driver 1990, 236). Her character introduces Xuma, in the space of Malay Camp, to the economic constraints and fragmented social relationships that can hinder community building in a racially oppressive

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urban modernity. As a teacher, Eliza represents problems that arise out of an education of black people that comes without adequate participation opportunities in society and the self-destruction that accompanies an assimilation into white society at the expense of one’s own racial identity. Apart from this, Eliza takes Xuma on walks to a sports field that overlooks the city at night (25–26). This passage can be read as Xuma’s first foray into appropriation of urban modernity. The naturalization process is here marked by a focus on the country-like nature elements of the sports field (25–26), from where Xuma can overlook the city and experience it as a toy in the palm of his hand. This passage is only an introduction to claim urban modernity as suitable for black people. It is further strengthened by the character of Maisy. She has a romantic interest in Xuma, but only after Eliza leaves Xuma do they become a couple. Maisy was born in the city and works as a domestic helper in a white suburb. She is knowledgeable about the city and characterized as a caring, comforting female figure that prevents Xuma from getting lost in the city (56, 96–97). After Xuma and Eliza’s separation, Maisy takes him on a one-day trip to the township Hoopvlei outside of the city. This place is again described with a focus on natural elements (91–97). However, even though it provides a carefree distraction to black urban modernity, it does so only temporarily. The township as a segregationist space is presented as failing to provide a sustainable answer to the ‘racial question’ and, unlike Cry, the Beloved Country, this countryside space will not be the cradle of a new generation. The new nation will be formed in the city as the different female characters strengthen the claim to a black urban modernity: Leah as symbolizing new social bonds of belonging in the city, Eliza as presenting urban modernity as desirable and Maisy illustrating how natural the city is for black people when they navigate the urban traversing different neighborhoods and modes of transportation from walks on foot to rides in overcrowded buses. Despite the female characters’ role in introducing Xuma to ideas of black urban modernity and accompanying him on the physical mapping of its different spaces, female characters are absent from the mines. Xuma’s workplace is a key site of his development into a ‘native leader’ since it is where he feels “completely free” (63) and because it is the site of a strike that Xuma initiates after his friend and co-worker dies in an accident caused by the negligence of white superiors (177–181). Underground, Xuma experiences that the different races can work together—much in the same way as Kumalo did in regard to revitalizing his village’s agriculture. They work in one rhythm and are surrounded by darkness that makes the

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color of their skin invisible (103–105). This transformative space is marked by an absence of female characters, which stresses that claiming black urban modernity can be done in accordance with established patriarchal norms. The female characters are represented in their function as gatekeepers, where Leah accepts him into her home, and reproducers of the next generation when she teaches Xuma what he needs to know to navigate the knowledge and spaces of urban modernity on his own (1–12, 29, 48, 50, 154–155). Female characters are cast in their supportive functions of mothers, educators, and lovers, which also explains why the female characters are rarely described mobile and when then only in Xuma’s company. Women are historically perceived as less mobile, less active, and less independent despite the necessity for women to be present at each nation-­ building site. It seems even though women are “a prerequisite for a more permanent urbanization” (Bonner 1995, 117), their claim to urban modernity (and any citizenship that might arise from it) is continuously mediated through their relationships to male characters in both novels.

Mapping the Same City but Arriving at Different Nations The similar aesthetic strategies in Cry, the Beloved Country and Mine Boy are part of the negotiation of a new South African society. A focus on mobility and space as relational helps to analyze the asymmetrical patterns of power present in the discourse on national belonging in these works of cultural relevance. Both novels map Johannesburg as a place of urban modernity through the mobilities of their main character. Their mobilities set the differently racialized spaces of the city into relation to each other thus defining them further. Cry, the Beloved Country portrays urban modernity as a space of learning for its white and black characters but only to white characters it is shown as advantageous. Black urban modernity is constructed as fragmented, emotionally instable, and challenging for black characters (and life threatening to white characters). Anchoring national citizenship in the rural space is a common notion in modernist fiction, where the city is perceived as alienating and the rural as closer to the purity of nature (Cresswell 2013, 85). However, here I prefer a reading that continues the dichotomy between linking the black body to nature and the white body to the urban realm and knowledge production (Mohanram 1999, xiii). Kumalo’s

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mobilities through Johannesburg make this possible since they map urban modernity. Simultaneously, they establish who has a claim to the city as a central symbol of the nation. The shift from Kumalo mostly walking the city to him using different means of transportation illustrates that the learning process comes with an acceptance of white leadership. Rides on trains, buses, and cars create a distance complicating a direct engagement of Kumalo with urban modernity. Instead, the mediation of Kumalo’s mobility by means of transportation stresses white leadership in that they are provided and controlled by white characters. Black people’s claim to a new South African nation is anchored in a reformed (by white characters) countryside which is facilitated by the novel’s (im)mobility patterns. The main character in Mine Boy also maps the city and sets the different racialized spaces into relation to each other through his walks. However, here the physical mobility stresses the intimate and vulnerable experience of black urban modernity as a racist place of struggle, loss, and humiliation but also as a place of new social bonds, new knowledge, and a new future where black men can aspire to lead, albeit this future is mediated through a distinctly Eurocentric version of modernity. Citizenship in Mine Boy is decisively urban as Xuma becomes a citizen of Malay Camp, a township of Johannesburg. In the end, Mine Boy’s (im)mobility patterns stress the limits of mobility as a freeing practice of agency but highlight the importance of black urban modernity for a racially diverse new South Africa. In addition to mapping, both novels also make use of female side characters as markers of knowledge, territory, and community. In Cry, the Beloved Country, female characters support Kumalo in his learning experience providing him with shelter, information, and emotional support but also by serving as negative examples of black urban modernity in the form of prostitution, negligence of familial duties, and struggling mothers. The apparent immobility of female characters situates them at the periphery of the city demarcating the territory that Kumalo needs to traverse to gain enough knowledge to understand how racial reconciliation can be achieved. They metaphorically frame the knowledge and place of urban modernity in which Kumalo learns about his nation’s future. Their engagement is, however, not direct but mediated through their relationships to male characters. Mine Boy uses its female characters in a similar fashion. Even though the three main female side characters are shown mobile, they only ever move in Xuma’s company serving him with their knowledge of the city’s

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infrastructural and social fabric. In addition, they serve as sites of direct engagement with positive aspects of black urban modernity strongly anchoring Mine Boy’s claim of belonging in the city space. They highlight the possibilities of new social bonds of belonging, urban modernity as the desirable path forward, and the city as a space in which black characters can naturally move, live, and find their way. Nevertheless, the invisibility of their mobilities underlines that sexism is also a spatial act (McKittrick 2006, xviii–xix) because the geographical knowledge of urban modernity is only available in a limited form to female characters, especially black female characters that are never shown in the city center. In that regard, both novels question the construction of racial categories but maintain the gendered discourse that assumes the idealized citizen as male (Mohanram 1999, 58) and in doing so they turn non-male forms of agency invisible and contribute to essentialist presentations of women through their female characters. As a last thought, the process of nation-building in postcolonial societies needs to address that “colonialism and racial categories constitute a territorialization of place/landscape” (Mohanram 1999, xiii), if the nation-building project aspires to unite a racially diverse society. The analyzed novels clarify that a place like Johannesburg, constituted by colonialism and racism, can serve as the starting point to different approaches to nationhood. The limitations that history inscribed into the cityscape are differently perceived and mediated through (im)mobility as the literary analysis shows. Comparing the aesthetic strategies that both novels employ to create places of belonging and imaginations of a new nationhood gives insights beyond the literary text. A comparison of what (im)mobility means in both novels points toward the highly intersectional character of a (postcolonial) society and gives insights into how we, as individuals and communities, try to make sense of the space around us by using mobility to embed us and others into wider narratives of belonging. Therefore, spatializing practices are at the basis of creating collective identities and can as such question imperial discourses of power (Mignolo and Tlostanova 2006). For this purpose, it should be kept in mind that nationhood is a constructed concept and not without alternative. Depending on what and whose mobilities are considered relevant for a community, it is possible to imagine alternatives.

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McKittrick, Katherine. 2006. Demonic grounds: Black women and the cartographies of struggle. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Mignolo, Walter D., and M.V.  Tlostanova. 2006. Theorizing from the border. European Journal of Social Theory 9 (2): 205–221. Mohanram, Radhika. 1999. Black body: Women, colonialism, and space. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Paton, Alan. 2002. Cry, the beloved country. London: Vintage Classics. Parnell, Susan, and Alan Mabin. 1995. Rethinking urban South Africa. Journal of Southern African Studies 21 (1): 39–61. Pirie, Gordon. 2015. Colours, compartments and corridors: Racialised spaces, mobility and sociability in South Africa. In Cultural histories of sociabilities, spaces and mobilities, ed. Colin Divall, 39–52. London: Routledge. Ponsavady, Stéphanie. 2018. Cultural and literary representations of the automobile in French Indochina: A colonial roadshow. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Robinson, Jennifer. 1998. (Im)mobilizing space - dreaming of change. In Blank: Architecture, apartheid and after, ed. Hilton Judin and Ivan Vladislavić, 163–171. Rotterdam: NAi Publishers. Said, Edward. 1994. Culture and imperialism. London: Penguin. Sapire, Hilary, and Jo Beall. 1995. Introduction: Urban change and urban studies in southern Africa. Journal of Southern African Studies 21 (1): 3–18. Sheller, Mimi, and John Urry. 2006. The new mobilities paradigm. Environment and Planning A 38 (2): 207–226. Tally, Robert T. 2014. Introduction: Mapping narratives. In Literary cartographies: Spatiality, representation, and narrative, 1–12. New  York: Palgrave Macmillan. Toivanen, Anna-Leena. 2021. Mobilities and cosmopolitanisms in African and Afrodiasporic literatures. Leiden: Brill. Urry, John. 2007. Mobilities. Cambridge: Polity. Vladislavić, Ivan. 2006. Portrait with keys. UMUZI. Yuval-Davis, Nira, Kalpana Kannabiran, and Ulrike Vieten. 2006. Introduction: Situating contemporary politics of belonging. In The situated politics of belonging, ed. Nira Yuval-Davis, Kalpana Kannabiran, and Ulrike Vieten, 1–14. London: Sage. Yuval-Davis, Nira. 1997. Gender and nation. London: Sage.

CHAPTER 3

Urban Ambivalence: Work and Home at Delhi’s Margins Anubhav Pradhan

Introduction Mobility has always been one of the key pivots of urban life: cities come into being through a process of settlement, putting roots so to say, but they survive and thrive through interaction and engagement across vertical and horizontal social hierarchies which are as local as they are regional and transcontinental. Over the preceding century, though, the normalization of modern precepts of planning, economic organization, and governance have rendered urban mobility subject to the legalizing regimes of the nation-state: a minority of livelihoods, lifestyles, and habitats which came within the purview of the formal accrued legitimacy, while many others began to be considered informal—and hence archaic, undesirable, even criminal. In postcolonial societies such as South Asia, mobility in cities today is dependent upon the legibility and legitimacy of lived experience as it maneuvers the broad spectrum of the formal and the informal

A. Pradhan (*) Indian Institute of Technology Bhilai, Bhilai, Chhattisgarh, India e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 P. García, A.-L. Toivanen (eds.), Urban Mobilities in Literature and Art Activism, Literary Urban Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42798-5_3

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given the entwined histories of planning, nationalism, and globalization in this region. This has been starkly apparent in Delhi, a city whose multifarious experience of decolonization, modernity, and globalization has birthed an aspirational worlding of its lived experience. Characterized by rampant demolition of informal settlements and pervasive dispossession of communities engaged in a wide variety of informal work, the emergent planning governmentality which is undertaking this process has also ruptured the affective contours of home and belonging—changing the meaning of what it means to live and work in the so-called margins of the city. Literary texts such as Aman Sethi’s A Free Man (2011) and Mridula Koshy’s Bicycle Dreaming (2016) offer timely reflections on the ambivalence of work and home in contemporary Delhi. Marked as much by intense, unpredictable mobility as by a crushing lack of it, and operating at the neglected borderlands of bourgeois urbanity, these texts speak cogently of the psychosomatic footprint of Delhi’s ongoing worlding. While Sethi tracks the life and work of a homeless daily wage worker with an unfiltered honesty not usually achieved in such writing, Koshy presents a fragmented bildungsroman on the adolescent daughter of an increasingly impoverished kabadi, an itinerant waste worker. In reading these texts as symptomatic of a systemic restructuring of the everyday experience of Delhi, this chapter seeks to theorize ambivalence at the intersection of informality and mobility in the city. It also reflects on the structural entanglements between ambivalence and mobility, discussing how both are constitutive of each other in terms of social aspirations, livelihoods, kinship ties, and lived experience. Locating an interrogative entanglement with informality as one of the key pivots of urban writing from not just Delhi but also South Asia, the chapter comments on the unfolding impact of our aspirational governmentalities on the entwined realities of work and home as narrated in the texts under study.

Toward a Theorization of Ambivalence A considerable corpus of urban scholarship has devoted itself to highlighting both the failures and limitations of our modern planning regimes as well as the ways in which all that is rendered informal negotiates with this apparatus for its survival and sustenance. Identifying consumerism, privatization, and individuation as the hallmarks of contemporary Delhi, Sanjay Srivastava suggests that “a quotidian reformulation of the relationship

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between the state, the market, and the ‘people’ ” (2014, 97) has allowed the city’s middle classes to consolidate their position as its sole legitimate citizens. This ubiquitous usurpation of legitimacy and its paraphernalia of legality and rights by the urban bourgeoisie has also been accompanied by a reconceptualization of the settlement typologies and livelihood practices of the urban poor—distinct, crucially, from the informality of more entrenched classes—as detrimental to the welfare and well-being of the public, leading to “the juridical embourgeoisement of Delhi” (Ghertner 2015, 113). The attendant discursive creation of “a crisis of planned development” (Bhan 2016, 136) in Delhi has resulted in denial of rights and welfare to the most vulnerable communities in the city, leading to demolition of hundreds of bastis—informal settlements—without recourse to due process and rehabilitation. In a very tangible, visceral way, the experience of urban informality in contemporary Delhi has been of enforced mobility in the form of displacement and dispossession. This has been markedly different from earlier experiences of eviction and forced resettlement, as for example of the demolitions undertaken in 1975–1976 during the Emergency. Instead, eviction today is more systemic and structural in ways which nullify the welfarist logic of postcolonial planning in the city. Driven by a burgeoning environmental consciousness taking the form of hysteria, the judicial and civic machinery of the city orchestrated the closure of thousands of formal and informal industrial units in Delhi around the turn of the century: this resulted in massive job loss for factory workers, forcing hitherto blue-­collar workers into informal and itinerant livelihoods (Sharan 2014, 206). More informally organized livelihoods, such as scrap trade, have witnessed greater degrees of precarity with their exclusion from “viable livelihood and enterprise opportunities” (Gill 2012b, 216) in the guise of addressing the city’s environmental degradation. This pervasive, ongoing disempowerment of informal work has happened alongside demolition and displacement across the city: in the three decades from 1990 to 2020, at least 280 informal settlements have been demolished in Delhi (The Missing Basti Project 2022). In this context, narrating the lived experience of cities such as Delhi necessarily requires a close and inventive engagement with informality in the entangled realms of work and home. Rather than conceptualizing informality in singular terms of particular typologies of habitat or settlement, it is instructive to formulate it as a very diverse set of practices which are historically rooted, deregulated, and dynamically refashioned across

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the social and economic spectrum (Roy 2015, 311). While metaphors of squalor, unpredictability, and risk have been consistently evoked in articulating the informal with reference to cities of the Global South and their discursive impact in perpetuating the discourse of dysfunctionality persuasively critiqued (Myers 2011, 4), narrating the experience of the informal as chaotic and unsettling in urban writing can also allow for rooted interrogation of the governmental conditions which disenfranchise communities politically, economically, and affectively and leave them in a state of constant instability and flux. The “definitional anxiety” (Mukherjee 2018, 89) surrounding epithets such as uncanny conjured routinely for informal settlements may well be channelized toward decoding of the psychopathologies of this discursive domain, turning the informal from an abstracted site of unmitigated dread to embodied emotions and experiences. Keeping in mind the possibilities opened by this discursive transition and taking cue from Jennifer Robinson’s suggestion to move toward “a more radically decentred and reflexive subject of theorizing” (2014, 68), this chapter proposes ambivalence as a theoretical prism which may facilitate deeper understanding of the experience of mobility, dispossession, and negotiation as articulated in urban writing on cities such as Delhi. AbdouMaliq Simone has dabbled with ambivalence as a lens in his work on Jakarta, suggesting that urbanization is “neither fluid or static” and that “landscapes and bodies reflect the traces of what has occurred to them” without following “a strict hierarchy of valuation” (2015, S16). The range of entanglements which the urban poor find themselves maneuvering on an everyday basis are constitutive of informality as a spectrum, marked by elasticity and mobility. In other words, even as the lived experience of informality is constituted by the disciplining of bodies, communities, and settlements through precarious tenure, denial of basic social services, and insistent demolition, it is also generative of agentive assertions and mobilizations which strategically lay claim to urban habitats and processes of self-fashioning in social, cultural, and economic terms. Such an understanding of informality as ambivalent, as neither the detritus of planning governmentalities nor a buoyantly insurgent and entrepreneurial site of alterity, is particularly fruitful for unpacking the affective and spatial contours of its lived experience. Not only does informal work necessitate mobility across modes and networks of production, many of which are connected to a global circuitry of capital and consumption, the sense of self and belonging which coalesces in informal habitats tends to circulate through the material contingencies of what makes and

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unmakes home. Mobilities in these contexts are as structural as they are incidental, integral to aspiration in increasingly consumerist economies, part of the everyday collapsing of home into work, and embodied by big and small acts of dispossession and dislocation which occur with tenacious frequency. Textual representations of this polyvalent lived experience make it expedient to deploy ambivalence in a manner which facilitates an embodied, enmeshed sense of what happens on ground notwithstanding the impossibilities of knowing the full range of actors and forces which shape and perpetuate the conditions of informality. Such a perspective will allow for localized individuals and communities to be centered against the planetary gaze and aspirations of planning regimes in South Asian cities.

Informality and Urban Writing on Delhi Much has been written and said about the spatial turn in writing and in literary studies, but in assessing literary representations of informality in cities such as Delhi it will be more pertinent to consider the infrastructural turn taken by writers in recent times. Thinking of infrastructure as not sedentary but mobile in terms of the various kinds of movements across the spectrum of the formal and the informal it facilitates as well as the mobilities which it is dependent upon for its own emergence allows for a more incisive comment on the affective layering of lived experience and how it is narrated in urban writing. Informality in Delhi is produced not as an accidental by-product of the formal planning process nor does it linger as a tenacious vestige of pre-modern social and economic regimes: instead, the unfolding of urban processes as infrastructural creation and upgradation and service provisioning is vitally constituted by the informal, being conterminously exclusionary and enabling. Dominic Davies’s observation regarding contemporary urban comics may be extended with some qualification to a growing corpus of urban writing dealing with the informal, that these texts undertake “an interpretive and politicised process of excavation, mediation and transmission” which unravels “the infrastructural production of discriminatory urban environments, while simultaneously suggesting alternative—and if informal, often common—modes of urban habitation and public reconstruction” (2019, 16). From Katherine Boo’s Behind the Beautiful Forevers (2012) to Anis Shivani’s Karachi Raj (2015) to Numair Atif Choudhury’s Taxi Wallah and Other Stories (2021), urban writing in South Asia has broken conventions of both form and content in its engagement with the structural and systemic inequities

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which characterize the everyday, quotidian experience of the informal in our region. This inventiveness with what may and is being said and how is apparent in a budding corpus of urban writing on Delhi in contemporary times. Moving far away from the nostalgia and bourgeois familiality of the standard Delhi text, a trope which became conventional over the course of the twentieth century, many recent literary representations of Delhi give space to questioning of the moral and political certitudes of the postcolonial bourgeois urban order premised on property, patriarchy, and caste. Unsurprisingly, some of the first texts to do so were published in the wake of the Commonwealth Games of 2010, to host which the city shrouded itself in the dust and anguish of demolition for nearly a decade. Finding Delhi: Loss and Renewal in the Megacity (2010), a volume edited by Bharati Chaturvedi, showed the way by creating a common platform for stringent examination of the city’s exclusionary practices by not only scholars but also activists as well as a cross-section of informal workers. Likewise, Trickster City: Writings from the Belly of the Metropolis (2010) pushed the boundaries of life writing by giving space to quotidian experiences of the city’s multiple bastis—low-income informal settlements—in times of extreme uncertainty and spatial and affective displacement. A Free Man and Bicycle Dreaming emerge from this context of burgeoning interest in and commitment toward interrogating the deep impact of our skewed urbanization on the victims of this process. Published in 2011, Aman Sethi’s A Free Man may be considered as a mediated memoir of Mohammad Ashraf, a homeless dehadi mazdoor—daily wage worker— at Bara Tooti Chowk in Delhi’s Sadar Bazaar. The text sits at the confluence of reportage and reminiscence, reflecting on the author-­narrator’s interactions with Ashraf over the course of nearly five years as he researches for a project fellowship on the life of a laborer in Delhi. It weaves the personal with the public, the economic with the political as it delves deeper into the sorrows, joys, hopes, and frustrations of Ashraf and fellow denizens of the labor chowk—an informal marketplace where dehadi mazdoors sit in anticipation of being picked for work. Ashraf’s experience of multiple migrations and jobs over the course of three decades informs his wry, witty outlook to the perilous life of a dehadi mazdoor: unchained to home and family, finding comfort and solace in the companionship of those in similar situations, but never too far from being crushed by the brute force of an uncaring urban apparatus comprising the state and civil society in equal measure.

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In a similar vein, Mridula Koshy’s 2016 novel Bicycle Dreaming narrates the strain and stress on the familial lives and livelihoods of informal workers in contemporary Delhi. A partial bildungsroman of a teenaged girl, Noor, as she negotiates adolescence and familial responsibilities, Bicycle Dreaming is situated wholly within the heart of informal Delhi. Noor’s father, Mohammad Saidullah, is a kabadiwallah—an itinerant worker, recycling domestic waste—operating from Chirag Dilli, one of Delhi’s many historical villages whose urbanization in recent times has been outside the purview of master plans and municipal bylaws. Her mother Ameena is a homemaker, while brother Talib works at a call center in Gurgaon. The text spans the duration of a year in Noor’s life, from her thirteenth birthday to her fourteenth one: with the sudden disappearance of kabad work, Saidullah’s precarious finances dwindle and his family is split apart between father and son and their conflicting notions of dignity of manual labor as work. The text gives voice to these growing dissonances in the family from Noor’s perspective, weaving her adolescent dream to have a bicycle of her own with the harsh realities of a life unsettled by larger forces of trade and governance in the waste economy as well as the trajectories of an aspirational urbanization in and around Delhi.

Ambivalence, Work, and Informality A Free Man is remarkable for relating in rich detail the life and working conditions of homeless dehadi mazdoors in Delhi, among the most marginalized and vulnerable classes of urban informal workers in the Indian economy. The text is organized in four chapters and an epilogue, the former being titled Azadi, Akelapan, Lawaris, and Ajnabi, respectively: fitting metaphors for the freedom, loneliness, un-belonging, and alienation which Ashraf and his fellow mazdoors experience as integral to their uncertain life at the labor chowk. Sethi winds his narrative through the interstices of law and planning to lend legibility to the pervasive informality of wage labor and homelessness in our times. Ashraf’s life turns out to be a palimpsest of cities, relationships, and occupations all over India: from Patna to Calcutta, Bombay to Surat, and of course Delhi, he flits in and out of jobs and homes as circumstances and convenience dictate. Abandoning his college education, he flees from Patna to Calcutta to save himself and his family from a ruthless businessman. He gets married in Calcutta but has to leave his floor polishing business and move back to Patna because his younger brother Aslam stabs a pickpocket in a fit of

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rage. Leaving his wife and family, he moves to Bombay in search of a new job and life, and works as a butcher for a couple of years but ends soon after in Delhi. Ashraf goes on to work as an apprentice to a tailor in a resettlement colony, but sudden demolition of that settlement forces him on the roads and toward picking up safedi—painting/whitewashing. Ashraf’s response to this enforced mobility is to reconceptualize it as his freedom, azadi. He insists on multiple occasions that he is his own master, that the pavement-dwelling life of a homeless laborer does give him the agency to choose when, where, and how much to work. This conviction is an important motif in Ashraf’s self-identification as a free man, a mazdoor with azadi: ‘The ideal job,’ Ashraf once said, as if elucidating a complex mathematical function, ‘has the perfect balance of kamai and azadi.’ … ‘Kamai is what makes work work. Without kamai, it is not work, it is a hobby … A job is something a man is paid to do—and his pay is his kamai …’ … ‘Azadi is the freedom to tell the maalik to fuck off when you want to. The maalik owns our work. He does not own us …’. (Sethi 2011, 19)

The azadi and self-respect which Ashraf insistently claims throughout Sethi’s investigative interactions with him are indicative of the manner in which the informal constantly exercises its tenuous right to stay put in intimate and corrosive contact with the brute force of the formal. The iteration of this negotiating, maneuvering agency articulated by Ashraf must be seen in the context of the iniquitous socio-economic conditions and the lack of enabling systems which create a deep ambivalence about informal work in South Asian cities: workers like Ashraf move across trades and cities because the recurrence of violence in their lives renders them excess or surplus labor, leaving them very little choice to experience stability and accrue the social and financial capital which comes from it in our cities. Significantly, rather than being incidental or casual such violence is causally structural in our cities: an infrastructural violence which is not just an inevitable by-product but also an inescapable condition of the planning of “post / colonial cities” (Boehmer and Davies 2018, 10). In other words, while being at the chowk gives the mazdoors azadi to choose which way their lives may go, it also exacts a definitive toll: by the end of the text, the microcosm of workers whose center is Ashraf has dissolved under the debilitating pressure of this unceasing, daily encounter of the informal with the formal. Ashraf leaves Delhi for Calcutta in search of

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better-paying work, but ends up getting multi-drug-resistant tuberculosis and recovers to only vanish—go completely off the grid. Rehaan dies falling off a ladder two storeys high, painting the exhaust grilles of a new warehouse. Lalloo goes pagal, becomes mad all of a sudden, running stark naked through the Sadar before being found dead near the Idgah. Others like Naushad and Kale Baba too meet grisly ends, alone and uncared for in their last moments. As J.P. Singh Pagal confides in Sethi, Delhi is changing too quickly now for anyone to retain a sense of selfhood and belonging: beautification and demolition drives launched by “a cabal of government agencies” (Sethi 2011, 40) alter the physical landscape of the city and of the spectrum of livelihoods and lifestyles which it once sustained. With the tod-phod, the demolitions, Delhi suddenly becomes: a city splintering under the strain of a fundamental urban reconfiguration—a city of the exhausted, distressed, and restless, struggling with the uncertainties of eviction and unemployment; a city of twenty million histrionic personas resiliently absorbing the day’s glancing blows only to return home and tenderly claw themselves to sleep. (Sethi 2011, 42)

This unsettlingly unprecedented transformation of the contours of informal work and labor in Delhi constitutes one of the central concerns of Koshy’s Bicycle Dreaming as well. Though one of the two primary, originary functions of urban local bodies such as municipalities in South Asia (Gupta 2002, 70), waste management in our cities has always functioned at the intersection of the formal with the informal. Municipal authorities are responsible for collecting and disposing waste, but a range of informal livelihoods and economies have historically assisted them in the same. The nature of this largely invisiblized partnership has been fractured along not just class but also caste and communal lines: emergent from the ingrained stigma associated with waste work in subcontinental cultures, the economies of waste in our cities have organized themselves hierarchically in fluid gradations of the progressively unclean (Gill 2012, 159–167). Within these, scrap and recycling work has always figured at the top of the pyramid as clean and industrious labor with sufficient potential for upward mobility. Saidullah’s youthful decision as a meat-dresser in a restaurant in Patna to move to Delhi after marriage and become a kabadiwallah must be understood in this context. Lakshman, his ‘bhangi’—low caste—friend, had familiarized him with the pecking order in the waste business,

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claiming that “the koora in Delhi, it is a treasure” and that “money will just roll in on your two bicycle wheels” (Koshy 2016, 152). Inspired thus to take up waste work, Saidullah hopes of an incrementally successful future as a kabadi: “on a bicycle, Ameena perched up there with him and eventually, he dreamt, there would be the family they would make together—a boy first, then a girl” (Koshy 2016, 153). His sense of pride in his work, the agency he feels he can exercise in it, are also informed by a deep understanding of a kabadiwallah’s labor as contributing fundamentally to making waste a valuable commodity in an increasingly consumerist society. As he asserts to Noor, the “who made this work what it is today? We kabadiwalas did. If there is money to be made then we should make it” (Koshy 2016, 204). However, the autonomy and self-sufficiency of Saidullah’s work in Panchsheel Colony, an upscale residential enclave abutting Chirag Dilli, is increasingly threatened by the double jeopardy of the rising costs of hafta—a bribe demanded by petty municipal and police functionaries— and by the corporatization of urban waste management inaugurated by entrepreneurial, aspirational governance regimes. On one hand, his contractor has taken money from a new man and allowed him to ride the same route as him, diminishing his earnings substantially. On the other hand, the opening up of economies of waste to corporate interests in the guise of efficiency and sustainability by the city government has imperiled kabadi work, exposing countless waste workers like Saidullah to the risk of sudden impoverishment within once sustainable livelihoods. The text is replete with references to the private company which is going to completely take over all of the waste work as well as to the incinerator which the government is installing for all of the city’s waste to be burnt: Though he backed out till he had retreated from the structure this man remained stooped. His stoop was one of apology … But the men who backed him out from the structure and who stood tall outside of it spoke loudly … “What are you accusing us of, Mohammad Saidullah? How can we take advantage of you? You know the trouble we are in? They are putting an incinerator in. This will burn plastic yes, and it will burn our business with it. What will be left for us to buy and sell? You can’t recycle ashes, can you?” … “We have only one piece of advice for you, if you don’t want to pay hafta, then make way for those who will”. (Koshy 2016, 113–114)

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With dwindling earnings and a son ashamed of his father’s work, Saidullah’s domestic life unravels through the course of the novel to an uneasy close which irrevocably splinters his family in the middle. Ameena’s decision to leave him and Noor for a while and support Talib as he sets up his own independent household in Chhattarpur makes it necessary for Noor—all of 13—to grow older overnight and take charge of her father’s household in her mother’s stead. Displaced from kabadi work, Saidullah is forced to scavenge the landfill in the vicinity of the municipal incinerator to find waste which may be sold to recycling units. Through the travails of managing a household and processing her own feelings in a rapidly changing world, Noor too comes to get a sense of the precarity of her father’s work through the insistent, ashy gray which now refuses to come off his clothes despite all her attempts to scrub it out. The text’s closure comes with a new, profoundly precarious beginning for Saidullah and his family: even as Talib gets Noor a new bicycle for her birthday, fulfilling her long-­ cherished dream to be free and independent like her father, it is not in their lifelong home in Chirag Dilli but in a roadside shack that she awakens with uncertain prospects for the future.

Mobility, Home, and the Margins Homelessness is one of the primary thematic concerns of A Free Man. Ashraf, Lalloo, Rehaan, and the rest are all pavement dwellers, living in and around Sadar Bazaar’s Bara Tooti Chowk. Unlike the “barsati mendaks” or the seasonal workers who “work frantically and live frugally to save as much money as they can”, this “corps of hardened Bara Tooti denizens” (Sethi 2011, 16) have diminishing degrees of affective ties with some other place—city, town, village—which they call home. Delhi gives them “a sense of azadi, freedom from your past” (Sethi 2011, 35) precisely because it is “full of those who, according to Ashraf, have lost their way” (Sethi 2011, 63). In the rare cases of hospitalization when “an address must be found—even when there isn’t one”, “lawaris” is added “for good measure” to the names and identities of the denizens of the labor chowk (Sethi 2011, 135). Negotiating the vagaries of an ambivalent urban landscape, home and family become only remnants of a vague past with little to tie them to a deeply uncertain—dehadi—future. Meandering through chowks and markets in cities across the subcontinent, Ashraf finally forgets almost everything about his previous, settled life with his mother,

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wife, and children. He reaches a stage where home ceases to be particular and becomes nowhere and everywhere: One morning, five years ago, Mohammed Ashraf forgot the phone number of the house where his mother lived … Ashraf thought of writing to her; but he had forgotten how to write … Lawaris meant he would die on a footpath in Delhi, and no one would even know. (Sethi 2011, 173–176)

Losing one’s way back to home does not necessarily translate into total loss of community and kinship though. Ashraf’s insistent evocation of his azadi, even if on the verge of being lawaris, must also be read in light of the affective ties which develop among the denizens of the Chowk as they maneuver the vagaries of the everyday in negotiation with a networked capital. If the everyday is to be understood as that which “operates at an unconscious psychogeographical level” (Bown 2016, 86), then Sethi’s attempt to document “the mazdoor ki zindagi—the life of the labourer” (Sethi 2011, 7) conjures the psychosomatic impact of urban processes which are as planetary as they are localized. The structural reconfiguration of urban economies atomizes laborers like Ashraf and excludes them from avenues of upward economic mobility as well as from networks of familial and social support, but it also creates opportunities for resilience, solidarity, and friendships to be forged in the shared, everyday experience of dehadi work and homelessness at the Chowk—because the city can also be “a mysterious place of freedom, camaraderie, and possibility” (Sethi 2011, 34). Ashraf’s and Lalloo’s enduring friendship, for instance, is forged in the incidentality of their companionship but is nonetheless substantive in a deep and reciprocal manner. They are, as Ashraf puts it, “medium-type friends”: Medium-type friends are those who do not make chootiyas of each other. If I ask you to help me out, it is expected that you will, on the condition I actually need your help and am not asking you simply because I’m too lazy to help myself … You’ll lend it; and I’ll return it. So it’s contractual. Dehadi friendship, that’s what is is—dehadi friendship where everything is out in the open and no one is making a chootiya out of anyone. (Sethi 2011, 65)

As each other’s medium-type friends, Ashraf, Lalloo, Rehaan, and the rest manage to experience the shared space of the Chowk “as belonging to larger scale of historical time in an effort to liberate it from its current

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burdens” (Majumder 2019, 18). They live in and at the Chowk but also in another time, a time of mobility, prosperity, and success which all of them instinctively look forward to, aim for, and support each other in grasping. As Sethi discovers, every mazdoor’s lifestory is a narrative of travel, migration, and displacement, ending up in Delhi at the Chowk— “where else would a runaway run away to?” (Sethi 2011, 35). Almost every one of the mazdoors has a brilliant plan or scheme to become wildly rich overnight, which dissolves regularly in the puffs of joints smoked deep into the night or the heady rush of Everyday whisky—desi/country liquor—at Kalyani’s illegal bar. Under the long and enveloping shadow of capital gone rogue, it is through dreams of their own stabs at primitive accumulation and rapid mobility that the mazdoors find sustenance for days which unfold after night. Yet, “flawed consumers” (Bauman 1998, 96) that they are, there are hardly any happy endings or successful returns to domesticity for most of them: the azad mazdoor of the Chowk is also akela (lonely) and laawaris (unclaimed), being slowly sundered from his moorings till all that remains of life is the everyday existence of the Chowk and its erratic cycles of impoverishing work. In other words, the relentless worlding of Delhi renders home and familial life distressingly ambivalent at the margins of its legal and formal regimes of planning and governance. In being a tale of precarious hopes and abiding frustrations, Bicycle Dreaming also engages with the instability produced as a consequence of hasty structural changes in the social and economic life of South Asian cities like Delhi. As incinerators are installed and “a company” prepares to “take over the colony’s waste soon” (Koshy 2016, 179), Saidullah’s days as a kabadiwallah seem numbered. His dwindling earnings lead to irreconcilable tensions in the small family of four. Talib loses respect for his father and abandons the family home in Chirag Dilli, forcing Ameena too to make a choice. As she reflects on her life after marriage, she cannot help compare the upward mobility experienced by her brothers with the downward spiral she now finds her family in. Her father, a farmer with a small handholding in Gurgaon, had hoped his daughters’ marriages to men in trades other than farming would revive the family’s fortunes. However, it is his sons, her brothers, who see a way out by shrewdly tapping into the economies of speculative land accumulation suddenly unfolding in Gurgaon: It was land that had nearly wrecked them in its refusal to yield the rice, the wheat and vegetables they planted with hopeless obstinacy. What could

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Delhi want with their bit of parched desert? But Delhi wanted this land … and the land yielded to Delhi as it had not to their hands. It yielded buildings paned in shining glass … and in time seed new crops of buildings and highways to connect them to one another and to the city—Delhi. (Koshy 2016, 103)

Such spectacular accumulation in Delhi and its hinterlands has not only transformed the value of land but also “the social relations and practices in which commodities are embedded to make them tradable” (Searle 2016, 40). Even as familial ties and kinship networks mutate into avenues for accumulation for Ameena’s brothers, at a much more quotidian level the bond between father and son, mother and daughter in Ameena’s and Saidullah’s family splinters under the stress of impoverishment on one hand and aspiration on the other. Talib’s call center job which keeps him in Gurgaon is a source of not only financial support for the family but also social anxiety, being a source of work which Saidullah does not understand and which neighbors like Lata Aunty always cast aspersions on. His dreams of buying a motorcycle, buying readymade shirts, buying smartphones, moving beyond the ambit of the one-room home provided by Saidullah are all indicative of his own self-fashioning as a “consumer-citizen” seeking to become part of that upwardly mobile class of urban bourgeois who wish to “self-identify as a global consumers” (Tickell 2018, 209). Yet, as each “morning scene of tension followed by an explosion of angry words” (Koshy 2016, 134) becomes a daily event, Noor is forced to grow older in the ensuing indeterminate absence of her mother. The partition of the household which follows is bitter and acrimonious: When Ammi was done with the shouting then the whispering that marked her coming home, she turned to the work of packing that accompanied her going from their home. Half of everything was packed: sheets and towels and dishes. All of Bhaiya’s things were packed in one swoop … The rectangular and square outlines of dirt on the walls and the brighter patches of paint within them marked where Bhaiya’s pictures had hung for as long back as Noor could remember … She [Noor] noted to herself the impossibility of those pictures coming away from the walls without ripping apart first. (Koshy 2016, 156)

The structural violence unleashed by technocratic governance and urban beautification seeps into the hitherto safe confines of home and rip it apart. In opting to stay with Talib in his new house than in the home she

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has known all her married life, Ameena understands that “loss … was the meaning of choosing” (Koshy 2016, 183) even as Noor, too, comes to the realization that “there was no such thing as destiny” (Koshy 2016, 188) and that she must constantly make “minute adjustments” (Koshy 2016, 221) even to the smallest of dreams so that the impossibility of them being granted does not appear too grim, too certain. As the novel ends and Noor turns a year older, her new bicycle comes at the cost of loss of home and family: though she moves in with Talib and Ameena goes back to Saidullah, home loses its old, settled meaning. Impoverished into picking recyclables from the incinerator’s ashy wastes, “the place built from bamboo and stray bricks over a floor of earth” (Koshy 220) which her parents now live in is far from the gentle familiarity of their “old home” with its “neatly stacked tins of sugar, flour and tea arrayed on shelves Talib and Mohammad Saidullah had built long before she could remember” (Koshy 220).

Propositions in Lieu of Conclusion The discursive reconfiguration of the urban poor as unscrupulous encroachers on public land and undeserving burdens on public resources being undertaken across sites of planning, governance, and jurisprudence in contemporary South Asian cities like Delhi stems from a foundational definitional anxiety about the informal. Thinking of informal settlements as dirty and squalid and of informal livelihoods as dispensable and inconsequential obfuscates the economic and political conditions which sustain and contain poverty in South Asian cities, manufacturing crises of land and resources when even in cities like Delhi informal settlements like “JJ clusters occupy a minute portion of land in the city—no more than 0.6% of total land area, and no more than 3.4% of land zoned residential in the 2021 Delhi Master Plan” (Bhan et al. 2020, 7). In continuing to think of informality as a constituent of the problem and not the solution of the manifold contestations over housing, livelihood, healthcare, and education confronting our cities, our urban governmentalities of aspiration and progress are only disenfranchising greater numbers of citizens into deeper, inter-generational dispossession and impoverishment. As the articulation of this uncertain, dynamic sense of urbanity takes unprecedented forms in recent writings on Delhi, it is useful to remember that “such messiness is rendered best not by plans but by certain literary forms, notably the realist novel and creative non-fiction” (Finch 2016, 27). Texts such as A Free Man and Bicycle Dreaming give semiotic depth

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to the enforced mobility engendering ambivalence as a constituent of the everyday for communities, livelihoods, and settlements at the margins of bourgeois imaginations of South Asian cities: marked by erratic movement across occupations and habitats, Ashraf’s life veers outside the knowable with his disappearance while Saidullah, settled into an itinerant livelihood, is dislocated into the risky sedentarism of a scavenger at a landfill. They perform a necessary function of narrating much that has largely been neglected as illegible and unnarratable by the authors of literary as well as planning and judicial texts, foregrounding the multiple mobilities across social, economic, and affective dimensions which integrally constitute the experience of urban informality as inescapably ambivalent. Both Sethi and Koshy demonstrate and acknowledge a ready and intimate familiarity with urban scholarship on regimes of exclusion and dispossession, creating the impetus for an informed, interrogative kind of urban writing which is able to give tangible shape to the unmooring of work, home, and identity in Delhi and its counterparts across South Asia. In this vein, both of the texts under consideration here may be seen as reflective of a growing corpus of urban activist writing which is drawing upon the strengths of literary representation to mingle “critical commentary with advocacy for a just and equitable urban future” (Gurr 2021, 121). While the instability which is a by-product of informality’s constant interaction with formality affects all classes of urban citizens, those at the margins of our cities’ social and economic life—such as dehadi mazdoors and kabadiwallahs—are impacted the most by the hasty suddenness of these ongoing structural changes. The precarious working conditions and domestic lives of the urban poor have been put under even greater stress due to this transformation, and, as a consequence, the affective contours of what constitutes work and home have become unsettled. Experienced as dispossession and dislocation, mobility here is a symptom of the larger malaise—or success—of the consumer-capital world order which splinters the possibility of resilient and sustainable livelihoods, kinships, and senses of community even as it keeps the ephemeral promise of escape alive through the enchantments of consumption. By linking the personal with the public within the rubric of this pervasive volatility, texts such as A Free Man and Bicycle Dreaming unpack the psychosomatic impact of the worlding of Delhi’s planning and governance paradigms and facilitate more intimate understandings of the ways in which our present models of aspirational and speculative urbanization are unraveling countless lives and homes across South Asian cities.

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References Bauman, Zygmunt. 1998. Globalization: The human consequences. Cambridge: Polity Press. Bhan, Gautam. 2016. Evictions and the politics of governance in contemporary Delhi. Hyderabad: Orient Blackswan Pvt. Ltd. Bhan, Gautam, Indrashish Chakraborty, Sambhavi Joshi, Neelesh Kumar, Abdul Shakeel, and Mukesh Yadav. 2020. Isn’t there enough land?: Spatial assessments of ‘slums’ in New Delhi. Indian Institute for Human Settlements Knowledge Gateway. https://iihs.co.in/knowledge-­gateway/wp-­content/uploads/ 2020/03/iihs_housing_policy_paper_1.pdf. Accessed 30 Oct 2022. Boehmer, Elleke, and Dominic Davies. 2018. Planned violence: Post/colonial urban infrastructures, literature and culture. In Planned violence: Post/colonial urban infrastructure, literature and culture, ed. Elleke Boehmer and Dominic Davies, 1–26. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Bown, Alfie. 2016. How did the everyday manage to become so interesting? In The Palgrave handbook of literature and the city, ed. Jeremy Tambling, 75–87. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Davies, Dominic. 2019. Urban comics: Infrastructure and the global city in contemporary graphic narratives. New York: Routledge. Finch, Jason. 2016. Modern urban theory and the study of literature. In The Palgrave handbook of literature and the city, ed. Jeremy Tambling, 27–44. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Ghertner, D. Asher. 2015. Rule by aesthetics: World-class city making in Delhi. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Gill, Kaveri. 2012. Of poverty and plastic: Scavenging and scrap trading entrepreneurs in India’s urban informal economy. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Gupta, Narayani. 2002. Delhi between two empires, 1803–1931: Society, government and urban growth. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Gurr, Jens Martin. 2021. Charting literary urban studies: Texts as models of and for the city. New York: Routledge. Koshy, Mridula. 2016. Bicycle dreaming. New Delhi: Speaking Tiger Publishing Pvt. Ltd. Majumder, Atreyee. 2019. Time, space and capital in India: Longing and belonging in an urban-industrial hinterland. Abingdon: Routledge. Mukherjee, Ankhi. 2018. Slums and the postcolonial uncanny. In Planned violence: Post/colonial urban infrastructure, literature and culture, ed. Elleke Boehmer and Dominic Davies, 87–104. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Myers, Garth. 2011. African cities: Alternate visions of urban theory and practice. London: Zed Books. Robinson, Jennifer. 2014. New geographies of theorizing the urban: Putting comparison to work for global urban studies. In The Routledge handbook on cities of

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the Global South, ed. Susan Parnell and Sophie Oldfield, 57–70. Abingdon: Routledge. Roy, Ananya. 2015. Why India cannot plan its cities: Informality, insurgence and the idiom of urbanization. In Cities of the Global South reader, ed. Faranak Miraftab and Neema Kudva, 310–314. Abingdon: Routledge. Searle, Llerena Guiu. 2016. Landscapes of accumulation: Real estate and the neoliberal imagination in contemporary India. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Sethi, Aman. 2011. A free man. Gurgaon: Random House Publishers India Pvt Ltd. Sharan, Awadhendra. 2014. In the city, out of place: Nuisance, pollution, and dwelling in Delhi, c. 1850–2000. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Simone, AbdouMaliq. 2015. The urban poor and their ambivalent exceptionalities: Some notes from Jakarta. Current Anthropology 56 (11): S15–S23. Srivastava, Sanjay. 2014. Entangled urbanism: Slum, gated community, and shopping mall in Delhi and Gurgaon. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. The Missing Basti Project. 2022. https://missingbasti.com/. Accessed 5 Nov 2022. Tickell, Alex. 2018. Writing the city and Indian English fiction: Planning, violence, and aesthetics. In Planned violence: Post/colonial urban infrastructure, literature and culture, ed. Elleke Boehmer and Dominic Davies, 195–212. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan.

CHAPTER 4

The Nomadic Subject in Teju Cole’s Open City Aristi Trendel

Teju Cole’s Open City (2011), the author’s second book and his first novel published in the US, drew a great deal of critical attention. The abondance of scholarly articles1 on a contemporary debut novel could be explained by the fact that the book features the ideas, debates, interrogations, issues, and theories of our times to such a comprehensive extent that Cole’s prose in its “careful inhabitation of Western canonical literary and intellectual fashions” was perceived as “writing based on a business calculation” (Wawrzinek 2018, 171). However, the critic’s rather peremptory dismissal of the author as a “peddler” (Wawrzinek 2018, 171) to fashionable intellectual tastes, which would involve the author’s awareness of the reception of his work and a marketing strategy, does not do justice to Cole’s prose. Whether Cole applied a success recipe aiming at seducing academics and 1  For examples of the diverse, ongoing readings of the novel, see Inyang (2022); Von Gleich (2021); Neumann and Kappel (2019); Bose (2019); Gilmer (2018); Johansen (2018).

A. Trendel (*) Le Mans University, Le Mans, France © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 P. García, A.-L. Toivanen (eds.), Urban Mobilities in Literature and Art Activism, Literary Urban Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42798-5_4

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the more general readership, or not, Open City remains an erudite novel whose insightful, even visionary engagement with twenty-first-century issues through the trope of movement, which involves physical walking and mental wandering in the narrative, can both intrigue and stimulate the reader. Indeed, the narrative capitalizes both on mobility which takes place within “meaningful segments of space—locations imbued with meaning and power” (Cresswell 2006, 3) and on philosophical nomadism which includes the liberty of self-determination. While the former will be examined through the figure of the flâneur in the narrative, and in particular the emerging transcultural flâneur, marked by its time and space, the latter will be analyzed through the construction of nomadic identity. None of these narrative strands have been looked into through these critical lenses so far.

Mobilities In this plotless, post-9/11 narrative, a first-person narrator, Julius, a German-Nigerian psychiatrist on his last-year fellowship at New  York Presbyterian Hospital, strolls around this city, and to a lesser extent, in Brussels too, minutely recording his observations and putting the objects of his scrutiny in aesthetic, moral, historical, and political perspective explicitly or implicitly. On the one hand, the mobilities of the learned narrator combine physical and mental activity conjuring up the figure of the flâneur, while on the other hand, they involve the construction of subjectivity. His incessantly shifting perspectives attribute meaning to movement and call forth, as a general frame of study, what scholars termed the “new mobilities paradigm”, (Sheller and Urry 2006, 208) extended from social sciences to the humanities, and referring to the emergence of new forms of mobility and a new academic focus on mobility (Merriman and Pearce 2017). Furthermore, the specific frame of study that can help the reader understand the novel is Rosi Braidotti’s nomadic theory, based on Deleuze’s philosophical nomadism that cannot be unrelated to the New Mobilities Paradigm and can enrich, though not unreservedly, mobilities research. As Tim Cresswell puts it, “Mobile lives need nomad thought to make a new kind of sense” (2006, 44). This kind of thought, which also advances mobility as becoming, underpins the narrative. However, Cresswell not only addresses the rise of nomadic thought but also presents its criticism, namely the disregard of “the historical conditions that produce specific

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forms of movement, which are radically different”, and the repetition of “centuries of Western romanticization of the non-Western other” (2006, 54). Nevertheless, both the novel’s author and its main character are Africans, which complexifies the figure in the carpet as Cole clearly does not romanticize his narrator. Indeed, Cole’s narrative also refers to these conditions, such as poverty, war or other forms of forced displacement, that have produced mobilities by using “walking to examine the spatial grammar of the city that provides a preconstructed stage for the cunning tactics of the walk” (Cresswell 2010, 20). I argue that through the figure of a transcultural flâneur, the narrative features the making of what Braidotti calls the nomadic subject, a subject in process. Though the figure of the flâneur has been examined by previous critics, such as Rebecca Clark (2018), or Jennifer Wawrzinek (2018), no critic has engaged with the transcultural dimension of Cole’s construction of flâneur, which leads to identity politics and the construction of nomadic identity. First, I inquire into the specific brand of mobility that appears in the narrative, which involves the updated figure of the flâneur, and then examine how through this figure Cole highlights a cartographic reading of the present in terms of cultural, ethical, and political concerns. In nomadic theory, cartography is defined as “a politically informed map of one’s historical and social locations, enabling the analysis of situated formations of power and hence the elaboration of adequate forms of resistance” (Braidotti 2011, 271). The novel features a narrator on the move at the intersection of three continents, Africa, Europe, and America. From his native Nigeria, Julius moves to New York after graduating from Military School in Lagos to continue his studies and get away from his German mother from whom he feels alienated. In New York, his life is described through his exploratory walks in the city and his serendipitous encounters which open up new vistas into the city’s past and his personal history. Likewise, his walks are extended through his trip to Brussels motivated by his search for his maternal grandmother of whom he cherishes fond memories. His intellectual curiosity, thoughts, ideas, encyclopedic knowledge, comments and observations drive the narrative broadening its scope and maintaining momentum. If the temporality in the narrative is shifting through significant flights of memory that flesh out the character, so is its spatiality since the narrator,

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in his urban peregrinations, offers a palimpsestic view of the city2 ­uncovering layer after layer of its past inscribed in space. Moreover, the double reference in the title, which alludes both to New York and Brussels, draws the reader’s attention to such spatiality. An open city encourages movement, has no barriers and in this sense, the title “has a positive connotation”, as the author remarks referring to New York, in an interview with Jeffrey Brown (Cole 2011b). At the same time, the global city is also presented in the narrative as a place of fixity, immobility, extinction, and exclusion for other groups just like Brussels which, in addition, was historically an open city during the battle of Belgium in 1940—it opened itself to the enemy without resistance as the narrator reminds the reader, “Had Brussels rulers not opted to declare it an open city […] it might have been reduced to rubble” (97). His remark emphasizes the mobility of the invaders and the immobility of the invaded at that particular historical moment. Though for Madhu Krishnan (2015, 676), “this historical interlude reveals the title as a catachresis which exposes its obfuscating limitations as the narrative unfolds”, this historical reference seems to serve the reading of violence as a universal phenomenon and the limitations of openness. These auspicious or ominous and compromising urban mobilities and immobilities are highlighted in the narrator’s perambulations which create the reader’s “sense of place” or what landscape architects call “landscape character”. Like a landscape architect the narrator seems to assist the reader in making sense of place as part of his assessment. Both detached and involved, insider and outsider, easily moving in and out of these positions, he gives what Alexander Greer Hartwiger, borrowing Edward Said’s term, calls a “contrapuntal reading” of the space to “expose intertwined and overlapping histories” (2016, 4). This dynamic view of space emphasizes “that all places are tied into at least thin networks of connections that stretch beyond each such place and mean that nowhere can be an island”, as Mimi Sheller and John Urry (2006, 209) observe. Therefore, mobile temporality and spatiality converge in the figure of the flâneur that informs the narrative. 2  Hartwiger uses the palimpsestic metaphor to argue that “Cole updates the figure of the flâneur to the postcolonial flâneur in an era of globalization” (2016, 2). As for Krishnan, who dismisses the narrator as unreliable and alienated from his past, the palimpsest serves as a mystifying device to create an illusion of diversity, “a narrative trope” which “returns to encapsulate the history of violence over which the allegedly disconnected vestiges of contemporary global power frame themselves” (2015, 685).

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The Figure of the Transcultural Flâneur It should be noted that critics, such as Hartwiger or more recently Sara Faradji (2022), have advanced the figure of the postcolonial flâneur in Open City. Indeed, Cole’s depiction of an African flâneur endowed with a postcolonial outlook and with all the tensions that race involves both continues with and deviates from the tradition of flâneur all the more so that Cole denies the existence of a Black flâneur (Cole 2018) and Pieter Vermeulen eloquently uses the psychiatric figure of the “fugueur” instead of the flâneur to point out the limits of “aesthetic and memorial cosmopolitan practices” (2013, 40). Nevertheless, an understanding of the novel that does not go beyond these readings would be incomplete as it does not take into account the substantial evolution of the figure of the flâneur that subsumes the tensions of the ‘other’ and Cole’s narrative contribution to such evolution; the novel ironically belies its author’s extra-textual denial of the figure. It should also be noted that Sofia Aatkar (2019) in her article “Postcolonial Flânerie in Caryl Phillips’s The Atlantic Sound and Ferdinand Dennis’s Behind the Frontlines: Journey into Afro-Britain” builds on Cole’s statement that a Black flâneur cannot exist to somehow displace the argument. As she puts it, “it might be more productive to contemplate which spaces, which crowds or which times of day allow black people to perform flânerie most effectively” (Aatkar 2019, 40). It appears that there are no such conditionalities in Cole’s ‘open cities’ such as New York or Brussels. The flânerie of Cole’s narrator appears most effective and productive in such global cities which give access to a multitude of cultures and allow the flâneur both to keep historical memory alive and move forward. Ironically, the only disruption in the narrator’s flânerie occurs when two black adolescents who do not discriminate on the basis of color assault Julius. In the narrative, global cities both encourage the postcolonial outlook and its examination. Though flânerie is not a new mobility practice, Cole greatly contributes to the evolution of this figure by introducing an Afrodiasporic flâneur and by first emphasizing the old link between this form of mobility and mental activity.3 The Afrodiasporic narrator’s flânerie makes all the more prominent his erudition and his agile mind quick to respond to each stimulus not only related to issues of race. Precisely, Aimée Boutin notes the “revival 3  Frederic Gross (2014) reminds us of the connection between walking and creative thought which philosophers and thinkers such as Kant, Nietzsche or Thoreau have made clear.

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of interest in flânerie today” and as she says, “due diligence should be given to the differences between nineteenth century pedestrianism and contemporary urban mobility” (2017, 88). Cole harmoniously weaving together his literary and philosophical antecedents comes up with an updated version of this figure, namely a transcultural flâneur, which allows the author not to remain fixed on a single outlook. Wolfgang Welsch, in his seminal article, “The Puzzling Form of Cultures Today”, contends that “the concept of transculturality aims for a multi-meshed and inclusive […] understanding of culture” (2009, 7), which Cole seems to embrace in the building of his character thus marking a move away from the exclusive colonial outlook. Thus, from Charles Baudelaire’s nineteenth-century flâneur, the author borrows the profile of a passionate spectator for his narrator for whom, in Baudelaire’s terms, “it is an immense joy to set up house in the heart of the multitude, amid the ebb and flow of movement, in the midst of the fugitive and the infinite” (1995, 9). Julius develops a keen taste for his walks—as he remarks, “I forgot what life had been like before I started walking” (7). These regular strolls take him all over the city, his natural habitat, and they structure the narrative. He is equally endowed with the Baudelairean quality of the dandy in his detachment, elegance, learnedness, and cultivation of beauty, which have made some critics very cautious or critical of this character. However, Julius is not only an aesthete. From Walter Benjamin who revisited the figure of the flâneur in his The Arcade Projects, Cole borrows his narrator’s capacity to immerse himself in the socio-cultural environment and, in particular, in the parallel universe of the subway which also offers its sets of stories and stimulates the flâneur’s interest. Right from the beginning of the narrative, a specific subway imagery, which reveals the narrator’s fascination with the dark underground, is announced, “The sight of large masses of people hurrying down into underground chambers was perpetually strange to me, and I felt that all the human race were rushing, pushed by counterinstinctive death drive, into movable catacombs” (7). Interestingly, the underground is no place for death—there is movement which counters death. It should also be mentioned that in his preoccupation with nature and his contemplative streak, the narrator could recall Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s eighteenth-century unfinished work, Reveries of a Solitary Walker which belies some critics’ view of Cole’s character as seemingly lifeless and programmatic. Randy Lee Cutler’s (2014) observation on Rousseau’s

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connection of walking with speculative thought in literature is highly relevant to the narrative, as we shall see. As Cutler states, “the process engenders conscious and unconscious states of becoming, opening towards a fluid sense of embodiment where surroundings are taken in and assimilated” (2014, n.p.). Precisely, the epigraph in the second part of the book reads, “I have searched myself” (147), which evokes a process of becoming clearly associated with mobility in the narrative. However, a much more recent and salient antecedent, as many reviewers (cf. Michaud 2011; Wu and Kuo 2013) and critics, such as James Wood (2011), have noted, is W.  G. Sebald’s mobile meditation in his novel, The Rings of Saturn. Cole’s flâneur is enriched with Sebald’s melancholic and subtly political dimension, which enhances the figure. Cole, in his book of essays Known and Strange Things (2016), which blends high culture and twitter and offers a global perspective to current topics, acknowledges his filiation to the German writer. In this non-fiction book, Cole, born in the US, raised in Nigeria, residing in the US, appears as a transcultural writer par excellence. Ariana Dagnino calls “transcultural writers” those who, in our socio-cultural context of high mobility, “by choice or by life circumstances, experience cultural dislocation, live transnational experiences, cultivate bilingual/pluri-lingual proficiency, physically immerse themselves in multiple cultures/geographies/territories, expose themselves to diversity and nurture plural, flexible identities” (2012, 1). They are thus liberated from what Dagnino calls “the traditional migrant/exile syndrome” (2012, 2), and rejecting both a separatist and a homogenizing vision of culture, embrace an inclusive one. It is no wonder, then, that Cole builds a transcultural character in Open City, a most appropriate figure to discuss culture in the twenty-first century. According to Welsch, “the concept of transculturality” is “the most adequate concept of culture today” (2009, 1), eagerly adopted by Cole, whose character is cast by differing cultural interests that are constantly negotiated. Julius, in his analysis of phenomena from various angles, insisting “on the multipolarity, multiple perspectives, and transformative dynamics” inherent in his subjectivity (König and Rakow 2016, 95) points to our “transcultural era”, proclaimed by Richard Slimbach. Slimbach has traced “transculturalism” as “the quest to define shared interests and common values across cultural and national borders” (2005, 206). It is precisely such a quest that seems to quicken the narrator’s wayfaring, underestimated by critics such as Vermeulen (2013) or Krishnan (2015) who focus on the limitations of the cosmopolitan ethos in the narrative

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without taking into account the dynamics of identity construction and the mobility such construction involves. Indeed, Cole’s narrative is not unlike an optical illusion picture that offers the viewer no less than a double image. The lens of culture allows the reader to distinguish the transcultural dimension in the makeup of the character and consider its implications. Naturally, what makes such a transcultural perspective, distinguished by the tense alliance of difference and commonality, easier to adopt is Julius’ multilingualism (German, Yoruba, English) and immersion in the cultures he was acquainted with in Africa, Europe, and the US. In addition, as he is devoted to the humanities and is well versed in the arts, such erudition can contribute to bringing out the common core that may lie in the heart of diversity. Hence, as an ardent listener of classical music, he listens to European radio stations on the Internet for contrary to American stations, music is not disrupted by constant advertising on them. As an avid reader, he turns to books as “conversation: one person is speaking to another” (5), and such a dialogic attitude can yield productive results. Open to new cultural experiences and enrichment, he is willing to discover less familiar cultural territories, such as jazz; too worried by his insensitivity to it, he is guided by his trusted jazz-buff friend who promises him a life transformation through this sort of music. Eager for diversity, he turns a keen eye and sensitive ear to differences within the city expressed in poetic terms, “Each neighborhood […] appeared to be made of a different substance, each seemed to have a different air pressure, a different psychic weight” (6). Julius’ incessant walking in and out of New York neighborhoods stands for his facility to walk in and out of diverse cultural environments, an enriching process. Therefore, as an outsider to a culture, cultural awareness is always present and a factor to reckon with in his observations. In the park, as he listens to a group of erhu players dressed in red and tries to understand their music through his previous exposure to Chinese culture, he wonders about the symbolism of the color, “I could not remember if red was lucky in Chinese culture” (165). In the associative network of the narrative, his attention to this color seems to be triggered by the native American blood, shed in the seventeenth century which still has repercussions in the present, and takes the health and life of one of Julius’s patients who did research on the deeds and misdeeds of the “monster of New Amsterdam”, Cornelis van Tienhoven. If this contrastive connection between cultures is slim, there are stronger ones. Thus, Julius imagines his Nigerian “father with coins on his eyes, and a solemn boatman collecting them from him, and granting him

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passage” (228), which brings in Greek mythology and the Obol the dead paid to Charon for transporting them to Hades. As an insider to culture, he associates widely different cultures in his perception of the world. Thus, Yoruba cosmology or Mahler’s music can join forces and become complementary. The former helps him reflect on misled humanity, the latter helps him understand the pain of prolonged farewells and how life is colored by looming death. Moreover, he means to destabilize cultural expectations when he reports a scene in a bar involving a white professor teaching Chinese to an Asian student, “He was aware of the incongruity between his features and his task […]. He seemed to be presenting his credentials, addressing not her alone, but anyone within earshot who might pause for a moment at the sight of a white man teaching Chinese to an Asian woman” (217). This openness of mind reveals a non-essentialist approach to culture which precludes any monocultural perspective and involves a constant effort to understand and expand his horizons but also freedom to choose. As Epstein contends, “Viewed from a transcultural perspective, all existing cultures get a broader meaning, as any of their elements is no longer imposed as a tradition but is chosen freely” (2009, 344). Indeed, the independent-­minded narrator appears determined to make his own choices and not let his race determine his belonging whether he is in a ‘Black’ environment or a ‘white’ one. Though the narrative is a systematic denouncement of racism in all its forms and a reminder of the injustices or atrocities different groups suffered, such as Native Americans, African Americans, Japanese Americans, or Rwandans, Julius refuses any racial claims on him whether they come from an African cabdriver, a Barbudan museum-guard or an African American post-office employee and poet. While the narrator makes a mental note to avoid this post office, when the latter recites a militant poem to him and invites Julius to join him in poetry cafés, he significantly choses a stamp featuring quilts from Gee’s Bend, a community descendant from enslaved African Americans, known for its cultural wealth in quilt making. Thus, he embraces his distant filiation to this community but rejects the employee-poet’s minorities’ pride. Even more significantly, Julius is mailing Kwame Anthony Appiah’s Cosmopolitanism to Farouq, his new friend in Brussels, with whom he discussed postcolonial issues and terrorism. Appiah’s ideas appear to be Julius’s answer to Farouq’s postcolonial thinking and radical temptations. The political philosopher challenges binary thinking and stresses our shared humanity.

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Dagnino refers to this process “of de-ethnicization”, “de-tribalization” of one’s sense of identity as “creative transpatriation” (2015, 4). As she says, “apparent ambiguities and transitoriness are not shunned but espoused in favor of movement, mediation, and ongoing transformation” (Dagnino 2015, 131). Indeed, it is the thought of a shared humanity that dawns on Julius, mediated by Mahler’s Ninth Symphony, in an all-white concert hall in which he gets looks that make him feel like “the Mbuti man who was put on display in the Monkey House at the Bronx Zoo in 1906” (252). In fact, he does not dwell on such feelings but steps back from them. As he says, “I weary of such thoughts” (252). Therefore, the physical and emotional detachment and critical distance contribute to the transcultural dimension in the narrator’s Weltanschauung which points to identity-formation. Precisely, Welsch contends that “Wherever an individual is cast by differing cultural interests, the linking of such transcultural components with one another becomes a specific task in identity-forming” (2009, 5). Julius seems to pick up the gauntlet in this arduous task which involves an existential dimension underlined by Epstein in a metaphorical language: “Origins are essential, but the purpose of culture is not to affirm them, but to go away from them, to become a river and not a dam. Origins must be inscribed in the history of their overcoming” (2009, 341). Origins are not erased but they do not solely determine the individual’s development which is not in a state of fixity but of constant flux. Epstein also underlines the political dimension of transculturality approaching it as “the broad way between globalism and multiculturalism” (2009, 330). Clearly, it is not only the narrator’s high culture that is at odds with mass culture but also his acute awareness of the workings of capitalism is tinged with an opposition to it. The closing down of a Blockbuster store as well as a Tower Records shop trigger a reflection on a Darwinian market, “It wasn’t that I felt sorry for these faceless national corporations; far from it. They had made their profits and their names by destroying smaller, earlier local businesses. But I was touched […] at the swiftness and dispassion with which the market swallowed even the most resilient enterprises” (19). This political stance that involves not only awareness of but also a critical look at the workings of late capitalism is complementary to the narrator’s presentation of America’s racial history that haunts the present, as his mistaking of a “a dark canvas sheeting on a construction scaffold, twirling in the wind” for “the body of a lynched man dangling from a tree” (75) reveals. It is combined with his address of the radical resistance to America’s

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wrongdoings, as he appears to understand extremist discourse and support of Al-Qaeda (120). In the same manner, he puts the 9/11 disaster in a larger perspective, “atrocity is nothing new not to humans, not to animals” (58), further broadened by the past erasures operated on this very site, “The site was a palimpsest […] written, erased, rewritten” (59). Modern slavery stories, such as the Haitian shoemaker’s, round off the picture and introduce an ethical dimension to this flâneur. Therefore, Bart Van Leeuwen’s view that “the flâneur needs to change” and embrace “more meaningful forms of inter-cultural engagement” in order “to live up to the demanding moral ideal of world citizenship” (2019, 301) is quite relevant to Cole’s novel which operates this change and presents full engagement in a transcultural vision comprehensively enriched with aesthetic, moral and political concerns. Consequently, the narrator’s penetrating eye and brisk gait which involve accrued mental activity and reveal a different model of cultural development aim at setting up a picture of our contemporary world as it emerges in a global city. It is not easy to define who the narrator, endowed with such an ambition, finally is. Eclectic intertextual winks remind the reader of the literary selfhood of the character. Thus, Cole establishes Julius’s affinities with another ‘journeyer’, Herman Melville’s Ismael, as Julius looks for his way to the water line after visiting Trinity Church with Moby-Dick’s writer in mind. Cole, whether in historical or literary terms, never lets the past slip out of sight. Likewise, Cole pays tribute to another traveler and transcultural writer, James Joyce—in reproducing Joyce’s style, mood, and atmosphere in the ending of his short story, “The Dead”, Cole links his character with anti-nationalist intellectual, Gabriel Conroy who stifles in his narrow-minded country. Unlike Conroy, Julius flew away and this initial act of mobility was followed not only by the politically informed mobilities of the flâneur but also by the movement involved in the construction of subjectivity, no less political.

From a Transcultural Flâneur to a Nomadic Subject The modernity of Cole’s character and his slippery identity can be better understood in terms of Braidotti’s nomadic subject, a subject in perpetual becoming, capable of moving across established categories and levels of experience. If Dagnino, Epstein and Welsch approach subjectivity through the lens of culture, Braidotti’s lens is larger. Her ambitious project consists in setting up an all-encompassing theory on improving our contemporary

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world. Nomadic Theory exposes her vision of a meaningful, creative life in times of accelerated change and tumultuous developments. Though nomadism, in its original sense, a way of life of peoples who do not live continually in the same place but move cyclically or periodically, declined in the twentieth century for economic and political reasons, philosophical nomadism has been on the rise thanks to Braidotti’s figuration of nomadic subject that gives a broader picture of socially mediated contemporary subjectivity. The type of power that Braidotti advocates for it is affirmative or potentia, the opposite of restrictive or potentas, the despotic power of authority. The author whose philosophical premises rest on Spinoza and Deleuze, her Parisian and life-long mentor, is determined to overcome dialectical oppositions. Thus, her nomadic subject is resolutely post-identitarian, post-anthropocentric and eco-egalitarian, post-secular, done with dualities including human/nonhuman, shaped by multiple belongings and graced with Zoe. Zoe is Braidotti’s central concept which refers to the affirmative power of life and is a vector of in-depth transformations. Cole’s narrative sets out to unravel clashing dualisms and weave together conflicting strands of thought and belief. It does so through the will to connect and affirm life. Thus, Hartwiger’s view that “While the novel constructs this romanticized idea of connectedness, Julius’ inability to connect with others in meaningful ways at the same time undermines those claims” (2016, 12) seems erroneous. Indeed, the first chapter, which sets the tone, and the conclusive, open-­ ended last chapter, which informs the reader that Julius is rehoming into a small apartment in West Twenty-first street in spite of more lucrative professional offers farther from the city, are all about connectedness. The opening but also overarching metaphor of mobility, the migratory birds, marks the narrator’s sensibility to nonhuman. “Hoping to see the miracle of natural immigration”, the narrator wonders “how our life below might look from their perspective” (4). Attentiveness to and concern with the natural nonhuman world persist throughout the narrative, as Julius’s discussion about the mass death of bees indicate and culminate at the ending. The narrative’s ending allies a politically engaged position, critical of late capitalism and its perverse ideology of free mobility, in particular of the American stance on freedom, with a non-anthropocentric eco-­ philosophy. The narrator gives statistical accounts of the number of disoriented birds dead from their impact on the monumental Statue of Liberty, when it served as a lighthouse. This compelling image that involves a most

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symbolic monument, in the light of the persecution stories that made up the narrative, seems to aim at drawing the reader’s attention to America’s betrayal of its own constitutional engagement in life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, and in particular its indifference to the environment. Nevertheless, the narrator remains hopeful as these almost allegorical terms seem to indicate, “There has been no sign of this year’s bird migrations yet, but I know they will come. I will be able to take the auspices to my heart’s content” (247). Precisely, Braidotti’s affirmative theory advances a nomadic subject endowed with hope. Likewise, the narrator’s transcultural development rests on the capacity to connect the cultures he is acquainted with, assimilate new ones and value the contribution of cultures to the creation of a meaningful life. If the main metaphor of mobility is borrowed from the natural world, an equally meaningful, overarching one, albeit less explicit, is taken from culture, namely Mahler’s music. It should be mentioned that these two metaphors contribute to the structural coherence of the narrative. In the first chapter, Mahler’s late symphony, Das Lied von der Erde, played in the Tower Records store, puts Julius in a “trance” (17) and heightens his sensibility, “as if the precision of the orchestral texture had been transferred to the world of visible things, and every detail had somehow become significant” (18). In the last chapter, Julius after attending Mahler’s Ninth Symphony confirms his affirmative stance on life consolidated by Mahler’s musical pieces, “The overwhelming impression they give is of light: the light of a passionate hunger for life, the light of a sorrowful mind contemplating death’s implacable approach” (250). Interestingly, Julian Johnson in his article, “The Status of the Subject in Mahler’s Ninth Symphony”, notes that “the musical processes at work in Mahler’s Ninth” produce a model of “a subject in process” (Johnson 1994, 117), the type of subject that Cole seems to depict and thus consolidate it through this mise en abyme. Therefore, Josh Epstein’s (2019) vision of the narrator as an “elliptical cosmopolitan”4 misses the processual dimension and the affirmation of life in the narrative makeup of the character. As Epstein partially puts it, “Out 4  Epstein highlights his position in the title of his article, “Open City’s Abschied: Teju Cole, Gustav Mahler, and Elliptical Cosmopolitanism”, and clearly states, “Through Mahler’s music, Open City explores the potential of aesthetics to critique (rather than merely reaffirm) the patterns of consumption in which it partakes, and to fragment (rather than solidify) the boundaries of the cosmopolitan subject who consumes it” (2019, 414).

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of time with his own past, dislocated from his own colonial subjectivity, Julius finds himself stranded on a series of abortive paths (staircases, boats, buses, walks) as he follows the elliptical fits-and-starts of Mahler’s equally fragmentary and citational music” (2019, 416). Epstein presents the narrator as a fixed subject unable to escape his condition of being entrapped thus disregarding the mobility attached to the process of becoming and the narrator’s capacity to go beyond his colonial subjectivity and find the way out of “abortive paths”. Indeed, trapped on the Concert Hall staircase and just before finding his way out, the narrator looks up and the starry sky induces in him a state of cosmic communion whose necessity is underlined by Braidotti, particularly in “The Cosmic Buzz of Insects” (2011, 98–123). The narrator “faced” with “solitude of a rare purity” (254) describes this revitalizing state in poetic terms, “The miasma of Manhattan’s electric lights did not go very far up into the sky, and in the moonless night, the sky was like a roof shot through with light, and heaven itself shimmer” (256). Thus, this philosophical and poetic escape is a prelude to his way out of his temporary entrapment. Moreover, the narrator’s remarks on Mahler’s capacity to creatively contemplate death implicitly delineate his own stance on mortality announced by the epigraph in the first part of the narrative, “Death is a perfection of the eye”. Not losing sight of death, whether violent or natural, enhances our vision of life. It is precisely the reason why the narrator is momentarily disappointed by his mentor’s incoherent words at the end of his life and confides to his friend, “I hoped for a graceful, strong exit for this professor of mine” (180). His friend simply reminds him of the physical limits that restrict human capacity to fight disease and stretches human freedom onto the choice of one’s moment of death when faced with such a condition. The narrator’s pious listening to his friend’s view of a peaceful, contemplative strong ending of his choice seems to endorse this freedom. Nomadic theory proposes a vision of mortality as a phase in the generative process, and a dynamic principle that discards grief and melancholia. In her celebration of affirmation, Braidotti locates “the ethical moment of transformation” in “the empowerment of the positive side” (2011, 165) which underpins Julius’ passion for connectedness. As a matter of fact, the narrator’s solitude is countered by his elan toward the others. Clearly, race does not determine his preferences, and Cole seems keen on moving away from the multicultural model toward a post-identarian one. As Braidotti contends, “Crucial to becoming-nomad is the undoing of the oppositional dualism majority/minority and

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arousing an affirmative passion for the transformative flows that destabilize all identities” (2011, 41). What allows for the abolition of the duality majorities/minorities and keeps in motion the nomadic subject is precisely the recognition that one may be both the victim and the perpetrator. It is this aspect in the composition of the narrator that puzzled some scholars such as Lieven Ameel who concludes his essay as follows: “It could be argued that the novel’s urgency lies in this paradox: its, and its protagonist’s, very resistance to being read as a moral exemplum” (2017, 280). Cole neither romanticizes his narrator nor fully demonizes him; he presents him both as a victim of racism and violence (an Indian doctor almost insults him during a party for being African; he is attacked and mugged by Black adolescents), and an alleged sexual predator (a Nigerian acquaintance tells him that she was raped by him at a party when he was fourteen). As for his character’s attitude, he is open to others but also wary and watchful. He condemns any kind of “monolithic identity” that could lead to violence (106). He clearly refuses to remain fixed as a minority postcolonial subject. His exchange with the cabdriver reveals his position, “Ellis Island was a symbol mostly for European refugees. Blacks, ‘we Blacks,’ had known rougher ports of entry: this, I could admit to myself now that my mood was less impatient, was what the cabdriver had meant” (55). If this acknowledgment was denied, so is the equation between minorities and goodness. Looking at a group of Rwandans, he is possessed by two sets of feelings, compassion and doubt, “It was as though the space had suddenly become heavy with all the stories these people were carrying. What losses” (139). Though he can identify with such losses, he remains cautious of the authenticity attached to the stories of the persecuted, “These, too, could have killed and killed and only later learned how to look innocent” (139). Precisely, along with the nonhuman connection to the others is sought for, whether anonymous passersby or the nearest and dearest. Thus, he appears particularly sensitive to the solitary marathon runner who crosses his path, “I imagined his limping form receding as I pressed ahead, his wiry frame bearing a victory apparent to none but himself” (15). Though a strong friendship that enlightens the narrator runs through the narrative, the most significant human being in Julius’s life is neither the friend, nor his girlfriend with whom he breaks up in the course of the narrative; it seems to be his former professor and mentor, Professor Saito, who also brings into the narrative the plight of Japanese-Americans during World War II. He appears as an exceptional interlocutor, whose presence

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makes the narrator aware of what he cannot express, “I […] wanted to tell him more but didn’t have quite the right purchase on what it was I was trying to say about the solitary territory my mind had been crisscrossing” (12). He also appears as the most emotionally charged object of affection, “I sat next to him and held his small, cold hand in mine” (179). In addition, the professor reminds the narrator of the constant flux in all domains including sexual orientation. Talking of his own homosexuality, he tactfully remarks to the heterosexual narrator who appears both curious about and wary of his professor’s sexual orientation, “You’re still young, Julius. You must be careful about closing too many doors” (172). The open-door metaphor, though a cliché, highlights the freedom of choice defining the nomadic subject in all domains, including sexual orientation and religion. Indeed, the narrative seems to display a concern with religion, which can be defined as post-secular. According to Braidotti, who adopts Jürgen Habermas’s term, “The ‘postsecular turn’ refers […] to a change of consciousness which acknowledges not only the persistence of religious beliefs and practices but also their compatibility with processes of modernization” (2011, 181). Cole weaves into his character a spiritual strand. Thus, Julius, in one of his strolls, walks into a church “with the unpremeditated idea” (48) to pray for one of his patients. Likewise, he notes the chancy relativity in adopting one religion over another as he watches a Jewish woman perform a praying ritual, “Others are not like us, I thought to myself, their forms are different from ours. Yet I prayed too, I would gladly face a wall and daven, if that was what had been given to me. Prayer was […] the mere practice of presence” (215; emphasis added). Reaching from the particular to the general, he observes the common core that lies in all prayers. Therefore, the narrator’s multiple belongings are constantly reviewed, negotiated and valued. What runs through them is the alert watchfulness of mind, framed by the figure of the flâneur, that is revitalized in this process. Thus, Julius, far from “lugubrious” as Michiko Kakutani (2011) states in her New York Times review of the book, is bright and forging ahead while keeping benchmarking memory alive. Ironically, Cole’s narrator seems to have lost the memory of having raped Moji in his adolescence. It appears that suffering or guilt are not allowed to be paralyzing, a position that distinguishes the nomadic subject and which critics, such as Rebecca Clark, discussing Julius’s would-be rape of Moji, find hard to accept and thus view him as an unreliable narrator and “a parasite” (2018, 185). As she states, “He cannot consume or confront his own story. But he can collect, catalog, and ventriloquize those of others” (2018, 193).

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However, Cole seems far from wishing to build an unreliable character. Nothing in this character’s narrative makeup seems to indicate a rapist. Moreover, though age does not cancel responsibility, this episode took place when Julius was not an adult, and alcohol could, indeed, have erased the memory of the event. It should be noted that following Lyotard, Braidotti contends that “ethics consists in accepting the impossibility of adequate compensation—living with the open wound” (2011, 292). Though it is the female character that has to live with this open wound in the narrative, Cole’s position seems to point to the distinction between an individual with all its limitations and a subject. Thus, his character as an ‘individual’ does have unlikeable or questionable aspects, but his subjectivity in process points to a nomadic subject driven by Zoe’s “active, empowering forces against all negative odds” (Braidotti 2011, 361).

Conclusion Cole, through a Janus-like narrator who is looking simultaneously back and forward, seems to have captured some of the features of our times connected to mobilities, while he keeps reminding the reader of unfortunate immobilities that persist. Cole’s man in the street is neither an activist nor an exemplary man but his mobility is a weapon against injustice, oblivion, isolation, and alienation. The author’s contribution to the evolution of the figure of the flâneur is considerable as it involves the establishment of a transcultural Afrodiasporic flâneur keen to address the atrocities of History but also move beyond race and postcolonial issues and construct an identity that is not only determined by such issues. The author by putting up for consideration a transcultural flâneur and a nomadic subject challenges fixity whether it involves cultural figures, old wounds, lingering injustices, racial or postcolonial subjectivities. If the novel contributes to the reconceptualizing of what critics called “Third Generation Nigerian Literature”, as Hamish Dalley (2013)5 contends, it also contributes to the enrichment of a transnational/transcultural literature that expands on the stakes of the twenty-first century. 5  Following Vilashini Cooppan, Dalley drops the dichotomy between the ‘national’ and the ‘global’ and approaches “Third Generation Nigerian Literature” through “these modes of spatial imagination [that] are mutually co-constructed, so that the nation is ‘an entity made through movement’ and persists as a specter haunting formulations of deterritorialized belonging” (2013, 18).

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References Aatkar, Sofia. 2019. Postcolonial flânerie in Caryl Phillips’s The Atlantic Sound and Ferdinand Dennis’s Behind the Frontlines: Journey into Afro-Britain. Journal of Postcolonial Writing 56 (1): 30–42. Ameel, Lieven. 2017. Open City: Reading signs of uncertain times in New York and Brussels. 264–283. https://blogs.helsinki.fi/urbannarratives/files/2019/03/ Ameel-­Open-­City.pdf Accessed 30 Oct 2023. Baudelaire, Charles. 1995 (1863). The painter of modern life. Trans. J.  Mayne. London: Phaidon. Bose, Maria. 2019. Virtual flânerie: Teju Cole and the algorithmic logic of racial ascription. C21 Literature: Journal of 21st-century Writings 7 (1): 1–29. Boutin, Aimée. 2017. The figure of the flâneur today: A discussion with Aimée Boutin. Sociétés 135 (1): 89–91. Braidotti, Rosi. 2011. Nomadic theory: The portable Rosi Braidotti. New  York: Columbia University Press. Clark, Rebecca. 2018. Visible only in speech: Peripatetic parasitism, or becoming bedbugs. Narrative 26 (2): 181–200. Cole, Teju. 2011a. Open City. London: Faber & Faber. ———. 2011b. Conversation: Teju Cole’s Open City. Interview by Jeffrey Brown. PBS, March 18. https://www.pbs.org/newshour/arts/conversation-­teju-­ cole. Accessed 30 Oct 2023. ———. 2016. Known and strange things. New York: Random House. ———. 2018. The Starbucks thing hit me . . . . daily O, April 23. https://www. dailyo.in/variety/starbucks-­r acism-­p rotests-­c enter-­c ity-­s tarbucks-­ philadelphia-­teju-­cole-­blacks-­racial-­bias/story/1/23648.html. Accessed Oct 30 2023. Cresswell, Tim. 2006. On the move: Mobility in the modern Western world. New York: Routledge. ———. 2010. Towards a politics of mobility. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 28: 17–31. Cutler, Randy Lee. 2014. On speculative walking: From the peripatetic to the peristaltic. C Magazine 121: n.p. https://cmagazine.com/issues/121/on-­ speculative-­walking-­from-­the-­peripatetic-­to-­the-­peristaltic. Accessed 30 Oct 2023. Dagnino, Arianna. 2012. Writers and transcultural literature in the age of global modernity. Transnational Literature 4 (2): 2–14. ———. 2015. Transcultural writers and novels in the age of global mobility. West Lafayette: Purdue University Press. Dalley, Hamish. 2013. The idea of “third generation Nigerian literature”: Conceptualizing historical change and territorial affiliation in the contemporary Nigerian novel. Research in African Literatures 44 (4): 15–34.

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Epstein, Mikhail. 2009. Transculture: A broad way between globalism and multiculturalism. American Journal of Economics and Sociology 68 (1): 327–351.  Epstein, Josh. 2019. Open City’s Abschied: Teju Cole, Gustav Mahler, and elliptical cosmopolitanism. Studies in the Novel 51 (3): 412–432. Faradji, Sarah. 2022. A walk to forget: The postcolonial flâneur’s negating journey in Teju Cole’s Open City. Ariel: A Review of International English Literature 53 (3): 1–26. Gilmer, Jenean Marie. 2018. From violence to silence: Memory, history and forgetting in Teju Cole’s Open City. Teaching American Literature: A Journal of Theory and Practice 10 (1): 60–78. Gross, Frederic. 2014. A philosophy of walking. London: Verso. Hartwiger, Greer Alexander. 2016. The postcolonial flâneur: Open City and the urban palimpsest. Postcolonial Text 11 (1): 1–17. Inyang, Utitofon Ebong. 2022. (In)sights from Àwòrán: Yorùbá epistemologies and the limits of cartesian vision in Teju Cole’s Open City. Cambridge Journal of Postcolonial Literary Inquiry 9 (2): 216–236. Johansen, Emily. 2018. History in place: Territorialized cosmopolitanism in Teju Cole’s Open City. Diaspora: A Journal of Transnational Studies 20 (1): 20–39. Johnson, Julian. 1994. The status of the subject in Mahler’s ninth symphony. 19th-­ Century Music 18 (2): 108–120. Kakutani, Michiko. 2011. Roaming the streets, taking surreal rurns. The New York Times, May 18. https://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/19/books/open-­city-­ by-­teju-­cole-­book-­review.html. Accessed 30 Oct 2023. König, Daniel, and Katja Rakow. 2016. The transcultural approach within a disciplinary framework: An introduction. The Journal of Transcultural Studies 7 (2): 89–100. Krishnan, Madhu. 2015. Postcoloniality, spatiality and cosmopolitanism in the Open City. Textual Practice 29 (4): 675–696. Merriman, Peter, and Lynne Pearce. 2017. Mobility and the humanities. Mobilities 12 (4): 493–508. Michaud, Jon. 2011. Weathering the storm with Sebald’s “The Rings of Saturn”. The New Yorker, August 28. https://www.newyorker.com/books/ page-­t urner/weathering-­t he-­s torm-­w ith-­s ebalds-­t he-­r ings-­o f-­s aturn. Accessed 30 Oct 2023. Neumann, Birgit, and Yvonne Kappel. 2019. Music and latency in Teju Cole’s Open City: Presences of the past. Ariel: A Review of International English Literature 50 (1): 31–62. Sheller, Mimi, and John Urry. 2006. The new mobilities paradigm. Environment and Planning 38 (2): 207–226. Slimbach, Richard. 2005. The transcultural journey. Frontiers: Interdisciplinary Journal of Study Abroad 1: 205–230.

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Van Leeuwen, Bart. 2019. If we are flâneurs, can we be cosmopolitans? Urban Studies 56 (2): 301–316. Vermeulen, Pieter. 2013. Flights of memory: Teju Cole’s Open City and the limits of aesthetic cosmopolitanism. Journal of Modern Literature 37 (1): 40–57. Von Gleich, Paula. 2021. The “fugitive notes” of Teju Cole’s Open City. Atlantic Studies 19 (2): 334–335. Wawrzinek, Jennyfer. 2018. Postcolonial dandies and the death of the flâneur. In South and North: Contemporary urban orientations, ed. Kerry Bystrom, Ashleigh Harris, and Andrew J. Webber, 141–179. London: Routledge. Welsch, Wolfgang. 2009. Transculturality - the puzzling form of cultures today. Spaces of culture: City, nation, world, ed. Mike Featherstone and Scott Lash, 194–213. London: Sage. Wood, James. 2011. The arrival of enigmas. The New  Yorker. February 20. https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2011/02/28/the-­a rrival-­o f-­ enigmas Accessed 30 Oct 2023. Wu, Albert, and Michelle Kuo. 2013. Imperfect strollers: Teju Cole, Ben Lerner, W.G.  Sebald, and the alienated cosmopolitan. Los Angeles Review of Books, February 2. https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/imperfect-­strollers-­ teju-­cole-­ben-­lerner-­w-­g-­sebald-­and-­the-­alienated-­cosmopolitan/. Accessed 30 Oct 2023.

CHAPTER 5

From the Cartographic Fringes: Map Mobilizations and the Urban Tania Rossetto

Mapping in the City: A “Mobility and Humanities” Intervention This chapter adopts the perspective of the mobility and humanities approach, which has emerged in the last few years, with the aim of reflecting on the mobilization of maps as a form of socio-spatial intervention originating from the urban, social and emotional margins. What could the mobility and humanities approach contribute to the understanding of maps and mappings that are activated to fight inequalities or to produce solidarities on an urban scale? The exchange between mobility studies, the humanities and cartographic theory will provide the basis for a mobile consideration of maps and cartographic activism as well as a starting point to propose some cartographic variations of the concept of mobilization. Starting from a reworking of the concept of mobilization, I present four case studies that exemplify the multiple ways in which cartographic

T. Rossetto (*) University of Padua, Padua, Italy e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 P. García, A.-L. Toivanen (eds.), Urban Mobilities in Literature and Art Activism, Literary Urban Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42798-5_5

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imagery and objects are put in motion as actors that hold the potential to promote change in the urban realm. Despite its establishment in close association with the social sciences, the New Mobilities Paradigm (Hannam et  al. 2006) was immediately developed as a post-disciplinary field. Recently, however, there have been explicit calls for closer connections to the arts and humanities. By establishing the mobility and humanities field, Merriman and Pearce (2017) not only traced the roots of mobility studies in the humanities (see also Aguiar et al. 2019) but also emphasized the specific contributions that the humanities may make to the field of mobility studies (see also Biasiori et al. 2023). Merriman and Pearce (2017) named the following humanistic additions to the mobility turn: a focus on the experience of mobility beyond factual mobilities (hence, an emphasis on embodiment, perception, sensation, cultural understanding, meaning, narrative, representation, expression, fiction, performance and aesthetics); the use of textual sources (among which literary and visual sources), which are considered no less dynamic than ethnographic data captured on the move; and the generation of theoretical possibilities (the idea that the humanities can develop creative reinterpretations of mobility). Thus, in Merriman and Pearce’s view, one of the most important contributions of the arts and humanities to mobility studies is the ability to forge nuanced expressions to theorize, trace and present mobility in plural and creative forms. When these theoretical orientations are compared with the domain of map studies, a set of varied modes in which cartography may be considered mobile emerges (Rossetto 2021). Indeed, from a practical point of view, maps have always been involved in bodily movement. In their most general aspects, we encounter them as tools that help humans navigate spaces, whether they are common paper city maps or cartographic applications used through digital portable devices. Maps are also powerful images intended to convey the movement of both human and non-human things through different cartographic techniques, from more traditional flow maps to recent animated geovisuals that capture spatial data dynamically almost in real time. Therefore, on one hand, it seems conventional to attribute a sense of mobility to the realm of cartography. On the other hand, critical readings often stress the fixity inherent in the cartographic language, mostly considered to be the absolute expression of immobility. Maps are indeed more straightforwardly seen as verbo-visual texts that block and freeze movement in both time and space. In this vein, scholars inspired by the spatial turn in the humanities have expressed perplexity

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regarding the possibility of maps conveying the complex dynamics of texts, narratives and thoughts. This is particularly evident within the field of literary cartography (i.e., the literal spatial mapping of texts), which has engaged in animated debates in recent years (Rossetto 2014; Cooper et al. 2016; Fiorentino and Paolucci 2017). Of course, within the arts, the expressive potential of cartography has fostered increasing appreciation, with numerous artists working through mobile mapping practices (see e.g., O’Rourke 2013; Lo Presti 2018). Yet, the mobile quality of cartography still seems like a paradox to many working within the arts and humanities. Interestingly, in a recent work built around the critique of a set of enduring preconceptions and common-sense propositions about cartography, map historian Matthew Edney (2019, 234) affirmed the following: map scholars need to study the processes of mapping, which is to say, the dynamic ways in which maps are produced, circulated, and consumed. The key word here is ‘dynamic’. Mapping processes are fluid, the maps they generate are mutable and volatile. Nothing about mapping is fixed and stable.

The dynamic consideration endorsed by Edney within map history parallels the turn that map theory took in the mid-2000s, when a new wave of so-called post-representational cartographic thinking was established within map studies (Dodge et al. 2009). Post-representational cartography refers to a new trend in map thinking which considers maps not as truthful or otherwise power-led representations but as embodied entities, open-ended processes, and relational events. Rather than being valued for exactness and cognitive efficiency, or otherwise being criticized and deconstructed as powerful representations and visual discourses, maps should be viewed as continuously unfolding mapping practices involving complex networks of human and non-human entities. The advent of digital cartography has clearly influenced this theoretical shift, since the logic of electronic navigation has replaced the logic of cartographic representation. Through a navigational turn in the digital mapping era, maps went beyond cartography and became the subject of a more explicit dynamic consideration. In the wake of these changes in cartographic theory, we could list diverse ways of thinking about the mobilities of maps: in terms of navigation, circulation, animation or also intermedial transition to non-­ cartographic domains (Lo Presti and Rossetto 2023). In this chapter, I would like to add another theoretical focus. I elaborate on the idea of the

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mobilization of maps, intended as a way to both activate maps and ‘move’ people through them. This idea will be explored with reference to some of my previous research and with the specific perspective of the urban fringes, intended in their spatial, social and emotional dimensions.

Map! From a Traveling Concept to Mobilization Due to the spatial turn emerging in disparate fields within the arts and humanities, the cartographic lexicon and the figure of the map (Mitchell 2008) have been used in alternative ways in different domains, such as in literary, postmodern, postcolonial, art and media studies, to name a few. As a traveling concept (Bal 2002) in itself, the figure of the map has navigated several disciplinary contexts, producing creative rearticulations and plurisemic reworkings. Literary scholars have also considered cartography in connection with mobility studies. Brosch (2013), for instance, has proposed an insightful reflection on the mobility and mapping connection. In reviewing the “ubiquitous metaphoricity of mapping” in the humanities, she demonstrates how Reif Larsen’s novel, The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet, “attempts to shift the concept of mapping to processual, dynamic and performative meanings”, thus contributing to the association of cartography with “things being constantly on the move” (Brosch 2013, 50). The verbo-­ visual story of a 12-year-old boy from a ranch in Montana, who compulsively makes maps of almost everything and travels alone to the Smithsonian Institute in Washington to receive a prize for his excellence in drawing maps, helped Brosch delineate movement from the static consideration of the authoritative power of maps toward a rethinking—and remediation— of the playful and subversive potential of subjective mapping performances. She suggested that within the literary reconceptualization of maps in metaphorical and imaginative terms, mapping relates to movement in new ways that are “a near reversal in meaning from cartography’s limited set of practices” (Brosch 2013, 53). The conceptual reimagination and evocative rearticulation of the figure of the map with reference to the idea of movement has also been undertaken by map scholars. Recently, Wilson (2017, 2019) proposed the moving map as a conceptual tool to rethink cartographic epistemologies. Following Wilson, movement is not only what animated maps attempt to capture and render in increasingly sophisticated ways but also what maps produce for the map reader. The subjective, emotional and ungraspable

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side of the cartographic event is at the core of this dynamic consideration of mapping: moving maps mobilize everyday personal experiences. Here, the map that moves and its critical reading and interiorization together become a tentative theoretical device for endorsing a post-representational view of cartographic liveliness and potential for mobilization. In the most general sense, the notion of mobilization refers to the preparation or organization of something, such as a group of people or some resources, for a purpose. In this light, we can see maps as things that are employed to move people in different senses. Of course, the most common way to think of maps as compelling agents of mobilization leads to the huge body of work labeled critical cartography, which refers to the deconstruction of maps as ideological discourses that are manipulated by those in power to control, persuade and steer (Harley 1989). For instance, maps have been used to mobilize public opinion in the context of colonial regimes. Recently, Lo Presti (2021, 180) provided an innovative close reading of maps as “dynamic, active and bonding agents” employed during the Italian Fascist Empire, focusing on their “materiality, visuality and vocality, particularly that of the everyday maps circulating in the imperial urban context”. Yet in this chapter, mobilization is intended as a way to activate the subversive or progressive potentialities of maps—that is, their counter-powers. While illustrating the relationship between maps and protest, Drozdz (2020, 367) affirmed that “maps bear a close connection to the expression of dissent because they are a powerful medium that can move the needle in political action” (italics added). Cartographic activism is a well-developed field of practice and study with landmark examples, such as the radical cartographies of the recent global collection, This Is Not an Atlas, by Kollectiv Orangotango (2018). Here, we can appreciate the multiple forms of counter-mappings emerging from urban movements as well as the ways in which mapping activism expresses forms of experimental creativity that resemble those of artivism concerned with spatial issues (Mekdjian 2018). Another relevant example of cartographic activism characterized by collaborations between academics and non-academic groups is the London-based Livingmaps Network, established in 2013 to develop and support “local initiatives designed to challenge the prevailing relations of knowledge-power and open up spaces of representation for groups marginalized in the urban planning process” (Cohen 2021, vii). The network’s Livingmaps online journal and the recent collection, New Directions in Radical Cartography (Cohen and Duggan 2021), provide vivid examples of how such activities aim to

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address the divide between the dominant culture of professional digital mapping technologies and the alternative culture expressed by small-scale participatory forms of mapping often based on techniques of drawing, storytelling and other creative languages. In the following sections, I present four case studies exemplifying different kinds of cartographic mobilizations referred to the urban realm. Following Vitale (2007, 10; my translation), “with local mobilization, we may intend a specific class of collective actions, organized by ‘entrepreneurs’, within which the actors involved raise local problems and make them public, by interacting with authorities and public policies and pursuing one or more shared objectives”. For Vitale (2007, 11–14), local mobilizations imply intentionality and the presence of organizing actors, such as a social movement, a party or a group of self-organized citizens from a neighborhood. Such mobilizations are aimed at transforming private issues experienced by distinct actors into public and collective ones; they are aimed at contesting decisions, advocating and claiming for, but also— in less conflictual terms—producing public goods through practice. Finally, they have a strong link with specific places, particularly with the urban space, while activating transcalar connections. Within the case studies, however, I refer to forms of urban mobilization that exceed this technical notion of mobilization. I use the term in a creative way to play with the notion of mobility as a traveling concept in Bal’s (2002) terms. Four ways of considering the movements of maps show how the cartographic imagery holds the potential to move people’s imagination while bringing problems regarding marginalized groups and marginal experiences to the public’s attention. The first case study regards the connection between the cartographic and postcolonial humanities, which continues to involve not just the deconstruction of the power of maps as colonial devices but also an endorsement of wielding the counter-powers of cartography to produce postcolonial readings of cities and urban migrant subjects in both literary texts and literary criticism. The second case study shows one of the most common ways in which maps are mobilized: to protest against social injustice on the urban ground. The third case study focuses on how maps have been called for during the COVID-19 pandemic to create solidarity while experiencing urban quarantines and sharing post-lockdown mobile dreams. The fourth case study involves a narrative experiment in which a solid urban cartographic object is fictionally awakened and given a voice to tell its own story and that of the contradictory European space it represents.

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Activating Cartographic Reimaginations of the City from the Postcolonial Angle In a recent special issue of the journal From the European South: A Transdisciplinary Journal of Postcolonial Humanities that I jointly edited with film scholar Farah Polato (Polato and Rossetto 2020), we relaunched the long-lasting dialogue between the cartographic and postcolonial humanities, recognizing how postcolonial studies have been in the vanguard in pushing map conceptualization beyond the restrictive deconstructive interpretation of the power of maps, thus paving the way for the unfolding of a multiplicity of mapping practices and the reimagination of the carto-sphere in which we are immersed. In recent decades, there has been a particularly close relationship between postcolonial studies and cartography. Maps, literally and metaphorically, are dominant features of colonial as well as postcolonial cultures (see the lemma “Cartography [maps and mapping]” in Ashcroft et al. 1998, 31–34 and Howard 2009). In a seminal 1989 article on decolonizing the map, while showing how postcolonial writings came to mobilize and revise the colonial map, Graham Huggan significantly wrote about the “paradoxical motion of the map” (1989, 125) within postcolonial interventions and activism: The fascination of Canadian, Australian and other post-colonial writers with the figure of the map has resulted in a wide range of literary responses both to physical (geographical) maps, which are shown to have operated effectively, but often restrictively or coercively, in the implementation of colonial policy, and to conceptual (metaphorical) maps, which are perceived to operate as exemplars of, and therefore to provide a framework for critique of, colonial discourse. (1989, 115)

Huggan saw cartographic deconstruction not only as an exercise of cultural critique but also as a form of resistance to cultural domination. In fact, part of the article is devoted to showing the “treatment of maps as metaphors in post-colonial literary texts, the role played by these maps in the geographical and conceptual de/reterritorialization of post-colonial cultures, and the relevance of this process to the wider issue of cultural decolonization” (Huggan 1989, 122). The map is recognized as a transformative agent and a means of imaginative revisioning. In sum, Huggan understood the fascination of postcolonial writers with the map trope as an instance of creative revisionism:

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So while the map continues to feature in one sense as a paradigm of colonial discourse, its deconstruction and/or revitalisation permits a ‘disidentification’ from the procedures of colonialism (and other hegemonic discourses) and a (re)engagement in the ongoing process of cultural decolonisation. (1989, 127)

For example, Igiaba Scego’s 2010 novel La mia casa è dove sono (My Home Is Where I Am) provides an interesting case of literary mobilization of mapping from a postcolonial perspective (see Benini 2014). Scego, the daughter of a Somali political refugee, was born in and lives in Italy. In the novel, she articulates a sense of belonging that constantly shifts from Rome to Mogadishu, where she has spent some periods of time, and provides a literary form to a personal “remapping of her articulated citizenship beyond Italian and Somalian borders” (Parati 2017, 16). As Parati described, during a meeting with her relatives, Scego pens a map that connects their memories of Mogadishu that are filtered by the experiences of their migration from Somalia to different countries. Subsequently, she redraws the map of Mogadishu that she recreated with her relatives by writing in a mixed language diverse memories and feelings about spaces in Rome and superimposing them onto the map created by memory. The interplay between two spaces—Rome in Mogadishu and Mogadishu in Rome—was the link necessary for Igiaba to create a personal and yet inclusive geography that could reflect her disseminated singularity in space (Parati 2017, 159). Igaba’s map, therefore, holds the power to convey an alternative gaze on the migrant subject, her mobile life trajectories, and the lived urban space. Here, the cartographic is activated to express, elicit and share with readers feelings of a postcolonial existence in a mobile world.

Mapping the Mobilities of Urban Social Protests Highlighting how maps are now increasingly included in the repertoire of social movements, Drozdz (2020) considered three main ways to connect maps and protest. First, maps of protest are made to locate social protests in space or enable social actions to take place (e.g., maps that help campaigners inform, call to action, and mobilize supporters). Second, maps to protest are made to challenge existing official representations or expose problems of governance visually. Third, maps for protests critique the existing spatial order and established cartographies to promote alternative

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emancipatory visions expressed by marginal groups, often adopting experimental counter-cartographic languages and strategies. Of course, these genres of cartographic resistance have a peculiar connection with the urban realm owing to the centrality of the city in the dynamics of social activism. Recently, for instance, resistant mappings done by urban anti-­ racist struggles within the Black Lives Matter justice movement have been reconnected to the long history of Black counter-mappings (Alderman et al. 2021). My specific example here relates to forms of protest against anti-­ immigration laws that take place at the city level. As Lacroix (2022) explained, as a general worldwide trend, we have witnessed a huge rise in the number of city networks self-organizing to address practices of welcoming immigrants. This phenomenon has been associated with the long-­ lasting devolution to local authorities of the management of migrant populations and also with the mobilizations of municipalities that live the contradictions between their responsibilities and security-oriented migration national laws (Lacroix 2022). The map Resistenze locali al Decreto Salvini (Local resistance to the Salvini decree) was created with OpenStreetMap by Swiss geographer, Cristina Del Biaggio, on 5 January 2019 (see Del Biaggio et al. 2019). The map aimed to visualize local protests against the decree on immigration and security that was approved by the Italian Senate in November 2018 (the so-called Salvini decree). The impact of this decree on the rights of asylum seekers and refugees has been subject to criticism, with statements coming from the United Nations Refugee Agency and the Council of Europe’s Commission for Human Rights. However, criticism has also arisen within Italy, in particular from the mayors of several large and small Italian cities. The map holds particular interest as a cartographic gesture from academia but aimed at intervening in the public sphere through its circulation across different sites and media in both digital and analogue formats. I began to follow this map in the public sphere to grasp its movements and the mobilizations it stimulated. The map was created to enhance a previous static map published by the ANSA news agency by promoting continuous updating and dynamism. Shortly after its first appearance, the map of the local protest against the Salvini Decree was circulated via national newspaper and magazine articles online, NGOs’ webpages, blog posts and Facebook and Twitter posts. Very soon, the map traversed the Web and was posted on sites representing different political backgrounds,

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from those valuing the protests and Del Biaggio’s map to those favoring the decree against the “rebel mayors”, as noted in the Italian newspaper Il Giornale (Carotenuto 2019). Living on the Web through different forms of mediation, the map began to attract comments and activate relations and interactions among protesters. Facebook posts relaunched the map, which came to function as a sort of imaginative projection for people opposing the anti-immigration decree. The map invited local actors to participate in the protests. It aroused collective emotions linked to the anti-racist imagery of the nation. In particular (see Fig. 5.1 on the left), a Facebook post endorsing the resistant mayors highlighted the idea that the urban resistance to the national anti-immigration law was finally made visible: “Resistance does exist and you can see it!” This phenomenological exercise of following the mobile afterlife of this mapping practice gave me a sense of the importance of feeling cartographic data moving through the public sphere and of circulating dynamic, progressive cartographic imagery. Indeed, following the movement of maps in the carto-sphere today seems highly problematic. Yet Zarzycka (2020, 177), from the field of photography studies, recently proposed studying the migration (which is an alternative to the more common concepts of circulation) of images across sites, media, bodies, and screens in a contemporary visual economy. By tracing map mobilities, the study of

Fig. 5.1  Facebook post (on the left) and online news (on the right) reporting the release of the map, Local resistance to the Salvini decree, 9 January 2019

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map migrations from the urban ground to the digital sphere, and vice versa, would highlight how traveling cartographic visuals are shared to involve diverse audiences, appropriated to form affective communities, and variously re-edited to express marginalized counter-visions.

Collecting Marginal Cartographies of Shared Pain and Immobility My third case study deals with pandemic cartographies (Pase et al. 2021), which have been mobilized not only to track the spread of COVID-19 but also to express personal and collective feelings during lockdowns as well as to build the future memory of COVID cultures. Indeed, factual movement and ‘mobility’—or the politics, meaning and experience of movement—are spatiotemporal categories that have been especially challenged by the pandemic. It is worth noting that the push in the production of geovisuals of the pandemic was not only intended to scientifically follow the virus or chart its impact on mobility in (near) real time (Romano 2021) but to creatively express the geographic imagination of the pandemic. Since April 2020 and still today, for instance, through the initiative How has Covid changed your life? Show in maps, the online magazine Bloomberg CityLab collected and shared spatial images made by readers from all over the world to tell the stories of their transformed lifeworlds. In parallel, university projects and archives started to collect and curate public and personal visuals to ensure that future social scientists will have access to both pandemic data and related emotions. As Bowe et al. (2020, 1) observed, “in response to the ubiquitous graphs and maps of Covid-19, artists, designers, data scientists, and public health officials [were] teaming up to create counter-plots and subaltern maps of the pandemic”. These varied—from technical to creative—spatial representations, which frequently deal with mobility issues, hold an imaginative force that must be taken into serious consideration when projecting ourselves as subjects and collectives toward future scenarios. Importantly, many of these representations have the potential to open up a space for revaluing mobility from different social perspectives, such as those of peripheral collectives, children, workers, migrants, disabled people or fragile groups, to name but a few. An article that I co-authored with Andrea Pase, Laura Lo Presti and Giada Peterle during the first national lockdown in Italy was an early

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attempt to grasp the pervasive spread of cartographic materials related to COVID-19. We found that tech-based coronavirus cartographies were soon criticized by scholars alongside notions of algorithmic governance, authoritarianism, surveillance capitalism and data justice, infodemics, biopolitical technologies, border enforcement. However, while acknowledging the importance of cartographic criticism, in our article, we wanted to shed light on a much more varied set of cartographic materials and practices that emerged from the margins during the pandemic. In other words, we wanted to advance additional perspectives in the interpretation of coronavirus cartographies and highlight the cartographic emotional engagement with the pandemic. In fact, well beyond the representation of quantitative data related to the virus’s spread, maps proliferated as sensitive, intimate, ludic practices of coping with restricted mobility or the repressed desire to travel. In this article (see Pase et al.), Andrea Pase explores the multiple traumas of viral maps by presenting a situated account of the ways in which maps represented the alarming path of COVID-19 through the strategic use of the color red. Laura Lo Presti then discusses the virality of another feeling—that of urban solidarity (Fig.  5.2, on the left). She particularly reflects on the potential of online forms of cartographic solidarity that were mushrooming in several cities as a form of mutual aid. As for my contribution, I note that while the pandemic incited debates about the rising perception of a shared condition of danger to humanity, the national dimension has remained critical. Drawing from theories of everyday

Fig. 5.2  Following the migrations of pandemic cartographies

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nationhood, I reflect on how map-like images of Italy were mobilized as an emotional tool constantly remade to express and circulate the emerging sense of the common suffering of the national geobody. In particular, I concentrate on one of those pervasive cartographic imaginings: the so-­ called Female Doctor Lulling Italy authored by Franco Rivolli (Fig. 5.2, on the right). The image, soon shared by thousands of people, was popularized by Italian mass media and by its display in giant format on one of the towers of the Papa Giovanni XXIII hospital in the city of Bergamo as a gesture of gratitude to all medical staff. Far from being just a rhetorical nationalist figure based on a masculine gaze, the female doctor lulling the map of Italy migrated through both conservative and progressive communicative contexts. It was remade by people of different ages, classes, and backgrounds to locally express from different positionalities the multiple feelings related to a shared condition on a national scale. Such feelings encompassed not just hot or banal forms of nationalism but also everyday enactments of a common sense of the nation through multiple affective materializations on the urban ground. Most importantly, from an urban perspective, in her section titled “Postcards from urban quarantines: drawing implicit cartographies”, Giada Peterle considers how artists, graphic designers and illustrators reacted to the call for an alternative visualization not only of the spread of COVID-19 but also of its emotional impact on our ordinary urban landscapes. As soon as the pandemic unexpectedly broke out at the end of February, the graphic voices of Italian artists rapidly became useful tools for people in other countries to start mapping how their interior and exterior landscapes would be affected by COVID-19. Significantly, Peterle refers to creative mappings as urban graphic counter-plots of the pandemic. According to the recently published collection, The Quarantine Atlas: Mapping Global Life Under COVID-19 (Bliss 2022a), many of the 65 homemade cartographies called for through the aforementioned initiative by Bloomberg CityLab feature pandemic-upset geographies on a neighborhood or urban basis. As Bliss (2022b, xxi) commented, “during the pandemic, these maps were tools for empathy and human connection […] In the months and years ahead, we might look back at them and remember how a landscape of crisis and pain also held pockets of possibility and growth”. This and other calls for maps and the consequent mobilization of creative cartographies from below thus functioned as a counterpoint to the technological enhancement of tools aimed at monitoring data as well as people’s movements (see Kitchin 2020). Such cartographic

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mobilizations generated various mapping experiments linked to intimate experiences of isolation and immobility lived by disparate subjects while being based on a desire for connection and common reaction.

Enlivening Peripheral Cartographic Objects in the City The intimate sphere, then, is not just human but also non-human. My fourth, performative, case study deals with a post-humanist approach to cartography, which is particularly inspired by object-oriented philosophies. An object-oriented approach to cartography (Rossetto 2019) brings the “thingness” of maps to the foreground and considers them as entities that have lives, experiences, and biographies of their own. Considering maps as non-human subjects suggests creative strategies to make them speak to and gaze at us and mobilize their stories. Here, the notion of the cartographic margins refers to neglected cartographic objects living with us in the urban realm—objects or aliens that could tell us stories that have remained untold. If maps were granted a first-person voice to express themselves, what would they tell us? What if we could enliven maps and give them a voice with the intent to raise awareness of particular social issues? What follows is a piece of it-narration, or an object’s autobiography, in which a map becomes a talking subject.1 It-narration is a literary strategy in which a non-human entity speaks in the first person and is featured as a sentient being with feelings, relations and memories. Fonteuropa is the name of a mosaic map appearing in a monument to Europe and Peace in the city center of Padova (Fig. 5.3). In the last decade, I have found myself periodically wondering about the origin of that map. Some years ago, I was finally able to get in contact with two informants: Giorgio Togliani, who first came up with the idea of building a monument to Europe in Padova, and Matteo Massagrande, the artist who designed the map of Europe. Archival research and in-depth interviews with the informants in 2013 and 2018 helped me gradually deepen my knowledge of the history of that monument and collect archival visual materials. I also carried out participant observation at the site of the map on a regular basis. The 1  The following text includes some excerpts from a chapter of my book, Object-Oriented Cartography: Maps as Things, titled “The Gentle Politics of Non-Human Narration: A Europe’s Map Autobiography” (see Rossetto 2019, 72–85); reproduced with permission.

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Fig. 5.3  Fountain with Europe map, Padova, 2019

following piece of creative writing, in which the map of the monument is the protagonist of its own story, functions as a report of my research presented in a fictional style. As a female, cultured and good-natured character endowed with some of the personality traits of her creators, the map speaks to a city dweller who takes some time to look at her. My name is Fonteuropa. Yes, you understood well: Fonteuropa. Actually, nobody knows my name. It does not appear anywhere. Today, I should say, nobody even knows or remembers the reason for my existence. I was born between 1997 and 1998 as a monument to Europe and Peace. I am a map of Europe. Yes, I know, you never figured out that I was a map of Europe, neither from my face nor from my back. .. And yes, I know, you only knew that this place around me is called Largo Europa. That’s the typical reaction! Indeed, I came to dwell this site exactly for this reason: The name of the square reminded the European dimension of our lives. Europe, yeah: An entity evoking quite different feelings in those days …

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To begin the story of my conception in the proper order, however, I should start with an even more distant past. I should begin with the Second World War, and with a boy who was taught to jump down into the ditches along the fields as soon as the noise of a bomber plane was felt. “Only one who has gone through the experience of the Second World War can fully understand what the European integration process meant”, he always says. That process was meant first and foremost to prevent other wars on the European soil. Ultimately, the main achievement of the European integration was peace. Yes, I know, this is quite an ideal version of the facts. I am getting used to these kinds of skeptical arguments nowadays. Admittedly, it is problematic today to see this as a totally peaceful story … But let me proceed, because I am talking of a boy who grew up and became an expert in personnel management with the ambition of making his own contribution to the growth of the European economic space. When, as the president of a club of professionals devoted to philanthropy, he had the opportunity to engage in a dialogue with the institutions of the city of Padova, he decided to make something to celebrate that European dream. We were in 1997, and the Yugoslav Wars were still so near, both in time and space … People had been made aware that peace on European soil was too easily taken for granted. But when I was conceived, the general sense was that for the European Union (it was no more just an economic community), a new age was waiting ahead. This expectation was so palpably felt during that decisive night in the Hungarian city of Hajós when I came to life. My designer was there to take part in the Képzőművészeti Alkotótábor, an annual meeting attracting artists, poets, and intellectuals from all over Europe. In a relaxed moment around the fire that night, the Paduan artist asked the advice of that gathering of European-inspired minds, most of them from the former Eastern Bloc. “I am going to start a new project for a monument to Europe. It should remember both the closing of a rift and an inclusive, open idea of Europe. What symbolic features should I put inside the work to provide the idea of sharing between Europeans?’, he asked. And that’s how the symbol of the dove and the shape of a satellite dish, which are part of my body, were conceived in the Hungarian city of Hajós. But my intimate identity, my being a map, only came out of the thoughts and the skilled hands of my designer. … In truth, my cartographic shape does not match any geographic entity. It is unique because I was not traced from a pre-existing map. I was freely drawn by the hand of my creator. I am the Europe living in his eyes, in his memory, and in his heart. It was the 26 September 1998 when they took away that white cloth that was suffocating me. My inventor was really touched by that moment. His speech was so inspired, the expression of his face so intense. All the city authorities were there

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and even a representative came from Brussels. Just think, they also blessed me! All this had the power to make me feel so proud to be a map of Europe … People paid attention to me. And I refer not only to city dwellers. There were also tourists who asked passers-by to be photographed with me—yeah, the selfie was yet to come … The Municipality provided me regularly with flowers—I still remember that time I was completely surrounded by orange ones—and the lovers used to sit and kiss under the light of my satellite dish in the night. How did it happen that my tubs were left empty, with weeds replacing flowers? I cannot provide an exact date, but something gradually changed around me. Somehow, I feel that the atmosphere around me, I mean, around a map of Europe, has changed. No more tourists, no more photographs, no more eyes looking at me, no more people even figuring out that I am a map of Europe. Sometimes I found myself asking: Am I losing my senses? What I know for sure is that I am literally losing my pieces … Very recently, some tiles have broken off. So now I have some lacerations. The pieces fell onto the bottom of my basin. Seen from here—I don’t know if it depends on the fact that many among them fell from my Mediterranean Sea—they resemble the bodies of the migrants who lost their lives trying to reach THEIR European dream. Am I growing old? Is losing pieces my sole destiny? Are my health conditions irreversible? No, I prefer to say that I just need some care. I have heard someone say that, for one who knows history, it is quite normal for Europe to alternatively pass through more optimistic and more pessimist phases. I don’t know if Europe has lost its way, but I can say from here that Europe has lost something at the level of imagination. Yet, Europe IS, and I AM. And the best we can do is to make things work out. Perhaps one way is to tell our own story, with its virtues and vices, with its fictions and realities, to at least generate awareness, and let’s try to raise a sense of responsibility. In my small way, right here in this place, I will try.

Conclusion Through a retrospective reading of four previous works carried out in the fields of cartographic humanities, map activism and creative research, this chapter has suggested how a mobile conception of cartography can be activated to question territorial, social and imaginative urban margins. The chapter has considered imaginative city mappings emerging from postcolonial literary texts, activist maps aggregating urban protests against anti-immigrant policies, circulating cartographic visuals

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and practices stimulating solidarities in quarantined cities and map-like urban objects fictionally animated to raise awareness of political questions about Europe. The perspective of the mobility humanities helped in reading such different practices as kinds of movement implying diverse ways of mobilizing the cartographic through activism and creativity. Once viewed through a mobility and humanities lens, the realm of map studies can be understood as a multifaceted field of possibilities which comprises not only the study of maps but also the creative activation of their force and potential to ‘move’ people in light of social and political issues. Through a post-­representational and mobility-inspired approach, maps are thus considered not just as mere verbo-visual texts to be analyzed, read or criticized but as moving entities that act, live and happen in places. The urban space becomes not just the space represented on maps but the space in which mappings of various kinds are projected, imagined, made alive and put in action within a mesh of human and non-human subjects. The day before I completed the present chapter, I happened to pass by Largo Europa and I noticed that the fountain basin had been emptied. I  then looked at the map of Fonteuropa and, with great surprise, I discovered that the mosaic had been repaired! My heart sank. I could not help but immediately connect this reparation with the particular situation in which we are currently living as Europeans again involved in a war on European soil. A monument to peace in Europe has never been more important than it is today. I asked myself whether the story told by Fonteuropa was somehow co-operating in this new event through her own existence and in our public urban space. What if Fonteuropa could narrate this moment in her own words? What if her narration of the reparation could be heard and her message spread further? With these fictional words and interrogations emerging from the fringes of the cartographic universe, I would like to end this chapter by inviting you, the reader, to be attuned to the potential stories maps and cartographic objects can tell us once they are mobilized from the margins of our cities, societies and emotional territories.

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References Aguiar, Marian, Charlotte Mathieson, and Lynne Pearce. 2019. Introduction: Mobilities, literature, culture. In Mobilities, literature, culture, ed. Marian Aguiar, Charlotte Mathieson, and Pearce Lynne, 1–31. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Alderman, Derek H., Joshua F.J. Inwood, and Ethan Bottone. 2021. The mapping behind the movement: On recovering the critical cartographies of the African American freedom struggle. Geoforum 120: 67–78. Ashcroft, Bill, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin, eds. 1998. Key concepts in post-­ colonial studies. New York/London: Routledge. Bal, Mieke. 2002. Travelling concepts in the humanities: A rough guide. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Benini, Stefania. 2014. Tra Mogadiscio e Roma: le mappe emotive di Igiaba Scego. Forum Italicum: A Journal of Italian Studies 48 (3): 477–494. Biasiori, Lucio, Federico Mazzini, and Chiara Rabbiosi, eds. 2023. Reimagining past and present mobilities in the humanities. London/New York: Routledge. Bliss, Laura, ed. 2022a. The quarantine atlas: Mapping global life under COVID-19. Hachette: New York. ———. 2022b. Why maps mattered during the pandemic. In The quarantine atlas: Mapping global life under COVID-19, ed. Laura Bliss, xv–xxi. New York: Hachette. Bowe, Emily, Erin Simmons, and Shannon Mattern. 2020. Learning from lines: Critical COVID data visualizations and the quarantine quotidian. Big Data and Society 7 (2). Brosch, Renate. 2013. Mapping movement: Reimagining cartography in The selected works of T.S. Spivet. In Perspectives on mobility, ed. Ingo Berensmeyer and Christoph Ehland, 49–68. Amsterdam/New York: Brill Rodopi. Carotenuto, Gianni. 2019. Decreto Salvini. i sindaci ribelli si contano: spunta la mappa online. Il Giornale (January 7). Cohen, Phil. 2021. Preface. In New directions in radical cartography: Why the map is never the territory, ed. Phil Cohen, and Michael Duggan, vii–viii. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield. Cohen, Phil, and Michael Duggan, eds. 2021. New directions in radical cartography: Why the map is never the territory. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield. Cooper, David, Christopher Donaldson, and Patricia Murrieta-Flores, eds. 2016. Literary mapping in the digital age. London/New York: Routledge. Del Biaggio, Cristina, Tania Rossetto, and Edoardo Boria. 2019. Mapping local resistance to anti-immigration national law: A carto-essay. Journal of Research and Didactics in Geography (J-READING) 8 (1): 89–98. Dodge, Martin, Rob Kitchin, and Chris Perkins. 2009. Rethinking maps: New frontiers in cartographic theory. London/New York: Routledge.

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Drozdz, Martine. 2020. Maps and protest. In International Encyclopedia of human geography, ed. Audrey Kobayashi, 367–378. Amsterdam: Elsevier. Edney, Matthew. 2019. Cartography: The ideal and its history. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Fiorentino, Francesco, and Gianluca Paolucci, eds. 2017. Letteratura e cartografia. Udine: Mimesis. Hannam, Kevin, Mimi Sheller, and John Urry. 2006. Editorial: Mobilities, immobilities and moorings. Mobilities 1 (1): 1–22. Harley, John Brian. 1989. Deconstructing the map. Cartographica 26 (2): 1–20. Howard, David. 2009. Cartographies and visualization. In A concise companion to postcolonial literature, ed. Shirley Chew and David Richards, 141–161. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. Huggan, Graham. 1989. Decolonizing the map: Post-colonialism, post-­ structuralism and the cartographic connection. Ariel 20 (4): 115–131. Kitchin, Rob. 2020. Using digital technologies to tackle the spread of the coronavirus: Panacea or folly? The Programmable City Working Paper, 44. Kollectiv Orangotango, ed. 2018. This is not an atlas: A global collection of counter-­ cartographies. Bielefeld: Transcript Verlag. Lacroix, Thomas. 2022. Migration-related city networks: A global overview. Local Government Studies 48 (6): 1027–1047. Lo Presti, Laura. 2018. Extroverting cartography: “Seensing” maps and data through art. Journal of Research and Didactics in Geography (J-READING) 7 (2): 119–134. ———. 2021. The cartographic lives of the Italian fascist empire. In Mapping, connectivity and the making of European empires, ed. Luis Lobo-Guerrero, Laura Lo Presti, and Filipe dos Reis, 175–200. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield. Lo Presti, Laura, and Tania Rossetto. 2023. Map-mobilities: Expanding the field. In Reimagining mobilities across the humanities, ed. Lucio Biasiori, Federico Mazzini, and Chiara Rabbiosi, 88–101. London/New York: Routledge. Mekdjian, Sarah. 2018. Urban artivism and migrations. Disrupting spatial and political segregation of migrants in European cities. Cities 77: 39–48. Merriman, Peter, and Lynne Pearce. 2017. Mobilities and the humanities. Mobilities 12 (4): 493–508. Mitchell, Peta. 2008. Cartographic strategies of postmodernity: The figure of the map in contemporary theory and fiction. New York/London: Routledge. O’Rourke, Karen. 2013. Walking and mapping: Artists as cartographers. Cambridge, MA/London: MIT Press. Parati, Graziella. 2017. Migrant writers and urban space in Italy: Proximity and affect in literature and film. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Pase, Andrea, Laura Lo Presti, Tania Rossetto, and Giada Peterle. 2021. Pandemic cartographies: A conversation on mappings, imaginings and emotion. Mobilities 16 (1): 134–153.

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Polato, Farah, and Tania Rossetto. 2020. A paradoxical motion of the map: Re-connecting the cartographic and postcolonial humanities. From the European South: A Transdisciplinary Journal of Postcolonial Humanities 8: 3–12. Romano, Antonello. 2021. Pandemia e (im)mobilità: gli effetti spaziali attraverso i Big Data delle piattaforme digitali. Rivista Geografica Italiana 128 (4): 5–22. Rossetto, Tania. 2014. Theorizing maps with literature. Progress in Human Geography 38 (4): 513–530. ———. 2019. Object-oriented cartography: Maps as things. London/New York: Routledge. ———. 2021. Not just navigation: Thinking about the movements of maps in the mobility and humanities field. The Cartographic Journal 58 (2): 183–195. Scego Igiaba. 2010. La mia casa è dove sono. Milano: Rizzoli. Vitale, Tommaso. 2007. Le tensioni tra partecipazione e rappresentanza ed i dilemmi dell’azione collettiva nelle mobilitazioni locali. In In nome di chi? Partecipazione e rappresentanza nelle mobilitazioni locali, ed. Tommaso Vitale, 9–40. Milano: Franco Angeli. Wilson, Matthew W. 2017. New lines: Critical GIS and the trouble of the map. Minneapolis/London: University of Minnesota Press. ———. 2019. Maps that move. In Ways of knowing cities, ed. Laura Kurgan and Dare Brawley, 237–249. New York: Columbia University Press. Zarzycka, Marta. 2020. Still images on the move: Theoretical challenges and future possibilities. In The Routledge companion to photography theory, ed. Mark Durden and Jane Tormey, 176–187. London/New York: Routledge.

CHAPTER 6

Making a Pause in Street Life: Not Moving as an Art Practice Karolina Izdebska and Maciej Kowalewski

The relationship between public space and public life is dynamic and mutual (Gehl 2011; Massey 2013; Gehl and Svarre 2013). When navigating the city, people adopt a set of unconscious assumptions about space and spatial behavior that guarantee social order and enable interactions. Only when someone introduces an element that disturbs this order do these assumptions become conscious and explicit. As pointed out by Marvin Carlson (2013), this constructivist concept is significant to the theory of performance art and the conviction that the presence of art in public space can transform the established micro-geographies and mental maps (Edensor 2000; Pinder 2005). Artistic actions can change the rhythm and pace of our movement in the city, literally and metaphorically (Michels and Steyaert 2017). Both a permanent art object and an ephemeral action require stopping, interacting, reflecting, contemplating, and interpreting their meanings. This is particularly true for the human body standing still, forcing us to pay attention not only to the space around us

K. Izdebska (*) • M. Kowalewski University of Szczecin, Szczecin, Poland e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 P. García, A.-L. Toivanen (eds.), Urban Mobilities in Literature and Art Activism, Literary Urban Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42798-5_6

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but also to the entire social and political context (Heddon and Turner 2012). Acts of standing still have been analyzed by researchers as part of urban everyday life (Konecki 2017; Stanley et al. 2020) and as political actions (Wahlström and Wennerhag 2014; Malkova and Kudinova 2020). Conscious non-moving can also be an important research practice in social sciences and the humanities (Harrison 2013; Konecki 2021). In this chapter, we refer to these approaches, focusing on standing still as an artistic practice. Using examples of selected artists’ actions in public spaces, we show how standing still constitutes a performative action. By conducting a performative analysis of the dimensions of corporeality based on the example of three documentary films documenting various political events, Elske Rosenfeld (2015) developed a practical glossary that helps interpret fragmented images of the body—gestures and postures that reveal themselves in public space. She mentions three concepts that are crucial for our analysis, namely standing still, suspension, and persistence. To stand means to remain in one place, in an upright position, without movement, but also not to act. Importantly, to stand also ‘means to take a position on a matter’. “Psychologically speaking, standing is a position in which the upright body is maintained solely on standing feet. The body can only maintain this position through barely perceptible movements around the center of gravity, encircling it in a way. This slight swaying aimed at maintaining balance can be minimized by fixing the gaze at one point” (Rosenfeld 2015, 145–146). The concept of suspension is related to stillness. Suspension means that something becomes still, is immobilized or interrupted. However, on the other hand, suspension also means that “something that is suspended persists, it does not stop” (Rosenfeld 2015, 145). Persistence, on the other hand, “means standing (sistere) despite something (per-). This denotes a struggle and endurance in a difficult situation” (Rosenfeld 2015, 145). The experiment conducted by Krzysztof Konecki, a Polish sociologist, involving standing still in public spaces, showed the asymmetry of the researcher-observer relationship (2017). Konecki intentionally and persistently stopped in various places in the city to examine his own and passers-­ by’s reactions. From the observers’ perspective, the experiment consisted mainly in the disruption of the daily routine, where the lack of typical activity in public space posed an interpretive challenge. The public felt obliged to somehow react and respond to the person standing still. From

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the researcher’s perspective, standing still was a space for studying one’s own physicality, emotions, and experiences in connection with the confusion of the study participants. As Konecki writes: All of this occurs within the context of ‘thinking in-place’, a process that facilitates association with specific locations and establishes the relevance of certain ‘sentiments’ in relation to them (or in some locations renders them inappropriate). (Konecki 2017, 887)

In urban settings, people often engage in solitary standing, for example, when waiting for a bus, contemplating something, or checking their phones. Pausing to wait for someone, take a break, or ponder a matter of importance is associated with certain locations and times, as well as the social and demographic characteristics of those who stop. While the urban landscape has designated areas where halting is normal and acceptable (Lehtovuori 2016; Stanley et al. 2020), prolonged stillness in those spaces may be viewed as unwelcome or suspicious. Of course, certain exceptions exist, such as religious observances and celebrations. In the view of Paul Harrison (2013), the notion of ‘standing still’ is distinct from that of ‘not moving’, just as meditation is not equivalent to ‘not thinking’. The image of a meditating person is fitting because it allows artists to portray themselves as individuals who consciously deviate from regular life and enter the role of a ‘typical’ participant in public space. In analyzing the act of standing still in public space, Konecki (2021) suggests integrating the concepts of ‘being mindful’ and Zen meditation: researcher’s practice means remaining motionless and attentive to the reactions of those around since this form of immobility captivates the curiosity of observers. In many approaches, mobility and stability are understood in terms of binary oppositions. However, within some newer concepts, it is proposed to treat mobility and stability as a continuum or to emphasize the qualities that break this binary opposition (Merriman 2023). The fundamental problem turns out to be tracing when and how movements are perceptible and when they are not, rather than asking why things/people move or remain still. Peter Merriman proposes to focus on molar and molecular mobilities and materialities. According to him, such an approach can reveal the multiple and repeated existence of different subjects and thus the fact that bodies can be experienced and perceived as both mobile and immobile. Merriman refers, among other things, to Erin Manning’s new

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philosophy of movement (2009), which is based on the agreements of Deleuze, Guattari, Massumi, and Whitehead, as well as on the creative practices of artists and dancers, to break the binary oppositions of mobility/stability, self/world, and passivity/activity. He thus rejects conventional understandings of movement and action. According to Merriman, “seemingly molar entities are in a continuous state of becoming-­molecular, becoming-mobile, becoming-imperceptible. Likewise, molecular forces and affects are in a continual state of becoming-molar and becoming-­ perceptible” (Merriman 2023, 16). Standing in urban space means functioning within the framework of social conventions that take into account such characteristics as gender, ethnicity, corporeality, and age. Thus, stopping is not solely a lack of movement or not walking, but instead represents a complete change in status. It is not a state of inactivity, stillness, or exclusion, because seemingly mundane and innocuous things, such as standing or raising a hand while walking on the street, can be regarded as subversive and disruptive. Hence, remaining still does not imply inaction or inactivity; rather, it is a deliberate activity, an attitude of waiting, and an invitation to respond. In this chapter, we analyze two categories of artistic actions based on standing/stopping. First, we describe examples where standing is based on intercepting space, disrupting its everyday rhythm, leading passers-by off beaten paths, patterns, and behaviors. These actions often rely on abstraction, reversal, and contrast. Next, we evoke actions whose primary goal is artistic resistance. They focus on communicating dissent toward specific issues while drawing attention to them, stimulating thought and discussion. In both categories of actions, the primary medium is the human body.

Standing Still as an Abstract Action of Artists in Polish Public Art In this research, we explore the abstract concept of ‘standing still’ in the context of public art in Poland. We examine how standing still can be utilized as a form of communication to elicit particular reactions in the public space. By analyzing various artistic actions that involve standing still, we aim to demonstrate how this act can provoke specific responses from the audience, with the initial response being to stop and take notice. Therefore, in these cases, standing still is both a stimulus and a reaction.

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In 1976, the Academy of Movement Theatre (Teatr Akademii Ruchu)1 performed an action called Kolejka wychodza ̨ca ze sklepu (The Queue Exiting the Store) in Warsaw. This action specifically reversed common street behaviors, and it was part of the Academy’s broader mission to challenge socially constructed mental stereotypes that were prevalent during the communist era. The Academy sometimes acted as urban guerrilla, quickly appearing on the street to convey an unexpected message to random passers-by and then disappearing. However, they also attempted to build more lasting relationships with their audience through interactive actions that encouraged cooperation. The Academy believed that collective actions were an important manifestation of the bond that can be created through co-participation. Wojciech Krukowski, the leader of the Academy of Movement Theatre, emphasized the importance of cooperation and making viewers co-creators of the event. The symbolic actions of the Academy contained an essential social message: only through participation can a bond be created or strengthened. The urban action described above was a subversion of common urban behavior in the Polish People’s Republic (PRL),2 reflecting the reality of the time in a perverse way. Queues outside stores were a daily and widespread phenomenon in 1970s Poland due to shortages of goods, a constant element of the urban landscape. However, this action reversed the usual direction of the queue: over 20 people were waiting in line, but they faced the street instead of the store (Fig. 6.1). Interestingly, passers-by reacted to this queue with understanding and even declared their willingness to join it “as long as they had time for” (Akademia Ruchu, www.akademiaruchu.com. Accessed 31st Oct 2023). This action reversed the fundamental scheme and united the viewers through the most natural, everyday means of contact instead of using typically artistic means. By changing the direction of an ordinary, socially

1  Akademia Ruchu drew on the tradition of politically engaged art, and its name was inspired by the a.r. formation founded by Władysław Strzemiński and Katarzyna Kobro (an abbreviation for ‘revolutionary artists’ or ‘real avant-garde’). The aesthetics of the Academy were reminiscent of constructivism, postulating the egagement of artists, including political engagement (Plata 2015, 15). 2  PRL is an abbreviation for the propaganda name “Polska Rzeczpospolita Ludowa” (Polish People’s Republic), used in Communist Poland between 1944 and 1989, referring to the system and political structure of the Polish state, indicating that power belongs to the people.

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Fig. 6.1  Akademia Ruchu (1976). The Queue Exiting the Store. © Stowarzyszenie Przyjaciół Akademii Ruchu

accepted behavior such as standing in a queue, the action was able to disorient the audience and provoke their reaction. Paradoxically, the effect of this ‘reversed’ queue was no different from the everyday experience, where customers often stood in queues without any guarantee that they would get to buy anything. In times when products only appeared in stores from time to time, people often queued in vain. Nonetheless, that action effectively disrupted the daily routine and challenged the viewers to rethink the social norms they took for granted. The concept of standing as an unexpected action in the public space was also utilized by Łukasz Jastrubczak in Działanie na słońcu (Action in the Sun, 2014).3 The artist employed a strategy of surprise, appearing

3  The footage of the action is available at https://vimeo.com/97760264. Accessed 31 Oct 2023.

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suddenly at the center of the city of Nowa Huta4 as a mysterious conceptual artist. Standing in the middle of a square with a black mask on his face, he played the flute and cast spells on an orange circle, which repeatedly rose high thanks to the attached helium balloons. The artist interacted with the space in which he performed, specifically the surrounding socialist realist architecture. However, Jastrubczak’s performance was so absurd that it was not decoded by others as an artistic phenomenon. The increasing encroachment of various marketing strategies on public space, often borrowing from the field of art, has made people unable to distinguish what they were actually dealing with. Some passers-by thought they were witnessing some promotional campaign, while others believed they were dealing with a balloon salesman. The artist himself claimed that the action turned out to be utopian because it was met with sheer indifference. No one was interested and no communication was established. However, it was in line with Jastrubczak’s consciously employed avant-garde strategies. He does not expect every action he takes in a public space to be interpreted as art. He said: It’s not necessarily important to me that the audience knows exactly what they are experiencing, or that they are even aware it’s an artistic performance. My focus lies more with the language of art and its impact on the viewer.5

In Action in the Sun, there are certainly aesthetic values at play, as the work can also be perceived as an abstract geometric composition in public space. However, it seems that its most important aspect was to draw attention of the public, surprise them with the unconventional nature of the performance, and create a collision between fiction and reality, where absurdity becomes the primary tool in the constructed situation. Another example of artistic activity involving the element of standing still is Żywa rzeźba (Living Sculpture) by Andrzej Dudek-Dürer. It is a permanent street performance that the artist has been practicing on the streets of Wrocław and other cities since 1969. It is important that Dudek-­ Dürer has turned many aspects of his life into art through his role as the 4  The northeastern part of Cracow; a newly designed city whose construction began in 1949. It was built for workers of a planned metallurgical complex. 5  Research interview conducted by the author with Łukasz Jastrubczak on October 5, 2015.

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Living Sculpture. In addition to being viewed by gallery audiences, his works are also experienced by casual passers-by in the locations where he currently resides. A significant element of his ‘life-performance’ is his shoes, the only ones he has worn out of his house for over 50 years, having bought them for 120 Polish złoty on April 16, 1969. Dudek-Dürer treats these shoes as a living organism that undergoes evolution and change, as they are worn out, repaired, and eventually transformed into artistic objects, symbolically revealing the essence of reincarnation. However, the primary object in his works is his body, including his beard and hair, which he has “painstakingly collected and accumulated over the years, as traces of presence and the passage of time, transformed by the act of the creator into artifacts”, according to Krzysztof Dobrowolski (Jachuła 2016). Dudek-Dürer’s work is informed by Hindu traditions, such as yoga and meditation, and he even claims that the consciousness of Albrecht Dürer resides within his body (http://www.zacheta.wroclaw.pl/artysci/179-­ dudek-­durer-­andrzej.html. Accessed 31 Oct 2023). Dudek-Dürer’s life performance is an example of a process that involves experimenting with oneself.6 In the case of this performance, the aspect of interpersonal contact becomes very important—the artist claims that in public space it can occur on a fundamental level, unlike in a gallery setting. In this performance, it is always about capturing time, as photography is an important medium for Dudek-Dürer’s work: The captured time, the frozen moment, the recorded fragment of action, the code that transforms the so-called three-dimensional reality into a two-­ dimensional one, a fascinating way of interpreting the world, a method of creating and constructing a new world, a three-dimensional object, a metaphysical process, the energy of light and darkness … For me, photography is one of many equally important media that refer to other areas of my creative activity such as performance, graphics, installations, objects, or video.7

6  Exhibition Obrzędy powszednie i odswię ́ tne, Białystok 2016(b), curated by M.  Jachuła; https://artmuseum.pl/pl/performans/archiwum/2543. Accessed 31 Oct 2023. 7  An excerpt from an interview: Poszukiwanie sensu fotografii. Rozmowy o sztuce (Seeking the Meaning of Photography. Conversations on Art.) Krzysztof Jurecki, Galeria Sztuki Wozownia, Toruń 2007. https://artinfo.pl/wydarzenia/andrzej-dudek-durer-zywa-rzezba­1969-2019. Accessed 31 Oct 2023.

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Standing in Public Space as an Act of Artistic Resistance Provoking a reaction is an inherent part of public art. The reaction can involve starting a discussion, engaging in an action, or simply capturing attention and making someone stop and look. Sometimes, unconventional and even controversial strategies are used to achieve the desired outcome. This is due to the obvious fact that if artistic actions do not capture attention, they probably do not affect the recipient, something that is most crucial in protest actions. In the late 1960s, performative elements were intentionally incorporated into many types of political demonstrations, but they were not yet associated with the developing art of performance which at the time was associated with non-discursive approach (Carlson 2013). Recently in Poland, we have witnessed an increasing number of actions that combine elements of art (performance, street art, happening), activism, and resistance. An example of an action based on the act of standing still is the street action Granica pogardy (Border of Contempt) by the activist art collective Czarne Szmaty (literally ‘Black Rags’ which can also mean ‘Black Sluts’) founded in 2016 by four artist-activists. The action refers to the Black Protest and the All-Poland Women’s Strike, specifically to the mass protests against a proposed law that would completely ban abortion in Poland. Using a 20-meter black banner (“black rag”) with a white message that read “Border of Contempt”, the group blocked traffic with the act of standing still, communicating their opposition to policies that violate women’s reproductive rights and infringe on their bodies. The action was a direct confrontation in public space and served as an invitation for spontaneously encountered women to participate collectively (https:// biennalewarszawa.pl/ludzie/czarne-­szmaty/. Accessed 31 Oct 2023). Traffic blockades, picketing, sit-ins, and protest marches are well-­ known examples of spatial protest tactics that entail obstructing functionality to apply pressure. Standing alone, however, as a method of protest is ambiguous in this way, as it is only a symbolic figure, not a physical roadblock, that causes other onlookers to pause. We can refer to an example from the small Polish town of Gryfice. On March 23, 2018, Beata Katkowska, also in continuation of the All-Poland Women’s Strike, protested alone in the square of that town against a law restricting abortion

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rights. Standing alone as a protest is a break from the routine of mass demonstrations. Another example is the performance Song of Resistance by Zorka Wollny in the form of a concert in Istanbul in 2015. The work was created in collaboration with students from Bogazici University who were also choir members. The point of departure for this performance was the memory of the events that had occurred in Taksim Square. The artist drew attention to the crucial role of the voice in a revolutionary potential by transforming shouts, slogans, and fragments of songs into abstract sounds that were then composed into a short demonstration. The work addressed the issue of the possibility of articulating human needs and the right to speak in public debate (http://www.zorkawollny.net/?portfolio=song-­of-­ resistance. Accessed 31 Oct 2023). Zorka Wollny’s work often straddles the boundary between theater and visual art, and frequently takes the form of musical compositions. In her projects, she also references architecture and the space in which they are presented. In the case of Song of Resistance, the context is a protest demonstration. Participants are scattered throughout the city center among the passing crowd. They were standing, focused, with their eyes closed, and gradually begin to emit increasingly louder, inarticulate sounds. At first, the sounds were jarring and then became more varied, stronger, and accented. This aroused the interest of passers-by, who stopped, gathered around, and took photos. All the sounds, text, and noise came together in a musical composition interwoven with the sounds of the street. This created a specific concert composed of sounds from fragmented songs, protest slogans, and street noises. Standing still was enhanced by sound and was, therefore, a clearly active action. Interesting research on public art practices in Turkey has been done, among others, by Tugba and Ogushan Taş (2014). The authors note that street art represents the materialization of radical alternative ways of communicating political ideas and participating in oppositional urban culture. Taksim Square is considered the ‘heart and soul of Istanbul’. According to Jay Cassano (2013, 1), “If there is going to be a revolution in Turkey, Istanbulites know it will happen in Taksim Square”. The protest, to which the Song of Resistance referred, began on May 27, 2013, and was directly related to the plans to build a shopping center in Taksim Square, in the heart of Istanbul. This was just one part of the overall plan to transform the square into a ‘sterile’ place that would be more welcoming to tourists and car traffic rather than the local residents. The protest was initiated by

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70 activists fighting for the right to the city on the day that the Gezi Park was scheduled for demolition. Over the following days, the protesters successfully managed to prevent the bulldozers from entering and repelled police attacks. Larger groups of people began to gather in the park, and after three days of protests, the police brutally evicted the protesters from the park. That triggered an escalation in protests, with the crowd on the square growing denser, and police violence intensifying. This was one of the largest peaceful demonstrations in modern Turkish history and was not directly related to the interests of any political party or to the Turkish-­ Kurdish conflict. Over time, demonstrations of solidarity with Taksim, and simultaneously against the autocratic policies of Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, spread throughout the entire country. For many years, Taksim Square was the site of frequent demonstrations on issues important to citizens, such as LGBTQ+ rights, recognition of the genocide of Armenians, and the Kurdish-Turkish conflict. Consequently, it was in the interest of authorities to redevelop the square to make it more attractive to tourists and less conducive to protests and assemblies (Cassano 2013). However, following the protests of 2013, the government suspended the redevelopment plan. It is possible that it was precisely due to the mass demonstrations that a competition for the redesign of Taksim Square, including Gezi Park and its surroundings, was announced on March 2, 2020. The Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality organized the competition in accordance with a participatory approach and the principle of “Istanbul is yours” (https://pl.rayhaber.com/2020/09/Konkurs%2C-­ kt%C3%B3r y-­u kszta%C5%82tuje-­p lac-­Taksim%2C-­z osta%C5%82-­ rozstrzygni%C4%99ty/. Accessed 31 Oct 2023). It is worth noting that Taksim Square has also been the site of another well-known act of standing-based protest: the silent protest by Istanbul-­ based performer and choreographer Erdem Gunduz (2013). In this act, Gunduz stood motionless and silent for several hours in protest against the government of Prime Minister Erdogan. Over time, about 300 people joined him in solidarity. Gunduz was dubbed “Standing Man” by the media, and his protest was called “motionless”. The context is noteworthy in this case. This type of silent, static, and peaceful action clearly contrasted with the demonstrations that were taking place almost simultaneously in the nearby Gezi Park. The clashes with the police were violent—water cannons and tear gas were used.

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The eight-hour standing in the square disoriented the police primarily because the act of standing itself is not prohibited. It is also not controversial in any way. Standing is a natural and everyday act. What was suspicious was the length of the action and the reactions of observers, especially when they started to imitate the artist. Anka Herbut describes the “Standing Man” as an example of protest choreography, a kind of performance that disturbs and changes the order of the public sphere, even coming into conflict with urban infrastructure, composition, and spatial structure. “Due to its extended duration, frozen movement, and treatment of space in site-specific terms, it has acquired choreographic and critical potential” (Herbut 2019). This is an interesting approach, especially since the definition of choreography refers to movement: “the skill of combining movements into dances to be performed; the movements used by dancers” (https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/choreography. Accessed 31 Oct 2023). Motionless protests are an example of unconventional forms of action. These forms of peaceful demonstration are sometimes called sit-ins, where protesters occupy a space, deliberately annexing it and changing its rhythm. Another similar form of protests, die-in is also associated with stillness, though not standing—the main role is played by lying bodies (Klein 2013). In each case, the primary tool of action is an unarmed, exposed body. Presence becomes the most important thing—at this time and in this place, and the goal is interruption, standing still. Importantly, Gunduz’s standing caused a reaction among observers. Initially, an individual act, it turned into a collective action: “Gunduz conveyed his message without words or gestures, through mere presence. One human body, joined by more and more over time” (Schmitter 2017). Taking into account Rosenfeld’s analysis presented earlier, Erdem Gunduz’s protest is an obvious example of ‘standing’. The artist additionally stared fixedly at a portrait of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk. However, not everyone perceived the effectiveness and the possibility of change in this static act. Although it attracted media attention and imitators, some activists tweeted: “Agreed, #duranadam was awesome, but movements don’t stand still” (Rosenfeld 2015, 146). The act of standing still in public space as a means of eliciting a response has been employed by Pyotr Pavlensky in some of his artistic performances. For years, the artist has been protesting against Putin’s oppressive political regime. However, his acts are not solely based on remaining motionless. Pavlensky employs other rather radical means of expression to draw

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attention to important issues. The artist’s body and self-mutilations serve as the primary tool that reinforces the message associated with the act of standing. An example of this is Seam, one of his most well-known performances. For this piece, the artist sewed his mouth shut with black thread and stood in front of the Kazan Cathedral. Through this meaningful silence, he expressed his solidarity with the members of Pussy Riot, who were sentenced to two years in a penal colony for performing the song Virgin Mary, Chase Putin Away in the Moscow Cathedral. Simultaneously, through this action of standing and silence in a particular chosen space, Pavlensky highlighted to Russian society that it passively allowed the Orthodox Church to become part of Putin’s regime. Other examples include two further actions by Pavlensky. In Threat: Burning Doors of Lubyanka, the artist was standing still in front of the burning doors of the Federal Security Service building, protesting against police brutality in Russia, holding a canister in his hand. In Lighting, a similar action in form, he set fire to the doors of the Bank of France in Paris, which symbolically aimed to strike at banks and bankers. In both cases, the burning background against which the artist stood and waited— thus exposing himself to the arrest by the police—added drama to the entire event. Pavlensky’s standing in those circumstances was meant to provoke a reaction from the authorities and individual functionaries of the system—mainly police officers, but also doctors and judges (Możdżyński 2020)—all of them constituted an integral part of the performance: Thanks to them, the action is built. We switch places: I, as an object subordinate to authority, become the subject of the event, while they, correspondingly, submit and become the object of my actions. Perhaps they sometimes watch what I am doing, but they cannot remain mere spectators. They must act automatically, like robots. In this way, the authority becomes even more subordinate and deprived of freedom than I myself. (Możdżyński 2020, 280)

The unconventional situations created by the artist disrupt the order of the street and introduce chaos to the extent that even the guardians of order do not initially know how to react. Above all, it confuses the police: Should they rescue him? Take him to a psychiatric hospital? Detain him? Handcuff him? The audience does not always perceive some of Pavlensky’s actions as art because of their unconventional locations and their operation at the intersection of art and everyday life, thereby achieving a post-artistic

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quality (Ludwiński 2009). The artists are driven by the need to express opinions and take a stand on important socio-political issues. This is not a straightforward language of resistance, but rather actions transformed into the language of performance art, where it is the artist’s body that attracts the most attention. On the one hand, these actions directly relate to current events and subject them to critical analysis, but on the other hand, they encourage the audience to react and engage in social dialogue.

Conclusions While recent studies have indicated that we spend a significant portion of our daily activities either sitting or standing (Johansson et al. 2019), it is difficult to envision a city where all movement has come to a complete halt. Although the pandemic-related lockdowns did bring about a certain level of urban immobility, the act of standing in a city typically has to adhere to established conventions to be accepted and understood. All the examples of standing still/stopping described in this chapter are situated in urban spaces. Artists recognize public space as a platform for communication and social relationships, where diverse values are exchanged and community can be fostered. It can be a place of expression, negotiation, discussion, and conflict. Public space is fluid and variable, which makes it unpredictable and deceitful, like a jungle. It is a great laboratory for experimentation, research, and testing the audience’s reactions. Furthermore, public space is an inexhaustible source of artistic inspiration (Izdebska 2021). Thus, we can assume that every artistic act of standing still is intentional. Each of them has a specific meaning and often differing entirely from each other. It can be a humorous critique of society or reveal the absurdity of reality, as seen in Akademia Ruchu’s actions. On the other hand, an artist standing still can disturb everyday life, violate established conventions while simultaneously raising awareness, color the space and initiate interactions, explore space-time, as Jastrubczak and Dudek-Dürer do. They can provoke thought and stimulate reflection and discussion, as in the case of Zorka Wollny’s composed manifestations. Interestingly, the seemingly banal act of standing can be subversive, disrupt space and even introduce chaos, disorientation, and a sense of threat (such as the blocking of traffic by the Black Rags collective, motionless protest of Gunduz, or Pavlensky’s shocking self-mutilations). Capturing public space is done

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through the presence of the ‘standing body’ in it, attempting to shape social relations, existing social norms and laws, and urban activism from below. As we have shown, standing in the city can be a performative action. Importantly, these artistic activities in urban spaces also cause passers-by to stop in their tracks, at least for a moment.

References Akademia Ruchu. www.akademiaruchu.com. Accessed 31st Oct 2023. A.  R. Akademia Ruchu. Teatr. Plata, Tomasz, ed. 2015. Warszawa: CSW Zamek Ujazdowski. Instytut Teatralny im. Zbigniewa Raszewskiego, Instytut Sztuk Performatywnych. Carlson, Marvin. 2013. Performance: A critical introduction. London: Routledge. Cassano, Jay. 2013. Prawo do miasta i „tureckie lato”. https://publica.pl/teksty/ prawo–do–miasta–i–tureckie–lato–38110.html. Accessed 31st Oct 2023. Edensor, Tim. 2000. Walking in the British countryside: Reflexivity, embodied practices and ways to escape. Body & Society 6 (3–4): 81–106. Gehl, Jan. 2011. Life between buildings: Using public space. Washington: Island Press. Gehl, Jan, and Svarre Birgitte. 2013. How to study public life. Washington: Island Press. Harrison, Paul. 2013. The broken thread: On being still. In Stillness in a mobile world, ed. David Bissell and Gillian Fuller, 221–240. London: Routledge. Heddon, Deirdre, and Cathy Turner. 2012. Walking women: Shifting the tales and scales of mobility. Contemporary Theatre Review 22 (2): 224–236. Herbut, Anka. 2019. Jeslí nie mogę tańczyć, to nie moja rewolucja. https:// taniecpolska.pl/krytyka/jesli-­n ie-­m oge-­t anczyc-­t o-­n ie-­m oja-­r ewolucja/. 31 Oct 2023. Izdebska, Karolina. 2021. Sztuka publiczna—od obiektów do praktyk postartystycznych. Brikolaż socjologiczny. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Naukowe Scholar. Jachuła, Michał. 2016. Andrzej Dudek–Dürer. https://culture.pl/pl/tworca/ andrzej–dudek–durer. Accessed 31 Oct 2023. Johansson, Melker Staffan, Korshøj Mette, Schnohr Peter, Marott Jacob Louis, Prescott Bossano Eva Irene, Søgaard Karen, and Holtermann Andreas. 2019. Time spent cycling, walking, running, standing and sedentary: A cross–sectional analysis of accelerometer–data from 1670 adults in the Copenhagen City Heart Study. BMC Public Health 19 (1370). Jurecki, Krzysztof. 2007. Poszukiwanie sensu fotografii. Rozmowy o sztuce (Seeking the meaning of photography. Conversations on art.), Toruń: Galeria Sztuki Wozownia. https://artinfo.pl/wydarzenia/andrzej-­dudek-­durer-­zywa-­ rzezba-­1969-­2019. Accessed 31 Oct 2023.

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Klein, Gabriele. 2013. The (micro-)politics of social choreography. Aesthetic and political strategies of protest and participation. In Dance, politics & co-­immunity: Current perspectives on politics and communities in the arts, Vol. 1, Diaphanes. Konecki, Krzysztof Tomasz. 2017. Standing in public places: An ethno–zenic experiment aimed at developing the sociological imagination and more besides…. Sociologický c ̌asopis/Czech Sociological Review 53 (6): 81–902. Konecki, Krzysztof Tomasz. 2021. The meaning of contemplation for social qualitative research: Applications and examples. London: Routledge. Lehtovuori, Panu. 2016. Experience and conflict: The production of urban space. London: Routledge. Ludwiński, Jerzy. 2009. Sztuka w epoce postartystycznej i inne teksty. Poznań: Akademia Sztuk Pięknych w Poznaniu. Malkova, Polina, and Olga Kudinova. 2020. Exploring the interplay between freedom of assembly and freedom of expression: The case of Russian solo pickets. Netherlands Quarterly of Human Rights 38 (3): 191–205. Manning, Erin. 2009. Relationscapes: Movement, art, philosophy. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Massey, Doreen. 2013. Space, place and gender. Hoboken: Wiley. Merriman, Peter. 2023. Mobility/fixity: Rethinking binaries in mobility studies. Mobility Humanities 2 (1): 6–21. Michels, Ch., and Ch. Steyaert. 2017. By accident and by design: Composing affective atmospheres in an urban art intervention. Organization 24 (1): 79–104. Możdżyński, Paweł. 2020. Dramat społeczny i performans polityczny. Dwie strategie performatywne. Władza Sa ̨dzenia 19: 275–290. Pinder, D. 2005. Arts of urban exploration. Cultural Geographies 12 (4): 383–411. Plata, Tomasz. 2015. Akademia Ruchu. W stronę teatru. In: T.  Plata (red.), A.R.  Akademia Ruchu. Teatr, 7–17. Warszawa: CSW Zamek Ujazdowski, Instytut Teatralny im. Zbigniewa Raszewskiego, Instytut Sztuk Performatywnych. Rosenfeld, Elske. 2015. Unosi dłoń, zwraca głowę. Analiza cielesności i rewolucji. Czas Kultury 03: 144–147. Schmitter, Elke. 2017. Polityka ciała. Der Spiegel. https://wiadomosici.onet.pl/ swiat/polityka-­ciala-­esej/70j079x. Accessed 31 Oct 2023. Stanley, S., R.J.  Smith, E.  Ford, and J.  Jones. 2020. Making something out of nothing: Breaching everyday life by standing still in a public place. The Sociological Review 68 (6): 1250–1272. Taş, Tugba, and Ogushan Taş. 2014. Resistance on the walls, reclaiming public space: Street art in times of political turmoil in Turkey. Iteractions: Studies in Communication & Culture 5 (3): 327–349. Wahlström, Mattias, and Magnus  Wennerhag. 2014. Alone in the crowd: Lone protesters in Western European demonstrations. International Sociology 29 (6): 565–583.

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Webnography www.akademiaruchu.com. Accessed 31 Oct 2023. https://artmuseum.pl/pl/performans/archiwum/2543. Accessed 31 Oct 2023. https://biennalewarszawa.pl/ludzie/czarne-­szmaty/. Accessed 31 Oct 2023. https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/choreography. Accessed 31 Oct 2023. https://pl.rayhaber.com/2020/09/Konkurs%2C-­kt%C3%B3ry-­ukszta%C5%82 tuje-­plac-­Taksim%2C-­zosta%C5%82-­rozstrzygni%C4%99ty/. Accessed 31 Oct 2023. https://vimeo.com/97760264. Accessed 31 Oct 2023. http://www.zacheta.wroclaw.pl/artysci/179-­d udek-­d urer-­a ndrzej.html. Accessed 31 Oct 2023. http://www.zorkawollny.net/?portfolio=song-­of-­resistance. Accessed 31 Oct 2023.

PART II

Modes of Transport and Places of Transit

CHAPTER 7

Alienation, Abjection and the Mobile Postcolonial City: Public Transport in Ousmane Sembène’s “Niiwam” and Yvonne Vera’s Without a Name Anna-Leena Toivanen

This chapter discusses urban mobilities by analyzing the representation and formal functions of travel on public transport in two African literary texts, the short story “Niiwam” (1987), by the Senegalese author Ousmane Sembène, and the novel Without a Name (1994), by the Zimbabwean writer Yvonne Vera. Both texts are centered on an image that combines public transportation with abjection and alienation: the protagonists travel in a bus while secretly carrying the corpse of their dead child. Sembène’s protagonist, a poor peasant who has come to Dakar to take his sick son to hospital, travels by bus from the morgue to a cemetery to bury the child, who has died. In Vera’s novel, the main character catches a bus from Harare back to her home village, which has been ravaged by the guerilla war, to

A.-L. Toivanen (*) University of Eastern Finland, Joensuu, Finland e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 P. García, A.-L. Toivanen (eds.), Urban Mobilities in Literature and Art Activism, Literary Urban Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42798-5_7

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bury her baby, born out of rape and whom she herself has strangled. Public transport entails encounters with others (Wilson 2011; Rink 2022). In the texts under discussion there arises a particularly threatening experience of copresence and interaction or “shared travel-ness” (Pettinger 2012, 129, 132) as a result of the protagonists’ fear of being exposed. Both texts attest simultaneously to “the everyday and the extraordinary experiences of mobility” (Adey 2010, 31). While the trivial aspects of public transport are articulated through the presence of the other passengers, the drivers, and allusions to the system of public mobility, the protagonists’ alienated perspectives and motives for traveling move the texts from the banal and mundane meanings of mobility (see Binnie et  al. 2007, 165) toward the extraordinary. In so doing, the texts stress the “the difference and singularity of lived experience of being in passage” (Adey et al. 2012, 173). It is, indeed, the contrast with the banality of the environment of public transport itself that makes the protagonists’ distress so palpable. As the author of novels such as Le Docker noir (1956), Les Bouts de bois de Dieu (1960), and Xala (1973), Ousmane Sembène (1923–2007) is one of the key writers of his generation. A director and filmmaker, he is often also called the “father of African film”, having turned many of his own literary texts into films—including “Niiwam”. “Niiwam” appears in a volume of Sembène’s that also includes the short story “Taaw”. Mobility is not a key theme of the latter story, which focuses on poverty in rural Senegal. Representative of a more recent writerly generation, Yvonne Vera (1964–2005) has published a short story collection and five novels, including the acclaimed works Butterfly Burning (1998) and The Stone Virgins (2002). Vera’s oeuvre focuses primarily on the violence of Zimbabwe’s freedom struggle as seen from the perspective of Zimbabwean women. Her production attests to her interest in black women’s place in the colonial city and to their limited mobilities in moving between the rural and the urban. With regard to the contexts of the texts discussed here, Vera’s novel, whose physical settings repeatedly shift between the rural and the urban, is set against the backdrop of Zimbabwe’s anticolonial freedom struggle in the late 1970s. In contrast, Sembène’s short story is a portrayal of urban life in post-independence Senegal. Given the prominent role played by motorized transport and its associated infrastructure in the processes of “kinetic modernity” and urbanization (Giucci 2007, xii; Larkin 2013, 333; Green-Simms 2017, 5), public transportation in “Niiwam” and Without a Name can be read as a mobile chronotope that embodies

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ideas of (post)colonial urban modernity, producing a “moving spatio-­ temporal structure” in the texts (Peterle 2016, 289). In effect, the depiction of travel by public transport structures the narratives of both Sembène’s and Vera’s texts. “Niiwam” produces a far-reaching poetics of public transport mobilities: the bus functions as the main setting, bringing disparate characters together, in addition to which the bus route and the motion of the vehicle move the plot forward, while changes in the narrative perspective generate spatial movements inside and outside of the vehicle. In Without a Name, the bus ride is a narrative turning-point since it represents the protagonist’s attempt to come to terms with the trauma she has gone through. Beyond the tragedies and feelings of alienation experienced by the protagonists and the banal experiences of public transport mobilities undergone by the other passengers, the bus rides capture the idea of a postcolonial society in transit between the colonial era and post-­ independence modernization. Mobilities and mobility networks are key elements of modern cities (Freudendal-Pedersen and Kesselring 2017, 2, 5). By focusing on the representation and formal functions of travel by public transport and the abject and alienated aspects of the bus journeys in Sembène’s and Vera’s texts, this chapter will contribute to discussions of the literary postcolonial city from a perspective that understands the urban space as inherently mobile (see, e.g., Cumpsty 2019; Morgan 2022; Nuttall 2004). In line with Marian Aguiar’s, Charlotte Mathieson’s and Lynne Pearce’s description that “mobility studies works towards a rigorous assessment of the social and spatial aspects of mobile practices within their cultural milieu” (2019, 2), my approach stresses the importance of reading literary cities in a way that acknowledges the connectedness of mobility and space. Such an approach not only highlights the notion that space shapes mobility but also that mobility frees “space from static representation” (Murray and Upstone 2014, 5). Furthermore, my reading draws attention to the importance of the spaces of mobility and transit in literature and the role played by representations of motorized mobilities and, in particular, travel by public transport in conveying the meanings of (urban) mobilities in African literatures.1 Questions of spatiality—including literary cities—have  For studies on motorized mobilities and public transport in African literary texts, see, for instance, Anyinefa 2003; Green-Simms 2017; Savonick 2015; Steiner 2014; Toivanen 2022, 2023; Tunca 2008. 1

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become popular subjects of inquiry in African literary studies. Much less attention, however, has been given to representations of mobility practices, especially everyday mobilities: in mobilities, the focus tends to be on global migratory displacements, often on a metaphorical level (Toivanen 2021, 2). Given the key role of mobilities in the construction of the urban space, postcolonial city novels have great potential for moving beyond the fixation of postcolonial studies on global migratory mobilities and metaphors thereof. The fascination of postcolonial studies with large-­scale, lifechanging mobilities echoes the way in which mobilities research has foregrounded hypermobility (Jensen 2009, xvi) and “the extraordinary voyages of international travellers” (Binnie et al. 2007, 166) at the expense of everyday mobility practices—a feature for which some mobilities scholarship has been criticized over the years. In general, however, mobility studies promotes a holistic understanding of different modes and modalities of mobilities (Adey 2010, 18), and “banal or mundane mobilities” (Binnie et al. 2007, 165) are acknowledged as being just as relevant subjects of inquiry as global mobilities. In the study of African literatures such a holistic understanding is helpful in establishing links between the journey motif (in local, everyday settings) and a wider “history of migrations, explorations, and conquest” (Mortimer 1990, 15). This chapter’s focus on the connections between urban spatiality, a specific mode of transportation, and the tangible mobilities that it enables contributes to the ongoing discussions in literary mobility studies that regard fictional texts as “vital constituents of the ways in which mobility itself is experienced as an embodied, subjective act that is informed by, and through, the cultural context in which it occurs” (Aguiar et al. 2019, 17). Through their portrayals of the bus journey, “Niiwam” and Without a Name enable insights not only into the alienating, abject aspects of travel but also into the exclusionary aspects of (post)colonial urban modernity. Further, by paying attention to the narrative roles played by the space within the vehicle and the bus ride itself, this chapter explores how mobility affects literary form (see Davidson 2017; Toivanen 2021). In so doing, my analysis moves beyond sociological readings of mobility and stresses the specific contribution of literary analysis in making sense of mobilities and the urban space.

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Urban Alienation and the Poetics of Public Transport Mobilities in “Niiwam” Sembène’s short story opens with a portrayal of a landscape “‘d’une Afrique nouvelle” (10) [“of a new Africa” (1)]2: a rocky cliff; the sea; a sky with vultures; “Hôpital indigène” (9) [“Native Hospital” (1)] with its morgue; people wearing European and traditional clothes. To convey the modernity of this urban landscape, the text keeps alluding to the presence of motorized vehicles—hearses, passenger cars and buses, and the omnipresent noise of motors. These elements capture the key themes of the short story: postcolonial African urbanity, the co-existence of local and imported colonial culture, modern motorized mobility, and death. The introduction of the poorly dressed protagonist, Thierno, carrying the corpse of his child, adds to the narrative the alienated perspective of someone who is “un ‘nouveau débarqué du village’ ” (13) [“fresh from the village” (3)]. The text underlines Thierno’s marginalization as he follows the orders of an elderly chiffonier, a ragman he has become acquainted with in the hospital premises. The ragman is “accoutumé […] aux choses de la ville” (11) [“more accustomed to the city” (2)], whereas Thierno is clearly lost in it, both concretely and symbolically: his socio-economic position makes him an outsider with no fixed points of reference in the “depersonalized and hostile” urban space (N’gom 1999, 297). The protagonist’s helplessness is conveyed by the way in which the ragman assists him in crossing the busy street, advising him about how to travel by bus to the cemetery, and even paying the fare for the penniless passenger. The protagonist’s marginalization is, then, conveyed through mobilityrelated imagery that underlines his inability to ‘handle’ the urban environment that would enable him to orient himself within it (see Buhr 2018). More precisely, his helplessness relates to motorized mobilities: before the ragman accompanies him to the bus stop, Thierno has asked him how far the cemetery is and what the shortest way is for him to get there on foot. The ragman’s rude reply, “D’où sors-tu?” (13) [“Where are you from?” (3)], positions the protagonist outside urban kinetic modernity. Significantly enough, at the bus stop the two stand “silencieux à distance des autres” (12) [“silent […], a good distance away from the others” (2)], which conveys both Thierno’s marginalization in the city and the ragman’s reluctance to be associated with the rural newcomer. 2

 Translations from the published English version of “Niiwam”.

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Most of the events in “Niiwam” are set inside the bus, a mobile public space (Rink 2022, 2). The bus entails two separate yet interrelated forms of spatiality: the insulated space of the vehicle and the urban space outside. In his reading of “Niiwam”, N’gom (1999, 301) acknowledges this “interlocking of spaces”, arguing that the bus line is a mobile space and Dakar “static but dynamic”. Rather than seeing the urban space as a static ‘container’, I understand it as inherently mobile in the sense that its meanings in the text are produced through and in movement, or as Tim Cresswell and Peter Merriman (2013, 7) formulate it, “Practices of mobility […] co-produce spaces, places and landscapes”. For those inside the vehicle, the urban space is accessed visually through the windows of the moving bus, which produces a dynamic image of the city. The protagonist, however, is not that interested in the urban environment. As the bus starts off, the narrative briefly refers to an external view—“le véhicule gravissait le raidillon vers le château d’eau” (19) [“the vehicle climbed the slope towards the water tower” (7)]. After making this observation, the protagonist becomes less concerned with the urban landscape than with the encounters and events onboard, as dictated by his condition of traveling with the dead child. His observations of the space inside the vehicle capture his fear of getting caught: “Les arrêts se succédaient. Les gens marchaient d’un pas alerte, se parlant à peine. […] Tout lui était étranger, les gens avec leurs réactions … Il évitait les yeux des autres usagers, craignant d’être trahi par ses propres regards” (20) [“The stops went by, one after another. […] Everything was strange to him, these people with their own particular reactions to things. He avoided meeting the eyes of the other passengers, afraid that he would betray himself” (7)]. The most ‘extraordinary’ manifestation of the protagonist’s alienation in the city is, of course, the body of the child he carries. As Amade Faye (2009, 194) argues, traveling with the corpse makes Thierno’s relationship with the urban space one of trial and uncovering. The centrality of the corpse in the narrative is underlined in the title, which in Wolof means “his cadaver” (N’gom 1999, 293; Faye 2009, 194). Combined with the protagonist’s socio-economic marginalization, “his cadaver” seals his relegation to the realm of the abject vis-à-vis the postcolonial city. The abject, writes Julia Kristeva (1982, 1), is “beyond the scope of the possible, the tolerable, the thinkable”. Yet, the abject and the subject are constructed dialogically so that the identity of the subject relies on the partial rejection of the abject. Consequently, the abject poses a threat to the boundaries of the subject by being both revolting to the self and also part of it (Kristeva

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1982, 4). Abjection is, therefore, not merely a feature that qualifies the abject but also the system that wishes to exclude it. In “Niiwam”, the abjection of the protagonist in the eyes of the city dwellers is telling of the self-identity of the modern African city in terms of whom it excludes. The protagonist’s experience of “passengering” (Laurier et  al. 2008) palpably conveys how “being in passage implicates confinement, restraint, even incarceration” (Adey et al. 2012, 172). Thierno’s distress caused by his trying to keep his secret causes him to become preoccupied by “ses pensées [qui] se bousculaient dans sa tête” (19) [“his thoughts […] whirling in his head” (7)] and “bondissaient dans le désordre (19) [“ran wild” (7)]. These rapid movements of the protagonist’s thoughts are contrasted with a sense of immobility as he enters the bus: the fear of getting caught “paralyzes” him, and after taking a few steps in the aisle, he asks himself, “Mais avait-il vraiment bougé?” (16) [“But had he really moved?” (5)]. This contrast between the speed of his thoughts and the feeling of physical immobility is illustrative of Thierno’s panicky, paralyzing fear of being exposed. Thus, in addition to the movement of the vehicle there is constant narrative movement between different mobile spaces: the protagonist’s perceptions of what happens inside the vehicle, outside in the urban environment, and finally, the panicky mobilities of thoughts in the space of his mind. According to Andrew Thacker (2003, 7), such swift narrative movements across various spaces are inherently linked to the emergence of modern mobility systems. In effect, the mode of transport clearly informs the literary form of “Niiwam”. In addition to the narrative mobilities across internal (vehicle), external (urban landscape), and mental spaces, the “mobilities of form” (Davidson 2017) or “poetics of mobility” (Toivanen 2021) in “Niiwam” consist of changes in the focalizer. While the first passages of the bus ride are narrated from the perspective of Thierno, his viewpoint is eventually complemented by that of Wellé, the driver. This strategy generates further narrative movement inside the vehicle—away from the passenger’s seat and toward that of the driver, producing a shift from the protagonist’s extraordinary (alienated, distressed) experience of mobility to the banal, pragmatic concerns of the driver. The first shift in the narrative perspective follows a lengthy passage of Thierno’s anxious train of thought after a passenger occupies the seat next to him. The transition from Thierno’s panicky musings—“criait-il en dedans de lui?” (22) [“was he screaming inside himself?” (8)]—to the narrator’s laconic, practical description of the itinerary—“La course de la ligne numéro huit s’étend sur vingt-six

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kilomètres” (23) [“The route of the number eight bus is twenty-six kilometres” (9)]—is rather abrupt. Passages focalized by Wellé focus on his worries about compensating for the delay in the service, minute descriptions of driving, and mentions of street and place names along the bus route. In brief, Wellé’s perspective permits insights into the banalities of motorized urban mobilities experienced by someone who drives for his living, attesting to his ease of metaphorically ‘working’ the city (see Buhr 2018, 340). While the driver’s position can be seen as more powerful than that of the passenger, allusions to the schedule and the route place the driver in a wider mobility system as part of an ‘assemblage’ of other people, infrastructure and rules (see Adey et al. 2012, 172), thus accentuating a “hybrid and networked character of mobile agency” (Manderscheid 2017, 124). The changes in the focalizer are synchronized with the stops and restarts of the bus. For example, when the doors open to let a passenger out, the viewpoint moves from the driver observing the urban space through the windshield and the rear-view mirror to the distressed Thierno. This narrative strategy based on the stops and restarts of the bus produces a literary mobile map of the urban space along the bus line 8 in Dakar. Moreover, it translates the theme of urban public transport mobility in the literary form by producing a poetics of mobility that captures the pauses characterizing motorized urban mobilities in general (traffic jams; red lights)3 and travel by public transport in particular (picking up passengers; dropping them off). It is noteworthy that the urban space becomes more meaningful in passages focalized by Wellé than in those adopting Thierno’s viewpoint. Visual perceptions of the urban space accumulate, generating as sense of movement in the literary form and stressing how the city comes into being in motion: The bus left the Presidential palace behind, and rumbled along the Boulevard de la République, turning into President Lamine-Gueye Avenue. It was a major thoroughfare, lined with mosques, shops well-stocked with imported fabrics and beauty products, a cinema, restaurants, pharmacies, cobblers’ stalls, hairdressers and Asian bazaars. (10)4  In addition to the rhythms of urban mobilities, the stops and restarts of the bus evoke the pauses that punctuate the procession that accompanies the burial of a significant person in some West African funeral cultures (Faye 2009, 205). 4  L’autobus laissait derrière lui le palais présidentiel, roulait sur le boulevard de la République et s’engageait dans l’avenue du Président-Lamine-Gueye. Une grande artère, avec ses mosquées, ses boutiques bien achalandées de tissus importés, de produits de beauté, une salle de cinéma, des restaurants, des pharmacies, des échoppes de cordonnier, des coiffeurs, des bazars asiatiques (24). 3

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In addition to a sense of movement, the quotation attests to the co-­ existence of wealth and power and the popular in the postcolonial city and highlights its transcultural aspects. Later, a similar dynamic scene produces a peripheral, suburban view of the city: The bus started up Dial-Diop Boulevard, then took Bourguiba Avenue, hurtling down the gentle slope to the by-pass onto the Puits road. It passed the Xar Yalla police barracks and was swallowed up in the Grand-Yoff district. The scenery was suburban: another densely populated area of Dakar. Women, together with dirty sheep and naked or half-naked urchins with bloated bellies and scrawny legs were congregated around the public taps; people were selling water, and carts, ducks, chickens and dogs wandered around. (17–18)5

This suburban view contrasts with the ‘modern’ urban landscapes described in the previous quotation and attests to the co-existence of the ‘rural’ and the urban in the fringes of Dakar. While this passage captures what could be referred to as the ‘failures of modernity’ in the postcolonial city, it nevertheless conveys a sense of movement and the idea of the city as mobile. As several scholars have stated, the bus in “Niiwam” functions as a microcosm and a stage where different segments of society meet (N’gom 1999, 303; Fendler 2008, 77; Faye 2009, 197). What should be underlined here is that the bus is not just any form of microcosm but a mobile (public) space in which space and temporality collide with mobility. For Bakhtin (1981, 84, 250), the chronotope captures the unity of time and space in a narrative, where it also has a central organizational function. With regard to a text’s link with the extratextual world, Bakhtin (1981, 243) states that “a literary work’s artistic unity in relationship to an actual reality is defined by its chronotope”. For Bakhtin, the road is the chronotope of encounter: it is ‘on the road’ that “the spatial and temporal paths of the most varied people […] intersect at one spatial and temporal point” (Bakhtin 1981, 243), making the road chronotope particularly 5  Le bus remonta le boulevard Dial-Diop, emprunta l’avenue Bourguiba en dévalant la pente douce vers la rocade de la route des Puits. Il passa devant la caserne de la gendarmerie de Xar Yalla, pour s’engouffrer dans le quartier de Grand-Yoff. Le paysage était suburbain: un autre quartier populeux de Dakar. Des moutons au pelage sale, des gamins nus ou à moitié nus, ventre gonflé, jambes maigrelettes, des femmes s’agglutinaient autour des bornes-fontaines; des vendeurs d’eau, des charrettes, des canards, des poulets et des chiens déambulaient (37).

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“appropriate for portraying events governed by chance” (244). In a reading of Don Delillo’s Cosmopolis, Giada Peterle (2016, 289) introduces a mobilities research-oriented reinterpretation of Bakhtin’s chronotope by suggesting that “moving elements and practices, such as the car, the underground, or the driving, walking, and running practices” are mobile chronotopes. The notion of the mobile chronotope is relevant for my reading of “Niiwam” because it resonates with current conceptualizations of the urban space as dynamic and mobile. The mobile chronotope also makes it possible for the reader to appreciate the space of the vehicle as a mobile setting that structures plot development, generates encounters between fictional characters, and produces a sense of movement through both pauses and restarts and also shifts in the focalizer. The encounters enabled by the self-contained mobile space of the vehicle are ephemeral and marked by propinquity (Wilson 2011, 635). For Sembène’s protagonist, this embodied closeness arouses fear of getting caught. For his fellow passengers, on the other hand, the closeness of the protagonist signifies an abject experience. Even before the other passengers become aware that Thierno is transporting a corpse, he is an abject figure in their eyes. An illustrative example of the workings of alienation and abjection is contained in a scene in which a man dressed in European clothes sits next to Thierno and starts to read a newspaper. This passenger’s “aisance” (21) [“ease” (8)] as he reads the journal, his sizeable wristwatch, and his air of “le monde des chefs” (21) [“the world of chiefs” (8)] make Thierno “[perdre] toutes ses facultés” (22) [“completely unnerved” (9)]. Seen from Thierno’s perspective, the man seems to be made of clothes, shoes, accessories, and his journal. This renders him almost non-­ human and ‘disintegrated’, which is telling of the protagonist’s limited capacity to observe his environment in his distressed condition and his restricted experience of “shared travel-ness” (Pettinger 2012, 132). The ‘eased’, reading passenger stares at Thierno over the journal, making Thierno uncomfortably aware of his dead son on his lap. This simple scene is loaded with complex meanings. The other passenger’s clothes and the act of reading a journal creates a gap between himself and Thierno: the former is an educated member of the post-independence elite and an accustomed, modern urbanite, while the latter, Thierno, is a poor, illiterate peasant rejected by the modernity of the urban environment (Ndong 2020, 98). For the man seated next to the protagonist, Thierno is repulsive even without the corpse of the child. What Thierno represents—illiterate, poor, peasant—poses a threat to the identity of the modern African

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city. The two characters are also differentiated based on their positions as passengers: while the man is represented as a commuter whose habitual itineraries and knowledge of timetables give him a self-assurance that renders the experience of being in passage predictable, Thierno, in contrast, is not used to riding a bus in Dakar. Furthermore, Thierno is not only intimidated by the experience of traveling by bus and the man’s impressive appearance and self-confident hostility but also by how the man’s journal touches the feet of the child under the cloth, which is no longer perfectly in place. The tension that Thierno experiences lessens when the passenger leaves the bus. However, similar distressing situations keep repeating themselves whenever a new passenger takes the seat next to Thierno, when the bus suddenly breaks, or when flies land on the corpse. Such seemingly banal events keep up the narrative tension and are linked to the mobile rhythms of the bus following its route. The storyline follows the bus line number 8, producing a literary or narrative equivalent of what Brian Larkin calls the poetics of infrastructure, namely that infrastructures are “concrete semiotic and aesthetic vehicles” that “also exist as forms separate from their purely technical functioning” (2013, 329). Toward the end of the story the bus finally reaches Yoff, where the cemetery is situated. This is also where the protagonist’s journey ends and his secret is unveiled. Thierno, who up to this point has been more preoccupied with the events inside the bus and within the space of his distressed mind, becomes interested in the urban landscape. A new source of anxiety sets in, namely where the bus stop of the cemetery is located: “Thierno, perplexe, examinait le paysage. Le vieux chiffonnier lui avait fourni des indications bien détaillées sur la topographie de son itinéraire” (44) [“Thierno, feeling confused, looked carefully at the scenery. The old ragman had given him detailed descriptions of the places he would be passing through” (22)]. The shift in the protagonist’s focus of interest from the inside of the vehicle to the urban space is conveyed through a long passage with detailed observations of the landscape. The urban space outside becomes meaningful to the protagonist only when he feels the need to situate himself in it so that he will be able to reach his planned destination. When he redirects his gaze to the interior of the vehicle, he looks around to see whom he could ask for help. He summons up his courage and poses a question to a woman who is seated next to him. The woman—like his previous fellow traveler, the man with the newspaper—seems to be composed of independent body parts and fashionable accessories that do not form a coherent entity. It is Thierno’s

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question about the bus stop that finally exposes him, causing chaos inside the vehicle, where “l’angoisse et la phobie emplissaient l’atmosphère” (47) [“the air was thick with anguish and phobia” (24)], which turns the banal bus ride into an extraordinary, abject experience. Despite Thierno’s tragedy, the climax of the story has a comic side to it. Thierno’s distress and the other passengers’ shock is contrasted with extremely banal, mundane elements—the ticket controller’s concern over whether Thierno has traveled without a ticket, Wellé’s worries about the delay and his pressing need to urinate, and, finally, one of the passengers realizing that her wallet has been stolen during the chaos. In the end, Thierno’s experience of alienation is transformed into an unexpected sense of community: the passengers express their solidarity with him, and they ask Wellé to deviate from the usual route to decant Thierno and “his cadaver” at the cemetery gates (which he refuses), and some of them even accompany Thierno to the cemetery on foot. In so doing, they form an improvised funeral procession that evokes the funeral convoy “d’un grand fils du pays” (42) [“of one of the country’s great sons” (21)] alluded to earlier in the text. The bus becomes “Niiwam’s” hearse (N’gom 1999, 304), with the vehicle gaining a new metaphorical meaning that builds on the idea of interrelated mobilities and accentuates the differential access to mobility and to the urban space enjoyed by privileged city dwellers and marginalized subjects like Thierno. For the protagonist, the bus ride from the hospital to the cemetery becomes a sort of mourning rite and the vehicle a mobile space for grieving the loss of his child with others.

Without a Name: A Circular Rural-Urban Journey While most of the events in “Niiwam” take place within the bus and the journey plays a pivotal role in the structuring of the narrative, in Without a Name the bus ride does not occupy an equally prominent position in the narrative. That said, it is significant that the novel opens with a scene set in a bus station and that, as scholars have argued, the journey itself is important for plot construction because it marks the protagonist’s attempt to start the healing process following the traumas of rape and infanticide (Wilson-Tagoe 2002, 169; Palmer 2006, 41; Muchemwa 2012, 281). The novel’s narrative structure is non-linear, reflecting the protagonist’s trauma with its constant back-and-forth movement between the past and the present (Kopf 2012, 94, 104). The bus ride from the city to the rural areas is, therefore, not only a spatial journey but also a temporal one,

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namely that of returning to where everything started (Muchemwa 2012, 281). In Without a Name the journey is, in effect, a passage with structural, spatial, temporal and existential meanings that “impl[ies] [a] journey […] of duration” and “processes of […] change” (Kovach, Kugele, and Nünning 2022, 2). The protagonist’s bus journey, like that of Thierno in “Niiwam”, can be read as an articulation of a rite of passage or ‘grief in motion’. The poetics of mobility in Without a Name does not draw on the infrastructures and technicalities of public transport mobilities as in “Niiwam” but instead reflects the novel’s overarching engagement with traumatic temporalities and the protagonist’s alienation. Moreover, while “Niiwam” offers a focused account of one specific instance of bus travel in the postcolonial city, Vera’s novel features portrayals of the protagonist’s other urban (im)mobilities extending well beyond a singular bus journey, thus inviting a holistic reading of her mobilities. The novel is set in the context of Zimbabwe’s freedom struggle against colonial rule in 1977. The protagonist Mazvita is raped by a guerrilla soldier in her home village. She wants to forget the event and refuses to accept that she is pregnant with the rapist’s child. Her urge to forget entails a fresh start in the capital city, Harare—a displacement that marks her physical dissociation from the rape and her home village, where it has occurred (Musila 2007, 56). Eventually, since she cannot deny that she is about to give birth, the past ‘returns’ and ruins her urge to “move on”—a movement verb that recurs in the text. It is in this context that she ends up strangling her baby and carrying it on her back, first in the city streets and then on the bus to Mubaira. Unlike “Niiwam”, where the bus ride is firmly inscribed in the postcolonial city in order to explore Thierno’s exclusion from its ‘modernity’, in Without a Name the bus ride is a circular journey that marks Mazvita’s failure to claim the city as a place for a new start and also her failure to move away from the countryside associated with war, patriarchal/patriotic understandings of the land, and sexual violence. The opening of the novel features a detailed description of the bus on which Mazvita travels to Mubaira. As metonymies of movement, the bus station and the stationed vehicle embody a promise of mobility, yet the scene articulates the protagonist’s alienation and symbolizes the dead-end in which she finds herself as a result of her “mistak[ing] physical movement for change” (Primorac 2001, 90). The protagonist is portrayed waiting for the bus doors to open, standing still and separate from the other passengers, who are described as vague forms, body parts and voices, thus

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conveying Mazvita’s fragmented perception of reality and her “invisible inner suffering” (Kopf 2012, 94). This portrayal echoes Thierno’s fragmented perceptions of his fellow passengers in “Niiwam” and suggests a similarly distorted form of shared travel-ness that undermines the aspects of copresence and interactivity characteristic of travel by public transport (Pettinger 2012, 129, 132). The repetition of the verb “stand” in sentences such as “She stood part”, “She stood still”, “She stood on the outside. She stood alone” (6) places her in physical and symbolic immobility and underlines her alienation, evoking Thierno’s experiences of immobility and his standing apart from his fellow-passengers at the bus stop. Mazvita’s immobility is further emphasized by means of a description of children playing at the bus station. The portrayal of the children features movement verbs such as running and journeying, and it also refers to the idea of escape (7)—something of which Mazvita has been deprived. The children’s joyful movements also contrast with the immobility of the baby on her back. While the reader does not yet know that the baby is dead, the distressing atmosphere of the first chapter already suggests that the journey that the protagonist is about to undertake is not a trivial everyday trip. Imagery juxtaposing Mazvita’s immobility with her environment’s movements recurs in chapters describing her repeated displacements in the streets of Harare with the dead baby on her back. In one such scene, Mazvita stands in an alley filled with garbage, untying the baby from the apron that she has used as a sling. The baby, referred to as “the stillness on her back” (25), has “quiet legs” (23). Mazvita’s and the baby’s immobility is contrasted with a banal scene of urban mobility in which Mazvita observes people passing by at the two ends of the alley in which she is hiding (22). “The people lasted only two quick steps before they disappeared” (22), states the narrator, capturing not only the hectic flow of urban mobilities but also Mazvita’s limited access to the city and its unattainable promises of a new beginning. Harare is “busy and indifferent” (42) and embodies the “idea [of] go[ing] forward” (43). Mazvita’s urge to move forward is linked to this general desire for postcolonial modernity after the end of colonial rule. Upon her arrival in Harare, the constant movement of the city amazes Mazvita. While at this point in the story she still believes in the promise of the city, it is worth noting that she observes the cars and feet moving past while sitting on the pavement of an alley, which is indicative of her marginalization and her inability to participate in the motion of the city. Mazvita’s experiences of alienation are not uniquely related to the

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trauma that she has experienced but are also rooted in social power structures limiting the access of African women in the colonial city, where “both the colonial order and African patriarchy […] had an interest in controlling African women’s mobility and sexuality” (Musila 2012, 11). Illustrative of these intersecting forms of control, Mazvita fails to find a job in the city, with the result that she has no option but to live with a man named Joel whom she has met on her arrival in the city. For his part, Joel, a “warped creation […] of the colonial city” and a “caricature […] of African manhood” (Muponde 2002, 121), takes Mazvita to his place on his bicycle, making “her sit with both her legs to one side of the road, and when he turned, she had to pull her weight back to regain her support” (57). Her mode of sitting with her legs ‘chastely’ together on the bicycle rack, along with her accommodation to the man’s movements as he rides the streets, simultaneously captures the male control of female mobility and sexuality. Yet, in that moment, Mazvita mis-identifies being in the city as “a freedom divine” (58), which is illustrative of her overestimation of “the difference between country and city” (Primorac 2001, 90) and also of her unawareness of “the larger historical forces that constrict her potential” as an African woman in a colonial city (Wilson-Tagoe 2002, 172). Indeed, mobilities are “only rarely if at all decisions taken in complete social isolation by a socially and spatially independent subject” (Manderscheid 2017, 128). The urban space of the colonial city is represented as inherently mobile. Its mobility is linked to discourses of modernity, progress, motorized movement, and infrastructure, as suggested by the novel’s frequent portrayals of automobility in which “roads [are] four-wheeled, black-tarred and moving” (54) and in which “the cars screech […] to a stop, move […] on, screech […] again” (57). Here, the automobile infrastructure is not simply something that promotes movement but is clearly inscribed in the dream of modernity (Larkin 2013, 333). Unlike Harare, which seems determined in its striving for mobility toward progress, modernity, and a new era, Mazvita’s movements in the urban space are “jerky and faltering” (42), so that instead of walking straight ahead she walks “sideways” (42). Mazvita’s marginalized position vis-à-vis the promises of progress that the hectic, mobile urban space symbolizes is captured in such images of physical clumsiness: the rhythms of her embodied movements are in an arrhythmic relation to those of the city (see Edensor 2014, 167). As Kizito Muchemwa (2012, 299) puts it, “[t]he motion of the city in terminal

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paroxysm of colonialism becomes so alienating that the protagonist leaves the city motion to re-orient herself”. Having failed to claim the city as her own because of the burden of the past that is now embodied in the corpse of the baby on her back, the planned journey represents a “release” (25) and is illustrative of her acknowledgment that “she had mistaken [departures] for beginnings” (50). If abjection, in “Niiwam”, relates to the corpse of the child carried in the bus and to the ways in which Thierno is perceived by his fellow passengers, in Without a Name abjection defines Mazvita’s relation with the dead baby. Closely attached to her with a sling, the corpse of the child embodies the abject as something that terrifies the subject but cannot be entirely separated from it (Kristeva 1982, 4). The child, a product of rape, represents the past that Mazvita wants to rid herself of, though ultimately without success. The child’s cold, static body against Mazvita’s skin is a constant, tangible reminder of the traumatic event; a memory that jeopardizes her striving for a new beginning in the city. While, like Thierno, Mazvita is afraid of being caught for traveling with the corpse—“She could not afford to be discovered” (77)—this fear is never realized. In consequence, the abject burden of the dead child remains solely as Mazvita’s personal experience. This fact emphasizes her alienation and relegates her position to one that is outside any possible form of community, even those brought into being through the ephemeral encounters enabled by public transportation. In the passages set on the bus, the body of the baby continues to be described in imagery revolving around stillness. The imagery of immobility stands in contrast to the motion of the vehicle, attesting yet again to the narrative tension between the protagonist’s desire for symbolic onward movement and her inability to achieve it. Moreover, the vehicle’s outward motion from Harare tangibly symbolizes Mazvita’s exclusion from the colonial city and its empty promises of self-fashioning. The trope of (circular) travel between the city and the country destructs the simple binaries between the two and complicates the idea of the city as a place of freedom (Muchemwa 2012, 280). With regard to the dismantling of the binary linking the city and the country, the novel’s recurring trope of the red dust that accumulates on the bus windows is not merely a symbol representing the country/land. Rather, the way in which the dust on the windows prevents passengers from seeing the landscape can be read as the attempt of the narrative to complicate ‘transparent’ meanings attached to both urban and rural spaces. Indeed, if the colonial city is a complex mobile space

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permitting both potential personal transformation and structures of power (Wilson-Tagoe 2002, 172), the countryside is both a site of trauma and also of redemption. While the journey is invested with powerful symbolic meanings and marked by Mazvita’s experience of alienation and abjection, the mode of transport also introduces an element of banality that counterbalances the ‘extraordinariness’ of the journey. Having taken the decision to leave Harare, Mazvita is preoccupied not only with her own suffering but with the practicalities of travel: “her main concern is to secure a seat on the bus” (51). The first chapter focusing on the journey represents it from the perspective of other passengers: their mundane discussions are about the destination and the weather, but there are also male passengers’ ideas about how city life “corrupts” women, and how harvesting and carrying a baby shows that “a woman’s back is strong as stone” (61). These words articulate stereotypical, patriarchal prejudices concerning city women and suggest that women’s ‘place’ is in the country and in motherhood. Significantly, Mazvita’s perspective in the chapter is not introduced until the final two paragraphs—yet another formal illustration of her separateness from the other passengers. While being a passenger on a bus is normally an experience of “moving in and with the bus in an assemblage of passengers and the materiality of the bus itself” (Rink 2022, 3), for Mazvita this assemblage aspect of bus travel appears only occasionally, so immersed she is in her internal world. In one stage of the description of her journey, she is briefly portrayed as seated in the back of the bus next to a pile of misshapen objects belonging to other passengers. She shares her seat with older women, who throw curious glances at her and the baby, and these threatening glances quickly distract her from her observing the physical environment of the vehicle and back to the private, internal space of her mind. The narrative perspective returns to the space of the vehicle only when Mazvita hears someone playing a mbira, or lamellaphone. For her, hearing this music in the bus is an overwhelmingly emotional and almost healing experience: “The tightness disappeared along her neck. The skin on her neck grew smooth. The mbira was a revelation, a necessary respite” (78). This intense experience of Mazvita’s is contrasted with the banality of the bus journey for the other passengers: “The people in the bus continued their chatter, they laughed loud, told their children to sit still, coughed from the dust that fell in through the open windows” (78). It should be emphasized that, because of the armed struggle taking place largely in the rural areas, the journey from the city is not in fact strictly

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banal for any of the passengers: “The people on the bus knew the truth about their own dying, but they had a capacity to evade uncomfortable realities” (87). The road that the bus follows is “another manifestation of death” (87)—a characterization that inscribes the urban-rural journey of all of the passengers within the realm of death. In Without a Name, the road and the mobile chronotope of the bus serve less as a time-space for an encounter with other passengers than with death itself—death that for Mazvita also implies the symbolic death of her hopes for a new beginning in the city and her exclusion from it. For Mazvita, the bus ride is an exercise in hiding. She hides “from the sounds that surrounded her with a gay indifference, telling stories, free, unlike her who carried such a weight on her back” (113)—in other words, the trivial audial and personal aspects of travel by public transport that, for her, are disconnected from her alienating, abject experience. Simultaneously, hiding the condition of her baby from her fellow passengers necessitates at least some level of interaction with them: joining in with their laughter represents an occasion for her “to dispel suspicions regarding her apparent silence” (101). This distressing balancing act of remaining separate from the other passengers while engaging in the performance of being ‘just like anyone else’ leads to what Robert Muponde (2002, 123) calls “Mazvita’s experience of schizophrenia on the bus”. In this delirious moment, one of the women sitting next to Mazvita appears in Mazvita’s dream, in which Mazvita tells the woman about the infanticide that she has committed, and the woman opens the sling. In this passage, which attests to the protagonist’s mental distress, Mazvita “long[s] to be discovered, to be punished, to be thrown out of the bus” (104). The passage also underlines the importance of the setting: the bus exposes the protagonist to encounters with others, articulating a frail possibility for her to share her burden. Ultimately, none of this happens; Mazvita is not discovered and she even manages to laugh with the others. The novel ends with the bus arriving in her home village—a journey that is not only about spatial urban-rural mobility but also about temporal travel as the opening words of the final chapter suggest: “It is yesterday” (114). That the protagonist “walks in gentle footsteps […] to the place of her beginning” (116) attests to the complex meanings of the countryside not only as a site of trauma but also as a place of potential recovery, and even hints at the healing potential of mobility.

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Conclusion My reading of “Niiwam” and Without a Name in terms suggested by mobility studies highlights the inherently mobile character of the (post) colonial city. The focus on public transportation introduces the perspective of everyday mobilities into discussions centering on African literary cities. By underlining not only the necessity of acknowledging the inseparability of mobility and space but also the question of literary form in discerning meaning in (urban) mobilities, this chapter highlights the contribution of literary analysis to the current humanities turn in mobility studies. In the texts discussed here, the bus functions as a mobile chronotope that marks the texts’ thematically and structures them formally. The bus is a space of encounter whose meanings are constructed on the contrast between the banality of the mode of transport as an everyday mobile practice and the main characters’ estranged and even abject experiences of passengering. The journey motif structures the narratives and drives the plot. In “Niiwam”, the organizational narrative function of the bus and its route, together with the narrative mobilities between spaces—inside the vehicle/urban space/mental space—and the changes in the focalizer, contribute to the text’s wide-ranging poetics of public transport mobility. In Without a Name, the formal role of the bus journey lies in plot and character development as part of the protagonist’s attempt to come to terms with a traumatic experience. As a setting, the bus also exposes her to encounters and potential discovery. In “Niiwam”, this situation eventually leads to an ending in which other passengers show solidarity with the protagonist after their initial terrified reaction, but in Without a Name, the protagonist remains deprived of collective support. By inscribing the protagonists’ bus journeys in the realm of alienation and abjection, the texts draw attention to the exclusions of the (post)colonial city and its kinetic modernity. Acknowledgment  This work was supported by the Academy of Finland under Grant 330906.

References Adey, Peter. 2010. Mobility. London: Routledge. Adey, Peter, David Bissell, Derek McCormack, and Peter Merriman. 2012. Profiling the passenger: Mobilities, identities, embodiments. Cultural Geographies 19 (2): 169–193.

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Aguiar, Marian, Charlotte Mathieson, and Lynne Pearce. 2019. Introduction: Mobilities, literature, culture. In Mobilities, literature, culture, ed. Marian Aguiar, Charlotte Mathieson, and Lynne Pearce, 1–31. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Anyinefa, Koffi. 2003. Le métro parisien: Figure de l’exotisme postcolonial. French Forum 28 (2): 77–98. Bakhtin, M.  M. 1981. The dialogic imagination. Ed. Michael Holquist (trans: Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist). Austin: University of Texas Press. Binnie, Jon, Tim Edensor, Julian Holloway, Steve Millington, and Craig Young. 2007. Mundane mobilities, banal travels. Social and Cultural Geography 8 (2): 165–174. Buhr, Franz. 2018. A user’s guide to Lisbon: Mobilities, spatial apprenticeship and migrant urban integration. Mobilities 13 (3): 337–348. Cresswell, Tim, and Peter Merriman. 2013. Introduction: Geographies of mobilities—Practices, spaces, subjects. In Geographies of mobilities: Practices, spaces, subjects, ed. Tim Cresswell and Peter Merriman, 1–15. Surrey: Ashgate. Cumpsty, Rebekah. 2019. Sacralizing the streets: Pedestrian mapping and urban imaginaries in Teju Cole’s Open City and Phaswane Mpe’s Welcome to our Hillbrow. Journal of Commonwealth Literature 54 (3): 305–318. Davidson, Ian C. 2017. Mobilities of form. Mobilities 14 (2): 548–558. Edensor, Tim. 2014. Rhythm and arrhythmia. In The Routledge handbook of mobilities, ed. Peter Adey, David Bissell, Kevin Hannam, Peter Merriman, and Mimi Sheller, 163–171. London: Routledge. Faye, Amade. 2009. La mort comme métaphore de la modernité dans Niiwam. In La mort dans les littératures africaines contemporaines, ed. Louis Bertin Amougou, 193–205. Paris: L’Harmattan. Fendler, Ute. 2008. Le road movie dans le contexte interculturel africain. Cinémas: Revue d’études cinématographiques 18 (2–3): 69–88. Freudendal-Pedersen, Malene, and Sven Kesselring. 2017. Networked urban mobilities. In Exploring networked urban mobilities: Theories, concepts, ideas, ed. Malene Freudendal-Pedersen and Sven Kesselring, 1–18. London: Routledge. Giucci, Guillermo. 2007. The cultural life of the automobile: Roads to modernity. Trans. Anne Mayagoitia and Debra Nagao. Austin: University of Texas Press. Green-Simms, Lindsey. 2017. Postcolonial automobility: Car culture in West Africa. Minneapolis: Minnesota University Press. Jensen, Ole B. 2009. Foreword: Mobilities as culture. In The cultures of alternative mobilities: Routes less travelled, ed. Phillip Vannini, xv–xix. London: Routledge. Kopf, Martina. 2012. Narratives of a wounded time: Yvonne Vera’s poetics of trauma. In Style in African literature: Essays on literary stylistics and narrative

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styles, ed. J.K.S.  Makokha, Ogone John Obiero, and Russell West-Pavlov, 91–110. Leiden: Brill. Kovach, Elizabeth, Jens Kugele, and Ansgar Nünning. 2022. Introduction: Approaching “passages” from the perspective of travelling concepts, metaphors and narratives in the study of literature and culture. In Passages: Moving beyond liminality in the study of literature and culture, ed. Elizabeth Kovach, Jens Kugele, and Ansgar Nünning, 1–16. London: ULC Press. Kristeva, Julia. 1982. Powers of horror: An essay on abjection. Trans. Leon S. Roudiez. New York: Columbia University Press. Larkin, Brian. 2013. The politics and poetics of infrastructure. Annual Review of Anthropology 42: 327–343. Laurier, Eric, et  al. 2008. Driving and “passengering”: Notes on the ordinary organization of car travel. Mobilities 3 (1): 1–23. Manderscheid, Katharina. 2017. Performing or deconstructing the mobile subject? Linking mobility concepts, research designs and methods. In Exploring networked urban mobilities: Theories, concepts, ideas, ed. Malene Freudendal-­ Pedersen and Sven Kesselring, 124–139. London: Routledge. Morgan, Ceri. 2022. Mobilities in Montreal fiction. In The Routledge companion to literary urban studies, ed. Lieven Ameel, 299–312. London: Routledge. Mortimer, Mildred. 1990. Journeys through the French African novel. Portsmouth: Heinemann. Muchemwa, Kizito Z. 2012. Vera’s fictional palimpsests: The land, the city, and peripatetic bodies. In Emerging perspectives on Yvonne Vera, ed. Helen Cousins and Pauline Dodgson-Katiyo, 279–303. Trenton: Africa World Press. Muponde, Robert. 2002. The sight of the dead body: Dystopia as resistance in Vera’s Without a Name. In Sign and taboo: Perspectives on the poetic fiction of Yvonne Vera, ed. Robert Muponde and Mandi Taruvinga, 117–126. Harare: Weaver Press. Murray, Lesley, and Sara Upstone. 2014. Mobilising representations: Dialogues, embodiment and power. In Researching and representing mobilities: Transdisciplinary encounters, ed. Lesley Murray and Sara Upstone, 1–20. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan. Musila, Grace. 2007. Embodying experience and agency in Yvonne Vera’s Without a Name and Butterfly Burning. Research in African Literatures 38 (2): 49–63. ———. 2012. Beyond the frame of history: Colonial modernity, love, and freedom in Yvonne Vera’s Without a Name, Butterfly Burning, and The Stone Virgins. In Emerging perspectives on Yvonne Vera, ed. Helen Cousins and Pauline Dodgson-Katiyo, 3–22. Trenton: Africa World Press. N’gom, M’bare. 1999. Réalité post-coloniale et expérience urbaine dans Niiwam d’Ousmane Sembène. Francofonia 8: 291–306.

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Ndong, Louis. 2020. Literary and cinematic scenes of reading in the works of Ousmane Sembène. Research in African Literatures 51 (1): 94–108. Nuttall, Sarah. 2004. City forms and writing the “now” in South Africa. Journal of Southern African Studies 30 (4): 731–748. Palmer, Felicity. 2006. Sex in the post-colonial city: Desire, kinship, and freedom in Yvonne Vera’s Without a Name. Stichproben: Wiener Zeitschrift für kritische Afrikastudien 11: 27–44. Peterle, Giada. 2016. Moving literature: The car as a “mobile chronotope” in Don Delillo’s Cosmopolis. Rivista Geografica Italiana 123: 281–300. Pettinger, Alasdair. 2012. “Trains, boats, and planes”: Some reflections on travel writing and public transport. In Travel writing: Critical concepts in literary and cultural studies, ed. Tim Youngs and Charles Forsdick, 127–134. London: Routledge. Primorac, Ranka. 2001. Crossing into the space-time of memory: Borderline identities in novels by Yvonne Vera. Journal of Commonwealth Literature 36 (2): 77–93. Rink, Bradley. 2022. Public space on the move: Mediating mobility, stillness and encounter on a Cape Town bus. Urban Studies 1 February: 1–18. Savonick, Danica. 2015. “The problem of locomotion”: Infrastructure and automobility in three postcolonial urban Nigerian novels. Modern Fiction Studies 61 (4): 669–689. Sembène, Ousmane. 1987. Niiwam suivi de Taaw. Paris: Présence Africaine. Sembène, Ousmane. 1992. Niiwam and Taw. Trans. Catherine Glenn-Lauga. Oxford: Heinemann. Steiner, Tina. 2014. “Dwelling-in-travel”: Of ships, trains and planes in M.  G. Vassanji’s fiction. Eastern African Literary and Cultural Studies 1 (1–2): 39–49. Thacker, Andrew. 2003. Moving through modernity: Space and geography in modernism. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Toivanen, Anna-Leena. 2021. Mobilities and cosmopolitanisms in African and Afrodiasporic literatures. Leiden: Brill. ———. 2022. Urban mobilities in Francophone African return narratives. In The Routledge companion to literary urban studies, ed. Lieven Ameel, 209–222. London: Routledge. ———. 2023. On the move in the (post)colonial metropolis: The Paris metro in Francophone African and Afrodiasporic fiction. Urban Studies 60 (15): 3016–3077. Tunca, Daria. 2008. “Nigeria is bus is stage”: The bus as metaphor in contemporary Nigerian literature. Commonwealth Essays and Studies 30 (2): 35–48.

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CHAPTER 8

Moving Away and Traveling Toward: Urban Mobility in Aminatta Forna’s Autobiographical Writing Lena Englund

Mobility brings autobiographical narratives into being, connecting personal experiences with movement from place to place. The act of traveling from one location to another by using various modes of transport not only emphasizes the place left behind as well as the place traveled to, but also works to create these places as meaningful and bound together with human interaction. It is not only a question of where one travels but how, as modes of transport come to embody mobility in the autobiographical text. This chapter explores mobility in urban contexts in Aminatta Forna’s two autobiographical texts, the memoir The Devil That Danced on the Water: A Daughter’s Quest (2002), and the essay collection Notes from a Life in Motion: The Window Seat (2021), particularly in terms of how different modes of transport are narrated and what their role is for the autobiographical story. People are arguably no more or less mobile than

L. Englund (*) University of Eastern Finland, Joensuu, Finland e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 P. García, A.-L. Toivanen (eds.), Urban Mobilities in Literature and Art Activism, Literary Urban Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42798-5_8

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before, although modes of transport have changed as well as distances traveled. To that extent, an examination of Forna’s autobiographical writing, spanning several decades and multiple continents, offers valuable insights for literary mobility studies in both geographical and temporal contexts. The argument of the chapter is that urban mobility in Forna’s autobiographical writing works on two levels. First, it links personal experiences with movement in place and time, and second, on a more abstract level, it brings together the emotional dimension with urban settings. Moving away and traveling toward thus gain two different meanings, one in concrete terms of mobility and the other in a more emotional sense. While fictional texts have received some attention by mobility studies scholars (see for example, Toivanen 2021a; Lagji 2018; Merriman and Pearce 2018), autobiographical writing has hitherto been somewhat ignored, as also recognized by Lynne Pearce (2022). When it has been examined through a mobilities lens, the focus has been, for example, on personal experiences of the scholar themselves (Beattie 2014) or on the relational aspect of mobility (Pearce 2019). While mobility as connected with migration is central to Forna’s autobiographical narratives, this chapter takes its cue from Toivanen’s statement that “postcolonial studies have a tendency to reduce the concept of mobility in migration by equating it with wider global migratory movements or by understanding it in a metaphorical, abstract sense as the founding element of ‘the migrant condition’” (2021a, 1). The present chapter goes beyond such notions of mobility through its examination of modes of transport as expressions of urban mobility and emotional (dis)connection in the autobiographical narrative. Further, Peter Adey, David Bissell, Kevin Hannam, Peter Merriman, and Mimi Sheller assert that the “‘new mobilities’ perspectives sought to bring far more attention to both the empirical facts of mobility, and to precisely what was happening within the journey, through the movement from one place to another” (2014, 3). This is a central starting point for this chapter, as the “empirical facts of mobility” in Forna’s writing overlap and intersect with the emotional experiences connected with mobility. The autobiographical writing examined in this chapter draws on experiences of migration but foregrounds the physical (and emotional) relocation in urban settings. Forna is probably best known for her novels, particularly for the prize-winning The Memory of Love (2006), which deals with the aftermath of the civil war in Sierra Leone. Her earlier autobiographical writing, the memoir The Devil That Danced on the Water: A

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Daughter’s Quest, provides an account of her childhood in Sierra Leone and the life of her father, the death of whom Forna returns to investigate as an adult in the latter half of the memoir. Place is central to this earlier autobiographical text, in which Forna recounts the family moving from place to place, and the various complexities that came with it, often in the form of racism and discrimination. Settling in new places is not always easy, and the backdrop of Forna’s father and his political struggle permeate the mobilities between places. The collection Notes from a Life in Motion: The Window Seat consists of 17 essays, ranging in topics from deeply autobiographical writings of the author’s childhood in various locations to more socially and societally involved essays about, for example, the inauguration of President Donald Trump, and the presence of wild animals in American cities. As the title of the collection indicates, the essays revolve around the theme of movement, moving from place to place, often in a far more leisurely fashion than in the memoir. The following sections examine the memoir and essay collection from the perspectives of moving away from and traveling to various locations, by a variety of modes of transport, cars and airplanes in particular. Travel by car relates largely to the political upheavals of Sierra Leone, and airplanes to the emotional experience of moving away from loved ones or traveling toward them.

Going Back and Forth in The Devil That Danced on the Water The urban mobilities are addressed in the very first chapter of Forna’s memoir, in which she recalls her childhood home in Sierra Leone from which her cousins would “go out on the town” in the evening (Forna 2002, 4), indicating a life bordering on the urban but remaining outside of it. Forna writes about being ten years old at the time, staying behind on the veranda and listening to the “poda podas on Kissy Bye-Pass Road revving their engines as they prepare to take the workers into the city. […] I can imagine the people pressing forward, cramming their bodies into every available space on board, the fetid odour, the heat. The latecomers climb onto the roof, or hang on the back step” (2002, 5; italics in the original). Forna explains that poda poda, a form of public transport, means “hither and thither”, which manifests movement that runs in multiple directions, perhaps without a clear destination, or transportation that

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travels back and forth in an endless loop. Travel to the city thus involves certain intensity in terms of bodies crammed into stuffy cars. Cars feature in Forna’s childhood memories in multiple ways, particularly in connection to the clinic her father ran in Koidu. They emphasize status, but also come to embody fear and power hierarchies. As Lindsey B. Green-Simms argues in the context of cars in Nigerian cultural settings, “they are intertwined with identity, longing, and status in a way that seems particularly pressing and unrelenting” (2017, 4). The longing can to some extent be seen in the lines above about people going into the city at night, trips which embody the “pressing and unrelenting” nature of travel by car. In contrast, the car Forna’s mother drives emphasizes status. She works for Volkswagen, keeping track of repair costs at the garage, and in the afternoons, she would drive “around town in her car asking people to pay their invoices for the clinic” (2002, 37). The car was a “sky-blue Beetle”, driven “along the corrugated roads, rocking up and down on the car’s springy suspension” (ibid.). The car with its “sky-blue” color and “springy suspension” becomes an extension of the special status of Forna’s mother, who was “the only white woman in Koidu”, recognized by people when she drove by or entered shops to run errands (2002, 42). When Forna’s mother gets a flat tire while driving home alone late at night after a party, a car stops to help her, “dented and old, obviously belonging to a local because no European would drive a car in such a state” (2002, 47). Yet again, the car enables mobility but only within certain confines, within Koidu where Forna lived as a child. The car as a sign of status and special standing is contrasted against the modes of transport of the other people living in Koidu, those who visited Forna’s father’s clinic as patients. Forna writes that soon after the clinic had opened, “a battered bush taxi drew up in front of the house”, carrying several people who were in a very poor condition, even a boy who had died in the car (2002, 43). Calling the vehicle a “bush taxi” implies a rural connection, and the memoir combines the rural with the urban particularly in terms of the clinic. Sometimes Forna’s father transported patients himself, as for example when a woman with mental health problems escaped from the clinic and had to be retrieved, eventually being found in the road staring at a snake: “The car went straight over it, I felt a bump under my bottom and thighs. A moment later we were in reverse. My father kept going, changing gears backwards and forwards” (2002, 49). Again, the car comes to represent the “hither and thither” of the poda podas, and travel by car in Forna’s childhood memories relates largely to

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circular movement running errands, or simply going back and forth. Movement is thus restrained, focused merely on a small area and on certain purposes, here exemplified through Forna’s father and his work as a doctor. Interestingly, the car manifests certain stagnation and even death, as in the case of the boy who died before reaching help, as opposed to Green-Simms’ observation that cars often connect with “autonomous, unfettered mobility” (2017, 3). Connecting these lines about cars in Forna’s memoir with current scholarly discourse on mobility makes for some worthwhile observations. Mimi Sheller argues the following about the new interest in mobilities: First, it involves examining the place of movement within the very workings of social institutions and of social practices, those institutions and practices that form people’s lives. They each presuppose multiple, interdependent mobilities. Social relationships involve diverse connections, sometimes at a distance sometimes face-to-face. Mobilities depend on multiple kinds of material objects, as well as lumpy, fragile, aged, gendered, racialised, and more or less impaired bodies, inhabited as people are intermittently on the move. (2017, 628–629)

The “social institutions” mentioned by Sheller are manifested in the clinic in Forna’s memoir, which functions as a central point of departure and arrival, both for her family as well as for their patients. Thus, the clinic also embodies the connection between place and mobility, indicating that movement cannot exist without place and place not without movement. Politics play a significant role in the memoir, as Forna’s father, Mohamed Sorie Forna, becomes involved with local oppositional politics, working to support APC, All People’s Congress (2002, 71). David Harris writes that “in 1967 the opposition APC emerged victorious, an event almost unprecedented in Africa at the time” (2014, 47). Forna recounts that her father won a seat in parliament in the elections (2002, 81), and these turns of events are also connected with riding in cars. A few days after the elections in which Forna reports that APC secured several seats, “a car arrived at the house. It was a long, low Mercedes […] The inside of the car was air-­ conditioned and smelled of leather. […] We took the new road to Freetown; it was still being built and hadn’t been tarred but it surpassed the old, rocky road” (ibid.). The new road symbolizes the new regime, and the expensive car the family’s new status. The urban context further reinforces the status, as the car takes the family to the capital. However,

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their joy is cut short as they are stopped by soldiers who search the car (2002, 84), and eventually “a succession of military coups and subsequent military regimes” take place very soon afterward (Harris 2014, 47). Forna’s father was held at the State House (Forna 2002, 91) and released some days later (2002, 95). Afterwards, her father resumed his political activities, leading to their mother being tailed. The car as a mode of transport thus gains new meaning once more, becoming a vehicle of threat and of deceit, as Forna’s mother would park the car in front of the local cinema, walk into the building, and leave through the back door (2002, 99). As Sheller argues, “the New Mobilities Paradigm involves analyzing diverse intersecting networks, relations, flows and circulation, and not fixed places” (2017, 630). This includes the car itself as well, which becomes a vehicle that can be seen as a nonfixed place to some extent, through its many functions and shifting purposes in Forna’s narrative. Eventually, Forna’s mother leaves Sierra Leone with the children due to increasing political turmoil, but interestingly, Forna writes that she remembers “nothing of our journey to Scotland to my grandparent’s house in Aberdeen” (2002, 103). The lack of detailed memories implies an emotional void, a journey too difficult to remember and recreate. Forna recounts her parents’ divorce and her mother’s remarriage and relocation to Lagos, Nigeria, from which Forna’s father comes to collect the children. The car remerges as the father drives away with the children: “Rows of trees, people, houses moved past. […] I could see all around me, above and behind. […] I was deeply, overwhelmingly impressed by the car” (2002, 151). The grief of leaving their mother behind is smoothed over by the extravagant Mercedes, and the trip which begins in sadness and loss ends in wonder. Movement here breaks free of the circulation and going back and forth, manifesting the life change when Forna and her siblings relocate back to Sierra Leone to live with their father. The act of moving away from places and situations continues, as Forna’s father, in government for some time, eventually resigns from his post (2002, 183) and participates in creating a new oppositional party (2002, 187) and then gets arrested (2002, 194). His new wife Yabome takes the children out of the country to London (2002, 202), where the family ends up staying for three years while their father is in prison. Mobility relates to the tragedy of his imprisonment while the children are far away in London in another urban setting with its particular emotional mobilities. Forna recounts how she would walk down roads and resort to magical thinking, for example holding her breath while walking from one point to another

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or wishing for her father’s release if crossing a bridge while a train passed below (2002, 234). Connecting the comment with Forna’s childhood movement through London, looking for ways to free her father, indicates that mobility itself creates meaning and provides a link between psychological processes and places. Forna moves through her neighborhoods yet is unable to transform her father’s situation in prison. Mobility’s emotional connection becomes particularly prominent in these lines. The second part of the memoir is narrated from the perspective of adult Forna, who returns to Sierra Leone to discover what happened to her father. She writes about the turbulent years of Sierra Leone and the civil war, the phases of which Harris (2014, 82) outlines in more detail, explaining that the first phase lasted from 1991 to 1996, the second from 1996 to 1999, and the third ended with peace negotiations in 2001. Forna observes that the trip took place in the early new millennium, ten years after her last visit (2002, 271; 274). The trip begins in Gambia, as there were no direct commercial flights to Sierra Leone (2002, 274). The flight from Banjul, Gambia to Sierra Leone is described in more detail, explaining that tourists who were vacationing in Gambia were treated differently from those “flying farther into Africa instead of out of it” (2002, 276). The procedure at the airport takes a long time, and eventually Forna and her companion “sat on the concrete plinth around one of the pillars and played cards with a porter” (2002, 277). The airport, then, becomes a place of waiting. Airports have featured in place studies in different contexts. Robert Freestone and Ilan Wiesel (2016, 168) refer to previous studies of airports that have seen them as placeless, as locations meant for mobility and passing through, and argue that they have transformed into significant commercial centers. The experience at the airport in Banjul, as depicted by Forna, speaks not of it as a commercial center, but merely as a place of endless queues, even lacking simple amenities, as she recounts sitting on a concrete plinth playing cards with an employee of the airport. While these views of airports ignore the emotional aspect, and perhaps also the relational one, John Urry, Anthony Elliott, David Radford, and Nicola Pitt confirm its relevance: Despite the notion that airports have become ‘non-places’ of mere holding, waiting, extended profiling, we suggest there is a kind of romantic emotional connection to the airport both for passengers and airport personnel. This connection to the airport appears to be different from other modes of

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transport or servicescapes in a business sense, in that the airport is regarded as a special global space in which to dwell. (2016, 14)

The contrast provided by Forna is interesting also in this regard, as the “global space” is merely reserved for the “holidaymakers” (2002, 277), and not for those like her who travel within the African continent. The difference in status and hierarchy between passengers, and thus between experiences of mobility even though they travel in the same manner and through the same location, are thus markedly different. The descriptions of the flight continue as Forna depicts walking across the tarmac to the aircraft, and then climbing onto the plane: “From the outside the West Coast Airlines aircraft looked respectable enough; inside was another matter entirely. The seats were tattered and stained, many of the seatbelts were broken, the overhead lockers were wooden and refused to open; instead our hand baggage was taken from us and thrown into a void in the tail of the aircraft” (2002, 277). The plane, instead of promising luxury, safety, and comfort, becomes a cause for concern with regard to the trip ahead: “I spent the entire two-hour flight staring out the filthy window at mangrove swamps, jungles and stretches of breathtaking coastline. My palms sweated. I was terrified we might crash” (ibid.). Forna admits that part of the terror she felt is connected with returning to her country of childhood, which she earlier described in terms of “both utterly familiar and ineffably alien: I knew it but I could not claim to understand it” (2002, 271). The trip from Banjul to Freetown therefore becomes one of fear and trepidation, due to the actual vehicle itself; a rundown airplane, but also because of complex emotional processes, intertwining the autobiographical narrative with mobility. The unease of returnees’ aeromobilities has also been noted by Toivanen (2021b, 599). Upon arrival, Forna and her partner are asked for bribes by an official, eventually succumbing to the pressure and handing over a pound coin (2002, 278). The trip then continues with a helicopter ride from the airport to Freetown, a journey which would previously have been made by ferry. The detailed description of the trip to Sierra Leone stands in contrast to earlier journeys, which are not recounted in much detail. The childhood travels from Sierra Leone to Scotland, briefly discussed earlier, when political upheaval was increasing and the children left with their mother, are mentioned in terms of having no detailed recollection of the trip (2002, 103): “After our father drove us to Freetown we boarded the ferry across the bay to the airport at Lungi, where we walked up the steps of the

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plane and left him behind”. The detailed description of the later journey as an adult may be partly due to perspective, as recreating the child’s experience in the autobiographical narrative produces its own challenges. Forna proceeds to investigate her father’s fate, as he was accused of treason and eventually executed. The investigations include connecting with family and traveling by car to various locations. While visiting relatives outside Freetown, the relational aspect of mobility becomes central. When it is time to go back to the car and leave, Forna writes that she walked together with a large group of people who were seeing her off: “We walked four abreast, taking slow steps, drawing out the time. At the car door we shook hands many times” (2002, 298). A meeting with one more uncle just when Forna is about to leave reveals that the way her father’s life turned out was due to missionaries arriving in his village, and every family then sent one of their male children to attend the new missionary school: “That was the fork in the road. There had been twists and turns along the way, but that was the deciding moment when their [Forna’s uncles and father] futures, and mine, divided. One to the west, the others into Africa” (ibid.). The meaning of the road thus takes on several dimensions, being both the actual path to Forna’s family along which she travels and along which she eventually leaves again, but also metaphorically speaking in terms of her father’s life and education. The importance of the road has been noted in mobility studies, although Adey, Bissell, Hannam, Merriman, and Sheller state that roads “are perhaps the most obvious infrastructure for mobility, yet in many ways the least commented upon” (2014, 184). Roads are central to Forna’s narrative as well, as infrastructure for mobility, both physical and geographical, but also in social and emotional terms. Further, roads are “not just functional spaces, but may be full of lively practices, affects, rhythms and materials. And roads, of course, may be associated with stoppages, closure or stillness” (Adey et al. 2014, 184). This is exemplified in Forna’s account of leaving the homestead of her relatives, and getting stuck in traffic; “we were caught behind a long line of cars” (2002, 299): A small child crossed the road in front of me, leading another, even tinier child who kept hold of the other end of a stick as they wove their way through the cars. A man was standing at a pavement stall. Where both hands should have been, there were bandaged stumps. […] A moment later, when I looked back, the man was walking down the road away from me, holding a bag of tomatoes balanced between his chest and his forearms. (ibid.)

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The passage exemplifies the stoppage and stillness mentioned by Adey et al. (2014, 184), referring both to the situation at hand with Forna stuck in traffic, but also to more abstract notions of time and history, and the war. The importance of roads is reinforced when Forna travels with a UN convoy to Magburaka in search of more information about the trial against her father. She depicts the departure in the following way: “The procession of eight United Nations Land Cruisers and almost as many aid agency vehicles thundered through the narrow roads, leaving pedestrians consumed by the great cloud of dust kicked up from our tyres. […] For the first time since I had arrived in Freetown we passed through road blocks without so much as slowing” (2002, 344). The travel is undertaken with certain speed, force, and determination, rumbling through streets and not even having to stop for roadblocks as the urban setting is left behind. There is no stoppage and stillness in these lines. The rhythm of the road is disturbed by the “great could of dust” and driving through the checkpoints, which would otherwise be a mandatory feature for other travelers: “A poda poda pulled out of the kerb and then lurched to a stop to allow the convoy past” (ibid.). The imbalance between regular life along the road and the extraordinary status of the convoy is repeated when they drive through a town that suffered much from the war, where people are described as “rebuilding their lives”, with the help of various aid organizations that “were a new, though different, occupying force” (2002, 345). Forna acknowledges the privilege and power of her travel companions, enabling a dangerous trip through a country not yet at ease. Eventually the convoy reaches an area controlled by rebels of the Revolutionary United Front, who had given clearance for the convoy to continue. Due to an incident, their visit is shortened down to just 45 minutes (2002, 352). The brief visit with relatives is marked by haste and a feeling of outsiderness, brought on by the manner in which they arrive: “I had arrived in a four-wheel-drive covered in official insignia, spent less than an hour and disappeared again” (2002, 355). A second trip to Freetown in December 2000 provides more detailed descriptions of the experiences of flying there via Accra, Ghana. The flight is seriously delayed due to the plane being involved in an accident, and eventually the passengers are allowed to board but get hold up in Abidjan, which may cause problems later due to a curfew in Freetown (2002, 369). Eventually, they arrive in Freetown “after a thirty-hour journey”, having

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to spend the night at the airport (2002, 370). The troubled trip embodies the frustration of Forna’s visit, having difficulties obtaining information she needs (2002, 372). The emotional hardship of returning physically to the country of childhood and emotionally to seek out the truth about her father are symbolized in the delays and discomfort of the trip. The memoir ends as Forna uncovers the last details of the conspiracies behind her father’s sentencing and execution, bringing some form of closure to the autobiographical narrative.

Moving Toward in Notes from a Life in Motion: The Window Seat The trajectory of Forna’s essay collection is different from the memoir, which deals with the author’s early childhood and with what happened to her father after he became politically active. The Window Seat offers essays on a variety of topics, yet mobility stays at the heart of many of them. While mobility in The Devil That Danced on the Water is often tied to escaping threatening situations or retrieving information of the past, in the essay collection mobility becomes connected with social processes and the inherent need for movement as part of human life. The volume begins with an essay about flying, after which the collection is named, and Forna admits to having a love of flying, particularly when seated in a window seat (2021, 1). She recalls earlier travels in her childhood, for example leaving Sierra Leone in 1967 for Scotland, a trip which was discussed in the previous section: “Sudden departures and arrivals punctuated my childhood. Looking back, flying and fleeing often amounted to the same thing” (2021, 2). The comment connects mobility with migration in multiple ways, equating flying with the need to get away from something. However, not all of Forna’s writing about flying embarks from such premises. Some flights were undertaken for holiday purposes, without adults to accompany Forna and her siblings. These trips are described as privileged, in contrast to the escapes portrayed in the memoir, which often entailed traveling with very few to no possessions. As political pressure increased and Forna’s stepmother Yabome, too, was briefly arrested, the family had to flee Sierra Leone once more, leaving “with nothing, not a single suitcase or bag” (2002, 202). The story told in “The Window Seat” offers a different experience of flying, one in which Forna and her siblings would be invited to visit the cockpit and meet the captain, walking “the length of

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the plane in pairs, escorted by a hostess like tiny VIPs” (2021, 2). The experience of being in the cockpit made “flying feel as effortless as sailing; the plane carried the weightlessness of a boat in water” (ibid.). The difference between mobility in situations of getting away from something or traveling toward something is here significant. The privilege involved with holiday travel is emphasized, even opening doors to places such as the cockpit that would normally be out of bounds for travelers. Forna’s status as unaccompanied minor thus enables her to enter spaces that provide experiences that would otherwise not have been possible. This includes views of the sky from the cockpit that make the sky seem “godlike”: “To fly is to be enfolded in that power. You can do nothing but fall silent” (2021, 3). The cockpit is thus separated from the rest of the plane as a space of particular power, providing the possibility to see that which cannot be viewed from the ground (Adey 2008, 1321). Arguably, the view from the cockpit is different from what can be viewed in the passenger seat as well. Again, the travels undertaken in The Devil That Danced on the Water reinforce the contrast between travel for different purposes. When Forna’s father was about to be executed in 1974, her stepmother Yabome had made final efforts to plead for his life, to no avail. Eventually, she left the country on the same night he was hanged, remaining “in her seat throughout the flight, neither read nor ate, refusing the solicitations of the air hostesses” (2002, 398). Forna writes that flying without adults accompanying her and her siblings gave an indication of “what it might feel like to be on my own in the world” (2021, 3). There is thus a sense of solitariness embedded in travel, also reinforced in Yabome’s experience of flying back to London by herself the night her husband was executed. Despite the illusion of entering a grown-up world, Forna explains in detail the pampering received from air stewards and hosts who “became our surrogate parents” (2021, 4), attending to every need of their wards. Forna goes on to describe trips taken alone, somewhat older, and missing flights due to delays in an era when there was no easy communication provided by mobile phones. Despite delays and experiences of being flown by a “madman”, Forna observes that she was never afraid, not just due to her age, but also because of the “fifth dimension of air travel”, in which “only extraordinary” dangers exist, such as “crashes and hijacking” (2021, 10). Thus, flying, according to Forna, entails a collective experience of hoping to reach the destination, but it is one which exists only during the flight and is forgotten “at the moment of touchdown […] all loyalty left

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in the overhead locker” (ibid.). Flying is therefore presented as a temporary respite from normal life and ordinary rules, literally suspended in air, in another dimension in which different dangers and solidarities exist. Travel by car features in multiple ways in The Window Seat too, in tandem with Forna’s extraordinary childhood and youth, which was partly spent in Iran. Her stepfather worked for the United Nations and was stationed there, bringing along Forna’s mother and children. They arrive in the winter of 1978, right before the revolution in 1979 that changed Iran’s trajectory. Forna recounts how curfews made movement difficult in Tehran, bringing yet another urban setting into her autobiographical narrative, and how a New Year’s party became an obstacle after becoming caught up in traffic due to demonstrations and then seeking temporary refuge at the British embassy (2021, 60). The urban realities of Tehran thus permit mobility but only within certain constraints. Not wanting to miss the party, Forna’s mother demands that they be let out and allowed to carry on with their drive, leading to a “great deal of reversing, manoeuvring and tutting” (2021, 61). When trying to get home in order to change before the party, they run into the demonstration again, where people would bang “on the roof of the car and thrust their faces at the windows” (ibid.). The whole family eventually makes it to the party but overstays, nearly missing the curfew and getting lost on the way home: “We drove past the same street sign twice; nothing looked familiar. We’d no idea what part of town we were in” (2021, 62). A helpful soldier at a check point provides necessary directions so that they can drive home, a minute before the curfew begins (2021, 63). The suspense of the trip brings the emotional dimension to light, as getting lost in the city right before curfew transforms into shrug, “it wasn’t such a big deal” (ibid.), after the family has made it home safely just in time. The passage indicates how urban mobility can change instantly, from one minute to another, when circumstances change. Another dire situation emerges when Forna goes driving with the caretaker’s son and his friend: “[W]e went driving around the neighbourhood with no destination in mind” (2021, 66). The party is stopped at a roadblock and allowed to turn back and drive home only after much explaining (2021, 67). Forna interprets the situation at the roadblock under the new dispensation as “a show of strength” (2021, 68). The drive eventually has consequences when the caretaker’s son is no longer allowed to spend time with Forna and her sister and they are scolded by the young man’s father. Another car ride that takes on a different dimension than intended is

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recounted in an essay titled “Technicals”, in which Forna recounts returning to Sierra Leone during the last years of the war. She writes about driving to visit family in a village that had been located behind enemy lines during the war. Finding a vehicle proves to be difficult, but “a black Toyota 4x4 with tinted windows” makes the trip possible (2021, 79). Forna and her travel companions “drove along and around roads cratered by shellfire” (ibid). Again, a similar privilege of mobility as the one outlined in the memoir when Forna traveled with the United Nations convoy, emerges here. When driving closer to the village, they come across women, who run for cover into the bush instead of waving to the car. Forna explains that it took them a while to understand why this happened: “We looked at ourselves through their eyes: deep-throated engine, darkened windows, alloy wheels. The kind of vehicle a rap artist might drive. The kind of vehicle the rebel militia might drive” (2021, 79–80). The vehicle itself is thus seen as carrying danger, causing people to run away from it. Forna goes on to discuss the kinds of cars that have been popular in Sierra Leone and elsewhere, indicating that vehicles in themselves possess certain power through the imagery attached to them. An example she gives is Toyota Hilux, which became popular among “farmers, construction crews, rebel armies, warlords, Somali pirates and Afghan insurgents” (2021, 80). The transformation of the car is connected with the people it transports and the purposes of transport, which, “before the war, if you saw a gang of men in the back of a Toyota Hilux carrying machetes, you’d think they were farmworkers on their way to clear the bush. A few years later, you’d be running for your life” (2021, 81). The ambivalence of mobility (Kesselring 2019, 161) is exemplified in these lines, which show the connection between perception of vehicles, purpose of mobility, and time. Similar conundrums emerge in Forna’s writing about mobility and race. The geographies of race have been extensively examined in American contexts in particular, with Colin Flint stating in Spaces of Hate that “[e]veryone is a geographer, carrying views of the ideal places they wish to live in” (2004, 3). These ideal places, the “everyday geographies, from the national to the household scales, are constructed around Others defined by race, gender, and sexuality” (ibid.). The places in which we live shape the way we think, but our way of thinking, our ideologies, prejudices, and experiences also shape places. This is particularly true for racialized places that often emerge out of fear and preconceived notions. Mobility, too, has its specific relationship to race, as outlined by Judith A.  Nicholson and

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Mimi Sheller, who argue that “histories of human migration and encounters across difference have imbued race with significant meanings that are contingent on time, place, and mobility politics” (2016, 6). The histories carry on into the present day, and as Nicholson and Sheller state, mobilities and race “intersect today, in unequal relations of power that make mobility racially loaded in particular moments while also making racial processes, racialized spaces, racialized identities, including whiteness, deeply contingent on differential mobilities” (2016, 8). The comment about “particular moments” rings true for Forna’s writing, for example when she outlines experiences while looking for a place to live in the United States, close to Washington DC, and being advised by people not to live in predominantly white areas (2021, 84–85). Mobility in the essay collection is of a relational nature, just as in the memoir where personal, familial reasons for travel combine with political necessities. In an essay titled “Hame”, Forna revisits a trip she made to the Shetland Islands together with her brother Gregor and their mother. Forna explains in her memoir that her father had not acknowledged the divorce her mother had sought but filed for divorce himself and secured custody of the children (2002, 223). Her mother later remarried and had more children, one of whom were Gregor. The essay opens with the following lines: “Like birds we flew in on the breeze, landing at Aberdeen Airport within a few minutes of each other and were reunited at the baggage carousel” (2021, 111). The experience of flying is here presented differently from other instances in both the essay collection as well as the memoir and takes on a dimension of great freedom and lightness, “like birds”. Timing is also essential as there are no delays, and Forna and Gregor arrive almost simultaneously without issue. The purpose of the trip is briefly outlined, emphasizing its relational importance as their mother had traveled from Auckland to meet them, “maybe the last time Mum could make such a journey” (2021, 112). The family story outlined is thus connected to mobility. The travel plan entails driving to Ballater, and then to the port of Aberdeen “to catch the evening ferry for the Shetland Islands” (2021, 112). Forna describes the rental car as “black, sleek and fast” (ibid.), further reinforcing the account of the trip as simple and effortless: “Within minutes we were driving down narrow lanes bounded by hedgerows” (ibid.). The airport surroundings participate in the creation of a trip that is easy to undertake as the urban context of the airport soon gives way to residential or even rural areas, standing in stark contrast to Forna’s

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descriptions of travels to Sierra Leone. The emotional aspect is central, as the trip to the Shetland Islands can be seen as having less emotional baggage and to be less painful than the returns to Sierra Leone, to which Forna admits to having an “abusive” relationship, being “the daughter of a murdered political activist” (2021, 91). The relational and emotional context of “Hame” is more focused on Forna’s mother and her heritage, deepening and strengthening the relationship and connection between place, mobility, and family. The essay, alongside the travels undertaken by Forna herself, her brother, and their mother, provides a brief background to Forna’s mother’s life, in connection with which Forna makes the following statement: “There are those who leave and those who stay and there are those who come and go for some other reason: privilege, position, marriage, work, escape” (2021, 114–115). The comment presents mobility as fluid, but not as necessarily inherent to human life. It seems to equate mobility with migration, overlooking the daily moving back and forth by most people. Forna’s maternal family originated from the Shetland Islands, having later moved to Edinburgh (2021, 116). Forna observes that traveling there today “may be the closest one can come nowadays to travel as it might have been before the era of commercial jetliners” (ibid.). Instead of flying, most people travel by ferry, leaving Aberdeen in the evening and arriving in the Shetlands the following morning (2021, 116–117). The trip to the Shetland Islands thus carries nostalgic purposes to some extent, going back in time to reconnect with family heritage and ancestry, from an urban location to something more pastoral, and the mode of transport comes to symbolize this time travel. Sabine Marschall calls such travel “personal memory tourism”, which seeks to reconnect with the places of the past that are important for various emotional reasons (2015, 336–337). Hence, the emotional connection is essential for Forna’s trip to the Shetland Islands, and the chosen mode of transport for going there is central. The ferry is presented as slow, old fashioned, in comparison to “commercial jetliners”, and the experience of arriving in Aberdeen, “like birds”, is here contrasted against the slow travel by ferry. Despite the long, slow journey, it is undertaken with psychological ease, something largely lacking in the memoir previously examined. The old-fashioned slow travel is further reinforced through Forna’s descriptions of the trip, for example the cabins “with bathrooms and a sea view” and the sitting down “to a three-course dinner in the dining room” (2021, 117). Forna describes how the “ferry surged onward, and the sea

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walls of old Aberdeen slipped away. There were wind turbines, burn-off stacks, research vessels heavy with equipment; a gull hovered at the window disappeared and hove back into view a few seconds later” (ibid.). She writes that they even see a dolphin or porpoise, and notes that the “metallic waters of the North Sea were slick and still”. The trip is thus without drama, the sea is at ease, just as the travelers are too. This is presented through Forna’s brother and mother being “pleased” with making the trip, particularly her mother who had “brought us together” (ibid.). The line is noteworthy, as the travels undertaken are recounted in a different tone and light than many others examined in the memoir in particular, travels which more often than not entail getting away from something, leaving people behind, and becoming uprooted. The trip to the Shetland Islands is about coming together, traveling toward something. The descriptions of the flights to Aberdeen and the ferry ride to Lerwick further reinforce this.

Conclusion: Autobiographical Mobilities As Aminatta Forna’s memoir and essay collection show, autobiographical narratives connect in multiple ways with the mobility made possible by various modes of transport depicted in her writing. The backdrop to the travels undertaken particularly in the memoir is her childhood experiences of her father’s political life, multiple imprisonments, and the tragedy of his execution. The status of the car her mother owned becomes a symbol of the “hither and thither” of the poda podas transporting other inhabitants to wherever they need to be in various urban settings. This kind of back-­ and-­forth movement, sometimes interrupted such as when Forna’s mother gets a flat tire, comes to symbolize the childhood narrative of fear and political upheaval, of leaving Sierra Leone on short notice and of finding out the details of her father’s trial and execution many decades later. Going forward thus requires traveling back, and the flights back to Freetown as recounted by Forna are marred by broken airplanes, massive delays, and spending time at airports with few amenities. Mobility is thus often connected with escape, and return happens somewhat reluctantly. Mobility and the personal, emotional dimension of autobiographical writing converge in the experiences of Forna’s mother being tailed, of delayed flights, and of Forna’s attempts to free her father through various forms of magical thinking while walking down the street in London.

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In the essay collection, the mobility presented and addressed is of a different nature, with less of the necessity and desperation of the memoir and more focus on the inherent nature of movement. The essays examined even indicate that movement can involve pleasure, as exemplified by Forna’s accounts of flying as an unaccompanied minor and being taken care of and pampered by air stewards and hostesses. She describes flying as effortless when getting the chance to visit the cockpit, and later, when traveling to Aberdeen to meet up with her brother and mother, all coming in from different continents, she compares the experience to birds flying. These examples clearly show that the autobiographical narrative impacts mobility described to a significant degree. The emotional and relational aspect of mobility is primary, as emphasized in the experiences of fleeing Sierra Leone and those of returning to visit family and to seek out the truth. In later writing, with less of the burden of the past to hinder it, mobility becomes less cumbersome and far less urban. The various modes of transport capture these differences presented in the two primary texts and become vehicles through which the autobiographical narrative is brought to life and carried forward. The autobiographical narrative converges with mobility, with the stories recounted and the emotions attached, weaving together the fate of family members and nations alike.

References Adey, Peter. 2008. Aeromobilities: Geographies, subjects and vision. Geography Compass 2 (5): 1318–1336. Adey, Peter, David Bissell, Kevin Hannam, Peter Merriman, and Mimi Sheller. 2014. Section three introduction: Spaces, systems, infrastructures. In The Routledge handbook of mobilities, ed. Peter Adey, David Bissell, Kevin Hannam, Peter Merriman, and Mimi Sheller, 183–185. Abingdon/New York: Routledge. Beattie, Amanda Russell. 2014. Engaging autobiography: Mobility trauma and international relations. Russian Sociological Review 13 (4): 137–157. Flint, Colin. 2004. Introduction: Spaces of hate: Geographies of discrimination and intolerance in the U.S.A. In Spaces of hate: Geographies of discrimination and intolerance in the U.S.A, ed. Colin Flint, 1–20. New York: Routledge. Forna, Aminatta. 2002. The devil that danced on the water: A daughter’s quest. New York: Grove Press. ———. 2021. Notes from a life in motion: The window seat. New York: Grove Press. Freestone, Robert, and Ilan Wiesel. 2016. Place-making in the rise of the airport city. In Place and placelessness revisited, ed. Robert Freestone and Edgar Liu, 168–185. New York: Routledge.

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Green-Simms, Lindsey B. 2017. Postcolonial automobility: Car culture in West Africa. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Harris, David. 2014. Sierra Leone: A political history. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kesselring, Sven. 2019. Mobility – Why actually? In Mobilities and complexities, ed. Ole B.  Jensen, Sven Kesselring, and Mimi Sheller, 161–168. Abingdon/ New York: Routledge. Lagji, Amanda. 2018. Waiting in motion: Mapping postcolonial fiction, new mobilities, and migration through Mohsin Hamid’s Exit West. Mobilities 14 (2): 218–232. Marschall, Sabine. 2015. “Travelling down memory lane”: Personal memory as a generator of tourism. Tourism Geographies 17 (1): 36–53. Merriman, Peter, and Lynne Pearce, eds. 2018. Mobility and the humanities. London: Routledge. Nicholson, Judith A., and Mimi Sheller. 2016. Race and the politics of mobility – Introduction. Transfers 6 (1): 4–11. Pearce, Lynne. 2022. Introduction: Mobility and the making of memories. Mobility Humanities 1 (2): 1–6. ———. 2019. Mobility, memory and the lifecourse in twentieth-century literature and culture. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Sheller, Mimi. 2017. From spatial turn to mobilities turn. Current Sociology Monograph 65 (4): 623–639. Toivanen, Anna-Leena. 2021a. Mobilities and cosmopolitanisms in African and Afrodiasporic literatures. Leiden: Brill. ———. 2021b. Aeromobilities of diasporic returnees in Francophone African literatures. Mobilities 16 (4): 597–611. Urry, John, Anthony Elliott, David Radford, and Nicola Pitt. 2016. Globalisations utopia? On airport atmospherics. Emotion, Space and Society 19: 13–20.

CHAPTER 9

Artistic and Spatial Mobility in China’s Urban Villages Federica Mirra

A Japanese legend narrates that if you fold one thousand origami cranes, they will take flight and realize your dreams. Whereas children may let their imagination fly along with paper cranes, for grownups this story is more of a romanticized fantasy. Nevertheless, architect Wan Yan found inspiration from this traditional Japanese tale in 2014 and installed one thousand origami cranes in the art space of Handshake 302 (握手302) in Baishizhou village, Shenzhen (Fig. 9.1) (O’Donnell 2014). Baishizhou is an urbanized village in Shenzhen that provides cheap housing, services, and working opportunities to a varied group of individuals, including rural migrants, foreigners, graduate students, and white-collars. Wan’s installation, Paper Crane Tea (2014), wanted to represent and encourage the discussion of the individual dreams and ambitions of the visitors of

F. Mirra (*) Birmingham City University, Birmingham, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 P. García, A.-L. Toivanen (eds.), Urban Mobilities in Literature and Art Activism, Literary Urban Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42798-5_9

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Fig. 9.1  Wan Yan, Paper Crane Tea (2014), installation in Handshake 302, paper. (Courtesy of Handshake 302)

Handshake 302 and the local villagers in Baishizhou.1 Individually folded through repetitious and delicate movements, the fragile paper turns into a three-dimensional sculpture which reflects the villagers’ aspirations and resilience to improve their socio-spatial condition. As this artwork suggests, this chapter sheds light on the socio-spatial mobility between city and countryside, specifically concentrating on urban villages (城中村, chengzhong cun). Urban villages, or villages in the city (VICs), are the results of China’s top-down socio-spatial policies and transformations over the last four decades. They are informal settlements which have ultimately boosted 1  Wan’s work is reminiscent of Yoko Ono’s series Wish Trees, which started in 1996. In the 2010s, British expert on social policy, Gerard Lemos, erected a similar wish tree with the support of Chongqing’s local authorities after viewing the work by a Korean artist, who installed a similar tree in front of Shenzhen Art Museum and asked passers-by to hang their wishes on the tree (2012, 61–63).

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China’s unprecedented urban and economic transformations. Widely looked down, differentiated, and concealed by central and local governments, these ambiguous areas have been often portrayed by official media and news as urban diseases and cancers (Siu 2007, 330). However, they have emerged as urgent topics of discussion in relation to the socio-spatial inequalities associated with China’s extraordinary urbanization (Logan 2001; Fan 2008; Chung 2013; Lin 2013; De Meulder et  al. 2014; Al 2014; Parke 2018; Ma and Wu 2005b; Xiang and Tan 2005). This chapter builds upon the abundant literature in the fields of social, urban, and geography studies to discuss the mobility inherent within China’s urban villages through the less deployed lens of visual arts.2 Mobility, as the interconnection among “movement, representation, and practice” bears a number of different and often contradictory meanings (Cresswell 2010, 19). On the one hand, it has been associated with “progress, freedom, opportunity, and modernity”; on the other, it has stood for dysfunctionality, “shiftlessness, deviance, and resistance” (Cresswell 2006, 2). I align with Tim Cresswell in maintaining that the underexamined representations of mobility and, in my case, visual arts can untangle complex socio-spatial dynamics and identify some of the meanings associated with urban villages and villagers. Whereas Chinese authorities bring forth what Cresswell calls a “sedentarist metaphysics” (2006, 26–42), where migrants and their locales constitute a threat to the city and need to be controlled, I argue that visual arts suggest a more nuanced understanding. The visual analysis of selected contemporary works reveals that the representations of mobility in Chinese urban villages are ambivalent: they simultaneously depict VICs and villagers as transient, invisible, and still, while being lively, creative, and resourceful. In the first section, I will weave the socio-historical background of China’s complex land and social reforms with a focus on Guangdong province, and mention the works by artists Weng Fen (翁奋, b. 1961), Cao Fei (曹斐, b. 1978), and Zhu Fadong (朱发东, b. 1960). In the second section, I will explore Shenzhen, as a city of economic success and social struggles (O’Donnell et al. 2017, 2), and analyze the installation by art collective, Jiu Society ((啾小组). The artworks reinforce the vision of mobility as “a resource that is differently accessed” and intrinsically political (Cresswell 2010, 22). Last, I will focus on the collaborative practices 2  Among the literature in visual arts, see Wang (2015a, b, 2019b), Parke (2018), Tomkova (2018), Wu (2014, 406), Eschenburg (2017), and Gaetano (2009), among others.

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by Handshake 302 in Shenzhen and Xisan Film Studio (西三电影制片厂) in Guangzhou to advance that urban villages can be socially, spatially, and artistically active and creative, even if this might not always be wholly successful or inclusive. By exploring the urban-rural mobility through selected artistic practices, this chapter brings to the fore the often-unrecognized representations, exchanges and interdependence between city and villages, urban and rural population. Moreover, I advance that collaborative and site-specific art practices have the potential to develop new ties and infrastructures across villages over time.

An Urban Revolution The extraordinary rise of China into one of today’s superpowers started in 1978 as Deng Xiaoping announced the Reform and Open Door Policy, namely, a series of economic reforms to enter the international market and develop into a modern nation. To distance themselves from the ten-year-­ disaster of the Cultural Revolution, the Chinese leadership embraced a more outward approach to acquire knowledge and attract investment from the west through tax incentives and world trade regulations (Jacques 2009, 186–87; Fan 2008, 3–4; Huan 1986; Howell 1991). As the state integrated neoliberal policies and a capitalist system with the stark presence of the one-party rule, China shifted from an agricultural country into what is considered in the west a “modern” nation and service-based economy. Skyscrapers mushroomed in the urban center, infrastructure interlinked the country internationally and domestically, and cities encroached the countryside. Over a short period of time, cities became the economic engines for China’s extraordinary modernization (Wu 2007; Campanella 2008; Marinelli 2015; Greenspan 2012) earning the epithet of “urban revolution”.3 Blinded by the mission to create competitive cities, central and local governments overlooked and intensified the existing differences between cities and countryside, and the richer southern coasts and the poorer central regions of China (Lim and Horesh 2017; Long 1999; Hui 2006). This can be explained by the Chinese administration system, which 3  China’s exceptional urban development has been widely examined from different disciplines and approaches, including economics, policy-making, history, China studies, and politics, among others (Wu 2006; Ren 2011; Campanella 2008; Wu 2007; Ma and Wu 2005b; Marinelli 2015; Greenspan 2012; Ong and Roy 2011; Lefebvre 2003: 5).

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develops through a pyramid-like structure organized around provinces, the four municipalities of Beijing, Shanghai, Tianjin, and Chongqing, and autonomous regions, cities, counties, county-level cities, towns, and villages (Ma and Wu 2005b). On the one hand, this administrative hierarchy allows local governments to be more independent; on the other, it establishes a “system of reciprocal accountability” which escalates inter-regional competition (Lim and Horesh 2017, 380). “Inter-regional socioeconomic variations” have become especially evident as Deng Xiaoping encouraged the already wealthy coastal areas to accelerate their growth and, hence, boost the broader national development (Lim and Horesh 2017, 380). In other words, the urban strategy of the 1980s–1990s privileged the nation’s GDP at the expense of the increasing regional disparities. Guangdong province is one of those regions that highly benefitted from China’s rapid urban and economic transformations. Already advantaged by its vicinity to Hong Kong and foreign investments, in 1980, this southern province counted three of the first four Special Economic Zones (SEZs).4 The coastal cities of Shenzhen, Zhuhai and Shantou in Guangdong, and Xiamen in Fujian were strategically chosen by the central government to stimulate the national economy through free trade, tax incentives, subsidies, and high level of autonomy. Since then, Guangdong’s extraordinary rise has given its name to a developmental model with specific characteristics: market-oriented economic regulations, interests in foreign capital, growing emphasis on the rule of law and explicit commitment to enhancing social well-being (Lim and Horesh 2017, 374). At the same time, an astonishing rural-urban migration into Guangdong cities and towns was registered during the 1980s due to increasing economic opportunities and land reforms (Ma and Lin 1993, 590). Zai argues that in 1995, the province recorded the highest number of temporary migrants (2001, 503). Whereas Siu asserts that 35% of migrants were directed to Guangdong province (2007). Accounting for almost a third of the national total GDP since 2001, Guangdong and the Pearl River Delta have welcomed the largest flow of migration in the decade of 2000–2010 (Lim and

4  SEZs are representative of the central government’s understanding of cities as national economic engines, aimed at attracting investments and exponentially increasing the urban and national GDP. Today, China Briefing counts 15 types of Economic Development Zones (EDZs) in China, including SEZs (Zhang 2020).

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Horesh 2017, 373) and the fastest urbanization in history (Liauw 2014, 50).5 The edited volume by Laurence Ma and Wu Fulong provides extensive insights into the unprecedented migratory flows into Guangdong cities, such as Shenzhen and Guangzhou. They attribute the massive migration to simultaneous factors happening outside and inside of China: on the one hand, they list globalization, advanced technologies and the rise of neoliberalism in the west (Ma and Wu 2005b, 2–4); on the other, they acknowledge how the rapid urban industrialization, the household registration system (hukou) and the constantly reviewed land reforms can explain China’s changes and rural-urban migration across the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Due to the inconsistent spatial reforms and the irregularity of low-skilled urban workers, it has been difficult to track and examine the scale of these urban migrations. Zhang Li (2005, 219) and Fan and Taubmann (2001, 184) are among those scholars lamenting the lack of systematic information and national surveys on China’s population and migration. Over the last 20 years, a growing number of studies has contributed to the discourse on urban-rural gap and migrants as an urgent social concern, and today, there is an extensive literature which aims to clarify China’s socio-spatial mobility in the post-reform era (Al 2014; Gu and Shen 2003; Lai and Zhang 2016; Siu 2007; Chung 2013; De Meulder et al. 2011; Fan and Taubmann 2001; Liu et al. 2018; Kam Wing Chan 2010; Fan 2008; Gaetano 2009; Giroir 2006). Specifically, since 1979, the central government started leasing its land use rights to make profits. In other words, whereas urban and rural land had consistently belonged to the party state before 1979, after that year, while local and central authorities maintained the ownership over urban land, rural territories started being administrated by the collective village (Crawford and Wu 2014, 19–20; Zhang 2005, 221–23; Ma and Wu 2005a, 20–30; Siu 2007, 330–31; Smart and Tang 2005, 77–79).6 These changes coincided with the industrialization of the 1970s and the need to

5  The Pearl River Delta is an area of over 7000-kilometer square in southern Guangdong province which has experienced one of the most extraordinary urban and economic growths. 6  Yan et al. argue that “the 1980s rural reform freed labour from the formed commune system for the urban labour market, particularly newly established Special Economic Zones” (2021, 856); however, it led to the decline in agricultural production.

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expand cities alongside the tertiary sector.7 Thus, many rural villages and croplands were converted into urban enclaves, and rural peasants were offered the status of urban citizens (Gu and Shen 2003). However, more often than not, the expropriation of rural land by the government seemed incomplete (Huang and Li 2014, 22). On the one hand, rural land was always converted into urban areas and sold for profit; on the other, villagers’ change of status to urban citizens was not so consistent (Huang and Li 2014, 22). Whereas villagers and migrants were economically included in the city to provide agricultural products and cheap labor, legally they were anchored to their rural hometowns and treated as outsiders (O’Donnell et al. 2017, 5).8 The spatial conversion from rural to urban is inextricably interwoven with the household registration system. Established in 1958 by the central government, the hukou (户口) system has worked as a census and migration tool since its inception (Kim Wing Chan 2010, 357–58; De Meulder et al. 2011, 3586).9 Siu defines it as an “institution and metaphor to differentiate and discriminate” (2007, 330), which conveniently established who could access the city and its services (i.e., education, medical care, jobs, and housing). After 1978, the migration policies were eased to allow migrant workers to provide cheap labor and fulfill unwanted jobs in the expanding cities (Siu 2007, 330; Huang and Li 2014, 23; Kam Wing Chan 2010, 359–60). At the same time, those peasant villagers who became urban citizens during the rural-urban land conversion had to 7  Since the 1980s, some rural villages turned into Township and Village Enterprises (TVEs), which were collectively owned by rural enterprises that played a big role in China’s industrial and economic development in the twentieth century. According to Harvey, “they became centres of entrepreneurialism, flexible labour practices and open market competition” (2005, 126). In the 1990s in Guangdong, the government encouraged villages to transform into shareholding companies and many villagers became stakeholders and CEOs (Crawford and Wu 2014, 20–1; O’Donnell et al. 2017, 8). 8  This is not unprecedented or exclusive to China. Deleuze and Guattari suggest that “States have always had [problems] with journeymen’s associations, or compagnonnages, the nomadic or itinerant bodies of the type formed by masons, carpenters, smiths, etc.” (2010, 26). However, in China, the scale of this phenomenon and consequences have been worth examining. 9  Ma and Wu retrace the origins of the hukou to the previous baojia system (household administration), which was used during the Song dynasty (960–1279) “to maintain local control and mutual surveillance” (2005a, 28). This earlier strategy aimed to organize the Chinese territory and society and was abandoned with the establishment of the PRC and the introduction of the hukou system.

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abandon agriculture (De Meulder et al. 2011, 3586). Catapulted in the city and its rhythms, many villagers became landlords to make a living: in exchange of their rural land, they were given monetary compensation and housing land, where they started building multiple-storey buildings to rent out to rural migrants coming into the city (Zhang 2005, 223; Chung 2013, 2462; Al 2014, 20).10 However, not everyone was offered an urban status and, hence, access the city’s welfare. Overall, the hukou and land reforms have worked as invisible barriers and produced value by regulating movement (O’Donnell et al. 2017, 4). In the 2000s, the spatial and social dichotomy between rural and urban became so evident that it infiltrated the artistic scene and inspired the internationally acclaimed works by Cao Fei and Weng Fen. Both living in the south of China, respectively, Guangzhou and Hainan, they attest to the constantly shifting rural-urban borders. On the one hand, Weng’s photographic series, Sitting On the Wall (2002–5), depicts young girls in school uniform looking at distant urban centers from bricked, concrete and green walls, which demarcate the invisible border between urban and rural.11 On the other, in Cao’s photograph, A Mirage, vibrant green fields, a deer and two anime characters stand bright against the gray, blurred skyline in the background. In both works, composition and color highlight the socio-spatial divide and materialize the view that “borders, which once marked the edge of clearly defined territories are now popping up everywhere” (Cresswell 2010, 26). In their works, the cityscape turns into a backdrop, whereas the urban edges are represented as vibrant and vital areas. Although these two artworks are not the focus of my chapter, they illustrate how urban-rural spaces are understood and represented as divided and contested terrains (Fig. 9.2).12 Alongside the spatial separation, artists have increasingly attempted to voice their concerns over the individuals caught in between this divide, who are also the new extreme of China’s social ladder: rural migrants. Sigg Senior Curator at M+ museum in Hong Kong, Pi Li, interprets artists’ 10  There is a stark difference between the native villagers who were integrated in the city and rural migrants who temporarily reside there. Whereas some villagers have made a fortune by negotiating their urban land, migrants are still excluded from compensation and decisionmaking and space-making (Liu et al. 2018, 29; Chung 2013, 2462–63). 11  Author’s exchange with the artist on WeChat, 20 May 2022. 12  For more information on Cao Fei’s works, see Obrist (2006), Berry (2018), Wu (2014), ArtBasel (2020), Hatfield (2020), Larson (2020), and Lau (2019), among others. For more information on Weng Fen’s work, see Wang (2011) and Wu (2014).

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Fig. 9.2  Weng Fen, Sitting on the Wall—Shenzhen (I) (2002), c-print, 124 × 164.5 × 4.3 cm. (Courtesy of the artist)

interest as a consequence of their physical vicinity to migrants.13 As artists find cheap and spacious studios in city villages and the peripheries, they move to the only areas that migrant workers can afford, leading to an interesting, yet problematic dynamic. Cresswell identifies “a major distinction” “between being compelled to move or choosing to move” and, consequently, a different social hierarchy inherent within mobility (2010, 22). Indeed, though artists and migrants reside in similar areas, they have very different living conditions and socio-spatial rights. For instance, ‘migrant’ artists can obtain an urban hukou quite easily by entering the international art market or by gaining international recognition compared to migrants working in factories. Despite their higher status, many artists with first-­ hand insights into the limited mobility of China’s cheap labor often decide

 Author’s in-person interview with Pi Li at M+, Hong Kong, 19 April 2019.

13

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not to openly denounce socio-spatial inequalities due to fear of attracting authorities’ attention. Among the exceptions, The Person for Sale (1994), by artist Zhu Fadong is one of the earliest works exposing migrants’ condition. In the performance, the artist wore a blue uniform with red characters on the back reading “this person is for sale, negotiate price on the spot” (Berghuis 2006, 111–3; Visser 2010, 169).14 Later, in his longer-term project, Identity Cards (1998–2015), Zhu forged his own ID cards to shed light on the unfairness of the hukou system and the frustration against the central government’s top-down policies.15 Though artworks might not offer clarity over China’s ever-changing socio-spatial regulations, they demonstrate how urban-rural mobility is experienced by migrants and represented by ordinary urban dwellers. By operating in and bringing forth the rural-urban interstices, artistic practices can invite alternative interpretations and suggest more complex and subtle dynamics to the official, simplified narrative.

Urban-Rural Migration Developing at a striking speed and absorbing thousands of migrants flowing into Guangdong province, Shenzhen is home to a diverse population, ranging from graduate students and entrepreneurs to low-skilled workers. It is the emblem of China’s achievement of economic liberalization in a 14  A very similar performance is Luo Zidan—Half White-collar/half peasant (1996) by Luo Zidan (罗子丹, b. 1971), where the artist simultaneously wears a blue uniform and white shirt and tie. The work reflects on a significant contradiction: on the one hand, rural workers and white collars have very different living conditions and social status; on the other, the former has been invaluable for the social upgrade of the latter. 15  See Tomkova (2018) for a more in-depth discussion of Zhu Fadong’s work. Although the artistic instances above have been selected to illustrate how the representations of migrant workers have replicated the strategy of erasure, the list is not exhaustive. Among other performances and installation that have either deployed or interacted with underrepresented social groups in their work, there are the photographic work 100% by Wang Jin (王晉, b. 1962), Together with Migrants (2003) by Song Dong (宋冬, b. 1966) and Offspring (2005) by Zhang Dali (张大力, b. 1963), to name a few. Despite raising awareness toward an increasingly urgent social concern, Eschenburg stresses that their works seem to exploit migrant workers’ bodies and identities by reinstating an unequal power-relation between artists and migrants (2017). For a critical analysis of those works, see H. Wu (2014, 406) and Eschenburg (2017). Moreover, see Mirra (2022) for a discussion of artistic practices engaging with migrant workers and urban villages in the twenty-first century.

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record time. From a fishing and agricultural village in the 1970s, Shenzhen has increasingly relied on industrialization and became a tertiary-based economy in the 2000s (Liauw 2014, 50). Its fate was determined by the top-down appointment as first Special Economic Zone in 1980, and the subsequent extraordinary economic, and urban transformations. O’Donnell et al. define Shenzhen as a “city of contrast” (2017, 2). The metropolis has become associated with tales of modernization and social uplifting, where peasants have enriched overnight, and young creatives developed ground-breaking start-ups. However, the city’s success remains inevitably interlinked with stories of exploitation, socio-spatial immobility and suffering (O’Donnell et al. 2017, 2–3). Shenzhen’s urbanization has mostly focussed on the modernization and aestheticization of its centers often at the expense of peripheral areas and low-income population (Ma and Wu 2005b, 5–6). Due to the relaxation of the hukou system and the promise of socio-economic improvements in 1978, thousands of rural migrants left the countryside and arrived in Shenzhen. However, the city was unprepared to the huge human flow as job offers, housing, and services did not correspond to the number of incoming people (O’Donnell 2017, 118). To overcome this problem, rural villages encroached by the expanding city transformed themselves into informal spaces providing cheap rental options, 24/7 restaurants, shops, and temporary jobs to welcome outsiders. Likewise, those rural villagers, who became urban citizens overnight, exploited the ineffective governmental control and ambiguity over land use rights to make their fortune by adding floors to their flats and renting them out (Smart and Tang 2005, 72; Bach 2017, 148). Offering temporary and informal solutions to several problems, today urban villages have emerged in major Chinese cities as a symbol of the simultaneous urbanization and increasing socio-spatial inequality. According to Bach, “Shenzhen, like most of China, has been shaped by the opposition of urban and rural and by the expression of this opposition through the terms city and village” (2017, 139). Urban villages firstly emerged in the Pearl River Delta in the post-reform era. Scholars agree that they are neither entirely rural nor entirely urban. They “have become urban in their own way. They consist of high-rise buildings so close to each other that they create dark claustrophobic alleys, jammed with dripping air conditioning units, hanging clothes and caged balconies and bundles of

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buzzing electrical wires” (Al 2014, 1).16 Their chaotic and noisy features emerge from the governments’ lack of inclusive urban regulations and planning, which did not account for migrants’ presence and needs. However, these settlements have an underlying structure that reflects villagers’ resourcefulness and innovation. Indeed, they often have an entrance gate and their own police force (Al 2014, 1–6). Moreover, they tend to specialize into one industrial or manufacturing sector and host workers who share geographical origin, professional vocation, and dialect (Al 2014, 1–6). Engulfed by urban expansion, these urban villages constantly and creatively re-organize themselves and their network across city and countryside to absorb and facilitate the unwanted human flow and sustain urban growth alongside their survival (De Meulder et al. 2011; Al 2014; O’Donnell et al. 2017; Siu 2007; Zhang 2005; De Meulder et al. 2014). The multimedia work, Shenzhen Grand Hotel, produced by Jiu Society in 2016 (Fig. 9.3) reflects the post-1978 economic and urban transformations in and of Shenzhen.17 Jiu Society is formed by three young Shenzheners, namely Fang Di, Ji Hao, and Jin Haofan. Unlike their parents who came to the city to make a fortune, they belong to Shenzhen’s second generation and “are the experimental products of the ‘Reform and Opening’ era” (Jiu Society 2021). Named after the Chinese onomatopoeic word for the chirping of birds or children’s wailing (jiu), Jiu Society makes indistinct noises to make their way into this young, creative city. Shenzhen Grand Hotel is an immersive installation resembling a hotel room and hinting at the emergence of Shenzhen as an “immigrant city”, a place “full of temptations and opportunities” (Jiu Society 2021). Like a temporary hotel where people arrive and leave, Shenzhen cyclically welcomes a diverse group of visitors, ranging from Hong Kong-Shenzhen smugglers to young graduate students, who flow into the city to then depart. Comprising video works, photos, and other props, Shenzhen Grand Hotel reflects the transience and yet infinite possibilities of Shenzhen (Fig. 9.3). Indeed, the hotel itself is a place of “intermittent movement” which produces mobilities and enhances “meetingness” (Sheller and Urry 2006, 213, 219). Robert Davidson views it as a “ready-made conduit for transculturation”, where public and private space blur and different kinds of contact emerge thanks to a spatial and temporal detachment from the  These buildings are the so-called handshake buildings.  Author’s exchanges with Fang Di on WeChat, 27 April–21 May 2022.

16 17

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Fig. 9.3  Jiu Society, Shenzhen Grand Hotel (2016), exhibition view at the Centre for Chinese Contemporary Art (CFCCA), Manchester. (Courtesy of the artists)

fast-paced, outer reality (2018, 3, 2006). He maintains that “whereas home is governed by family rules, traditions and cultural convention, hotel occupancy” is different and simpler (2018, 4). In other words, it provides an opportunity for decompression. In the artists’ work, the bright neon sign on the red walls reading Shenzhen Grand Hotel since 1979, alongside a set of white slippers, towel, and bathrobe suggest the extravagance and

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comforts associated with the time spent away from home. The hotel as a “point of decompression” (Davidson 2018, 4) stands in stark contrast to the hyped urban rhythms of Shenzhen, which are embodied by the neon lights, hula hoops, and money and advertising cards scattered on the floor of the artists’ installation. In Jiu Society’s words, the work is a neon-like memory in the form of a postcard (Jiu Society 2021). It presents the city as a shiny and consumable object. Postcards, as souvenirs, can recall a specific experience and validate the past by capturing an entire city into one single image (Stewart 1993, 139).18 Moreover, they become a “means to identify and possess the totality of the city” (Prochaska and Mendelson 2010, 2). The dominant red and yellow colors of the installation are reminiscent of both the Chinese flag and the fast-food brand, McDonald’s, which also appears in the video work, Jiu Bao (2015). Together, I argue that they symbolize the hybrid assemblage of capitalist and communist values, which sustain the current ideology of the China Dream and socialism with Chinese characteristics.19 Though the neon sign in Shenzhen Grand Hotel seems to display the success of this ideology by perpetuating a state-sanctioned narrative of economic liberalization and urban growth, one needs to remember that the flashing lights of the sign, like a postcard, reinforce an attractive but incomplete vision. Another element in this immersive installation is the three-minute video, 360° Without Dead Ends (Fig. 9.4), where artists film several people hula hoop along the streets of Shenzhen. From a bright supermarket to a colorful game arcade and night streets, the camera captures the bodies hula hooping from different perspectives and point of views. Contrary to 18  A variety of studies examines postcards from different perspectives, such as tourism and visual culture, highlighting their association with individual memories, the emerging middle class and archives. For more material on postcards, see McNeil (2017), Rogan (2005), Schor (1992), and Woody (1998). 19  The China Dream is President Xi Jinping’s ideological propaganda, which combines previous political agendas with a careful selection of west-centric discourses to promote the economic development of China. As per socialism with Chinese characteristics, during the 19th CCP National Congress, Xi defined it as “a continuation and development of Marxism-­ Leninism, Mao Zedong Thought, Deng Xiaoping Theory, the Theory of Three Represents, and the Scientific Outlook on Development”, which should led to the rejuvenation of the nation (Xinhua 2017). Both concepts embrace contradictory strategies, such as socialism, capitalism, and neoliberalism to advance China’s economic and global role, while maintaining its cultural specificity. For more literature on both, see Callahan (2013, 2014, 2015, 2017).

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Fig. 9.4  Jiu Society, 360° Without Dead Ends (2016), video installation, 3′24″. (Courtesy of the artists)

the rapidly spinning urban views, the bodies and hula hoops are filmed almost in slow motion and dominate the scene. The narration is accompanied by music, which starts as a playful, bubbly, and steady soundtrack that is reminiscent of an electronic game until it becomes more incipient, celebratory, and louder. After reaching an apex, the music slows down again, and the heavy tone is replaced by a lighter modulation which transports the viewer to an alien-like realm. As the video documents the ever-­ changing character of Shenzhen, the young people in the video are not portrayed as passive victims of urban transformations; on the contrary, they seem to be enjoying this sprawling city full of contradictions. Whereas the official narrative depicts villages and migrants as fixed, undesired, and backward elements corrupting the city, existing scholarly literature (O’Donnell et  al. 2017; O’Donnell and Bach 2021; De Meulder et  al. 2014; Chung 2013; Fan 2008; Smart and Tang 2005; Zhang 2005; Ma and Wu 2005b) and artistic practices offer a more nuanced and complex dynamic. Indeed, the work captures the “quickening of liquidity within some realms, but also the concomitant patterns of concentration that create zones of connectivity, centrality, and empowerment in some cases, and of disconnection, social exclusion and inaudibility in other cases” (Sheller

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and Urry 2006, 210). Whereas the world outside spins fast and grows increasingly interconnected, those who can access hotels, arcades, and planes, for instance, can temporarily detach from the high-paced urban rhythms and decide the speed of their experiences to their own liking. The portrayal of the people hula hooping in 360° Without Dead Ends seems to embody this post-structuralist, post-humanist, and processual approach to mobility. The oscillating speed and rhythm of the visual narration and sound in the video support Merriman’s argument that “movement is ubiquitous, though not uniform” (2012, 7). Moreover, it invites to think that the possibility to access places, technologies, move freely and slowdown is not granted to everyone (Cresswell 2010; Merriman 2012, 11). Rather, it is “performed at different scales and being underpinned by very different political, physical and aesthetic processes” (Merriman 2012, 6). Contrary to fast-lane people (Sheller and Urry 2006, 211), the only speedy thing that factory workers are associated with is their alienating working rhythm. Their speed and mobility, instead, tends to be slower and more complicated. Nevertheless “as places are dynamic” and “about proximities” and “bodily copresence of people who happen to be in that place at that time, doing activities together” (Sheller and Urry 2006, 214), hotels and, more widely, Shenzhen can allow for exchanges that would otherwise not take place. Together with Jiu Society’s installation, the artwork opening the chapter, Paper Crane Tea (2014), demonstrates that urban villagers are not immobile entities forced to float between cities and countryside. Even though there is an obvious “degree of necessity” in their movements (Cresswell 2010, 22), villagers also have dreams and ambitions that bring them into urban areas. Paper Crane Tea was exhibited in the art space of Handshake 302 in Baishizhou, which was the biggest and one of the most diverse urban villages in the center of Shenzhen in 2015 (O’Donnell 2021, 13–14). The repetitive folding of paper cranes stands for the resilience and aspirations of those diverse workers who reside in urban villages and strive to realize their goals despite life hardships. Though paper is a thin and fragile medium, the repetitious folds invite a reflection on the rhythms of migrants and turn the dull paper into beautiful and more resistant origami. Moreover, if Merriman views space as constructed through the “incessant folding, enfolding, refolding, unfolding” (2012, 39), then one could even argue that the collective actions performed during Paper Crane Tea create spaces. Indeed, once installed one next to the other, the individually folded paper cranes form a three-dimensional installation that

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is reminiscent of the cramped yet lively community in urban villages, such as Baishizhou. Handshake 302 was founded in 2013 by Mary Ann O’Donnell, Zhang Kaiqin, Wu Dan, Liu He, and Lei Sheng. It was located in Baishizhou for very practical reasons: the rent was cheap, it was centrally located, and it was a lively and diverse village which consisted of young creatives, start-­ ups, business entrepreneurs, temporary low-income workers, as well as working-class families who had lived in the area for years (O’Donnell 2017, 118–19). Since its inception, the goal of Handshake 302 has been enhancing collective practices and empowering villagers to actively re-­ imagine their spaces by developing conversations, establishing relationships, and creating site-specific and collaborative work.20 For instance, Baishizhou Superhero (2013) (Fig. 9.5) was a low-tech and cheap installation at Handshake 302. It comprised life-size cardboard figures of cartoon-­ like superheroes which were developed site-specifically to reflect the unique superpowers of urban villagers. They included a village security guard, a grandma, and a bar waitress. The intention was to shed light on the daily lives of villagers and their underrated skills: “the superpower of an unpaid grandmother, for example, is to create value by providing unpaid childcare so that both fathers and mothers can join the gendered labour force” (O’Donnell 2018). According to the curatorial statement, “the superpower of all Baishizhou migrants is, in fact, the power to sell their labour on an unregulated market for as long as their bodies hold out” (O’Donnell 2013). Overall, the artistic practices analyzed so far recognize that villagers and migrants are “not trapped without hope”, but “generally positive in outlook, willing to work hard and free to return to their villages” (Ma and Wu 2005a, 6). In other words, rather than stuck in the city, they migrate to the city as it is “an attractive and profitable alternative to agriculture” (Fan 2008, 123–24).21 Informal residents have quickly understood that their seclusion and ambiguity can eventually lead to a socio-economic improvement (Bach 2017, 145). Moreover, urban villages are so fluid and porous that de Meulder, Lin, and Shannon argue that “they produce vitality and  Author’s interview with anonymous interviewee on Zoom, 21 August 2021.  However, the condition of migrant workers is very different from that of the local villagers, who often become landlords, shareholders, and entrepreneurs and “are able to make use of their ‘local’ resources and opportunities” (Chung 2013, 2463). Chung also maintains that there are two levels of social injustice in urban villages: urban-rural and localoutsider (2013, 2463). 20 21

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Fig. 9.5  Handshake 302, Baishizhou Superhero (2013), installation in Jianghan Baihuo department store plaza. (Courtesy of Handshake 302)

differentiation” and, hence, are “the true cities” (2014, 15). Not surprisingly, Fan and Taubmann reveal that local officials have often closed an eye on the irregularity of handshake buildings and the lack of permits of rural migrants to avoid conflicts and economic repercussions (Fan and Taubmann 2001, 185–87). By operating between legal and illegal, urban and rural, in other words, amidst the cracks of China’s dual land system, rural villagers, migrant workers, and villages in the city fluidly float across them. More than that, maintaining Merriman’s theories, as villagers move across time and space, they “actively” shape or produce “multiple, dynamic spaces and times” (2012, 1). Today, scholars recognize the invaluable key role played by urban villages and migrant workers in the daily functions of the city. Despite the official narrative reinforcing the urban-rural dichotomy and hierarchy, Cenzatti and Smith suggest a variation in the label “villages in the city”, which should become “city in the village”. As promoted by the collaborative practices by Handshake 302, the village turns into a launch pad for an alternative urbanism (Cenzatti 2014, 16; Smith 2014) where everything is

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fluid and in constant becoming. Rather than a center-based urban process where the countryside is gradually engulfed by the city like in the west, the proliferation and mobility of urban villages in China hints at a different urban model that is akin to the ancient Greek synoikism (Cenzatti 2014, 10–13) or the Indonesian desakota (O’Donnell 2021, 10). This proposed urbanism discards the urban-rural binary and develops via horizontal and multilateral flows, exchanges, and renegotiations (Cenzatti 2014, 17), giving more prominence to village residents and the web of networks which they weave across city and countryside.

Art Mobility Despite the growing number of scholarly debates, the historical view of mobility “as a threat, a disorder in the system, a thing to control” (Cresswell 2006, 26) is still predominant and urban villages with their intrinsic informality unsurprisingly remain the repository of numerous problems according to the official narrative. They have been represented as places where crime and diseases proliferate (Siu 2007, 330). Therefore, to overcome the problematic stigmatization of villages, the decline of agricultural production, and the 1997 Asian financial crisis, the central government has launched a series of policies to revive the countryside since early 2000s. In 2005, Hu Jintao announced the project of a “socialist new countryside” (Watts 2006; Looney 2015, 909–10). The campaign aimed to improve the “production, livelihood, communal atmosphere, village outlook, and governance” in rural areas (Yan et al. 2021, 858). Likewise, since 2017, Xi Jinping has repurposed this reform under the term “rural revitalisation” and aimed to enhance the material conditions of villagers (Wang and Zhuo 2018, 97). However, according to Yan, Bun, and Xu, rural revitalization is concerned with economic revenue driven by national development rather than restoring the perception of the countryside and providing socio-economic uplifting to the villagers (2021, 859, 868). As part of these efforts, since the 1990s the central and local governments have started incorporating rural villages within the city to improve the international opinion on Chinese urban planning and profit from villages’ land value and established infrastructure. Situated in the urban center and often adjacent to financial or commercial districts, the land of villages is a moneymaking revenue for local officials: once converted into new urban villages, the narrative of innovative and profitable enclaves changes to “dirty, chaotic and backward” (Siu 2007, 335), justifying

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forced demolition and renewal. After years of cleansing campaigns to relieve cities from illegal activities, buildings, and individuals, in 2004, the local government declared Shenzhen as the first city without urban villages (O’Donnell et  al. 2017, 10).22 Since then, the governments have increasingly attempted to include urban villagers within the city’s welfare, allowing their access to urban education, services, and health (O’Donnell 2021, 17). Despite the official efforts aimed at exploiting these enclaves and eliminating their informality, villages and their residents have kept developing “complex sociotechnical machineries to regulate, evade, evoke and provoke movement across its bordered spaces” (O’Donnell et al. 2017, 4). Lai and Zhang notice that whereas the urban renewal of the 2004–2009 was mostly unilaterally directed by the state, in 2009–2010, there was an increasing number of agreements between state and villagers justified by economic benefits (Lai and Zhang 2016, 72; O’Donnell 2021, 11–13). Moreover, Crawford and Jiong argue that urban villagers have refined their strategies as they became increasingly conscious that public exposure and protests can increase their negotiating power (2014, 21).23 Despite the ongoing exclusion of factory and low-income workers from space-­ making in the city, years of mediation and recurring strategies have facilitated their interplay with rural villagers and local authorities. At the same time, an increasing number of socially engaged art projects has emerged to attest to and encourage a new kind of practice within urban villages. Pablo Helguera defines socially engaged art as the variety of engagements whose existence is dependent “on social intercourse” (2011, 2). Operating between traditional art forms, sociology, politics, and other disciplines, socially engaged art is characterized by an uncomfortable, yet productive tension which cannot be resolved as it is intrinsic to this practice (Helguera 2011, 4–5; Bishop 2006, 183). In the west, the origins of these collaborative, collective, and public exercises can be traced back to the avant-garde and social movements of the 1960s (Helguera 22  O’Donnell identifies several stages of the integration of rural villages within the city under the goal of “rural urbanisation”: the first campaign ranges from 1992 to 1996. By 1996, the villages in the inner districts were included within the city, and by 2004, even the rural urbanization of the outer district was achieved (2017, 9–10; 2021, 10). 23  Today, an increasing literature documenting the more or less successful redevelopment projects is emerging (Smith 2014, 33–39; Jiang 2014, 42–46; Liauw 2014, 54–58; Crawford and Wu 2014, 20–26; Huang and Li 2014, 22–27; Liu et  al. 2018, 27–29; Andersson 2014, 38–40).

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2011, 2). Whereas in China, Wang Meiqin acknowledges the social role of art in the Modern Woodcut Movement and later in the experimental art of the 1980s–1990s (Wang 2019a, 4). Today, socially engaged art has gained renewed significance, especially in China, where this upsurge has been associated with a growing civil society and public sphere (Wang 2019a, 3).24 Furthermore, by drawing from Cresswell’s understanding of mobility as practice and “being in the world” (2006, 3–4), these artistic strategies acting upon space and society can perhaps help foster new embodied experiences for migrants. Amongst significant socially engaged art practices in the urban villages in Guangdong province, there are Handshake 302  in Baishizhou, Shenzhen, and Xisan Film Studio in Xisan village, Guangzhou.25 Both art collectives operate within urban villages’ established infrastructure. They collaborate with an existing community and share the educational mission to raise villagers’ awareness toward space and “rights to the city” (Harvey 2012). I argue that both art collectives “provide an ideal framework for process-based and collaborative conceptual practices” (Helguera 2011, xi) which include workshops, site-specific works, walks, and conversations. Claire Bishop criticizes these activities because they tap into the same “predictable formulas” and, hence, lose their originality and site specificity (2006, 180). However, I align with M. Wang in arguing that in an authoritarian regime like China, artists and art collectives have to recur to established strategies and less confrontational approaches than in the west to survive (Wang 2019a, 5). Hence, the significance of socially engaged art 24  Wang explains the upsurge in socially engaged art as the consequence of the current uncertainties and increasing cultural, political, and economic clashes (2019a, 2). Whereas in the wider context, Bishop maintains that “participatory practices rehumanises—or at least de-alienates—a society rendered numb and fragmented by the repressive instrumentality of capitalism” (2006, 179–180). 25  The two cases analyzed in this chapter are not exhaustive of the numerous socially engaged, public, participatory, and collaborative practices in rural and urban villages. For instance, the Bishan Commune in Bishan village, Anhui province, was initiated by artist, curator, and activist, Ou Ning (Corlin 2020). It launched a book shop, organized an art festival, and coordinated other public activities for the community. However, in 2016, the project was shut down by the central government. Secondly, since 2007, artist Weng Fen has developed a program of socially engaged practices to retrace the concept of home and land in light of the relocation and renewal on Hainan Island (N.a. 2021; P. (刘鹏飞) Liu 2022; Yan 2020, 390–92). Thirdly, the Yangdeng Art Collective is formed by a group of artists from Sichuan Fine Arts Institute and operates in Yangdeng, a small township in rural Guizhou (Ren 2019; Yan 2020, 393).

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in China, as practised by Handshake 302 and Xisan Film Studio, cannot be merely measured against its aesthetic and oppositional potential but lies in its ability to coexist with and negotiate the ever-changing socio-spatial dynamics imposed by the state. Already mentioned in the previous section, Handshake 302 was established by several individuals with different backgrounds in anthropology, art education, and design. The differences and overlaps between their expertises have allowed the development of a diverse program, ranging from artists’ residencies to institutional collaborations and educational programs.26 With regards to education, Handshake 302 has developed three main sub-projects: Handshake Academy, where they work with young children, often focussing on low-impact art; Handshake on campus, where they engage with college students and teach them how to do  research; and last, Handshake 302 as the art collective interested in working with the local community to create site-specific works.27 Part of this latter project is the two-year programe Handshake 302’s Art Sprouts (2016–2018), which brought migrant children together to find beauty in the everyday and create artistic responses to their surroundings. Unfortunately, in 2016, forced evictions and demolitions started in Baishizhou, and in 2020, the area was mostly emptied of its residents and activities (O’Donnell and Bach 2021, 74; O’Donnell 2021, 15). In 2022, Handshake 302 has moved online (Fig.  9.6). However, the fate of Baishizhou and its people is still uncertain and dependent on top-down spatial policies. Similarly preoccupied by urban renewal, Xisan Film Studio emerged as a platform to enhance villagers to voice their concerns through their mobile phones and cameras.28 Rather than an art institution, “it is a film festival organised by artists for the village. It is a collective and temporary action” (N.a. 2017). It emerged in 2016 in the village of Xisan, in the north-west district of Panyu, Guangzhou, under the direction of several artists residing

 For instance, site-specific works, such as Dalang Graffiti Festival (2015), Evolution (2014), and Urban Fetish: Baishizhou (2013), invite the local community to re-gain and reshape the imagined future of Baishizhou through art. 27  Author’s interview with anonymous interviewee on Zoom, 21 August 2021. 28  Author’s exchanges with Xisan Film Studio assistant curator on WeChat, 14 December 2021 and 16–25 May 2022. 26

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Fig. 9.6  Handshake 302 Academy. (Courtesy of Handshake 302)

there, such as Zheng Hongbin 郑宏彬 (Xuan et al. 2021, 8).29 The overall goal is to invite the local community to join and develop artistic practices in public space. Maintaining Joseph Beuys’s belief that “every man is an artist”, individuals are encouraged to capture their daily experiences through the intuitive and common medium of their smartphone camera. This object becomes a non-intrusive tool to seek creativity in the everyday. Even though these actions might not lead to an immediate change in the mobility of villagers, Xisan Film Studio argues that everyone has a specific reason to do what they are doing (Li and Wu 2017). Moreover, these practices enhanced by technology subtend a potential mobility, even though this might not be performed (Merriman 2012, 7–8). Indeed, they bring to the fore invisible socio-spatial dynamics and widen biased views around urban space. Drawing on Saito, rather than aesthetic exercises per se, these everyday gestures become empowering actions which can “affect and 29  Zheng Hongbin had already developed socially engaged and participatory works in the Pearl River Delta (Zhang 2018).

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sometimes determine our worldview, actions, the character of a society”, as well as “the physical environment” (2007, 51). Throughout the years, Xisan Film Studio has gradually adapted their practices to the community and filmed a variety of daily scenes, ranging from the encounter with a farmer to the aspiration of migrant workers (Fig. 9.7). Produced through a low-tech and low-cost approach, the videos are fragments of urban daily life that address villagers’ socio-spatial concerns. Since 2017, Xisan Film Studio has tackled the recurring demolition and forced relocations in the village through videos and songs. For instance, the video, I am not a city manager (2017), was filmed by Lin Jinchao 林进超and captures the anxiety and anger experienced by a local resident, who initially approaches the artist to ask whether he is a city manager. After being reassured that the artist is not a local official, the villager opens up about the recent clashes among villagers and city manager

Fig. 9.7  Group photograph of Xisan villagers at the screening of Villager Reporter (2017). (Courtesy of Xisan Film Studio)

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due to the demolition of some irregular buildings.30 Moreover, in 2018, Xisan Film Studio started producing and circulating songs around the village. By singing, the artists hoped to include more residents and address sensitive issues in a convivial and playful way. One of these songs, xiyang wei renjian fadian (夕阳为人剪发点, Sunset for the People’s Haircut Point) (2018), commemorates the demolition of Liang Bo’s Haircut Point. Irregularly built between 2012 and 2016, Liang’s business became a frequented spot in the village, where people could have their hair cut, gather to play chess, and sell vegetables. Despite being evicted by the local authorities due to cleansing projects, Liang’s Haircut Point was a significant “transfer point” in the village and enhanced what Sheller and Urry call “meetingness” (2006, 219).31 In 2017, Xisan’s engagement with urban renewal extended beyond the village, reaching Baishizhou, Shenzhen. On that occasion, around 80 Xisan villagers joined a group of artists to document the evictions imposed by the local government in Baishizhou urban village, even though it was recognized that villagers did not want to cause troubles and often needed encouragement (Zhang 2018).32 Through their phones, they took images and shot videos of the signs of imminent demolition (i.e., the omnipresent Chinese character for demolition, chai). The end product was an hour and forty-minute footage, which was shown at the 2017 Bi-City Biennale of Urbanism/Architecture in Shenzhen and accompanied by a meal prepared by artist Liu Sheng (Jiang 2018). The film expressed the artists’ wish to make villagers more aware of their potential mobility.33 The  The video was published on WeChat, alongside some explanatory text and images; however, it has been removed and cannot be viewed online anymore. 31  Indeed, even after its closure, the news of the upcoming demolition prompted the artistic mobilization of Xisan Film Studio. 32  Surprisingly, Handshake 302 was not aware of this initiative. Hence, there were no interactions between the art space in Shenzhen and Xisan Film Studio. This is not the only artistic instance attempting to raise awareness and resist the official redevelopment project. In 2009, Chongqing-based artist, Wang Haichuan, started documenting the transformations in Tongyanju, a central district in Chongqing which was to be renewed (Xu 2021; Zheng n.d.). Since then, Wang has initiated a series of projects for the local community. For instance, in 2013, he organized a photography workshop and provided film cameras to the villagers to capture whatever caught their eyes (Zheng n.d.). The villagers’ actions produced 900 pictures of urbanscapes, ruins, everyday objects, and other blurry memories based in Tongyanju. 33  Peter Merriman distinguishes a potential mobility from actual mobility, arguing that “just because we have the technological and social capacity to move in a particular way, at a particular speed, it does not mean that we necessarily enact that potential, or that movement has taken on an enhanced social significance” (2012, 7). 30

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project allowed the participants to diversify their usual routes and experiences, as well as act upon what Cresswell calls a “politics of mobility”— “the social relations that involve the production and distribution of power” (2010, 21). I argue that the artistic expedition to Baishizhou by Xisan residents can demonstrate the solidarity across different villages and foster new ties amongst individuals who share similar socio-spatial conditions. Maintaining that practices critical of the spaces in which they intervene, or the dynamics through which they work, have the potential to grasp and shape the ways in which space is organized (Rendell 2006), then Handshake 302’s and Xisan Film Studio’s work constitutes a first step toward villagers’ critical understanding of space and its inherent dynamics.

Concluding Remarks Overall, the artistic practices analyzed in this chapter have shed light on the visual representations and meanings associated with the socio-spatial mobility in the urban villages in Guangdong province. Specifically, it emerges that urban villages are not fixed and universally defined (O’Donnell 2021, 8). On the contrary, they are the ultimate products of the physical movements and potential mobility performed by urban villagers and migrants. Thus, they are represented as ever-changing and resourceful platforms which help sustain economic growth and improve the material conditions of the low-income population. For instance, the works by Weng Fen and Cao Fei demonstrate that vitality and diversity belong to the urban villages and peripheries rather than to the financial and commercial districts. Likewise, villagers are not merely viewed as backward and passive individuals. Zhu Fadong highlights the mobility as well as resourcefulness of migrant workers by re-enacting the practice of forging IDs in his performance. The existing literature and artworks suggest that they are increasingly aware of their spatial rights and take advantage of their transience, floating across city and countryside and, eventually, becoming urban residents. “Transient” and “in the process of becoming”, urban villages and migrants constitute an “intrinsic part of China’s post-reform modernity” (Siu 2007, 332). Though the artistic works mentioned in the first section reinforce the reductive binary of urban/rural, the following practices offer a more complex representation of the movements and mobility of migrant workers. Indeed, Jiu Society’s installation, Shenzhen Grand Hotel, transforms Shenzhen into a hotel to reflect on the different scales and speeds of

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movements in this young metropolis. Moreover, Handshake 302 and Xisan Film Studio, as socially engaged, site-specific practices, illustrate the intricate urban-rural interlinkages while also having a potential active role in future space-making. I advance that they can anticipate potential ways to shape space by ways of exchanges, collaborations, and public actions and by being critical of their surroundings. Unsurprisingly, the upsurge in socially engaged practices occurs at the same time as villagers become more aware of their spatial rights and as scholars recognize the key role of these villages. In this light, the initiatives by Handshake 302 and Xisan Film Studio, among others, should be interpreted as critical attempts to reposition villages and their community as conscious holders of spatial and artistic agency. Though these socially engaged practices are “temporally contingent” (Wilbur 2015, 97) and, hence, not always immediately successful, I argue that over time, they have the potential to develop alternative mobilities to the officially enforced ones to negotiate and even intervene in space.

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CHAPTER 10

Delhi on the Move: Urban Im/Mobilities in Contemporary Hindi Writings Valentina Barnabei

Introduction: Moving and Writing in the City of Evictions Contemporary Delhi is the result of several social and historical factors that influenced the choices regarding the city’s urban planning. Since Independence, some events particularly shaped the city: the establishment of refugee camps in 1947 and the creation of residential colonies intended for refugees from Pakistan (Datta 1986, 277); the Asian Games in 1982; the launch of the Delhi Metro1 Rail Corporation (DMRC) in 1995 (Bon 1  The word ‘Metro’ is capitalized when it refers to The Delhi Metro and it appears as the short version of the official and registered name of this infrastructure, which is The Delhi Metro. The word ‘metro’ is not capitalized when occurs as an adjective, while in the quotes of the excerpts of the analyzed the capitalization followed that reported in the source text.

V. Barnabei (*) Ca’ Foscari University, Venice, Italy Heidelberg University, Heidelberg, Germany e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 P. García, A.-L. Toivanen (eds.), Urban Mobilities in Literature and Art Activism, Literary Urban Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42798-5_10

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2016, 181); the construction of the Delhi’s Metro network (1998–2002); and the Commonwealth Games in 2010 (Sen 2018, 361). One must add to this that in the last few decades Delhi has been sheltering an increasing number of migrants, predominantly from rural areas, that have reached the city to improve their life conditions. Due to the scarcity of accommodations, millions of people have built their own houses in various parts of the city, often close to railways and flyovers, and moved there. These clusters of houses are called bastis. A basti is an informal settlement characterized by relatively poor environmental services and infrastructures and, at its simplest, is composed of basic houses built using diverse materials, from bamboo to bricks (Bhan 2016, 8). Often bastis residents do not have any legal right to the land that their houses are built on, as very frequently bastis are situated on public land (Bhan 2016, 9). Bastiwale, those who live in bastis, are among the dwellers most seriously affected by the mass demolitions that happened in Delhi from 1990 to 2010 (Missing Basti Project: “Eviction & Resettlement in Delhi”), enacted by the Delhi Development Authority’s (DDA’s) Master Plans (MP). In the context of Delhi, a Master Plan “describes planning guidelines, policies, development code, and space requirements for various socio-economic actions maintaining the city population during the plan period. It is also the basis for all infrastructure requirements (www.dda.org.in)” (Singhai 2020, 1). In such a wide, densely populated, and diversified city, physical mobility within it is definitely a central factor of its residents’ daily life. Starting from the assumptions that mobility influences and affects people’s lifestyles and that the inaccessibility of public transport can exacerbate class division in the city, I use the English translations of two Hindi collections of short stories, Trickster City: Writings from the Belly of the Metropolis (Tabassum et al. 2010)2 and A City Happens in Love (Kumar 2018), as tools to analyze how some Delhites, especially young people, bastiwale, and relocated resettlement colonies’ residents, move within the city and how access to public and private transportation affects their lives. A City Happens in Love, translated from the Hindi collection of short stories Is ́q meṁ s ́ahar honā (Kumar 2015), is the result of the editing of texts published in Hindi on Kumar’s Facebook Feed between 2012 and 2015 (see Arora 2015). The stories had such a success that people started making video adaptations of them as well as posting on YouTube their own tales, claiming that they had been inspired by Kumar’s work. The 2

 From now on, I refer to this text as Trickster City.

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collection focuses on young people in love crossing the city of Delhi. They have different backgrounds in terms of cast, class, ethnicity, geographical origins, and gender, and they nurture diverse ambitions and dreams. However, they have something important in common: they are in love. Love shapes their experience of the city and, vice versa, the city shapes their experience of love. Except for a tiny minority, no character has a name. This absence, as well as the lack of a marked transition between the stories, enhances the importance of the space: not only are the borders between people blurred, but also those among the people and the city. In addition to video production, the admirers of Kumar’s work also contributed to the circulation of the short stories by commenting on an online thread via the social media platform Facebook started by Is ́q meṁ s ́ahar honā’s translator Akhil Katyal requesting feedback for the formulation of the stories’ translated English title. This collective experience of creative writing involving nonprofessional writers leads us to another, even more experimental, collection of writings: Trickster City. Originally published in Hindi with the title Bahurūpiyā s ́ahar (Tabassum et al. 2007) and translated into English by Shveta Sarda, the work includes short stories and testimonios focusing on life in the outskirts of Delhi, bastis demolition, and the residents’ eviction and relocation in resettlement colonies. Its 20 authors were practitioners of the Cybermohalla Project (2001–2013), a program born from the cooperation of the Ankur Society for Alternatives in Educations (Ankur) and the Sarai program of the Centre for the Study of Developing Society (CSDS). Ankur and Sarai established several labs in different bastis, which were intended as spaces in which young people living in these areas could reflect on the urban space and their own presence in it as well as developing and circulating their own narration on basti life through the practice of creative writing. Many of the volume’s writings focus on Nangla Manchi, a basti located on the Yamuna west bank and demolished in 2006. One of the Cybermohalla’s labs was in that basti and some of the authors lived there and witnessed the demolition of their neighborhood and homes. In addition to the centrality of critical reflections on the space, A City Happens in Love and Trickster City bring the interaction between the city and its residents to the forefront. This interaction is mainly realized through moving within the city, whether it be in a specific area, as often happens in Trickster City, or in a wider range, as in A City Happens in Love. The width of the characters’ mobilities is connected to their economic possibilities and social status—namely their car ownership or

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whether they can afford individual or shared means of transport. The transport facilities present in the areas in which they live is an indicator of their economic possibilities and social status. Young people and bastiwale are particularly significant groups of people to inquire into on the way in which a large part of Delhites move—or do not move within the city and to which extent access to shared transport influences their lives. In fact, in big Indian cities, people between 18 and 37 years old are the majority of public transport users (Yougov-Mint Millennial survey July 2018 in Kundu 2018); bastis residents rarely own private vehicles; hence they depend on public transport when commuting long distances; and resettlement colonies’ dwellers commute the longest distances per day by walking or by means of public transport. By using the entire spectrum of movement from stillness to speed as a narrative tool to recount the characters’ adventures, A City Happens in Love and Trickster City depict different portraits of different urban areas, often depending on the available transport. Further, the texts demonstrate that different modes of transport come with it a well-defined image that may be connected to the concept of ‘comfort’ and ‘modernity’ or ‘discomfort’ and ‘unrefinedness’ (Sadana 2012).

Connecting Texts and the World: Brief Theoretical and Methodological Excursus A City Happens in Love and Trickster City can be seen as archives due to their narrative power in witnessing the tangible presence of materiality in various places or phenomena (Pradhan 2019, 254). This is particularly pertinent in the case of Trickster City, which nowadays constitutes one of the rare material pieces of evidence for the existence of Nangla Manchi. Literary works are analysis tools too, since, as Gian Biagio Conte notes, “literature acts upon cultural models which turn act upon ‘real life’ and transform it” (1986, 111). Moreover, the perspectives and feelings expressed, as well as the description of some landscapes and places that often present omissions and exaggerations (Zarig 1977, 417), also make literary texts a ‘data bank’ to inquire on spaces in unique ways (Noble and Dhussa 1990, 50). This is particularly true for literary works such as Trickster City and A City Happens in Love, in which the space, that is, the city of Delhi, plays such a pivotal role in the narration that it can be considered a full-fledged character. In her work on the impact of the novel

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in Northern India at the turn of the nineteenth and the twentieth centuries, Vasudha Dalmia argues that “novels are often a record of social history in ways that social history itself is not” (2019, 406). This is certainly not limited to novels but includes all kinds of literary works that provide vantage points on many of the issues characterizing the context in which they have been produced. Additionally, as from the enactivist perspective,3 literary narratives can act as a vehicle to transmit and renegotiate the values of a particular culture: they involve the emotional engagement of the recipient, who can take a stand on the values expressed by the narration and, eventually, renegotiate their identity through the social world (Caracciolo 2012, 20). It is by applying this theoretical framework enhancing the archival, the analytic, and the enactivist feature of literary texts that I approach A City Happens in Love and Trickster City, arguing that a holistic perspective on the multiple functions of a literary work helps in analyzing its themes and the narrative strategies. This is visible in sections three and four. Section three, among other considerations, shows how public transport and its use have now become a proper narrative tool to narrate not only Delhi but even its residents’ love stories. Section Four focuses on Trickster City’s relevance in offering the bastiwale’s vantage point in the literary scene as well as exemplifying depicting the absence or the scarcity of public transport in some disadvantaged areas. Alongside narrative theories, I also inquire on the relationship between a text and its reference context by crosscutting between ethnography and the study of literary texts, as suggested by Rashmi Sadana’s ethnography of literature. This approach, aimed at moving “across the literary field, from text to institution to publisher to author or translator, highlighting and expanding on key ethnographic moments and milieus” (Sadana 2016, 161), consists in considering all the actors and the platforms that have contributed to the production of a given text. Hence, not only authors but publishers, translators, institutions that may support the authors, utilized media, and so on, and the relationships between all of them may be studied. By broadening the concept of ‘literary field’, one could also include the readers and, going further, even people who interact with the same space as the characters. An example of this is provided in the fourth section in which I integrate part of the conversation I had with two former dwellers of Nangla Manchi to the experience of mobility to and from that basti as represented in Trickster City. As sections three and four show, in 3

 For an overview on the enactivist approach, see Di Paolo et al. (2010).

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addition to providing the present research with valuable methodological insights, Sadana’s anthropological works on the use of the Metro and the experiences of their users in Delhi have been extremely useful to better frame some of the events in the analyzed texts and situating them within a broader context.

Connecting the City, Connecting the People: Moving by the Delhi Metro Since December 2002, the inaugural year of the Delhi Metro, the Metro has become part of the city and irrevocably changed its morphology. Nowadays, the National Capital Region of India, the territory which includes Delhi and its satellite cities (Ghaziabad, Faridabad, Gurgaon, Noida, Bahadurgarh, and Ballabhgarh), counts ten lines that serve 254 stations (Delhi Metro Rail Corporation 2022). For many city dwellers, the Metro network represents the main means of transportation within the city, notwithstanding the massive presence of cars in Delhi. Indeed, in 2019, Delhi had more cars than the four other largest Indian cities and, both at the time and today, the NCTD did not establish any restrictions on car parking (Sadana 2019, 96). However, a car remains an option only for those residents who can afford it and get a driving license. The Metro, as well as the Delhi Transport Corporation (DTC) buses, services residents who do not fit in the previous category. Particularly, the Metro offers a quicker option than the buses and other on-ground transport. Further, the presence of cameras, restrictions with the prospect of a sanction, and wagons reserved for women make many users perceive the Metro as the safest way to move within Delhi in the absence of cars or taxis.4 Slow or fast, public transport offers an advantage over private vehicles: the anonymity assured by the absence of a driver who knows the user and, most importantly, by the presence of the crowd in which the user can disappear. The characters in A City Happens in Love are constantly roaming around Delhi by any possible mean of transportation, whether it be 4  For an extended study on the perception of the Delhi Metro by its users, see Sadana (2018, 2019). Particularly, Sadana (2019) provides an account of the protests that followed the proposal for the making of ladies reserved couches in the Metro trains. It also provides references to research proving how gender segregation in public transport does not make a city more feminist or safe for women.

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shared or private, some of them having an almost symbiotic relationship with the city’s transport, especially the Metro. This is the case of Samar, one of the few characters whose name is mentioned in the narrative, and his beloved one. For this couple, there is no better place for living and molding their love story than the city. Their story echoes those of two of the couples who have been sheltered at the Love Commandos, a volunteer organization based in Delhi that provides “assistance in protecting couples, helping them fight harassment, and giving them shelter so they can marry freely” (“Home” in Love Commandos. No more honor killings), and who participated in Rashmi Sadana’s research on marriage and social and physical mobility in Delhi (2019). In fact, the Delhi Metro was a fundamental actor for the construction of their romantic relationships and personal independence, as well as for the couple portrayed in A City Happens in Love. For Samar and his girlfriend, the public space is a sort of a safe space since they can blend into the crowd and find, paradoxically, their privacy. The couple used to roam “around Delhi on the metro in search of a safe place. She was locked in the ladies’ coupe and he in the gent’s one. Their journey was split up as if the Khap had turned up. […] It is not about travelling on ways unknown to us. If we don’t remain strangers in love, love itself won’t remain…” (Kumar 2018, 23–24). These lines not only bear witness to the constant mobility of the couple in search for a safe space and of the habits of some women when it comes to picking a couch in the subway, it also introduces another character, which is not an individual but a group: the Khap. A khap is an alliance of several elder community members usually belonging to one endogenous social group within a geographical area (like a village or a small town). In current times, decisions concerning multiple aspects of civil life such as marriages, inheritance, land disputes and general surveillance of societal behavior within the community often come under the austere jurisdiction of the khap panchayats [village councils]. (Thottassery in Sociology Group)

When A City Happens in Love was published in 2015, Arvind Kejriwal restarted his term as Delhi Chief Minister. At that time, Kejriwal made concessionary statements to the unelected khap panchayats, affirming their place and worth to society. This measure was a cause of concern for one of the founders and the chairman of the Love Commandos, Sanjoy Sachdev. In his view, this recognition of khap panchayats could lead to dangerous

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implications as they have often sanctioned ‘honor killings’, namely murdering a family member to repair a conduct considered threatening to the social order (Sadana 2019, 43). More than an actual presence, in A City Happens in Love the Khaps and their members are an image evocated anytime the protagonists have the feeling of being observed and judged or, as in the foregoing excerpt, they are represented as an ominous presence having the power to tear lovers apart. Indeed, “it is very difficult to save yourself from the Khaps of the 360 villages which grip Delhi” (Kumar 2018, 42). The Delhi Metro has shortened the distances in the city and connected places like never before. Working-class colonies such as Ghevra, Rohini, Samaypur Badli, and Jahangirpuri, all in the northern-northeastern part of the city, are now easily connected with the universities, most of them located in the northern part of Delhi and reachable through the Vishwavidalaya stop of the yellow line. The northern part of the city, with its universities and working-class neighborhoods, is now connected with the embassies and the offices in New Delhi and the posh residential areas in the southern part. Thanks to the Metro, the inhabitants of Delhi can move smoothly through different kinds of markets—the traditional ones in Old Delhi and the fancy ones, like the Khan Market and the INA Market, in New Delhi and South Delhi, respectively—and reach any kind of facilities from governmental institutions to hospitals. Due to its capacity of connecting different worlds, which materialize in different housing types (regular colonies, resettlement colonies, bastis, havelis, and urban villages), the Metro was hailed as a social leveler. The Delhi experienced by the characters of A City Happens in Love constantly alludes to the egalitarian potential of infrastructure, although there are also moments in which the quickness and sterility of the Metro, whose landscape and norms are far from those of the world outside, are perceived as obstacles to love: The Metro has now linked Malviya Nagar to Model Town. In an hour, the hurtling train has cut quite some distance between the two of them. They now have time, but do not have much to say. […] Yaar, you should come by bus, no… Why? What’s the problem with the metro? At least I’ll get the chance to call you and ask, where are you, when will you be here? We’ve become so unemployed in love. We don’t roam about at all. How long will we just get off the metro and into the Mall to stick quietly to its pillars? Tell this metro to go away from here… (Kumar 2018, 28)

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Samar’s story reveals the other side of the coin too: the rapidity of the Metro and its predictability can turn into a missed opportunity of communication and commitments for the protagonists. DTC buses are uncomfortable and slow, but, at least, they offer the lovers a pretext to communicate and express their eagerness to meet (“where are you, when will you be here?”). Furthermore, in case they happen to take the same bus, they can travel close to each other without appearing inappropriate and being judged, as the choice to travel in separate couches and the mention of the Khap suggests. In the short story collection, the judgmental gaze of the society is not only represented by using the image of the Khap, but also through the presence of cameras and, most importantly, through the gaze of other people, whether they be taxi drivers, passers-by in a park, or university mates. Avoiding this gaze is one of the driving reasons for the couple to explore the city. Samar seems more concerned than his partner about the privacy of their relationship, to the point that he is even afraid to call her by her name when they are traveling together by bus. One passage in the book perfectly shows the change of behavior between the two youngsters when they pass from an unfamiliar to a familiar place: There was something about Dilli Haat. They would get lost together there, like lovers. Yet, why was it that once they started walking down from Mall Road, they walked more like brother and sister as they reached Hindu College. To go from a familiar place to the unfamiliar is what it takes for the city to happen in love. (Kumar 2018, 41)

On the one hand, being forced to roam to freely express themselves puts the couple in a disadvantaged position, while, on the other hand, this gives them the possibility to become connoisseurs of Delhi and grow through and with the city. Traveling synchronically, whether it be traveling by the same means of transport or coordinating to reach separately the same spot, is the peculiarity of these characters’ love relationship, an action that shows “the powerful sensory, aesthetic and embodied experiences of ‘travelling with’ a loved one on journeys both habitual and exceptional” (Pearce 2018, 788). Other than an enabler of romantic love, the Metro in A City Happens in Love is also depicted as a fundamental means to participating in the political life of the city. The importance of this infrastructure for the formation of political awareness in Delhi, and as a meeting point and vehicle

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to join protests, has already been highlighted by some researchers (Sadana 2012, 2019). One of the stories included in Kumar’s collection echoes these research findings: Shouting slogans at Jantar Mantar, they came close to each other. It seemed as if love had found the motive of life. Stricken by terror of their parents, they were swaying in joy here. After three days, when they saw their middle-­ class parents in that crowd, they ran away. She was cursing Anna now. As they ate ice-cream at India Gate, their grand vision of changing the country turned to strategizing to quickly reach home. (Kumar 2018, 79)

The excerpt refers to the protests in support of Anna Hazare, the leader of the Indian anti-corruption movement. On the 5th of April 2011, Hazare started a hunger strike at the Jantar Mantar temple of Delhi that was followed by peaceful demonstration and marches. The Delhi Metro became the protesters’ mover par excellence, to a degree that on the tenth day of the Hazare hunger strike, Delhi’s authorities decided to close four Metro stations to control the protest and make it more difficult for protesters to reach Jantar Mantar. From that moment on, it became the designed place in Delhi for demonstrations (Sadana 2012, 14). The protagonists of the above excerpt are a girl and a boy who use the Metro to reach, in a quick and anonymous way, the Jantar Mantar site to join one of these peaceful protests. This short story witnesses the inter-generational dimension of these marches and highlights, yet again, the importance of the crowd, both inside and outside the Metro, which can provide anonymity, hence freedom, by letting people blend in. The dream of independence is unfortunately shattered by the appearance of their parents, which is why the protagonists leave. Once more, the crowd proves to be an element of protection as it hides the youngsters from their parents’ gaze, allowing them to leave safely. One of the interesting aspects of A City Happens in Love is the range of experiences and point of views on im/mobilitites offered by its characters. Kumar not only writes about middle-class, local young people, but also about young people who have moved to the city from rural areas to work and study. When analyzing im/mobilities in Delhi, narratives about and written by young rural migrants cannot be ignored. Not only do these migrants contribute to the economic and cultural growth of the city—the author himself is proof of that—their extensive presence changes the morphology and functioning of the city; suffice to say that in 2001 more than

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3,500,000 rural migrants were registered in Delhi (Kumar and Das 2012, 1889). An interesting account of the relationship between mobility, class, and love is offered by the figure of a boy from a rural area who is a student in one of the city’s colleges: Couples on foot are often jealous of couples in cars. The insane dhinchak music from the cars coming out of Khalsa College and the girl sitting on the front seat. By the time he’d walk to Mall Road, he’d write a thesis on the side-effects of being rich. Economic disparity changes the meaning of love. What would the car owners emerging from Khalsa know of the love of those below the poverty line! Just going to Kamla Nagar and having ice-cream at Chacha’s is not the only test of love. (Kumar 2018, 43)

And: Leaving his annoying friends, he’d walk every day at 4 p.m. towards the P.G. Women’s Hostel. Outside the hostel, while talking about life, land and love, he’d keep shoving Marxism in. Sometimes he would say he’s a landlord from beyond the Ganga and sometimes he’d claim to be a dirt poor. If the girls of Delhi did not have so much stamina for listening, these migrant heroes from U.P.-Bihar wouldn’t have had a chance in hell to become artists! (Kumar 2018, 44–45)

Although the only immediate information about this character are his gender (male), provenience (a rural area), and the purpose of his stay in Delhi (study), it is possible to get a sense of the character from other details. In the whole collection, the only movement verb associated with this character is the Hindi verb calna, ‘to walk’ and, despite the different identities he declares to the girl he meets out of the Women’s Hostel, he seems to empathize more with people below the poverty line than with the students driving a car. His experience of the city and urban mobilities is that of a young resident to whom walking is the best way to move as it is a way to save money. He may envy the well-off students of Khalsa College who seem thoughtless while riding their car, and he may move slower than the two roaming lovers, but he does not renounce exploring Delhi and the opportunities it offers. His disadvantages, namely his condition as a rural migrant, may also occasionally become strengths that makes him mysterious and charming in the eyes of new people he meets. Although the collection’s characters move through the city in diverse ways, the most frequently mentioned transport is the Metro. This mobility

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system gives to the Delhites a new awareness of their city and its geographical limits, which are not represented by natural elements such as rivers, oceans, or mountains, but by its satellite cities. Here, the Metro seems to be the guarantor of young people’s freedom and expressive possibilities, and the crowd protects them from the judgmental gaze of society, whether it be represented by the family or institutions such as the Khap panchayats. Thanks to the Metro lines, the liminal and central areas of the city—and their residents—are connected as never before. With an affordable price—one ride costs between 10 and 40 rupees—and positive reputation for safety, especially by women (Sadana 2010; Tayal and Kapur Mehta 2021), the Metro provides a traveling option for people across different genders, and social and geographical backgrounds. The Metro crowd is diverse (students, both locals and outsiders, working class urban commuters, workers in the financial district in New Delhi, etc.) and this may lead to thinking of the Metro as a facilitator for social changes and cohesion.5 The mobility experiences of the characters seem quite positive and, even when they cannot extensively move through the city, they find in Delhi a place where other kinds of mobilities, like social and cultural mobilities, are accessible. A City Happens in Love conveys a very reassuring picture of the mobility in Delhi, in which almost every city dweller can access public transport and enjoy the freedom of movement. Here, physical mobility is strongly connected to the idea of an improved life and personal and social progress. Quite a different portrayal of Delhi’s im/ mobilities is conveyed in Trickster City.

Significant Absences: Moving by the DTC Buses The DTC buses are the oldest public transport in the city, and they have been managed by the Ministry of Transport since 1948 (Department of Delhi Transport Corporation 2022), which also oversees other on-ground transport in the city. According to a survey conducted by the Government of National Capital Territory of Delhi, in 2006 the city had one of India’s largest bus transport systems and buses were the most popular means of transport covering about 60% of Delhi’s commuters’ total demand (Government of National Capital Territory of Delhi 2006, 131). As discussed above, nowadays the needs of Delhi commuters are mostly fulfilled 5  For a broader analysis of transport as a space of encounters for diverse segments of the society, see Wilson (2011), Bissell (2016), and Koefoed et al. (2017).

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by the Metro; however, the DTC buses remain an important facility for many city dwellers. As Waquar Ahmed points out in a study published in 2011, laborers in Delhi tend to commute the distance between their house and workplace by bus because it is the most convenient choice from both economic and environmental perspectives. Even though bicycles are environmentally friendlier than buses, traveling long distances every day by bike can be exhausting. Further, some residents cannot even afford to purchase a bicycle (Ahmed 2011, 178). In 2010, the year of the publication of Trickster City, the Delhi Metro was one of the cheapest subways in the world. Still, there were residents who preferred the bus as some Metro rides were more than twice the cost of the bus (Sadana 2010, 82). A study conducted by Anand and Tiwari highlights the connection between the lack of mobility and low-income jobs, especially for women, in Delhi (2006), where buses are a resource for women who do not have a work contract or who belong to the category of daily wage earners (Tayal and Kapur Mehta 2021, 406). In December 2019, the government of the city tried to support women’s mobility by allowing them to take buses for free with a pink ticket that they receive when they get on the bus (Press Trust of India 2019). According to a survey on bus users lead by the DTC, between March and July 2021, when the fourth wave of the Covid-19 pandemic had not yet started in Delhi and the public transport were running at their full capacity, the issuing of pink tickets reached its peak (Goswami 2021). Although buses are a marginal presence in A City Happens in Love when compared to the Metro, the characters of Kumar’s collection rely on them much more than those of Trickster City. The latter, authored by 20 writers, all practitioners in the Cybermohalla Project (2001–2013) and living in bastis and resettlement colonies, focuses on life in disadvantaged areas as well as on the experience of eviction and forced relocation. The means of transport that feature most frequently in this collection are private cars, belonging to functionaries who reach the bastis to conduct surveys; DDA’s trucks, used by the officers to break into the bastis; and the bulldozers that appear in the writings concerning the demolition of Nangla Manchi. In addition to the DTC buses, the only public transport mentioned in the volume is the train, which makes its appearance in the stories portraying the arrival of urban migrants to the city. There is no mention of the Metro in the entire work. The following is an excerpt from “The House That Remained the Same” by Lakhmi Chand Kohli, one of the very few contributions in Trickster City involving DTC buses:

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Nirmalaji stood in the middle of the street and spoke out. It had been two months since she had relocated, with her family, to that bald expanse of land which later grew and became known in the city as Dakshinpuri Colony. Nirmalaji had one child-a daughter-by then. […] Her husband was bedridden. […] Nirmalaji knew the responsibility of running the house now lay on her. […] She began to work in houses in East of Kailash. Washing clothes would earn her seventy rupees; preparing breakfast: fifty rupees; cleaning utensils: seventy rupees; sweeping and mopping a house: one hundred rupees. Her husband did not approve, but he was in no condition to even get out of bed. […] Nirmalaji continued to go to work, accompanied by the woman who earned her living by ironing clothes. Buses had not yet begun to ply in Dakshinpuri. Everyone used to walk to work. (Tabassum et  al. 2010, 110–111)

Nirmalaji is one of the residents of Nangla Manchi who was relocated to the Dakshinipuri resettlement colony together with her family. Here is how a part of the resettlement colony appeared in early 2022 (Fig. 10.1). Her husband is bedridden; hence, to support her family, she starts

Fig. 10.1  Houses in Dakshinpuri seen from the colony’s public park, this latter adjacent to the Jahanpanah City Forest. Dakshinpuri, New Delhi, January 2022. (Photo of the author)

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working out of her domestic environment for the first time in her life. According to a report of the Hazards Centre, most of the informal workers who provide inexpensive services to the more affluent urban areas are recruited from Delhi’s disadvantaged areas (Hazards Centre 2001  in Anand and Tiwari 2006, 64). The services these workers provide in welloff colonies include, but are not limited to, drivers, private house guards, and domestic helpers. Women form an important part of this workforce (Anand and Tiwari 2006, 63). Nirmalaji is one of them and, as many female bastis residents, she is employed as a domestic worker in a middleclass neighborhood. In their inquiry on the use of transport by low-income women in Delhi, Anand and Tiwari (2006) show that the people who suffer the most from forced eviction are those lacking economic and political power, that is, low-income social groups, women, and ethnic and religious minorities. When relocated, these people not only suffer from the lack of facilities that may occur in remote areas of the city but also the disruption of the bond with their land and community. This is the case of Nirmalaji who, like many other characters in Trickster City, experiences forced separation from her community, namely the former residents of Nangla Manchi. In addition to the difficulties of settling into a new house and looking for a job in “The House That Remained the Same”, the violence of separation from the community is expressed through Dakshinpuri residents’ rumors and slanders—to the detriment of Nirmalaji and her husband. The hostility of the new neighborhood is targeted against Nirmalaji’s husband, an unemployed man married to a worker woman. Without the support of their community, which would have understood the reason for such a ‘singular’ condition, the couple finds itself isolated and their integration into the new area extremely difficult. One morning, Nirmalaji decides to go out on the lane and raise her voice against the accusations aimed at herself and her husband: “I have stepped out of my house to be able to support my family. Because I know my family will stand by me, support me. Then why should I not do something for it?” (Tabassum et al. 2010, 113). After speaking out, the rumors cease, and the woman keeps commuting every day to her workplace. When she was relocated in Dakshinpuri, the area was not served by any bus, and she had to walk for one hour to reach East of Kailash. To save money, she continued to walk to work even when the buses began to operate in the resettlement colony. Indeed, to commute from Dakshinpuri to East of Kailash, one should take two buses that reach the destination in around one hour. Nowadays, the closest Metro

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station to Dakshinpuri is Kalkaji Mandir Metro station, on the purple line, reachable after more than half-an-hour of walking. The main character of this short story may be fictional, but her experiences represent a reality for most of the informal workers that commute daily from the urban outskirts to various areas of Delhi. In big cities, the work-related choices of women rely on their access to transportation. In some areas of Delhi, women are engaged in twice as much reproductive labor than men (Atluri 2016, 224); hence, they seek jobs that allow them to move quickly between the house and the workplace. For some of them, a quick route still includes one hour of commuting, as it is for Nirmalaji. It is not only a matter of time, but of safety as women are at risk of harassment while walking to their workplace, bus, or metro station (Anand and Tiwari 2006; Tayal and Kapur Mehta 2021). The introduction of the pink ticket reduced the impact of these factors, in particular the financial concern, in the life of working women, especially those who live in remote areas of the city and avoid the Metro for financial and geographical reasons like the female characters depicted in Trickster City. “Bus Number 949” by Janu Nagar, a very short text composed of only two paragraphs, treats how bastis and resettlement colonies’ dwellers cope with the uneasy aspects of mobility: Bus Number 949 started out from Sarai Kale Khan bus depot. […] Familiar faces from Nangla were in the bus; they were setting out to Ghevra. […]It was a regular DTC bus, the kind found on any route. The bus halted briefly in front of Nangla Maanchi. […] Manusji also stepped into the bus. Returning from his village last night, he had got off at the Nizamuddin railway station. But there was no means of reaching Ghevra, and so he stayed the night at Nangla village. The bus started again. Crossing Delhi Sachivalaya, Rajghat, Delhi Gate, Zakir Husain College, Ajmeri Gate, Anand Parwat, Karol Bagh, Khalsa College, Punjabi Bagh, Peera Garhi Chowk, it travelled past Nangloi; and in an hour-and-a-half it turned towards Sawda-Ghevra. (Tabassum et al. 2010, 285–286)

This bus is the 949 Extended that connects Sarai Kale Khan in Southeast Delhi to the urban resettlement village of Sawda-Ghevra in the northwestern part of the city, where many people evicted from Nangla Manchi have been relocated. Here a detail of the basti after the demolition (Fig. 10.2). Sarai Kale Khan used to be a village, but the area has been progressively incorporated in the city until it became fully part of it. Today, this area is

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Fig. 10.2  Sign affixed in Nangla Village, South-East Delhi, where once was located the basti of Nangla Manchi. February 2022. (Photo of the author)

known for the Hazrat Nizamuddin Railway Station, one of the five most important stations in Delhi, and for being an important bus hub for interstate connections. Hence, it is not surprising to discover that this place is a terminal for buses to and from the outskirts of the city. The 949 Extended is very close to Sarai Kale Khan and one of the routes connecting the outskirts of Delhi. “Bus Number 949” is the only work in the entire volume that focuses exclusively on a bus. It is representative not only of the difficulties of moving between the peripheral and prominent areas but also illustrates fractured communities caused by relocation. Indeed, to complete the ride, the bus takes between one- to two-and-a-half hours. This misconnection makes it difficult for the relocated residents to reach the area in which they used to live and inevitably changes their daily habits, starting with their jobs. Commuting such a long distance every day is not simple and, to save time and money, many relocated people quit their job and look for new occupations close to the new settlement, often risking unemployment for a long time as happened to Nirmalaji’s husband in “The House That

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Remained the Same”. Only a few people relocated in Sawda-Ghevra were able to maintain their jobs in Sarai Kale Khan. According to one of those people, a tire collector in Nangla Village that I met in February 2022, the bus 949 Extended had been created to let the workers relocated in Sawda-­ Ghevra reach their workplaces and it runs twice a day. He said that, compared to 2006, the year of the relocation, the facilities and services in Sawda-Ghevra increased, even though the current situation is still not comparable to the one in Nangla Manchi. Although he has been commuting by the 949 Extended for years, he never noticed whether the presence of women on that bus increased after 2019, when the pink ticket measure entered into force. He affirmed that women in his family do not need to go to work nor leave Sawda-Ghevra since they belong to the middle class. To him, this is an additional reason not to pay particular attention to the mobility of women living in his resettlement colony. That same day, I talked to an elderly woman who used to live in Nangla Manchi with her family. She did not have the chance to relocate and, after the demolition, remained homeless. Some months before our meeting, she came back to the area in which she lived, now called Nangla Village (Fig. 10.3), and she built herself a shelter by using bricks and plastic tarps. According to her, a dozen people live in similar auto-constructions in that area. She expressed her regrets for not being able to see her friends relocated in other parts of the city precisely because of the scarcity of connections. As Trickster City is a work that deeply relies on the space of Delhi and the presence of its characters and authors in it, the almost total absence of the transportation dimension is striking. This absence, in my view, can be read as the irrelevance of the city’s public transport network to the life of certain dwellers, namely the low-income residents of underserved areas like Dakshinpuri and Sawda-Ghevra. Having such a marginal presence, transportation is not perceived as a life improver, and its potential cannot benefit certain categories of residents the same as it does others. Together with the account of the underdeveloped and inefficient quality of the transport network in some marginalized areas of Delhi, the experiences of Trickster City’s characters reflect the discomfort that many residents still associate with traveling by bus: slowness, crowdedness, lack of comfort, and so on. Writings such as “The House That Remained the Same” and “Bus Number 949” are fictional evidence of how deeply the presence or absence of a reliable transport network affects people’s lives and conditions their life choices. The more expensive and sparse transportation is, the more they affect residents’ life choices, further exacerbating class

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Fig. 10.3  The place where Nangla Manchi used to be. Nangla Village, Southeast Delhi. February 2022. (Photo of the author)

divisions in Delhi (Anand and Tiwari 2006, 78). Although the city’s public transport network has been improved since Bahurūpiyā s ́ahar was published (2007), some mobility-related concerns persist for the low-income urban dwellers of the areas of the city that lack facilities. A case in point is the village of Sawda-Ghevra. Ghevra, a bit further than three kilometers from the urban village of Sawda-Ghevra, is served by the green line of the Metro, which can be reached in ten minutes by bus from the village. If, at least for women, taking this bus no longer represents a financial concern, the economic factor persists for the village dwellers when it comes to use of the Metro.

Closing Remarks Urban transport and its effects on people’s lifestyles have become so prominent in urban contexts that they provide a ground and a pretext to reflect on the space also from a creative perspective. The works analyzed here are only two examples of the plethora of literary texts engaging with urban mobility, but they are, in my view, particularly significant for

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understanding the opportunities and limits of a city such as Delhi in terms of transport, especially public transportation. My aim while analyzing A City Happens in Love and Trickster City was not to compare the collections but rather to integrate the information they provide in order to include as many stories as possible concerning how young people and bastis residents move within Delhi and its satellite city and how deeply the access to public transport influences their lifestyle. What emerges from these writings is a quasi-opposite representation of the main public transport of the city, the Metro (comfortable, quick, and efficient) and the DTC buses (slow, uncomfortable, and scarcely reliable). The texts also convey the belief that a facilitated access to public transport can positively impact a dweller’s life as it fosters access to different areas of the city, as well as social mobility that physical mobility may entail. Furthermore, as in some of the writings in A City Happens in Love, public transportation guarantees an anonymity that facilitates the construction of independence, especially in the case of young people who try to affirm their individuality from the family. These literary works also highlight the contribution of transport networks in increasing the residents’ awareness of places in the city whose existence has been ignored for decades: such places now make their appearance on signals in metro stations and metro trains, remaining in the minds of millions of users of the Delhi Metro. The city is now connected as never before and the distances—and not only physical distances—between prominent and marginal areas seem shortened. However, Trickster City, imbued with the autobiographical experiences of its authors, shows that distances have not been shortened for everyone. Indeed, (public) transport may have shortened the distance between the outskirts and central areas, but this still depends on the financial condition of the residents. The experiences of the characters of Trickster City and some former residents of Nangla Manchi bear witness to how an unbalanced developing of the public transport network can sharpen class differences in the city. A City Happens in Love and Trickster City engage with multiple perspectives on mobility in Delhi and reflect on the immobility resulting from the unbalanced management of the city’s resources. The interaction with multiple points of view characterizing these literary works challenge narratives about disfavored neighborhoods in Delhi promoted by social actors far from these areas or interested in providing reasons to warrant their demolition or manipulation. Although sometimes seeming in conflict, the narratives in these works are not mutually exclusive: rather, they report in quite a comprehensive way the complexity of Delhi.

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PART III

Urban Liminalities

CHAPTER 11

Space, Borders, and Cognition in Urban Postmigration Literature Johan Schimanski

Living in cities is to encounter, cross, and live many kinds of borders and boundaries, both tangible and intangible. When we encounter, cross, and live with borders, we engage with border imaginaries, negotiating them with the help of thoughts and emotions. Recent work by James W. Scott (2021a, b) suggests a cognitive turn in border studies, and, more specifically, in the study of urban borders. The cognitive processes we go through when meeting borders involve embodied senses and movement, as well as the use of signs and representations, including literary texts. Here I will be using border poetics and cognitive theories of literature, along with related semiotic approaches to urban borders, to argue that literature can function as an extension of our minds which helps us understand, create, and overcome borders. Specifically, I will be investigating the interplay of borders and cognition in urban postmigration literature. Postmigration literature (Moslund 2015; Jagne-Soreau 2021) deals with

J. Schimanski (*) Department of Literature, Area Studies and European Languages, University of Oslo, Oslo, Norway e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 P. García, A.-L. Toivanen (eds.), Urban Mobilities in Literature and Art Activism, Literary Urban Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42798-5_11

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the experiences of living in social (often urban) settings that have been formed by migration; it extends on migration literature, the latter more concerned with the stories of migration itself. Protagonists in postmigration literature are often young adults who have grown up in families where one or both parents have migrated across national borders; sometimes they may see themselves as belonging to communities based around cultural diasporas or specific identities (e.g., “BAME”) that include people with different cultural backgrounds. Postmigration literature can move away from themes of migration and cultural conflict toward an everyday acceptance of cultural diversity, addressing themes not directly concerning migrant identity; it is often written in a more realist mode (Moslund 2015). I would argue that it still involves the crossing of borders, mostly the internal and more subtle borders of nations and indeed of cities, borders which can be seen as “infoldings” or extensions of the external borders of nations (Schimanski 2021). These borders, met on a repeated basis in the form of many micro-crossings and micro-encounters, are often the symbolic borders of culture, racialization, and—since many of these protagonists are young adults—age. However, I argue that these borders are not only symbolic, but can also be manifested spatially on the level of urban topography and embodied cognition. My departure point is a lyric poem published in Norwegian by Sarah Zahid, herself growing up in a postmigratory context in the Norwegian capital Oslo, born there in 1996 of parents who had migrated from Pakistan in the early 1980s (Zahid and Lereng 2017; Pedersen and Neverdal 2018, 46). The poem “alle må forlate toget” (Zahid 2018b)— meaning literally “everybody must leave the train”—was part of her debut collection La oss aldri glemme hvor godt det kan være å leve (“Let us never forget how good it can be alive”, Zahid 2018a), which addresses everyday issues concerning young people and cultural diversity in the suburbs. The title of the poem reproduces a standard underground or subway train announcement given at the end of a line. Here follows my attempt at a direct translation1: I fell asleep on the underground yesterday when the man with ski sticks woke me 1  The poem “alle må forlate toget” by Sarah Zahid (2018b) is reproduced in translation by kind permission of the author and the publishers Flamme forlag.

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I said sorry my apologies it was the last stop, Mortensrud I dreamt that I drowned in Akerselva the simplified traditional border between the east side and the west side the surface film was a magnifying glass on the bridge stood a teenage pair and locked on the padlock with S+S kissed the key hit me on the forehead (Zahid 2018b)

Typically for a city dweller, the narrator in the poem is both mobile and immobile. As a passenger she actively uses a mode of transport to traverse city space, but is also confined to the bordered space of the vehicle, lacking the agency of steering. She experiences stasis in an underwater space in a divided city, a space that is contradictory, heterotopic, and liminal at the same time, but also a space that is set within the space of flânerie formed around a city river. In his Towards a City of Thresholds, Stavros Stavrides writes that “[b]eyond and against the city of enclaves, heterotopic spaces mark thresholds in space and time where dominant order and control are questioned” (2010, 20); one question the poem poses is whether the narrator can cross the thresholds she is presented with and transform her social identity (cf. Stavrides 2010, 19). In doing so, she might “discover the otherness hidden beneath the uniformity of modern urban phantasmagoria” (Stavrides 2010, 78), thus opening her heterotopic space into a space of encounter, a “threshold” (ibid., 40, 81). The context of the poetry collection the poem appeared in (Zahid 2018a), as I will be arguing, makes clear that she negotiates urban borders as a postmigratory subject. An initial border poetics analysis (Schimanski 2006) of the poem will identify topographical borders dividing between parts of the city, water, and air, and the inside and outside of the narrator’s body; symbolic borders between for example the tradition social communities of East and West Oslo, socialization and exclusion, being alive and

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been dead; temporal borders to do with being placed in a limbo or waiting position, a liminal threshold between the present and the future; textual borders between parts of the poem, the title of the poem and the text of the poem, and between the poem and its readers; and epistemological borders between being awake and dreaming, and between not knowing the meaning of the poem and possibly knowing it. I will be arguing that this final epistemological border is regulated by specific cognitive mechanisms that enable both the narrator and readers to negotiate urban borders. I will be carrying out various mappings, the first onto the topographical space of Oslo, the second onto the textual surface of the poem, the third onto the cognitive and emotional processes of readers as they read the poem, and the fourth onto the postmigratory spaces of Oslo and the symbolic values attributed to those spaces. These mappings are necessary in addressing the underlying theoretical question, that of literature’s role as a cognitive instrument when negotiating borders. These mappings done, I will be able to ask how they can play into a cognitive turn in border studies and then into the broader spaces of migration and postmigration literature, especially in the Norwegian context.

Mapping Topographical Borders The title of the poem—implying a location at the end of an underground line—invites us to map out the poem onto an urban space, as do the two place names “Mortensrud”, the last stop on the line and a suburb on the Southeast side of Oslo, the capital city of Norway, and “Akerselva”, the main river of the city (Fig. 11.1). Akerselva (literally “the Aker river”) is not a major river, the natural harbor of Oslo being formed by the end of a fjord rather than by a river mouth. Akerselva is only 8.2 kilometers long, stretching from a lake in the hills and forests above the city to the waterfront. During those 8.2 kilometers, the river falls 149 meters, and there are 20 waterfalls along its length, creating a steep flow that has established Akerselva’s significance in the social and mental geography of Oslo. In the late 1800s, many factories utilizing waterpower to drive their mills were established along the river. While housing was built for factory workers mainly on the East side of the river, the more well-off lived on the West side of the river, protected by an area of higher ground from the smoke and smells of the factories. The previous reestablishment of the town in the Early Modern period had already shifted the center of government and other major institutions to

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Fig. 11.1  A map of Oslo showing the Akerselva river in the middle, the forests and fjord around the city, and other places mentioned in the text. (Map drawn by Johan Schimanski)

the West side of the river. This geographical shift helped create the two halves of Oslo mentioned in the poem, with toponyms that refer metonymically to borders: “Østkanten” and “Vestkanten”, literally the “East Edge” and the “West Edge” (kant “edge” can also mean “place” or “direction”). This East-West division of Oslo is strengthened by a perception of the town as placed in a band between the forests and hills to the north and the waters of the fjord to the south, with newer developments (including Mortensrud) east of the Fjord. The social hierarchies involved in the division—a symbolic social border juxtaposed onto a topographical border—brought about certain value ascriptions that are carefully inverted

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by Zahid, who mentions Østkanten before Vestkanten rather than the other way around (Fig. 11.2). As many theorists of the border have reminded us, borders are ambivalent: they are both divides and places of joining, they are both walls and rivers. Zahid’s poem describes how two teenage lovers hang a padlock on a bridge, presumably Hengelåsbrua (“the padlock bridge”) or Kjærlighetsbroen (“the love bridge”), a modern pedestrian bridge connecting the Oslo National Academy of Arts, housed in what was Fig. 11.2  One of the waterfalls on the Akerselva river in Oslo, with the old sail factory (now part of the Oslo National Academy of the Arts), taken from Hengelåsbrua (“the padlock bridge”) or Kjærlighetsbroen (“the love bridge”). (Photograph by Johan Schimanski)

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previously a sail-making factory, with the West side of the river. This bridge is the Oslo equivalent of padlock bridges in many cities, for example in Paris or Helsinki, where lovers symbolically signify their love by attaching padlocks with their names or initials on them to the bridge railings. In the case of Oslo, the bridge also connects the two sides of the river and of Oslo. In the poem, the division between East and West is overwritten by the identical pair of letters “S+S” on the padlock. Incidentally, the bridge also marks a border on the river, with the fishing of salmon in the river not being allowed above this bridge. The salmon are just one sign of the renovation and gentrification of the river, with most of the factories along the river now housing creative industries and schools. The riverbanks themselves have been landscaped into a city nature walk, a space of flânerie. If Akerselva is, as the poem states, “the simplified / traditional / border” between East and West, this border covers up a complex, postmodern landscape which creates new borders as older class boundaries are ethnicized and different groups are either included or indeed excluded though gentrification (Fig. 11.3).2 The poem does not mention the fish, but does stage an imaginary, underwater dweller: the speaker of the poem, who finds herself in a seemingly nightmarish state in Akerselva. She has drowned but is somehow still

Fig. 11.3  Hengelåsbrua (“the padlock bridge”) or Kjærlighetsbroen (“the love bridge”) on the Akerselva river in Oslo. (Photograph by Johan Schimanski) 2

 “den forenklede / tradisjonelle / grensen” (Zahid 2018b).

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conscious when she is hit on her forehead, not by a fishing hook, but by the key thrown by the lovers. The poem thus invokes another topographical border, not one dividing a horizontal plane between East and West, but one dividing a vertical axis between air and water: what the poem calls “the surface film” of the river. This more micro-scale perspective relates to another micro-level topographical border, that between the two lovers as they kiss, with the lock and the key evoking the idea of an enclosing barrier which might be unlocked. The perspective from beneath the water provides a version of what Anna-Leena Toivanen (2023) has called the “peripheral vision” of migration narratives on urban spaces, a form of vision that “brings to light elements that otherwise remain out of sight, and in doing so complements the understanding of what constitutes the centre” (2023, 80). Crucially, for Toivanen, “peripheral vision” is a product of bodily mobility, which would extend to urban postmigrants from the suburbs journeying into the city center, or the action of submersing oneself in a river. Whereas Akerselva constitutes an inner border in the topography of Oslo, the other specific place name mentioned, Mortensrud, points toward the (South-)Eastern part of the city and its outer borders, it being an outer suburb at the end of the underground line (here running overground) connecting it to the city center. Names with the morphological ending -rud also point to a peripherality, originally being names for farms established by clearing land in an uninhabited part of the forest. We can assume that most readers who can read this poem in Norwegian will have a superficial or deeper knowledge of the geography of the capital city Oslo, though one would not expect them (and perhaps not even the author) necessarily to be familiar with fishing limits or the etymologies of place names. Some readers will expect having to do due diligence in acquiring background knowledge which allows them to understand poetic allusions which refer to only partly familiar historical and cultural contexts. Reproducing the poem as I do in English translation will, furthermore, introduce it to readers unfamiliar with the urban topography concerned. However, the poem still gives enough information and bodily cues to allow the reader to create situation models of what is happening (cf. Caracciolo and Kukkonen 2021, 6–7), feeding on their spatial experiences of other urban geographies. As Elleke Boehmer writes in a cognitive reading of a poem by W. B. Yeats, “we don’t need to know about the Coleridge passage to process the simile. Much more significant for our imaginative processes at this point are the poem’s kinesic effects” (Boehmer 2018,

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31). The situation models produced would involve not only our experiences of waking and drowning, but also of urban spaces structured by historically layered boundaries between two sides of a city and between its center and periphery, along with city rivers, padlock bridges, and end stations. Readers can then apply their situation models in their negotiation of other urban topographies. In this and many other poems, the embodied self of the protagonist negotiating different spaces and boundaries becomes a crucial instrument which the reader can use to thicken and develop their cognition of urban space and borders.

Mapping Textual Borders What Zahid has done in her poem is a form of mental mapping, that is, a mapping of an individual’s perception of a geographical space (Lynch 1960). The place names in the poem invite one to imagine a map of the city, but a map loaded with sociological and psychological values related to an individual experience of the world. Crucially, however, because her mental map is a poem and not an actual map, and because we expect poets to invest energy in designing textual forms, we do have to address questions of the formal surface of the poem as a text, with its textual borders, which are sometimes juxtaposed on the topographical borders discussed in the previous section. Lyrical poems are forms of bordered language, language that usually has been divided by line and sometimes verse breaks, sometimes also by metric schemes, or sections according to themes or modes of expression. Variants of such textual borders include the border between the title of a poem and its main text, or a border created through a turn or reversal of thought—the poetic volta—usually placed toward the end of the poem. In Zahid’s poem, we find a volta between the word “kissed” and the next line “the key hit me”, with the last two lines of the poem—“the key hit me / on the forehead”—ironically undercutting the image of the teenage pair.3 In a free-form poem such as Zahid’s, line breaks often coincide with the borders between syntactic units, but some time they fall within such units, creating poetic enjambments in a way that can produce a momentary ambiguity as the reader waits for the meaning to be supplemented after the break. In this poem, this happens at the end of line 3 of the poem, creating a sense of confusion, since “I fell asleep […] when [a person] 3

 “kyssa / nøkkelen traff meg / i panna” (Zahid 2018b).

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woke me” seems to involve a contradiction (how can one fall asleep and wake up at the same time?)—at least until the next line makes clear that the pronoun “when” refers to the action “I said” in the following line.4 The most obvious textual break in the poem, besides that between the title reproducing to a piece of public discourse and the main, more private text, is that between the two narrative threads that it contains. The first thread is about falling asleep, having a dream, and being woken up on an underground train, while the second, which takes place in a dream, is about drowning in a river and being hit on the forehead by a key thrown by two lovers. However, also typical for poems is the construction of formal and symbolic connections and entanglements between different sections of the text, across textual borders. Both narrative threads relate to “others”, one a man with ski sticks and the other two lovers. These are characterized not only being unknown strangers, but by their sense of homogeneity. Ski sticks are a mark of stereotypical Norwegianness (Norwegians known for being “born with skis on”) and the lovers’ initials are the same (“S+S”, Zahid 2018b). While this homogeneity or sameness is positioned on traditional geographical borders and can signify the overcoming of traditional differences, the speaker finds herself bordered. She becomes a sleeping or drowned outsider contrasted against these others, situated in liminal spaces. In both sections, symbolic borders are projected onto topographical borders. In the first, the outer border of Oslo, the end of the line, can be read as a metaphor for a symbolic ending, perhaps the point of death, and rebirth (as the speaker awakes). This meaning is strengthened if one reads the title “everybody must leave [forlate] the train”5 without thinking of its usual context as an announcement on the underground, but with “everybody” (alle) meaning literally all people, and the train meaning metaphorically life (cf. the Norwegian idiom å forlate livet, literally “to leave life”, meaning “to die”). In the second section, Oslo’s inner border is projected on a vertical border between air and water and again on the symbolic border between life and death, with the speaker drowned in the river. However, the final line pair, marked out by both lines consisting of four syllables, relates to the previous part of the text more by contrast than similarity, consistent with the concept of the poetic volta. The contrast between the love of the lovers and the violence of the key hitting the 4 5

 “jeg sovna […] / da mannen […] / vekket meg / sa jeg” (Zahid 2018b).  “alle må forlate toget” (Zahid 2018b).

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drowned speaker’s forehead sets up an ironic turn. The two narratives of the poem describe situations on an urban threshold, first crossing the border and then being held captive by it. However, the parallel between being awoken by ski sticks and hit by a key, along with irony of the final turn, may suggest that the captivity described is only temporary. The poem opens up the possibility that the lovers’ success in overcoming the border between each other, symbolized through the padlock, might be transferable to the speaker, creating a threshold of potentiality in which she is reborn from her drowned state. Ski sticks, a falling key, and an ironic turn conclude the two plot threads of traveling and drowning, along with a third plot thread, that of the reader reading the poem and making different interpretations possible. Textual borders such as enjambments and voltas, with their sense of stopping and starting, or of turns, help the reader feel a sense of bodily movement and motor resonance (Caracciolo and Kukkonen 2021, 7) which encourages them to progress with their reading. They also involve the reader in the cascading feedback loops involved in predictive processing, encouraging the reader to update their unconscious predictions as the text fails to match their intuitions (Caracciolo and Kukkonen 2021, 7). The feedback loops in Zahid’s poem are designed to create miniature border zones in which the reader loses a sense of control, much as does the sleeping, dreaming, or drowned speaker. Textual borders, bodily movements, and predictive processes are juxtaposed with the topographical and symbolic thresholds experienced by the speaker, as she negotiates her path through urban environments and through life. Again, I refer to Boehmer’s reading (2018) of Yeats’s poem, “Long-­ Legged Fly” (1992, 386–7), a poem which like Zahid’s involves the surface of a watercourse in an image of cognition and which also addresses larger social contexts and historical changes. Without using the term, Boehmer also refers to various textual borders and how each of them “holds up or stills the poem’s lyrical momentum forwards” (2018, 30), as she writes about the refrain that ends each strophe. She emphasizes how their structuring of the “now pausing, now flowing motions” (ibid., 33) of the poem come together with its motifs, encouraging the reader to think of cognition as a carefully balanced movement like that of the fly balancing of the surface tension of the water. Likewise, Zahid’s poem encourages a sense of transfer between textual borders and motifs. Each time the speaker is startled by ski sticks or a key out of a sleeping or drowned state, the reader is startled by textual borderings out of their

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established understanding of what is happening and is slowly forced to make a new interpretation. Dreaming, immersion, and reading are aligned in the poem’s “peripheral vision”.

Mapping Cognitive Borders Literary texts do not exist by themselves; they are not only crossed by symbolic and argumentative connections, but also by readers. In cognitive terms, texts are designed to provide affordances for the reader, becoming part of our extended minds, that is, a form of thinking and feeling that takes place partly outside the mind and beyond the boundaries of the body, or at least provides what is often called a “scaffolding” (another border figuration) for our thought and emotions (Clark and Chalmers 1998; Clark 2007; Sterelny 2010). As Terence Cave writes, “literary works make you think differently” (2016, 5). The question thus remains, how is this poem designed to do this? Previous approaches to cognitive studies are seen as having treated the mind as a computer or as purely biologically determined (Newen et  al. 2018, 5). Second-generation cognitive studies (Kukkonen and Caracciolo 2014) balances out this tendency by placing thought processes in the context of material practices, culture, and emotions. Within 4E approaches to cognition (Newen et al. 2018), cognition is seen as crossing the physical borders of the body in our daily practices, through Embodiment, Enactment, Embedding, and Extension. Using this paradigm, cognitive approaches to literature would see Zahid’s poem as being an extension of our thought processes. These extensions are embedded in our environments, which include cultural contexts such as those which might be found in a city such as Oslo. They are enactive in the sense that we are engaged with a poem and the environments and bordered spaces it deals with through the feedback loops, in this case structured by textual borders. Embodiment is especially relevant to the questions of urban space, mobilities, and borders raised in Zahid’s poem, since it allows readers to experience bodily presence or motion, be it through the positioning of the speaker’s body and its subjection to physical acts or through the rhythm of textual borders. Perceptions of space and of movement (e.g., through border-crossing) create in the reader a sensorimotor enactment of their body (Kuzmičová 2012), as their mirror neurons fire (Glenberg and Gallese 2012) in response to descriptions of the spaces and movements experienced by

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characters (Cave 2016, 17). This process has been called “kinesis” (Bolens 2018), and more specifically related to motor resonance (Zwaan and Taylor 2006). I would argue that the perceptions of immobility invoked in Zahid’s poem—its strongly bordered spaces, its narratives of captivity, or in-betweenness—would also elicit such responses, either on the level of bodily movement or somatic tensions. Cognitive approaches, with their focus on the process of thinking through literature and embodiment of movement, see reading as involving various “mobilities” and stand in opposition to more “sedentarist” theories of literature, to appropriate terms from Mimi Sheller and John Urry’s article “The New Mobilities Paradigm” (2006). The protagonist’s body is central to the description of spaces in Zahid’s poem, be it when she is woken up after dream at the end of an underground line, is implicitly threatened by the possibility of being prodded by ski sticks, drowns in Akerselva, experiences the world through the “magnifying glass” of the “surface film” of the river (a form of extension of the visual apparatus),6 or is hit on the forehead by a falling key. In each case, the borders of the body are referred to, if sometimes in a doubling or extension. The different invocations of the narrator’s body are parts of a series of cognitive acts described as involving real or metaphorical movement. Cave (2016, 120) argues that kinesic cognition of the kind described above melts together with depicted cognition in the act of reading. In Zahid’s poem, the dreaming, submersion, magnification, and awakening experienced by the narrator can be read as images of reading, connected to cognitive questions of mind-wandering, readerly immersion, distantiation/defamiliarization, and enlightenment. Indeed, the protagonist’s suspended position in the water of Akerselva would allay any theoretical unease about the “immersion” metaphor read as implying that readers are “either immersed or not immersed in a text, just as one can either be inside or outside a room” (Caracciolo and Kukkonen 2021, 41–42, cf. Kuzmičová 2012, 33). In line with thinking on the ambiguity of borders in border studies (both inside and outside, neither inside nor outside), readerly immersion could be more specifically as a dynamic state of suspension involving outer engagement as well as inner focus. Indeed, the protagonist seems only partially drowned, still being able to use the “surface film” of the river as a “magnifying glass” with which to see the two lovers. 6

 “overflatehinnen var forstørrelsesglass” (Zahid 2018b).

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Motor resonance can also be evoked by textual rhythms (Cave 2016, 39; Caracciolo and Kukkonen 2021, 111, 135). As I have suggested in the analysis of textual borders above, we are as readers not only engaged in a mirroring of the protagonist—vicariously feeling through her bodily presence and movement—but also relating bodily to textual rhythms, structures, and borders. The textual borders involved in the poem’s formal devices regulate readers’ cognitive acts. We have already seen how such borders can set up ambiguous moments, through the cognitive dynamic of “predictive processing” (Clark 2013) which Karin Kukkonen (2014, 2020) has posited as part of readers’ progression through texts, during which they regularly go through enactive feedback loops of prediction error. Kukkonen mainly deals with prose narratives such as novels; my reading here helps show how the concept of predictive processing may be relevant to the more condensed scale of lyric poetry. Even when borders (e.g., geopolitical borders) can have very real effects, it can be very difficult to locate them exactly. This is because they happen on many different dimensions, both material and imaginary, allowing for imprecise juxtapositions, in-betweens, border zones, liminalities, and folds (Schimanski 2006). This principle of a dissemination of what initially seems to be an exact and singular phenomenon across space and time applies also to textual borders. Dividing a literary text into sections based around themes or different epistemological states (such as awakening on a train or being in a dream) can be easier than saying exactly where these divisions are located. For example, can we simply place the textual border between the main two parts of the poem (reawakening, drowning) at the line break before the phrase “I dreamt that”, or should the break be placed after that phrase, immediately before the theme of drowning begins, between “I dreamt that” and “I / drowned in Akerselva”?7 Enjambments and other ways of confusing the location of textual borders are designed to force the reader into predictions and prediction errors. Forms of prediction are typical of many kinds of border-crossing, creating not only ambiguous in-between spaces and border zones, but also epistemological ambiguities in narratives of border-crossing, often featuring elements of figural language (Moretti 1998, 45), fiction, lies, and the fantastic (Schimanski 2015). With help of these ambiguities, borders help pull readers through the poem, contributing to their sense of movement and thus embodiment. 7

 “jeg drømte at jeg / drukna i Akerselva” (Zahid 2018b).

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Poems are also designed to make readers respond to them emotionally, and, in recent cognitive approaches, emotions are seen as part of thinking (Caracciolo and Kukkonen 2021, 7). In Zahid’s poem, the awakening on the train can be felt to be abrupt and threatening, as does the violent collision of key and forehead. The fact that the speaker is held captive under the surface of the water means that she is kept outside the world of the two lovers. She is figured as an alienated outsider, not part of the togetherness of society, somebody who has to apologize, perhaps simply somebody who is kept out of a love relationship. The images of reaching the end of the line, leaving the train, and drowning indicate a melancholy focus on death. However, the poem also hints at a threshold of rebirth, not only in the figure of the lovers, but also with the speaker awaking on the train and being given a key. The emotional dimension also contributes to the rhythm and pull of the poem, with the reader not only shocked by the violent collisions described, but also subjected to the vertigo of enjambments and voltas.

Mapping Postmigratory Borders The falling key is perhaps also the key to the speaker’s own identity in Zahid’s poem, if we follow the lyric convention of identifying the speaker with the poet and go so far as to read the initial “S” in “S+S” (Zahid 2018b) as an inscription of the speaker/poet’s own name, “Sarah”. In this case, the “S+S” could indicate her not having a “significant other”, of only relating to herself. “S+S” could, however, also refer to identity itself as a relation. As Jacques Derrida has pointed out (1992, 9–10), identity and home are a matter of self-difference. The “S+S” on the falling key is a message in this case that identity is something one “has” rather than something one “is”. Identity implies looking in from the outside, seeing something in the self that connects one to something outside the self; it implies crossing an internal border. This crossing of an internal border of identity is also staged in the poem “alle må forlate toget” on the level of geography. The poem is the only place in the collection it appeared in (Zahid 2018a) where the word “grense” (“border”) is used explicitly. However, connecting the textual space of the poem to lived postmigratory spaces in Oslo is only possible through indirect references. The division between the East and West sides of Oslo has increasingly become associated in the public imagination with ethnic borders rather than purely class borders. The endings of underground lines on the

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east side of Oslo can be associated with satellite suburbs with many inhabitants with a migration background. The ski sticks can function as an ethnic marker of the ‘white’ or ‘ethnically Norwegian’. The poem becomes more clearly about postmigration when it is related to the rest of the book. The book’s title addresses the theme of life and death which is one of the underlying themes of the poem. More importantly, however, the collection takes the form of a coherent whole, divided into three sections with thematic titles. In its entirety, the collection addresses themes of hybrid identity, alienation, and freedom, voiced and seen through what we can presume to be the same speaker and focalizer throughout (barring short extracts of direct speech or public discourse). The speaker’s postmigratory background is often made explicit, and we are implicitly invited, as often in lyric poetry, to identify their protagonist with the poet herself (thus my use of the pronoun “she” about the speaker above);8 Zahid, like the protagonist of the poems, is a child of immigrants. The collection dwells to a large degree on life (1) growing up in a satellite suburb, Holmlia, with a large population with a migrant background, (2) moving with her family to a nearby more affluent suburb, Bjørndal, on the edge of the forest surrounding Oslo, and (3) as a young adult traveling back and forth between her home in the suburbs and the city center, where she goes to a school, visits cafés, theaters and cinemas, comes to know the Akerselva river and ultimately finds a publisher (the latter not mentioned in the poems, but clearly announced on the book’s cover, first page, and colophon). Throughout Zahid’s book, the protagonist encounters the topographical borders of urban, architectural, and bodily spaces in a way that invokes the different planes addressed in border poetics analysis (Schimanski 2006) mentioned above: not only topographical borders, but also the symbolic borders of culture and hybridity, the temporal borders crossed when growing up, associated epistemological borders signalled especially in a number of poems that pose questions (e.g., the title-less poem “hvem holder oppe…”, “who keeps standing…”, Zahid 2018a, 10), and the textual borders of lyric poetry. 8  Zahid has herself indicated that the collection is autobiographical (Engelsen 2022). Even though this poem is probably more often encountered in the printed rather than the spoken version, I have chosen the term ‘speaker’ as a convenient replacement of the more precise but cumbersome ‘enunciator’, which would also cover ‘narrator’ as well as ‘lyrical I’ (the enunciator of the poem is both).

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A poetic volta before the final line or line pair appears in many of the poems, usually given an ironic turn that undercuts the preceding text, crossing not only a textual but also an epistemological border. One of the poems (Zahid 2018a, 64), “1274 Oslo”, consists only of a ‘final’ line pair, creating a volta with no preceding text (besides the title): “here they believe in the truth / it is not a miracle”.9 The title refers to the postcode for Bjørndal, the more ‘ethnically Norwegian’ suburb the protagonist’s family moves to as she is on the verge of becoming an adult. The postcode begins with “12” rather that the “01” that designates the city center in Oslo postcodes and reminds us of the kind of spatial division present in main migration and postmigration literary narratives (for the use of postcodes by the author Léonora Miano as symbolizing marginalization, see Moji 2022, 10). In this case, the postcode symbolizes the modern infrastructure of post-war, welfare state Norway, and the irony here is turned precisely on to a lack of irony that is also is a symbolic border, since lack of irony is sometimes part of a stereotypical image of ‘ethnic Norwegians’. A similar two-line poem, the untitled “du er ganske følsom…” (“you are quite sensitive…”, Zahid 2018a, 53), consists only of direct speech by a third person and uses irony in a way that makes clear the epistemological borders implied by what is presumably an external gaze from the other side of the topographical border, as seen, again externally, by the speaker: “you are quite sensitive / for someone from the East side [østkanten]”.10 It is this ‘orientalizing’ gaze that Zahid attempts to surmount in “alle må forlate toget” when she characterizes the border between the East side and the West side of Oslo as “traditional”,11 implying that the divide is in some ways superseded.

9  “her tror de på sannheten / den er ikke et mirakel” (Zahid 2018a, 64). The poem “1274 Oslo” by Sarah Zahid is reproduced in translation and in original by kind permission of the author and the publishers Flamme forlag. 10  “du er ganske følsom / til å være fra østkanten” (Zahid 2018a, 53). The poem “du er ganske følsom…” by Sarah Zahid is reproduced in translation and in original by kind permission of the author and the publishers Flamme forlag. 11  “tradisjonelle” (Zahid 2018b).

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Placing Cognition on the Map of (Urban) Border Studies Having mapped a poem onto urban, textual, cognitive, emotional, and postmigratory spaces, I will now relate my readings to a nascent cognitive turn in border studies, represented by recent work by the border scholar and urban geographer James W. Scott (2021a, b) and also suggested in the work of cultural psychologists Luca Tateo and Giuseppina Marsico (2019, 2021). Scott takes part to an ongoing conversation through which border studies has distanced itself from the idea of borders as linear and divisionary institutions, or as Zahid’s poem has it, “the simplified / traditional / border”.12 Instead, borders are seen in border studies today as mobile, processual, and disseminated through space and other dimensions. They are not lines, but zones, in-betweens, folds, and spaces in (or around) which each side mixes with the other. In “Cognitive Geographies of Bordering: The Case of Urban Neighbourhoods in Transition” (2021b), Scott associates this turn away from the linear with a turn away also from top-down institutional perspectives that see borders as the products of actions by states and other powerful actors, arguing that it is important to see borders from the bottom-up perspective of everyday experience—in our case, the bottom-up experiences of migrants rather than those for example of city planners and politicians. Notably, Zahid has been for a period a politician herself, within the liberal party Venstre (Engelsen 2022), but as a poet she sees urban borders from a different perspective, through subtle symbolic differences, dreams, and irony. Indeed, Scott points to a bottom-up perspective in which borders are manifested as symbolic boundaries and approached through cognition and imagination. In order to understand urban boundaries, it has become important to think on many scales, including those of human cognition and the body. On these scales, urban borders are embodied and intersubjective. In his analysis of place-making processes in Berlin’s Wedding district and Warsaw’s Wola district, Scott reconstructs the narratives by which places and borders (co-constitutive of each other) become part of social meaning-making. One of Scott’s major inspirations is the work of Luca Tateo and Giuseppina Marsico (2019, 2021). Tateo and Marsico do not employ an  “den forenklede / tradisjonelle / grensen” (Zahid 2018b).

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explicitly cognitive approach, but rather use semiotics to analyze psychological encounters with urban borders; their approach has, however, much in common with the embodied approach of 4E cognition studies. For them, urban borders are met in a processual way—for example, through embodied actions such as walking—that play on psychological and affective dimensions of familiarity and tension (both of which are evoked in Zahid’s poems through her ironic turns). For Tateo and Luca, urban borders between, for example, center and periphery are liminal spaces, that can mark “a personal, developmental and social transition for those who cross them” (2019, 248)—personal as in the underlying Bildungsroman-­ like narrative of Zahid’s collection (2018a), social as in Stavrides’ argument (2010) that urban borders can create threshold spaces that point to emancipatory opportunities, and developmental as in both. However, Tateo and Luca go further than Turner when they map out the liminal structure of urban borders (both topographical and temporal) as regulating “both what already exists (in the life of a person) and what could come into being the next moment” (Tateo and Marsico 2019, 248). Their logic of borders could contribute to cognitive theories of predictive processing: “The function of borders towards the expected but not yet certain future is to help create security, but they can also signal a condition of alert” (ibid., 248). Zahid’s poem “alle må forlate toget” (2018b) likewise evokes a predictive dimension of border-crossing, in which the past and future sides of the temporal border are mixed, not only in the protagonist’s experience of reaching the end of the line and dreaming of drowning on the border, but also by regulating the reader’s progress through the text, their gaze crossing textual borders and predicting— sometimes wrongly—what will come next. Border poetics asks what connects topographical with textual (or more generally, medial) borders. Tateo and Marsico’s chiastic (A-B-B-A) dictum “[b]orders are signs and signs are borders” (2019, 260), not only builds on their theories of urban borders, provides a partial answer to this question. Their “signs” refer both to concrete street signs but also to any form of semiotic signifier, including not only physical objects but also literary texts. On the one hand, borders are signs that create meanings in their affective play between the familiar and the unfamiliar. On the other hand, signs function as borders to be crossed by embodied people. The concept of textual borders in border poetics, together with poems such as “alle må forlate toget”, suggest that literary texts are both “borders/signs” (Tateo and Marsico 2019, 260) and complex systems of borders/signs to be

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crossed by the reader’s gaze. Scott contributes to this account by allowing cognitive scholar Yanna B. Popova’s (2014) conception of narrative co-­ construction to inform his views on borders as part of intersubjective processes of meaning-making. Such processes are a variant of the “enaction of a narratorial viewpoint by the reader who thus ‘co-authors’ that which is read (the narrative)” (Scott 2021b, 799).

Placing Urban Borders on the Map of Postmigration Literature Zahid’s “alle må forlate toget” (2018b) allows the reader to enact the urban borders met by the protagonist of the poem. The poem uses topographical and textual borders to construct a threshold on which the postmigratory subject is placed in a liminal space of death and potential rebirth, of exclusion and potential inclusion, and of both a lack and the possibility of encounter. In general, work within border aesthetics suggests that different genres, mediums, and presentational strategies can bring with them different forms of affordances where negotiating borders is concerned (Schimanski and Nyman 2021). Entering the world of borders in migration and postmigration literature via a poem and a poetry collection is perhaps unusual, since such literature is dominated by prose forms such as the novel. This is certainly the case of Norwegian postmigration literature, which mostly consists of novels that address the problems of urban youth with migrant backgrounds in Oslo. What is often seen as the predecessor of contemporary postmigration novels in Norway, Khalid Hussain’s Pakkis (“Paki”, 1986), sets the tone in its gritty description of young man with Pakistani parents living in tenement housing presumably in inner city Oslo East of the Akerselva river, experiencing racism and a crisis of split identity. The main topographical border is the division between the inside and the outside of his family’s flat, a small piece of Pakistan folded across the Norwegian border. The in-­ between spaces in which he wanders outside the flat play an important role in expressing his alienation, involving a strong sense of bodily affect. Later examples include Maria Navarro Skaranger’s Alle Utlendinger har lukka gardiner (“All Foreigners Have Closed Curtains”, 2015), Zeshan Shakar’s Tante Ulrikkes vei (“Aunt Ulrikke’s Street”, 2017), and Gulraiz Sharif’s Hør her’a! (“Listen ’ere, ’ey!”, 2020). As in Hussain’s novel, one of the main focuses of these narratives is on the border between the home and the streets, schools, and shopping malls outside (thus the title of

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Skaranger’s book). However, in contrast to Pakkis, these three narratives of urban youth are set primarily in the satellite conurbations on the East side of Oslo, with Shakar’s and Sharif’s novels featuring line drawings of post-war blocks of flats on their covers (as does Zahid’s poetry collection, Zahid 2018a). This shift in geographical focus is perhaps connected to historical developments (Fig. 11.4). A cognitive investigation of the urban and textual borders in these novels would likely focus on the geography of areas of housing blocks initially unfamiliar to many readers in Norway. Aspects to do with journeys to the city center (see Chap. 14, Patricia García’s contribution the present volume on mobility and urban divides) and the possibility that the protagonist/narrators’ biographical trajectories might lead them into the Norwegian public sphere—obvious in the other examples migration literature in Norwegian mentioned above—might also prove to be important in future analysis. Textual borders connected to the larger scale of novelistic texts and their complex polyphony will point to other ways of negotiating urban borders.

Fig. 11.4  The covers of Zeshan Shakar’s Tante Ulrikkes vei (2017), Gulraiz Sharif’s Hør her’a! (2020), and Sarah Zahid’s La oss aldri glemme hvor godt det kan være å leve (2018a) showing drawings of post-war blocks of flats. (Covers designed by Rune Mortensen, Helene Brox and Aslak Gurholt (Yokoland), respectively, and reproduced by kind permission of the publishers (Gyldendal, Cappelen Damm and Flamme forlag, respectively))

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Acknowledgments  I would like to thank the University of the Greater Region Centre for Border Studies (UniGr-CBS) for giving me the opportunity to work on this during my stay as Visiting Professor of Border Studies in 2021. This research also comes out of work in the workshop “Temporalities and Subjectivities of Crossing: Contemporary Public Migration Narratives in Europe”, funded by the Joint Committee for Nordic research councils in the humanities and social sciences (NOS-HS). Thanks are due to audiences at the “Urban (Im)mobilities and Borderland Narratives” (University of Alcalá) and “Border Renaissance” (Saarland University) for their inspiring comments to versions of this paper. I have also received highly useful suggestions from participants in the “Border Reading” reading group and a master course in migration literature, both at the University of Oslo as well as from Karin Kukkonen, who has been so kind as to read through a draft. Thanks also to Liridona Qaka for inspiring conversations about the novels Pakkis and Hør her’a!

References Boehmer, Elleke. 2018. The mind in motion: A cognitive reading of W. B. Yeats’s ‘Long-Legged Fly’. In Reading beyond the code: Literature & relevance theory, ed. Terence Cave and Deirdre Wilson, 23–34. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bolens, Guillemette. 2018. Kinesis in literature and the cognitive dynamic of gestures in Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Cervantes. Costellazioni 5: 81–103. Caracciolo, Marco, and Karin Kukkonen. 2021. With bodies: Narrative theory and embodied cognition. Columbus: Ohio State University Press. Cave, Terence. 2016. Thinking with literature: Towards a cognitive criticism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clark, Andy. 2007. Curing cognitive hiccups: A defense of the extended mind. The Journal of Philosophy 104: 163–192. ———. 2013. Whatever next? Predictive brains, situated agents, and the future of cognitive science. Behavioural and Brain Sciences 36: 181–204. Clark, Andy, and David Chalmers. 1998. The extended mind. Analysis 58: 7–19. Derrida, Jacques. 1992. The other heading: Memories, responses and responsibilities. In The other heading: Reflections on today’s Europe, 4–83. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Engelsen, Thale Heidel. 2022. Sarah Zahid med ny diktsamling: Jeg har prøvd å leke litt med sjangeren. Dagsavisen https://www.dagsavisen.no/kultur/ boker/2022/08/13/sarah-­zahid-­med-­ny-­diktsamling-­jeg-­har-­provd-­a-­leke-­ litt-­med-­sjangeren. Accessed 31 Oct 2023. Glenberg, Arthur M., and Vittorio Gallese. 2012. Action-based language: A theory of language acquisition, comprehension, and production. Cortex 48: 905–922.

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Jagne-Soreau, Maïmouna. 2021. “I don’t write about me, I write about you”: Four major motifs in the nordic postmigration literary trend. In Postmigration: Art, culture, and politics in contemporary Europe, ed. Anna Meera Gaonkar, Astrid Sophie Ost Hansen, Hans Christian Post, and Moritz Schramm, 161–180. Bielefeld: Transcript. Kukkonen, Karin. 2014. Presence and prediction: The embodied reader’s cascades of cognition. Style 48: 367–384. ———. 2020. Probability designs: Literature and predictive processing. New York: Oxford University Press. Kukkonen, Karin, and Marco Caracciolo. 2014. Introduction: What is the “second generation?”. Style 48: 261–274. Kuzmičová, Anežka. 2012. Presence in the reading of literary narrative: A case for motor enactment. Semiotica 189: 23–48. Lynch, Kevin. 1960. The image of the city. Cambridge, MA: M.I.T. Press. Moji, Polo B. 2022. Gender and the spatiality of blackness in contemporary AfroFrench narratives. London: Routledge. Moretti, Franco. 1998. Atlas of the European novel 1800–1900. London: Verso. Moslund, Sten Pultz. 2015. Towards a postmigrant reading of literature: An analysis of Zadie Smith’s NW. In The culture of migration: Politics, aesthetics and histories, ed. Sten Pultz Moslund, Anne Ring Petersen, and Moritz Schramm, 94–112. London: I.B. Tauris. Newen, Albert, Shaun Gallagher, and Leon De Bruin. 2018. 4E cognition: Historical roots, key concepts, and central issues. In The Oxford handbook of 4E cognition, ed. Albert Newen, Leon De Bruin, and Shaun Gallagher, 3–16. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pedersen, Bernt Erik, and Lene Storøy Neverdal. 2018. “Skriver om oppveksten på Holmlia.” Dagsavisen, 28 April, 46–47. https://www.nb.no/items/f7bc4c dcce12b6024e35fee6356a42c2?page=45. Accessed 31 Oct 2023. Popova, Yanna B. 2014. Narrativity and enaction: The social nature of literary narrative understanding. Frontiers in Psychology 5: 1–14. Schimanski, Johan. 2006. Crossing and reading: Notes towards a theory and a method. Nordlit 19: 41–63. ———. 2015. Reading borders and reading as crossing borders. In Borders and the changing boundaries of knowledge, ed. Inga Brandell, Marie Carlson, and Önver A. Çetrez, 91–107. Stockholm: Swedish Research Institute in Istanbul. ———. 2021. (Un)folding European borders. In Borders of Europe, ed. Wolfgang Müller-Funk, Jelena Spreicer, and Gerlinde Steininger, 45–56. Roma: Istituto Italiano di Studi Germanici. Schimanski, Johan, and Jopi Nyman. 2021. Introduction: Images and narratives on the border. In Border images, border narratives: The political aesthetics of boundaries and crossings, ed. Johan Schimanski and Jopi Nyman, 1–20. Manchester: Manchester University Press.

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Scott, James W. 2021a. Bordering, ordering and everyday cognitive geographies. Tijdschrift voor Economische en Sociale Geografie 112: 26–33. ———. 2021b. Cognitive geographies of bordering: The case of urban neighbourhoods in transition. Theory & Psychology 31: 797–814. Shakar, Zeshan. 2017. Tante Ulrikkes vei: Roman. Oslo: Gyldendal. Sharif, Gulraiz. 2020. Hør her’a! Oslo: Cappelen Damm. Sheller, Mimi, and John Urry. 2006. The new mobilities paradigm. Environment and Planning A: Economy and Space 38: 207–266. Skaranger, Maria Navarro. 2015. Alle utlendinger har lukka gardiner: Roman. Oslo: Oktober. Stavrides, Stavros. 2010. Towards the city of thresholds. New York: Professionaldreamers. Sterelny, Kim. 2010. Minds: Extended or scaffolded? Phenomenology and the Cognitive Sciences 9: 465–481. Tateo, Luca, and Giuseppina Marsico. 2019. Along the border: Affective promotion or inhibition of conduct in urban spaces. Studies in Psychology 40: 245–281. ———. 2021. Signs as borders and borders as signs. Theory & Psychology 31: 708–728. Toivanen, Anna-Leena. 2023. Peripheralising the metropolis: Aeromobile portrayals of Paris in francophone african literatures. Mobility Humanities 2 (1): 78–95. Yeats, W.B. 1992. In The poems, ed. Daniel Albright. London: Dent. Zahid, Sarah. 2018a. La oss aldri glemme hvor godt det kan være å leve. Oslo: Flamme forlag. ———. 2018b. alle må forlate toget. In La oss aldri glemme hvor godt det kan være å leve, 70. Oslo: Flamme forlag. Zahid, Sarah, and Amalie Lereng. 2017. Hei, jeg heter Sarah, og dette er min dagbok. Aftenposten. https://www.aftenposten.no/meninger/sid/i/Jd6nJ/ hei-­jeg-­heter-­sarah-­og-­dette-­er-­min-­dagbok. Accessed 31 Oct 2023. Zwaan, Rolf A., and Lawrence J.  Taylor. 2006. Seeing, acting, understanding: Motor resonance in language comprehension. Journal of Experimental Psychology 135: 1–11.

CHAPTER 12

What Lurks in the Peripheries: From Urban Margins to Marginal Genres in Short Stories by Margo Lanagan and Ariadna Castellarnau Rosa María Díez Cobo

Introduction: Cities and Beyond Topopoetic modes of literary analysis are no longer a novelty. The prevalence of place-focused perspectives is firmly ingrained in the assumption that “place is experienced as one of the primary events of the story and any action is experienced as being shaped, at least partially, by the event of place” (Moslun 2011, 30). Cities are the quintessential place in our globalized and densely urbanized world. Consequently, they have become one of the locations that generate the most academic disquisitions and controversies in humanities and social sciences. Focus on big cities notwithstanding, attention has recently turned to mid-size cities and urban peripheral areas.

R. M. Díez Cobo (*) University of Burgos, Burgos, Spain e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 P. García, A.-L. Toivanen (eds.), Urban Mobilities in Literature and Art Activism, Literary Urban Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42798-5_12

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“Alpha cities”, both from the point of view of criticism and literature itself, have been, in modernity and postmodernity, the epicenter from which the most widespread and canonized representations of the urban phenomenon emanate. Not surprisingly, these urban locations have been fashioned as an imago mundi (Ameel et al. 2015, 3). This paradigm began to weaken with Michel de Certeau and Jeff Malpas’ reflections, as they pointed out the need to afford centrality to the margins. Furthermore, this trend has been underpinned throughout the century in postcolonial studies thanks to a growing sensitivity to the productivity of contact zones and the polysemy set off in border crossing and in experiences of “in-­ betweenness” (Bhabha 1994). It should be recalled that post-industrial urban centers continuously expand, blur, and intersect with surrounding peri-urban, natural, or rural areas, creating “gas-like state” or città diffusa environments with diffuse edges (Keunen 2017, 28). Between the heart of the city and the countryside, there are suburban scales of very diverse entity and social and cultural significance. However, as it is the case with lesser cities, they have been characterized more by their absences and deficiencies than by what they possess or what is unique to them (Finch et al. 2017, 7). As Lieven Ameel, Jason Finch, and Markku Salmela argue, many examples of urban literature are based precisely on this dialectic between margins and centers: “In literary urban studies, the importance of urban peripherality is often approached through the conflict between totalizing, panoptic forces and the contesting, ground-level tactics of marginalized groups” (2015, 6). It is essential, however, to understand both the city and the rural areas and their intermediate transitions not in an isolated and stagnant way, but as nodal entities propitiating back-and-forth flows (Ren 2021). As many scholars maintain, both real and figurative urban peripheries must be understood from a relativistic position (Ameel et al. 2015, 12–13). Not in the least the city, since it should be considered in relation to its opposite manifestations as an “agglomeration of inhabitants” (Storper and Scott 2016, 1116), and as a continuum of blurry and mutually interconnected areas. It is, then, understood as a unity through contradiction (Gleeson 2014, 99). Interestingly, all these locations become more meaningful when they are understood as part of a journey, of a sliding from one to another, that is, in relation to new paradigms of human mobility and physical or metaphoric transitions (Sheller and Urry 2006). A displacement from the city axis to the entrails of a peripheral environment, or vice versa, presupposes

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an evolution of the point of view and, consequently, of the subjectivity that governs it. The ideological and aesthetic value of this transition can be expressed from many angles and, undoubtedly, in the arts, a good model can be found in literature (McLaughlin 2016). As an empirical and aesthetisized representation of human experience, it is in fiction where it is possible to witness the manifold processes of kinesis and territoriality or constellations of mobility (Cresswell 2010). This “rhizomatic” capacity is the starting point for this analysis to affirm the variety of conceptualizations for urban space as a transitional intersection in its suburban dispersion. The concept of periphery together with these mobility patterns has become immensely fruitful and, as some theorists contend (Ameel et al. 2015, 9), it can be extrapolated from urban locations to social and moral notions. It becomes then a fertile site of intercultural and intertextual encounters. From this perspective, I will adopt the peripheral location and the (im)mobility dynamics this stimulates as a rhetorical device interconnected with the production of literary modes or genres that explore “the poetics of the normal and abnormal” (Ameel et al. 2015, 14). Urban fringes, particularly in their nebulous or exopolis version, bring an unhomely sense of vagueness and uncertainty, as they become a battleground where alternative realities can be played out. Contemporary urban literature frequently exposes the presence of cultural and social gaps as well as ruptures from which the unreal and the uncanny can stem (Ameel et al. 2015, 45; Wenzel 2015, 111–127; Selboe 2015, 131–148). Just as Patricia García (2021) has devoted a volume to the urban fantastic in the European short story of the nineteenth century, this chapter concentrates on bordering and fluid genres across the spectrum of the supernatural in connection with urban borders. They represent an approach that, in its inherent looseness, is fine-tuned with the inapprehensibility of the peripheral urban physical setting. With the intention of exploring these margins thoroughly and to illustrate my standpoint, I focus on two volumes of short stories: Black Juice (2006), by Australian writer Margo Lanagan, and La oscuridad es un lugar (Darkness Is a Place) (2020), by Spanish author Ariadna Castellarnau. The selection of these two works is based on several cultural and textual concomitances. It is revealing that, while Lanagan sets most of her stories in her native far-off Western country, Castellarnau uses Argentina as a background. Both settings consistently lean toward the strange and marginal. From a comparative perspective, this examination aims at discerning how the spatial element, which in these narratives may seem an incidental

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backdrop, stands as a character in itself. Its overriding importance accentuates the weirdness that typifies their unexpected characters, relationships, and situations. Additionally, topics such as identity, childhood, family, or personal relations oscillate in these stories between the hyperrealistic and the absurd or impossible. But, most importantly, the fact that most of the narratives take place in no-man’s lands—nebulous human spaces that orbit between population hubs—chimes with the notion of the threshold between the fantastic and the plausible.

Boundary Crossing Genres The remote contextualizations of Gothic narratives emphasized the sense of distance, straying and strangeness related to the emergence of eerie ruptures. It was with the advent of the nineteenth century that the ontological impossibility embodied by the fantastic fissure adjusted perfectly to present-day urban scenarios: “This form of narrative engaged directly with urban anxieties, phobias and fears concerning overcrowding and isolation, plagues, movement and migration, class fragmentation and access to living spaces” (García 2021, 11). It is paradoxical that, in response to the rationalist environment that expanded hand-in-hand with scientism and industrialization, a sense of loss of control and angst originated, “a tension between the rational and the irrational” (García 2021, 18). The depletion of the Gothic tropes cleared the way to modern formulas that nevertheless allowed renewed assaults on reason with the irruption of the fantastic in unexpected ordinary spaces of common city life (García 2021, 28). What is most interesting for this analysis is that this trend does not seem to be circumscribed to the nineteenth century: as García argues, “the complexities of the urban condition have also found expression in the supernatural narratives of the twentieth and the twenty-first centuries” (2021, 30). There was an evolution in the passage from the Gothic genre to the urban fantastic in the procedures of conjuring up the reader’s fears. Undoubtedly, there has been an equally noteworthy change in the representation of the supernatural in recent decades. Unsurprisingly, the incursion of the unreal into everyday realities has recast contexts and spaces that can be perfectly identified by contemporary readers (Roas 2011, 30–39). It is then necessary to reconsider the smooth interlock of the peripheral context and uncanny events:

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Urban peripherality, the never-ending procession of uncanny, disturbing and strangely familiar figures out of the corners of one’s eyes in the city streets, the palimpsestic set of disorientating experiences erupting from the margins of the city, is what defines, to a considerable extent, urban literature. (Ameel et al. 2015, 6)

This seems consistent with a postmodern era where geographical identity and the sense of ethnic or cartographic belonging are more volatile than ever. Along these lines, this chapter sets out to analyze how these scattered fringe urban areas can also be an optimal scene for showcasing the distortions of reality. Together with the profound transformations in urban distribution that have been cited, there is a narratological inclination of our times that tends to display a generic hybridization that erases clear-cut classifications (Roas et al. 2017, 208–211). Thus, in the sphere of the fantastic, liminal genres have recently emerged and pushed the representations of reality to the limit, thus revitalizing traditional categories. Two scholars have recently elucidated some of these boundary-crossing genres. Unusual realistic plots are, according to Carmen Alemany Bay, imbued with oddness and uncertainty but, in the end, the depiction of reality in them remains unchallenged. Apart from its proximity to the fantastic, it takes many aspects from other border genres such as Weird fiction, Neo-­ fantastic, or Magical realism. In Alemany Bay’s words, the unusual genre could be defined as a form of fiction in which uncertainty prevails although the events take place on the real level with transitions towards the oneiric or the delirious; and it is in this trance that the author abandons the readers to their perplexity, as this ambiguity tends to provoke the reader’s interpretative hesitation. (2016, 135; my translation)

In other words, the Unusual is a discourse of postmodern essence that blurs the limits between verisimilitude and the fantastic, but where the Strange does not burst in or dislocate the reality in which it is inserted, it remains in the disperse margins of the ambiguous. Subsequently, in an extension of the topic, Benito García-Valero has pointed out some more specific characteristics of this narrative modality: the relevance of personal identity and its conformation; the presence of narrators who are unreliable or imbued with hallucinated, delirious discourses; the appropriation of motifs from fantastic literature; and a subversive component of social

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denunciation rather than epistemological reversal (2019, 326–330). In brief, the referential framework where the Unusual settles distances itself from the surprising questions of the fantastic. It takes refuge in the paradox of everyday inexplicable signs. Alemany Bay has not been alone in rethinking fictional liminal categories of the supernatural. In The Weird and the Eerie (2016), Mark Fisher also describes the characterization of similar constructions. He undertakes a scrutiny of narrative margins and, like Alemany Bay, situates the Weird and the Eerie on the periphery of other genres such as horror and science fiction. Both forms, according to Fisher, have in common their preoccupation with the strange, but not with the horrible, which would be closer to the fantastic. As he underlines, these categories are related to the fascination with the external and the alien from a multiple perspective that involves the perceptual, cognitive, and experimental. In this sense, Fisher strives to distinguish both modes of the traditional Freudian Unheimlich: “Freud’s ‘unheimlich’ is about the strange within the familiar, the strangely familiar, the familiar as strange; about the way in which the domestic world does not coincide with itself. [...] The Weird and the Eerie make the opposite move: they allow us to see the inside from the perspective of the outside” (2016, 10). From this common distinction, when confronted with Freud’s key concept, Fisher differentiates the nuances of both categories. While the Weird embodies a sense of perceptual disturbance related to the lack of belonging or fitting in of a being, object, or circumstance in our reality, “a sensation of wrongness” (15), the eerie consists of two characteristic features: “a failure of absence” and “a failure of presence” (61). The first of these refers to situations where sensations or circumstances are perceived, but they should not be there; in the second, the process is reversed, so that there is nothing where something should exist. Therefore, we are dealing with speculative forms, which require an intrinsic questioning of the storyworlds. What is at stake here is the ambiguity and plasticity of contiguous yet distinct concepts. These areas of contact, as in urban peripheries, are prone to dispersion and indeterminacy, but also to hodgepodge and hybridism. They often deploy a battery of discursive strategies that enrich the meaning of texts while problematizing their interpretation. In subsequent sections, the analysis will move between the aforementioned classifications since all of them provide a solid theoretical foundation that allows for an understanding of the spatial anomalies in Lanagan and Castellarnau’s stories. While I find Fisher’s conceptualization of the

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Weird and the Eerie illustrative and suitable for my own conceptual framework, I will refer more systematically to the notion of the Unusual as more encompassing and more in tune with some of the characteristics of the texts analyzed. In particular, I am interested in examining how mobility from the urban to the peri-urban or rural areas in these narratives leads protagonists to a territory that is conducive to inexplicable events.

Unusual Spatialities and Distances With her pioneering study Space and Postmodern Fantastic in Contemporary Literature: The Architectural Void (2015), Patricia García has opened the way to the recognition of narrative space as an active agent in the instigation of fantastic processes. By bringing together the advances of Geocriticism and the Spatial turn, she has identified the ground-­breaking potential of this dimension for the enactment of fantastic disarticulations. Following Natalia Álvarez’s (2002) four domains of the spatial sign—situational, linguistic, semantic-actant, and pragmatic—García acknowledges the substantial evolution they have undergone from traditional clichés of the genre. Thus, the typical scenarios of the postmodern fantastic are located in domestic and banal environments, instead of extraordinary places. Rhetorically, “semantic impertinence” and ambivalence of linguistic constructions disorientates readers and makes them speculate about the materiality and verisimilitude of the narrative setting. The characters in this contemporary version not only fall prey to imaginary effects, but often become the source of them. Pragmatically, García points to the joint integration and dismantling of classical fantastic motifs in an evident postmodern modus operandi. Ultimately, she adds a fifth dimension: the fantastic. This last pillar is not exceptional in its genetic constitution since “the Fantastic of Space pursues the same aim as any text of the Fantastic has done since the origins of the genre; the postmodern Fantastic, too, wants to reveal the frailty of the human being’s model of reality” (García 2015, 167). What distinguishes this typology from other narrative mimetic ruptures is the fact that space itself is “presented as extraordinary” (167). By granting capacity to space to assault realism, García displaces the common assumption that the positional frame is an insubstantial and static backdrop. She considers the latter a particular modality that she defines throughout her research as the “Fantastic of Place” and which she explicitly contrasts with her

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postmodern “Fantastic of Space”. Even if the Unusual, the Weird, or the Eerie cross over generic frontiers and they do not strictly square with the fantastic domain, they do follow similar procedures to interrogate reality. Consequently, I deem the “place versus space” antagonism worth applying to these genres. Even more interesting for my approach is García’s acknowledgment of the correlation between the spatial experience and kinesics as “space cannot be dissociated from the corporal experience of the one who perceives it” (2015, 53). In a more recent study, García (2020) challenges the expected interdependence between domestic space and the role of women in it. Following the spatial reconceptualizations of Marie-Laure Ryan (2012), she proposes to transcend the spatial domestic leitmotif of the haunted house and to engage with a trans-domestic analysis that, among other aspects, takes vectors of movement into consideration. This perspective is key in the development of the present chapter. Clearly, no urban space can be properly envisioned without valuing its intrinsic connection with dynamics of (im)mobility; in fact, imagining an urban scenario at a standstill almost seems a contradiction in terms. As Sheller and Urry assert, one of the conceptual achievements of the New Mobilities Paradigm is to diagnose the interconnectivity of places and the plurality of meanings that this theoretical model generates in spatial, social, and cultural terms: “The mobilities paradigm indeed emphasises that all places are tied into at least thin networks of connections that stretch beyond each such place and mean that nowhere can be an ‘island’” (2006, 209). If anything, urban daily practices elicit a constant interplay between movement and stasis, sites of passage, and sites of suspension. In the case of urban peripheries, this mobility seems even more eloquent. To a large extent, urban peripheries are conceived as locations of impermanence where subjects frequently are either in a transitional state toward urban hubs or in the direction of exurb territories and beyond. This may make urban fringes ungraspable within a distinctive and standardized account of spatial identity. The further we move away from metropolitan centers, the more noticeable the sense of disaggregation and destabilization. Abnormality increases as urban landscapes blur and merge with suburban panoramas and architectures. The intermediation of liminal areas that grow from the city to the peripheries or the countryside incites a lapse of uncertainty and insecurity. In their search for contravening reality, the narratives of the fantastic or the unusual can make the most of

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these singular scenarios where exogenic space constitutes a radically unstable context: A periphery is something defined as outside, or away from, a notional or actual centre, but not other to it, perhaps not beyond the limits […]. As such, places that are part of the city but somehow understood as abnormal or non-respectable are notable among peripheral zones. (Ameel et al. 2015, 14)

But then again, considering mobility as a vector that connects spaces, both central and peripheral, another implicit and inevitable notion is that of distance. In this sense, it is worth drawing attention to Ameel’s (2017) differentiation among four types of distances: referential, spatial, linguistic, and temporal. When it comes to expressing these subdivisions, narratives of the unusual often extrapolate these perceptions to the spatial referential level. After all, as Westphal points out, “literary place is a virtual world that interacts in a modular fashion with the world of reference. The degree of correlation between one and the other can vary from zero to infinity” (2011, 101). Therefore, in many unusual stories that are set within urban layouts, spatial frameworks seem at once paradoxically clear and diffuse. They are identifiable in their general features, but distant as they are confusing, unfathomable, nameless. Even more interestingly, the spatial distance in Ameel’s terms is directly connected to the concept of mobility, both in the geographical sense and as conducive to the construction of distances and moral, social, ethnically coded or gendered types of mobility (2017, 235). As an exemplification of this kind of motion, Ameel concentrates his examination on the standard story of a rural character who moves to the city. In the narratives of the unusual, following its rhizomatic and subversive dynamics, displacements can occur in almost any direction, although there is a tendency to situate this spatial distancing in the vector from the urban to the countryside, crossing the thresholds of peri-urban areas. This transit seems to locate more fruitful possibilities for the genre in this slipping away from the human to the natural, from what is comprehensible within rational logic to what is governed by forces that escape realistic parameters. Ameel (2017, 237) outlines the question of linguistic distance once more by placing it in the context of a character who, as an outsider to the urban territory, is forced to confront new, foreign languages and sociolects. Thus, the city becomes a sphere in which interior/exterior are

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contrasted. Binomials related to identity, belonging, and social class are also articulated. However, the quality of the unnamable—the inability to give explanation or form to realities that evade an anchorage in the everyday real—is a dominant element in relation to the linguistic in the unusual mode. With regard to temporal inflections, the connection and disconnection of characters with the historical evolution and essence of the urban setting they inhabit is recurrent in urban fiction. Similarly, the same process underscores the building up of memories as a repository that mobilizes and underlines the relationships between individual and territory (Ameel 2017, 237–238). In reference to unusual literature, temporal stagnation or the distortion of the time axis is the most visible feature in the liaison of time and space. To a large extent, this would be a characteristic shared with the Fantastic of Space to which the transgressions of the space-­ time continuum are not alien (García 2015, 29–33). In short, urban edges, conceived as ‘abnormal’ borders and thresholds, are extremely meaningful in their articulations through the mechanisms of (im)mobility and distances. Lanagan and Castellarnau’s short stories open up a prolific setup where the ruptures of reality evince the uncertainty underlying unusual fiction.

Of Silenced and Unheard Voices from Peripheral Nations World systems theory has systematized countries according to a spectrum ranging from core, semi-periphery and periphery areas based on political, social development, and economic competitiveness criteria (Wallerstein 2004). Although the geographical and representational factors are considered, it is not the most fundamental aspect for the establishment of such a classification. From a humanistic, and mainly literary, perspective, this nomenclature is not always coincidental with this theoretical conception of peripheries. Australia and Argentina, the countries where the events of the two volumes take place, are representative in this respect. In developmental terms, Australia consistently falls into the category of core country. However, when considering its literary production against or in relation to other English-speaking national traditions, it undoubtedly remains somehow displaced or disconnected, as Ken Gelder correctly notes: “There have been no accompanying studies that situate national literature production in broader contexts […] in the way that the Caribbean, the eastern

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seaboard of the United States, Britain and West Africa have been super-­ regionalised” (2013, 112). For its part, Argentinean fiction has been pivotal and one of the major literary canons in Spanish-speaking literatures, even if the country is listed under the category of semi-periphery in the human development index. Despite its literary centrality, and overlooking political or monetary considerations, what unites this territory with Australia is its geographical subalternity within the Western territory. This is also underpinned by the idiosyncrasy of their population distribution: few, but large and young cities nestled in the heart of a vast and intact natural territory. While the progression between urban, suburban, and rural areas seems more gradual in other areas of the Western world, in these two nations, the disjunction is certainly more extreme. Another parallel of enormous consequences between both countries is their construction of identity on the basis of territorial and urban-country dichotomies. In Argentina, the well-known binomial civilization-­barbarism has governed the self-representation of the nation since its independence. Facundo, o, Civilización y barbarie (1845) is a cornerstone essay by the Argentinean writer and politician Domingo Faustino Sarmiento where he drew the border between two opposing models of country and two antagonistic landscapes: the civilized and cosmopolitan Buenos Aires, the Argentine city par excellence, and the infinite pampas populated by bloodthirsty savages and described in terms close to Gothic imagery: When the solitary caravan of wagons, as it sluggishly traverses the pampas, halts for a short period of rest, the men in charge of it, grouped around their scanty fire, turn their eyes mechanically toward the south upon the faintest whisper of the wind among the dry grass, and gaze into the deep darkness of the night, in search of the sinister visages of the savage horde, which, at any moment, approaching unperceived, may surprise them. (2013, 25–26)

In the case of Australia, the territorial problem oscillated between the declaration of the continent as a “terra nullius”, that is, a blank space in which the Aboriginal presence was not even taken into account and only later reinterpreted as “The Great Australian Silence” (Stanner 1969, 25), and a first mythical impulse that portrayed the first encounter between natives and newcomers in peaceful terms. The reality was radically different and aboriginal massacres spread along with colonization. As Taliah Nelson points out: “These acts were often justified by the fictional perception of Aboriginal ‘treachery’” (2018, 22), whereas Barry Morris notes that

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“fiction and reality were inexorably intertwined in the killing and the maiming of Aborigines along the pastoral frontier” (1992, 87). Together with all its racial implications, the Australian colonial conflict relates to a border expansion, a spatial amplification from the first urban settlements to the last fringes of the Australian immense vast inlands. Thus, as in the Argentine case, the same civilization-barbarism vector is reproduced in connection with the greater or lesser degree of urbanization of each geographical area. Although the recent theoretical contributions on the urban try to make ignored secondary and peripheral spaces visible, in this chapter, a new level is added to the fringes considered: the spatial ‘eccentricity’ related to bordering national locations. Even though it may seem so, this does not contradict the propensity of the Unusual to frame its plots in imprecise or unnamed geographical locations. Almost none of the population centers in Lanagan and Castellarnau’s short stories have their own name or display any clear identifying features, and, even so, it is evident that most of these stories echo the Australian and Argentine cities and landscapes. Margo Lanagan is a prolific author best known as a writer of short stories and young adult fiction. Black Juice (2006) is her second volume of stories and it brought her rave reviews for her mastery in creating mesmerizing settings, characters, and plots. The story that opens her collection, “Singing My Sister Down”, is considered her best creation to date. It has received numerous awards and it has been anthologized in several dark fantasy and weird fiction compilations (Clay 2013). Black Juice assembles the main motifs of her previous aesthetic and narrative output mainly based on key ingredients such as mystery, gothic, fantasy, and speculative tendencies. But in this volume, readers are forced to make sense of narrative contexts that seem to recall pre-industrial chronologies or isolated contemporary societies. The author subtly intertwines spaces that are simultaneously familiar and extremely remote, thus overturning any topographical expectations. Readers are therefore deprived of any well-defined territorial references and must move without a compass through faraway lands. Most of the stories are interspersed with sinister circumstances that broaden the dimensions of reality. Additionally, given its consistent exploration of identity, its metaphorical value and its lyrical nature, Black Juice perfectly fits into the spectrum of the unusual. In Lanagan’s narratives the overall perception is that, within plausible and mimetic contexts, there are beings and circumstances that ‘should not be there’, that somehow

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surpass the boundaries of reality. In this way, these stories also approach the notion of the Eerie proposed by Mark Fisher (2016, 61). Despite being an emerging author, Ariadna Castellarnau has already garnered wide recognition with her two volumes of short stories that experiment with the mixing of nonmimetic genres such as science fiction, the unusual, fantasy, and dystopia. La oscuridad es un lugar (2020) is her latest published work and has been a resounding success (Pavón 2022). The critics, and even the back cover of the book, have described it as a “dark fantasy”; a description that the author herself has generally endorsed (Solsona Asensio 2022). This is an arguable rubric because, despite the sinister character of the stories, the fictions do not keep up with the primary characteristics of the genre: fantastic disclosures are hardly evident in any of Castellarnau’s stories. Supernatural events are mostly trivial, but what really reverberates through the stories is the more subtle foreboding that there are characters or elements that do not quite fit in. From a spatial perspective, conventional locations frame her plots while individuals are immersed in dysfunctional, but not completely outlandish, personal and family situations. The deviant element materializes marginally, most of the time as a sensation readers perceived rather than as a solid entity. The unusual is what is not seen, but yet seems to be there, lurking in the spatial and narrative confines alike. The stories in both volumes are underpinned by some realistic elements and mainly linear developments, but the fissures in reality provoke distortions that are primarily spatial. Specifically, the unusualness of space unfolds in the face of a crossroads that pits center versus periphery and stasis versus mobility in most of the stories. Although a malevolent tone runs through all the narratives, regardless of the location depicted, unfamiliar elements begin to reveal themselves almost systematically as characters move away from population centers and further into suburban areas or the countryside. At the same time, there are recurrent transitions in almost all the texts between the solid, tangible, and realistic dimensions of life in the human settlements of the city and the transitory, elusive, and imaginary sides of existence outside, either on the edge of towns or in the spaces outside them. The correlation between these variables is almost regular. In the ten stories in Lanagan’s volume, ritual and magical ceremonies take place beyond the gates of inhabited places, always preceded by a previous mobility transition. In this regard, the short story “Singin Sister Down” is relevant as it takes place on a peat bog on the outskirts of a

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tribe’s settlement and involves the crude communal sacrifice of a girl who defies the group. In “My Lord’s Man,” an aristocrat and his servant wander out of their village and through a dense, dark forest to find the nobleman’s wife cavorting with members of a gypsy clan. In “Earthly Uses”, a young man flees from his abusive grandfather and sets out on a lonely expedition into the mountains in search of angels who might provide a remedy for his dying grandmother. “Rite of Spring” closes the book with the agonizing ordeal of a young man who must complete the difficult climb of a mountain peak in order to ritualistically invoke the arrival of rain on the parched city he has left behind. The eight texts in La oscuridad es un lugar, although set in contemporary contexts, reproduce a similar dynamic. In the eponymous story “La oscuridad es un lugar”, a family runs away from the city to a creepy countryside to escape a mobster’s retaliation. In ominous “Calipso” [“Calypso”], a human trafficker drives an atypical teenager from the city to a brothel in the middle of the pampas. “Al mejor de todos nuestros hijos” [“To the Best of All Our Children”] narrates the return of a writer from a city to her isolated and eccentric hometown. There, she is welcomed with honors and she finally seems to be transformed into a tree that will adorn the town’s main square. “La isla en el cielo” [“The Island in the Sky”] is the story of a young city couple, secluded in a cabin in the woods, that adopts a mysterious violet-eyed baby. Gradually, as the characters move away from the urban centers, reality loses grip and the intangible gains ground, but always with a predominance of the ambivalent, of the unsolvable. Against a realistic background, ambiguity predominates. The reader is compelled to confront a vague atmosphere where fairytale, mythical, or oneiric undertones hover in the vicinity of a mimetic rendering. In Alemany Bay’s description of the unusual mode, this technique leads readers into disorientation, taking them to a hopeless demarcation of generic frontiers. This is the case of young Matty Weir’s narrative, who is to take part in an enigmatic mass wedding ceremony in “Wooden Bride”. During her wanderings in the outskirts of her town, the mysterious and captivating power of the landscape overwhelms her: Bit by bit, the zigs and zags of the field-walls work me farther from the town. The spires turn, and the façade comes into view, the rose-window with the Saints’ linked crowns above it. But it seems to be moving farther away, not closer. The field’ silence takes over, plopped more silent by fish,

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creaked more silent by breeze-shifted cabbage-leaves, startled quieter by a burst of bird out of reeds. (Lanagan 2004, 114)

The protagonist of “Al mejor de todos nuestros hijos” seems to be entering a territory off the map on her return from the city to her inhospitable hometown, an area disconnected from main roads: The van, in the wake of the sedan, made its way towards the village. Since the motorway had been built, the bus no longer stopped in the centre. It dropped the passengers off at a stop about two kilometres from the first house, in the middle of nowhere, at the edge of the road. (Castellarnau 2020, 93)1

As an unpredictable consequence, the location becomes too isolated for conventional social norms to apply. Her reencounter with her native land and community stirs all sorts of odd misunderstandings. Neither of the volumes confers positive or evocative qualities on urban spaces as opposed to the intimidating character that peri-urban or rural spaces seem to possess. Each story develops its own individual (im)mobility outlines. And so, in Black Juice the elephants in “Sweet Pippit” achieve their longed-for autonomy when they break free from human domination and reach the outskirts of the urbanized area they have inhabited. The protagonist of “Wooden Bride” circumvents the restrictions and rules of the bizarre marriage ceremony by rambling through the fringes of town. However, in “Yowlinin”, by contrast, a city and its inhabitants are destroyed by a lethal plague of creatures, the yowlinins, who emerge from their underground lairs in the surrounding countryside. Similarly, in Castellarnau’s “La oscuridad es un lugar”, the young protagonist, with the aid of a weird forest-dweller, evades the slaughter of her family but also an abusive domestic environment. In “El hombre del agua” [“The Dowser”], readers are transported to a remote village ravaged by a persistent drought where a dowser’s daughter casts what seems to be an infernal spell on the hostile community. On the opposite direction, in “De pronto un diluvio” [“Suddenly a Flood”] it is the construction of luxury housing estates that harasses and threatens the few original inhabitants of a river delta and forces them to abandon their ancient properties. Nature takes its revenge in the form of a colossal overflow that will bring the young protagonist to  My translation here and in subsequent quotes from this volume.

1

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an ecstatic communion with the river. The materiality of the creatures, or unnatural incidents, also differs from story to story in the two collections: from the explicitness of the monstrous creatures in “Yowlinin”, or the fierce angels in “Earthly uses”, to the ritualistic, but not implausible atmosphere of “Singing My Sister Down” or “House of the Many” in Lanagan’s book. The same applies to La oscuridad es un lugar, where there is an evident oscillation between the gang of weird teenagers invading a suburban house in “Los chicos juegan en el jardín” [“The Kids Play in the Garden”], and the kidnapped city teenager in “Calipso” that seems to turn into a supernatural beast as she is forced into the immense plains. Along with their unusual generic design, what seems systematic in all these texts is the relevance of (im)mobility and distance configuration in inducing extraordinary disturbances. This becomes evident through the emphasis placed on transitions from the center to the peripheries or beyond. This interlocking of processes will be analyzed in-depth in the next section. For this purpose, I have chosen two of the most representative narratives in the two volumes: Lanagan’s “Perpetual Light” and Castellarnau’s “Calipso”.

Dissolving City Borders into the Vastness Referring back to Ameel et al. (2015, 14), peripheries should be comprehended in connection with the centers they edge. Mobility and stasis are to be considered the matrix of this composite perception. Moreover, distances in Ameel’s quadripartite proposal provide an additional approach to better interweave the complexity and re-evaluation of city peripherality. Most short stories in Black Juice and La oscuridad es un lugar are a good illustration of the articulation of this continuum through fiction. “Perpetual Light” is one of the finest instances in Black Juice. The narrative opens with the young protagonist, Daphne, receiving her mother’s phone call: her grandmother has just passed away and is to be buried in her birthplace. Progressively, the story begins to provide clues about a world that is not quite our own. As in most of the volume’s stories, the reader has to piece together the puzzle of a strange set-up by gathering bits and pieces of dispersed information. “Perpetual Light” paints a picture with dystopian undertones, hence the references to social and economic constraints and environmental damage. On the one hand, there are constant allusions to Daphne’s financial precariousness apparently linked to a strict institutional loan system: “The snippet behind the doctor’s counter was

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very full of herself this morning. ‘I’m sorry. Compassionate Allowance doesn’t cover excursions for grandparents’ funerals’” (148; emphasis in the original). Consequently, the very act of moving outside the city becomes a complex issue: “‘And so far…’ Distance meant fuel; it meant money, which I didn’t have…” (145). On the other hand, the protagonist repeatedly alludes to various health self-protection measures to avoid exposure to external pollutants. In turn, her keenness to cultivate a seed tray reveals a situation of natural food shortage and a pressing need for self-management. While in many of Black Juice’s stories there is not even the slightest topographical delineation, in this story there are several, but they are stimulatingly misleading. There are three specific toponyms in the text that point to an Australian background. Wagga partially corresponds to a real city in New South Wales. The ghost town of Greville, where the grandmother’s funeral is held, does not seem to apply to any existing Australian settlement, although it shares its name with a mountain in Southeast Queensland. Lanagan includes a borrowed disorienting attribution when referring to the supposed Aboriginal denomination of Greville, “Place of many possums” (152), which matches another town in contemporary Australia. Looming over this fictional alternative geography, the countryside that Daphne reluctantly goes through from her anonymous city resembles the landscapes of the Australian Outback, the arid vast inland of the continent. Lanagan creates a perplexing topography by combining facts and fiction and tapping into disturbing, yet real, referents. In this critical endangered world, population seems to mostly dwell in urban domes—this is matter-of-factly mentioned a couple of times in the text. It can be presumed that this hermetic atmosphere provides shelter against outside toxins, heat and grit. Simultaneously, this configuration traces a frontier between two antagonistic territories: an urban shielding atmosphere, notwithstanding its shortfalls, and the rough, menacing, and inhospitable country that encircles the former. This conceptual and geographical distance is emphasized with Daphne’s excursion to Greville. The sedentarism implied in this type of urban existence coerces the protagonist to deploy a whole array of safety strategies to confront the exit to this peripheral threatening space: “I clicked Overdrive on and puffed out relief. I had a functional car, safe seed tray, bloodstream swimming with antibodies” (150). This includes a visit to her naturopath, a seemingly holistic clinician:

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Well, you know what I’m here for: the whole organism. I can see that if you don’t do this, you’ll selfflagellate until you’re sick. So just go, go, and we’ll do some serious stripping out of toxins when you get back. You’ve got your injections organised? (148)

In this twisted reality, what lies beyond the city domes seems to be even more unusual. However, the enunciative subject and her actions generate to a large extent this atmosphere that pivots between realism and the strange. Thus, Daphne’s transfer beyond the limits of the city shows the connection between peripherality and ‘unnaturalness’: Here I was, driving out to the pre-dawn Treeless Plain. The road ahead seemed to be steaming in the headlights’ beams, the way the dust blew around on it. Flurries of the stuff hissed into the windscreen. It’d be hiss and fwump for a few hundred kilometres. (149)

The aseptic atmosphere that she leaves behind contrasts starkly with this grimy journey that ends up in a derelict place: It was like a lot of towns I’d passed through already this morning, a dying collection of buildings like eye sockets and mumbling jaws, grey under a grey sky. Its public buildings had been repurposed to death through phases of gentrification, hippie squat and serious poorhouse. (152)

During the funeral, this lifeless land takes in only four mourners: Daphne, her mother and her cloned partner, and Irini, her grandmother’s acquaintance. An incipient fray and noncommunication drift all of them apart, echoing the dryness of the region, the listless service is officiated by a grotesque priest wearing goggles (156) and, right after its closure, the participants quickly head back to the city. Even after such a flying visit, Daphne, now in the company of Irini, shows allergic symptoms and physical discomfort. Her old car runs on a gloomy afternoon: “It was like driving down the eye of a tornado, its rings shifting over us, charcoal, dirty cream, mid-grey”, and the vehicle, even if sealed, falls prey to the external contaminants: “The finer dust was filtering in, powdering Irini’s navy skirt, tickling my sensitive nose” (162). Despite all precautions, even the slightest interaction with exogenous territories reveals the impossibility of avoiding their infiltration.

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In between the narration of Daphne’s back-and-forth trip, flash-back passages of the protagonist’s childhood experiences with her grandmother are interspersed. The bush setting and the nature described in them suggest a pre-crisis period. Nonetheless, there is evidence folded in these recollections that again delimits the dimension of a mimetic representation from that of unfamiliar nature: Every night Taw brought in something different. Mostly they were only broken inside, with outer layers still bright and their remaining movements natural. But sometimes he lost his head and ate half, and brought us the rest, the light gone out of their eyes and the mechs and bio-springs trailing. (150)

Here, what appears to be a real cat hunts down a bio-mechanic creature that it finally gobbles down. Readers are not offered any concession whatsoever; no clarifications are provided: only glimpses into a shadowy near future. Lanagan’s mastery in building a disturbing atmosphere lies in bonding multiple centers and peripheries through (im)mobility both in the physical and temporal vectors. She temporally displaces the context of the story to a futuristic projection and highlights, at the same time, the territorial marginality that inland Australia evokes. Daphne is pushed into the derelict and unliveable Greville to perform the only possible activity in such a place: burying a corpse. The tensions that originate between moral duty and the fear of entering an intimidating and unhealthy space draw a conflicting line separating a pre-apocalyptic limitless world and a contemporary confined urban society. Distance, in Ameel’s terms (2017), is a key concept here. Under these circumstances, it could be assumed that the gap between urban space and its neighboring areas is insurmountable. But along with the sense of radical territorial disconnection in “Perpetual Light”, there is also the recognition that the past haunts the present and that peripheral territories infiltrate the imagination of city centers, no matter how isolated they seem to be. “Calipso” is one of the most disturbing stories in Castellarnau’s La oscuridad es un lugar. Mobility design unfolds along the transfer of its young protagonist from an urban warehouse, where she is being held captive, to a brothel called Calipso in the heart of the vast pampas. As in Lanagan’s Black Juice stories, the author compels the reader to reconstruct a narrative framework where meanings are far from explicit. Nothing is known about the girl’s origins, or the conditions of her abduction, or

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why Igor, her trafficker, has not found her sedated, as it had always been the case with previous women: An electric light bulb hung from the ceiling and its garish light bathed the girl with a scary whiteness. He thought about beating Beto to death. What was he supposed to do with the kid? It wasn’t his job to put her to sleep. He didn’t even have the means to do it, other than with a blow. (32)

Nowhere in the story are the words “brothel”, “prostitution” or “trafficking in women” ever mentioned. Unlike “Perpetual Light”, there is not even the slightest extratextual topographic denomination that can guide the reader to place the action in a specific continent or country. In this sense, the narrative matches well with the characteristic ambiguity of the unusual mode. However, the fact that Castellarnau has lived for many years in Argentina can also provide an interpretative geographical indicator, together with the serious social impact of trafficking in women in the Southern Cone. This is also manifested in the outline of a lineal landscape dominated by the emptiness of an endless plain that clearly evokes the great immensities of the pampas: They glided swiftly down the straight, silver road under the headlights. On both sides of the windows and on the horizon and behind them, the dark void opened like a hungry mouth. It had been a while since they had last seen any road signs or signboards, only occasionally some milestone that appeared and disappeared in the blink of an eye. They could be anywhere in the world. Even outside the world. Two survivors of a cosmic catastrophe. (41–40)

From the first lines, the only evidence is that the fate of these two contrasting characters intersects and takes a real and figurative spatial course. The transfer of the anonymous girl can be read in the light of a road movie progression: the point of departure is the industrial area of an unidentified city and the story ends with the journey’s completion in the surroundings of a roadside brothel. During the road trip, different stages slow down the drive and create alternate spaces on the side of the road that accentuate the suspense: will the girl manage to evade her destiny? Will Igor reconsider his actions before handing her over to the pimps? Although there are clues that the girl and her situation are anomalous from the very beginning, in the first passages her ways are completely in accordance with a juvenile

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behavior: “The carousel was set in motion with a noise of rusty gears. The girl waved at him as she passed him riding on a white horse, Igor returned the greeting. This was repeated four or five times” (42). Her naive nature progressively gives way to a secretive, more sublime dimension. “It’s better to be here than anywhere else” (39), she replies when Igor questions her reasons to pose as his daughter at a gas station. Concomitantly, as they move away from the city, Igor’s feelings evolve from an evident annoyance to a growing physical and emotional fascination with her. Disturbingly, in a clear parallel with Navokob’s Lolita (1955), it seems that the man is falling in love with the teenager. He feels jealous when she talks to another man and even fantasizes about running away with her: “And along with compassion came something else: an irrational desire to lean towards the girl, hold her in his arms and slide into her pitch-black tunnel eyes. His heart was beating very fast” (39). The role of place and mobility in subject formation and in the destabilization of categories is thus essential in this text. Igor and the girl leave the urban space and enter an immensurable territory that fails to signify anything other than a type of void, which also embodies a turning point in semiotic representation: They had left the industrial zone behind and were entering the plain. Behind them was the city: enormous, flat, without relief. A gigantic city surrounded by that wasteland crossed by roads and paths that seemed to have been laid out with the certainty that no one would ever travel across them. Or, that only dead souls would travel across them. (33)

This paragraph is illustrative of the transition from the human, built order, to the natural sphere, in other words, from the apparent uniformity of the urban mass to the unknown that awaits beyond. Clearly, all along the story, there is an insistence on these images of a desolate vastness functioning as an opposition to the hustle and bustle of the city: “Igor turned around and became absorbed in the absent landscape. Far from the urban night, the stars shone with a stare of eyes without eyelids” (35–36). This loneliness and quietness are only broken by a strange mirage on the way, a bustling amusement fair in the middle of nowhere, in the heart of the night. As the trafficker ruminates, this makes no sense in the spatial reality they are traveling: “Igor thought that it was strange, the nearest town was more than thirty kilometers away” (41). This bright and lively stopover in the darkness and solitude of their route problematizes the function of spaces in the narrative, so much so that this delocalized place represents a

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turning point where the roles played by the two protagonists become disrupted. While the child behaves according to her age, enthusiastic about the rides, Igor acts as a caregiver who looks after the safety and well-being of the girl. Paradoxically, as he succumbs to the girl’s influence, she gains confidence: “All traces of helplessness had evaporated from her” (34). This change in her demeanor is relevant as it is this space beyond the city limits that seems to trigger violence against women and that showcases the most ominous materialization of sexual oppression, namely the brothel. This unusual spatiality is used as a specular setting that reflects the desires of those who enter it. From a different perspective, however, this motif visibly connects with the experience of Ray Bradbury’s protagonists in a traveling carnival in the dark fantasy novel Something Wicked This Way Comes (1962). By granting secret wishes to townsfolk, the owner of the fair survives on the vital energy of those he manages to subjugate. Similarly, in “Calipso”, this itinerant fair hides a malevolent symbolism behind its apparent luminosity. As the roadmap seems to be accursed, the two travelers move forward and there is no turning back. The role reversal is definitive: the victim-­ perpetrator binomial entirely rotates when, at the conclusion of the narrative, in the vicinity of the brothel, Igor plans to flee with the girl. But the escape never takes place, the nameless youngster takes over his will and, perhaps, even his own existence: “He was barely conscious when she engulfed him with her dimensionless shadow. Her shadow like a shroud” (49). “Calipso” concludes as abruptly as the rest of the stories in the volume. The pieces that are scattered around the story can help unravel the enigma in various ways. Thus, it can be argued that the title of the story, and name of the brothel, draws on the ambiguity of its mythological reference. Calypso, from ancient Greek “she who conceals”, is a nymph who diverts the Homeric hero Odysseus from his return home and, with her power of seduction, detains him for seven years on Ogygia, her island. Such an interpretation is favored due to the additional likeness to the idea of an initiatory journey in the middle of an infinite plain that is evocative of the sea. The dark rephrasing of this motif, however, is inscribed in a contemporary context where it can be assumed that a male figure has been cast adrift in a paranormal dimension of limitless space where he has to face a supposedly supernatural creature, a demonic nymphet, that has been unleashed by the very destructive energies of his professional dealings. Castellarnau herself has pointed out this very direction: the unusual mode acts as a means to bring together the existence of a real Catalan

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brothel named “Calipso” and the author’s aspiration to reverse the social tragedy of pimping and women trafficking through a vengeful fantastic rewriting (Solsona Asensio 2022). The story, however, resists simplistic interpretations. It does not draw links based on clichéd presumptions. Just as the immensity of the territory endows the abducted girl with captivating powers over her kidnapper, it is no less true that she seems insufflated by a malignity that the sudden end of the story leaves unresolved. “Calipso” plays with all the core characteristics of the unusual mode imbricated with mobility and distance vectors. From the rationality and everyday life inspired by an urban foundation, the characters move away and enter the void of the unknown. The unfathomable nature of the great Argentinian grassland, its horizontality, contrasts with the verticality of the urban space and immerses the two travelers in an alternative and unstable world. More importantly, the constant contrast between movement and stops is remarkable: each halt in their road trip accelerates the flow of the narrative instead of stagnating it. From the limits of the city to the nucleus of the pampas, the unusual rupture of conventions and the estrangement of expectations transmit a parallel slide from the urban environment intimately linked to (im)mobility and distance.

Unusual (Im)Mobilites: Concluding Remarks Unusual fictional poetics stimulate a phenomenological spatiality that breaks with the orthodoxy of the real. By filling in the spaces between words, readers have to complete, reconstruct landscapes and scenarios, and visualize the evolution of cryptic endings. This leads to the emergence of bordering spaces that oscillate between similarity and difference, between the recognizable and the diverse, or, as Colin Greenland points out in his review of Black Juice: “From the opening lines, each story delineates with startling intimacy a decisive event in a world which is not our own, or not quite” (2006). This statement could also be applied to Castellarnau’s La oscuridad es un lugar, where each story transports readers to seemingly contemporary realistic locations, but with points of dissimilarity that force to circumvent known topographies. The short stories analyzed are grounded in realistic materials, but the breakdowns of reality that they explore result in distortions that are primarily spatial. As a crossroads in most of the stories, the ‘spatial Unusual’ is expressed as an opposition between center and periphery and between stasis and mobility. Unusual or weird elements begin to reveal themselves

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almost systematically as characters distance themselves from population centers and glide through suburban areas or the countryside. At the same time, most of the texts feature recurring transitions between the solid, tangible, realistic dimension of life in human settlements and the transitory, elusive, imaginary side of existence in the outdoors. The correlation between these variables is almost regular. Given the productive systematicity of this connection, I consider this literary analysis to be revealing as a fictional commentary on urban frameworks in the twenty-first century and the tensions between (im)mobility and the borderlands that surround them. In a context where urban peripheries are increasingly revisited and revalued, this analysis contributes to visualizing their intersection with the development of literary genres and modes and emphasizes the semiotic power of interstitial spaces.

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CHAPTER 13

Narratives of Border Crossing in Kati Horna’s Photographic Series Karla Segura Pantoja

Working through the lens of mobility and immobility, this chapter explores Kati Horna’s narratives of border crossing in her photographic series. Within a historical and epistemological framework of displacement, it establishes intersecting dimensions in Horna’s artistic practice. Beginning with her first Parisian period in 1933, Horna developed a series of narrative photographs informed by surrealism that empower the domestic sphere and challenge the political climate at the time, in the context of the rise of fascism. Later, during the Spanish Civil War, she photographed the conflict behind the scenes: the restless faces of injured soldiers, mothers and children in their daily lives. Her multiple exiles to Paris, to several places in Spain and then to Mexico are infused in her border-crossing narratives. How do narratives of exile and border crossing permeate spatiality in Horna’s work? This chapter brings together this artist’s multiple displacements and her early engagement with the politics of urban space, in order to examine how she narrates the city. It traces intersections of power and K. Segura Pantoja (*) CY Cergy Paris Université, Cergy-Pontoise, France © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 P. García, A.-L. Toivanen (eds.), Urban Mobilities in Literature and Art Activism, Literary Urban Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42798-5_13

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discrimination through her use of framing, reframing, photomontage, and collage. I argue that Horna’s aesthetics are marked by her personal experiences of transnational border crossing. Focusing on Kati Horna’s house in Mexico as a surrealist urban fringe where European exiles gathered, I examine how this place embodied her experience of mobility and immobility. The final section explores how her personal experience of exile marked her aesthetics in the work La Castañeda (1944), a photographic series that reveals the peripheral setting of a public psychiatric institution that blurs the lines between sanity and insanity. In this work, Kati Horna depicts urban borderlands not only as part of the city’s architecture but also as epistemological borders that challenge normativity. Her portrayals of this psychiatric institution reveal a suburban environment outside the margins of a society where mobility and immobility are confronted.

Narratives of Exile: Displacing Private Space A Context of Multiple Displacements Kati Horna was born Katalin Deutsch in Szilasbalhás in 1912, which was then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Her wealthy family moved soon after to Budapest, where she lived until 1930, when she moved to Germany to study at the Free University of Berlin. There she was in contact with Berthold Brecht’s group, participated in the protests against fascism, met painter and photographer László Moholy-Nagy (1895–1946), mingled with the anti-fascist circle of Marxist theorist Karl Korsch (1886–1961), and married the Hungarian intellectual Paul Partos (1911–1964). Back in Budapest in 1933, she studied photography for a short period with József Pécsi (1889–1956). Kati Horna’s early work Stairs to the Danube (1933), which features a man sleeping on the stairs and an untitled photograph of a woman sleeping on a bench (1933), reveals an early awareness of the fringes and the subaltern realities of homeless and invisible people on the edges of the city. With the rise of fascism in Hungary during Miklós Horthy’s regime, she moved to Paris and shot stills for films and retouched fashion photography. In 1936, Horna joined the Republican antifascist movement in Spain. By the retreat of the Republican troops, she fled back to Paris. Eventually, the Second World War led her to a definite exile in Mexico in 1939, where she would remain for the rest of her life, with her second

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husband, the Andalusian sculptor José Horna (1912–1963). Kati Horna’s photographs illustrate what historian Enzo Traverso calls the “epistemological privilege of exile” (2010, 227), a sort of intellectual compensation conferring the ability to perceive reality through multiple perspectives. Horna produces these varied perspectives through the techniques of framing, reframing, collage, and photomontage. Later, in Mexico City, she taught photography at two prestigious institutions: the Academia de San Carlos and the Universidad Iberoamericana. She used to say to her pupils that “reframing allows you to reclaim your own essence” (quoted in Rodríguez 2013, 281) and frequently reused her own photographs in order to create new angles and meanings. The political dimension of Horna’s photographs led her to define herself as an “art worker” (Horna y Fernández 2016, 8) rather than a photographer, embracing the craft and the medium behind the lens. Indeed, Horna was a self-declared “invisibilist” (Horna y Fernández 2016, 13). Moreover, her urban practice was distinctly marked by an in-betweenness and focused frequently on spatial intersections, showing not only the public and private dimension of urban space but also the liminality of spaces such as psychiatric institutions and her own private, domestic space. Displacing and Displaying the Private Space Kati Horna’s early series created for the Agence Photo, Le marché aux puces (1933) and Les Cafés de Paris (1934), depict typical Parisian cityscapes that illustrate the surrealist principles of lost and found objects. The items and situations in the images correspond to the surrealist desire for reconciliation between oppositional forces (see Kadri et  al. 2016, 143–153), in this case, past and present, as well as interior and exterior. In these series, Horna captured the intersection of different realities in two ordinary places. Her pedestrian narratives convey a surrealist aspect because of their sense of humor and their way of capturing the uncanny of the everyday. These miniature cityscapes reflect the secret language of the city (Benjamin 1983, 36–37), illustrating the dual, interior-exterior nature of Walter Benjamin’s flâneur, which can be linked to the ability to see reality through multiple perspectives. The border-crossing narratives of Horna’s flea market series trace intersections of class. As curator Jean-­ François Chevrier has pointed out, these photographs express the marvelous aspect of the urban fringe encapsulated by the commonplace of the flea market: “Out on the fringe, where the historic bourgeois city rubs up

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against working-class suburbs, Paris’s flea market was the chaotic place of merchandise made ‘marvelous’ by the surrealists” (Chevrier 2013, 290). Moreover, her series Le marché aux puces depicts the random encounter of disparate objects such as a naked bust of a woman surrounded by sets of china, vases, clocks, and iron candelabra, evidencing the absence of human presence, while the series Les Cafés de Paris captures stolen moments, featuring unusual trios, such as a couple and their anthropomorphized dog: in this photograph, the focus on the latter sitting on a chair and watching calmly as their table is being served, blurs the frontier between human and animal. Though Kati Horna was not directly involved with the Parisian surrealists, during her first stay in Paris she, nevertheless, collaborated with German artist Wolfgang Bürger, a young disciple of the renowned surrealist painter Max Ernst. Under the pseudonym Wo-Ti (Wolfgang and Kati), they published a series with eggs, vegetables, and other anthropomorphized objects as main characters. These personified domestic objects feature in intricate settings that sometimes ironically reflected the political situation. An example of this is the series Hitler-Ei (Hitler the egg, 1937), in which the leader of the Nazi party is depicted as an egg in the middle of a political meeting also attended by eggs, satirizing Hitler’s histrionic speeches. In this micro-theatrical setting, Kati Horna and Wolfgang Bürger transfer the political situation into a different context: Hitler does not only invade Europe, but also the private space of the kitchen. The series Hitler-Ei was later reproduced as a parody of Franco under the title Eine lustige ostergeschichte: Das Franco-Ei (A funny Easter story: Franco the egg) in the weekly magazine Die Volks-Illustrierte on March 31, 1937 (see Otayek 2016, 24–25). These series reflect on the consumable nature of political illusions, represented by the two authoritarian leaders: while the name of the dictator is replaced, the political framework of the photo essay in both publications remained antifascist and full of irony. Kati Horna traveled frequently in this period. In 1937, she went to Barcelona as a photojournalist, employed by the Ministerio de Propaganda Exterior (Foreign propaganda office) of the Confederación Nacional del Trabajo (National Confederation of Labor, CNT). There she covered different fronts for the CNT and the Federación Anarquista Ibérica (Iberian Anarchist Federation). She was also picture editor for the anarchist magazine Umbral (Threshold) and was extremely active as a photographer for the CNT’s journal Libre Studio. Moreover, she participated in

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the antifascist journals Tierra y Libertad (Land and freedom), Tiempos Nuevos (New times), and Mujeres Libres (Free women). Far from producing a sensationalist report of the Civil War, Kati Horna depicted intimate portraits and scenes: landscapes with breast-feeding mothers, a soldier shaving outdoors, the interior of devastated buildings. Her dramatic images display a tension between the interior and exterior nature of the scenes. She documented the Spanish Civil War until the evacuation of Teruel and the arrival of the militia. Her photographs are strikingly original as they depict the peripheral setting of everyday activities of the Republican soldiers, exposing the margins rather than the center of the battlefield, as the most famous photojournalists did at the time, such as Gerda Taro and Robert Capa. Narratives of Exile Kati Horna’s photomontages introduced a singular way of capturing the emotional burden of the Spanish Civil War on urban walls and streets. A significant example of this technique can be seen in the 1938 picture La mujer Española antes de la revolución (Spanish woman before the revolution), also known as Subida a la cathedral (Stairway to the cathedral), where the profile of a woman taken at Xàtiva is superimposed on the Gothic wall and stairs that lead to the Cathedral of Barcelona. The woman’s eye is carefully placed behind the barred widow, symbolizing the oppression behind the religious institution’s conservative power. In some of her works, she used the same method of photomontage, personifying the city’s architecture and providing a visual and political metaphor for the adage, “if these walls could talk”. Other arresting examples of her representation of dispossession are the different photo-collages she made from a photograph in the Huesca region in 1937, with a child sitting on the stairs. The child was cut out of the original image to create several photomontages, made with her lifelong partner, the artist José Horna. The photograph was first published on the cover of Umbral no. 24, January 29, 1938, with the following caption: “El niño, nuestro tesoro de mañana, es hoy el objetivo fatal de la salvaje aviación fascista. Madrid va a salvar su tesoro infantil, evacuando a los 17.000 niños que aún residen en la invicta capital”. (The child, our treasure of tomorrow, is today the fatal target of the savage fascist bombing. Madrid is going to save its precious children, evacuating the 17,000 children that are still living in the undefeated Capital, Rangel 2016, 127).

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The child was also featured in two different photomontages, both titled L’Enfance (1939). These works, made in collaboration with José Horna, no longer display the stairs and the door sill, and the child is cut out and intentionally shifted to the center of the image, surrounded by the void. In one of these collages, the child looks away from a devastated building; in another the child sits on the stairs that lead to a bar, opening an in-­ between space where childhood is left in a limbo. Additionally, Kati and José Horna created the collage Cartel de Francia (Poster of France, 1938), with the same child on the edge of a boat filled with immigrants. In these collaborative series, the lonely child is displayed sitting on various kinds of urban borderlands, all of them charged with the dramatic political situation of the time.

Mexico City’s Surrealist Fringe “Houses Are Really Bodies” Kati Horna’s artistic practice was marked by her definitive exile to Mexico. Before leaving Europe in 1939, Horna completed the series Lo que se va al cesto (What goes to the bin), also for Agence Photo. It was composed of seven photographs and published by the end of the year in the Mexican magazine Todo under the title Así se va otro año 1939 (1939, there goes another year). In it a basket made of wire allows us to see its interior. The series shows a sequence of discarded objects, symbolizing what was left behind in Europe because of the war: broken ideals, represented by a shattered book; torn beauty, represented by flowers; the loss of identity, evoked by identity papers; wealth by Spanish money; and peace, symbolized by a paper dove. Furthermore, some of the photographs from the series that were not included in the publication depicted the ambiguous presence of a torn will, stressing the idea of loss (Rangel 2016, 140). Here we have yet another domestic setting marked by political tragedy. Horna and her husband arrived by the “good fortune of being able to obtain travel papers to Mexico when, after the Republican defeat in the Spanish Civil War, both found themselves in legal limbo” (Horna y Fernández 2016, 9). They were penniless and lived first at the intersection of Violeta and Zarco streets, before moving to the house on Calle Tabasco where they lived for the rest of their lives. They were part of the many Republican and the Second World War refugees that Mexico welcomed at the time.

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The secret and yet magnetic artistic space she built in her home at the heart of the Colonia Roma in Mexico City, a place she refused to leave until her death, became a surrealist fringe in the city. Kati Horna’s house turned into the nucleus of surrealist activity in Mexico City, where many European exiles and Mexican artists met. Kati Horna was a childhood friend of the Hungarian photographer Emerico “Chiki” Weisz (1911–2007), who arrived two years after Horna, in the same boat as the French surrealist poet Benjamin Péret (1899–1959) and his partner, the Spanish painter Remedios Varo (1908–1963). In earlier days, Chiki Weisz had been Benjamin Péret’s Parisian neighbor. When Péret returned to Paris, he became André Breton’s right hand Remedios Varo and English painter Leonora Carrington (1917–2011), who arrived by the end of 1942, became Kati Horna’s best friends. In other words, these European exiles formed a recomposed family, helping and taking care of each other. For instance, the Hornas’ house on Calle Tabasco was the setting for the wedding of Leonora Carrington and Chiki Weisz in 1946. Family photographs from this period feature this tight circle of emigré artists, which also included painters Esteban Francès (1913–1976), Mathias Goeritz (1915–1990), and Gunther Gerzso (1915–2000). The homes of Kati Horna, Remedios Varo, and Leonora Carrington were the refuges of an uprooted family of artists. Carrington’s son, Gabriel Weisz, has described the Hornas’ house as the “House of the green crystals” (Weisz 2003, 3), a sort of surrealist ghetto of artists—mainly poets, painters, sculptors, and photographers—where endless conversations would take place in their own Esperanto, a mix of English, French, and Spanish. And yet, Kati Horna was never directly associated with the surrealist movement, as she declared on many occasions: No, I never met Breton, I didn’t want to know about the surrealist world. I was in Paris but never went to their gatherings; I didn’t like their idea of going to cafés to discuss things. I had a personal rapport and friendship with Leonora [Carrington] and Remedios [Varo] when they got here, because they arrived two years after I did … I never went to Café de Flore with the surrealists. I read everything and I have everything about André Breton here.… I was always an individualist (interview with Emilio Cárdenas Elorduy, quoted in Rodríguez 2013, 282).

Even if Kati Horna never met Breton and was not interested in being part of an artistic movement, her house in the Roma neighborhood

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welcomed many surrealists in exile. There, Horna and her fellow exiles created artworks together. Family photographs portray this group of artists in front of the patio window or around the fountain. The house was even mythologized as an anachronic surrealist ghetto by several artists and critics, such as English patron of the arts, Edward James (1907–1984): Her house was like a Central-European island in the Roma neighborhood…. Within it, the main room, more than a sitting room, seemed like the room of a kind fairy; and even though its physical location is in the New World, the force of Kati’s personality transformed it into something so Central-­ European that one felt transported to the oldest neighborhood of Buda, on the edges of the Danube (Herner 2011, quoted in Horna y Fernández 2013, 302).

This surrealist fringe embodied displacement as a personal experience. This “Little Hungary”, fashioned by the artist as a sort of artistic and alternative microcosm, was also described as a magical place by Mexican artist Pedro Friedeberg in 1936: Kati decided to move to the ruins on Calle Tabasco #198, where, in a small rain-foresty patio would drip a joyful fountain, pigeons would flutter about in the afternoons and owls by night. Here Kati was the happiest for over half a century, locking herself in her darkroom to develop the thousands of photographs that she took during this period and made her toys and magical and unique puppets, and triangular Golems with magical powers (quoted in Horna y Fernández 2013, 304).

These exiles had the possibility to gather and evolve together, and yet their precarious situation limited their artistic and literary production. Moreover, in the 1940s, Mexico was still ruled by nationalistic cultural politics and only a few galleries and publishers welcomed European contributions. Even if, after André Breton’s visit in 1938, the country was described as the surreal place par excellence, surrealism was nevertheless marginalized because Stalinian and nationalist influences dominated the artistic scene. The houses of these exiles were thus the settings of reunions, surrealist games, private theater plays, improvised exhibitions, lectures, and performances. In that sense, surrealism remained a secret part of the fabric of Mexico City’s cultural life, and significantly, Kati Horna’s home, without

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being officially part of the surrealist movement, became the underground center of this surrealist fringe. S.NOB Magazine: Opening the Doors of the Unexpected Doors, windows, stairs, barriers, borders, and all kinds of architectural intersections are often represented in unexpected ways in Kati Horna’s photographs. Urban thresholds convey the sense of the historical transitional period she lived in (Rangel 2016, 119 and 127), as can be seen in Subida a la catedral, her cutouts of destroyed buildings from the Spanish Civil War and her photomontages featuring a child sitting on a doorway. Later pieces, such as her illustrations for José de la Colina’s text “La ciudad / I: Método de aprovechamiento terrorífico” (The city / I: Method of terrifying exploitation S.NOB 3, July 4, 1962), her series Arquitectura Insólita (Unusual architecture) and her subsequent works on Mexican architecture are also significant representations of the politics and aesthetics of urban thresholds. Horna continued developing her narratives of border crossing, blurring not only the frontier between interior and exterior but also between the living and the inanimate. The figure of the door was particularly significant during one of Horna’s most creative periods, in 1962, over twenty years after her arrival in Mexico. This coincided with the publication of S.NOB, a weekly magazine edited by Mexican writer Salvador Elizondo (1932–2006). Contributors to this publication, which only lasted seven issues, between June and October 1962, included Jorge Ibargüengoitia (1928–1983), Juan García Ponce (1932–2003), Tomás Segovia (1927–2011), Juan Vicente Melo (1932–1996), Álvaro Mutis (1923–2013), filmmaker Alejandro Jodorowsky (b. 1929), artist and writer Roland Topor (1938–1997), artist and playwright Fernando Arrabal (b. 1932), Edward James, and Leonora Carrington. Without being under the aegis of the surrealist movement, the magazine S.NOB came from its margins and resonated with surrealism’s sharp critique of bourgeois conventions. The stylization of its name made the sine nobilitate—without nobility—antecedent more pronounced, conferring on its pages a sort of hermetic and snobbish aspect, as Abigail Susik has pointed out: “From the context of Mexico City in the early 1960s, a snobbish orientation may have allowed certain intellectuals to broadcast their self-conscious belatedness and geographic distance from the global centers of the avant-garde” ( 2017, 107). S.NOB was willingly outrageous by tackling taboo subjects such as obsessions,

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manias, secret dreams, and erotic fantasies. The magazine included sections on cinema, music, and even a “Children’s corner” with grotesque short stories written by Leonora Carrington. Since its release, the magazine was a satire of social and artistic conventions aiming to opening the doors of the unexpected to its readers. S.NOB’s extraordinarily diverse editorial board was composed of intellectuals who were frequent contributors to the Revista de la Universidad, a journal published by the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. In comparison, S.NOB was a more intimate and iconoclast project, as is clear in the epigraph at the bottom of the third issue’s contents page: “La redacción de S.NOB respetará no solo la ideología, sino la forma de escribir de sus colaboradores, aun cuando se contraponen a todas las reglas del buen escribir” (S.NOB’s editorial board will respect not only the ideology but also the writing style of its collaborators, even when they contradict all the rules of good writing, S.NOB, nos. 3 and 4 July 1962). According to one of its contributors, cinema critic Emilio García Riera (1931–2002), the short-lived magazine was a combination of Playboy, Le Crapouillot, and Cahiers du Cinéma (quoted in Olivier 1992, 167). Kati Horna had a special section titled “Fetiches”, where she would publish three of her photographic series: Oda a la necrofilia (Ode to necrophilia), Impromptu con arpa (Impromptu with harp), and Paraisos artificiales (Artificial paradises). The three series featured female nudes, a subject that was still generally restricted to male artists at the time. Horna’s fetishes also have in common the fact that her female models are posing with humanized objects to blur the boundaries between object and subject. Ode to Necrophilia From the period of her Parisian stay, Kati Horna developed a narrative photography, playing with sequences and the comic book formats. This approach allowed her to produce a series that can be read as photographic tales, such as Oda a la necrofilia, published in the second number of S.NOB, June 27, 1962. Through her artistic practice, Horna opened windows to the interior of her house, through the analogy of the body-like home. This series portray a cloaked woman standing in front of an unmade bed. A white mask is laying on the pillow. The setting also includes an open book and a burning candle, conveying a ritual atmosphere. As the sequence progresses, the woman comes closer to the mask, she removes

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her clothes, and contemplates the mask. The series finishes with a close-up of her back and then the expression of the mask. In this work, a bedroom of her house is the setting of a ritual between life and death: the unveiled female body, the woman’s undergarment, and the bed are confronted with the death mask, the book, and the candle. Oda a la necrofilia can be read as the visual rendition of Georges Bataille’s understanding of eroticism: “Eroticism, it may be said, is assenting to life up to the point of death” (1986, 11). In Oda a la necrofilia, mobility can be associated with the displacement of the private sphere; here her narratives of exile define spatiality as the viewer experiences a sense of trespassing. The model for these photographs has been identified as Leonora Carrington. Oda a la necrofilia depicts a remarkable liminal space between life and death, presence and absence. Its subtle eroticism, which was informed by Georges Bataille (Pawlik 2018), make it all the more ambiguous. The narratives of space in Oda a la necrofilia open the doors to a particularly intimate and disturbing liminal atmosphere. The cultural identity of this domestic setting is vague, placing it outside of time and space. The narratives suggest a convulsive beauty that plays with veiled eroticism and convey the surrealist idea of the merging point where opposites meet: Everything tends to make us believe that there exists a certain point of the mind at which life and death, the real and the imagined, past and future, the communicable and the incommunicable, high and low, cease to be perceived as contradictions. Now search as one may will never find any other motivation force in the activities of surrealist than the hope of finding and fixing this point. (Breton 1972, 123–124)

In Mexico City, surrealism was relegated to the private sphere. As a result, the houses of this group of exiled artists became the secret venues of a vibrant scene. As women artists, Kati Horna, Leonora Carrington, and Remedios Varo would rehabilitate domestic spaces such as the kitchen, as a private and privileged place of creation. The kitchen became a recurring motif in their paintings and writings. In her novel The Hearing Trumpet, Leonora Carrington wrote something that resonates with Horna’s urban and domestic images: “Houses are really bodies. We connect ourselves with walls, roofs, and objects just as we hang on to our livers, skeletons, flesh and blood stream” (2005, 13). The relationship of these exiled women artists to their houses can be seen as the embodiment of their previous loss through exile. Ana María Norah Horna y Fernández,

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Kati Horna’s daughter, describes her mother’s very personal connection to her house as follows: After so many losses, so many exiles, the very idea of leaving it [the house] filled her with anxiety. She, so strong in so many things, showed a moving frailty when experiences arose that would put in jeopardy her remaining in the house, such as the 1985 earthquake in Mexico City, or when around the house a new building was constructed, that looking out the backdoor would appear as a destructive monster. The house was her country, her home and her workshop; the Roma neighbourhood, her continent and family; friends from the neighbourhood and work her inspiration and joy. (Horna y Fernández 2013, 302)

La Castañeda: Landscapes of Liminal Spaces La Castañeda (1944) In Mexico, Kati Horna continued collaborating with magazines and journals. In 1944, she was commissioned to photograph Mexico City’s asylum, La Castañeda. A significant urban and marginal space, La Castañeda was inaugurated in 1910 by President Porfirio Díaz, two months before he was overthrown by the Mexican Revolution (see Rivera Garza 2020). La Castañeda was a monumental architectural project designed by his son, Porfirio Díaz Jr. and was inaugurated with 779 patients who were transferred from two mental health institutions dating from the colonial period, managed by religious orders. For President Díaz, the opening of La Castañeda represented a step toward modernity, as did the rest of his architectural and urban development plan, which was of French inspiration. This psychiatric hospital was an imposing sign on the urban landscape and was immediately inscribed onto the collective memory and imaginary of the city. Built in the Mixcoac area, La Castañeda was erected on the land of a hacienda previously owned by Ignacio Torres Adalid, also known as the “King of Pulque” because he was a manufacturer of this agave-based spirits. The land had been used to grow plants and had also been the site of gardens and dancing halls. The idea behind the construction of La Castañeda psychiatric center was to offer a better life to its patients, instituting a reformist mental health system (Molina 2009, 28–35). It was originally designed to host 1,200 patients in fifteen buildings over an area of 140,000 m2. It also included a

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central pavilion and housing facilities for the medical staff. The project needed an isolated place to guarantee the peace of the patients and the security of the neighborhood. At the time, the land was surrounded by the natural borders of the Mixcoac river and woods. However, this and other public institutions suffered during the tragic decade that followed the armed conflict, and throughout the post-revolutionary years. Eventually, La Castañeda became the shame of the Mexican psychiatric system. Those years shaped the legend of the institution, known as the palace of madness (Palacio de la locura). To cross its majestic doors meant to enter hell. Politically speaking, its imposing facade bore the weight of Porfirio Díaz’s dictatorial regime. Moreover, its doors and walls—as those of any psychiatric institution—stood as instruments of the state to control abnormal behavior. “Loquibambia”, Nosotros, Mexico City (July 1944) Kati Horna’s series dedicated to La Castañeda was published as a photographic essay under the title “Loquibambia” (Madland) in the magazine Nosotros (July 1944). According to Ana María Norah Horna y Fernández, Horna despised the title; indeed, its pejorative and condescending sense meant the opposite of what the photographer wanted to depict.1 The article featured a selection of Kati Horna’s photographs of La Castañeda along with a text by an unknown author, which linked the images of the patients to a short story titled “The Wise King” from The Madman (1918), by Lebanese-American writer Khalil Gibran. In this short story, all the inhabitants from a far-away kingdom, except for the king and his right hand, become mentally ill because they drink water from a poisoned well. As the people begin conspiring to dethrone the king because of his difference, he eventually drinks the same water in order to recover his subjects. Even though the photo essay’s title drew a morbid attention to the institution, the text nevertheless reflected on the normativity of madness. La Castañeda series confronts the popular imagery of madness. At the core of this urban borderland, where madness is the rule rather than the exception, La Castañeda was part of the Díaz government’s plan for the modernization of the nation, but after 1944 the postrevolutionary project implemented a series of regulations to address the increasing population 1

 Conversation with Ana María Norah Horna y Fernández (2022).

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of psychiatric patients and to convey the idea of productivity. With the institution’s overpopulation, the hospital overran twice its capacity. This led to the decay of the medical and administrative services and ultimately to La Castañeda’s bad reputation. In 1944, the authorities tried to change this stigma by inviting the press to cover the activities and new therapies that were being introduced. Horna’s series were amongst the first to capture the real lives of the patients at the start of one of the pivotal periods for this mental institution.2 El Patio de los Olvidados (The Courtyard of the Forgotten) Horna’s series dedicated to La Castañeda reveals the peripheral setting of this public psychiatric institution. She narrates a microcosm outside the margins of society, where mobility and immobility are confronted as the represented patients seem to have a particular relationship with the world outside. Significantly, one of the patients portrayed is described as having only one preoccupation: to communicate with the exterior by means of an imaginary phone. Another one  is obsessed with fame and believes he will be able to get out by executing frenetic dances, showing that fame is not restricted to the outer world. Yet another patient from La Castañeda led to one of Horna’s most celebrated portraits: the image features a peaceful-looking man, his melancholic, upward gaze dominating the careful, yet sober composition. The diagonal lines behind him frame his profound and tender expression. In the text that accompanies the photograph, this man is described as a calm subject suffering from the delirium of persecution, his tranquility only disturbed when he thinks of his family. The photograph would be later known as El iluminado (The enlightened one), a title that encompasses the human and empathic look of the photographer as a border crosser and echoes the comment accompanying the image: “Kati Horna, nuestra estrella fotógrafa, se introdujo en ese mundo de maravilla que habitan los 2  Due to the extension of the Anillo Periférico, the outer beltway of Mexico City, La Castañeda was demolished by presidential decree in 1968. Nevertheless, the elaborate French facade was dismantled stone by stone and translocated a few kilometers, to the Amecameca region, to a place called El Paso de Cortés, which was believed to be the entrance to the city when the Spanish conquerors first arrived. Thus, the facade of La Castañeda was the entrance of a wealthy family property before it was donated to the religious order of the Legionarios de Cristo in the 1980s. The architectural history of La Castañeda has been extensively described by Mexican architect and historian Fierro Gossman (2016).

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dementes … y trajo a la luz razonable esta imagen tierna de la felicidad irrazonada, pura, como de seres en el espacioso limbo donde no existe ni el rencor ni el recuerdo” (Otayek 2019, 62).3 One of the photographs from the series La Castañeda, titled El patio de los olvidados (The courtyard of the forgotten), is perhaps the most poignant example of Horna’s awareness of the margins from the viewpoint of the forgotten and marginalized. Once again, this work is a composition of carefully placed diagonal lines. The asylum had separate wings for women, men, and children. Here the photographer captured many children, sitting and standing in the courtyard. The different planes of the image convey the idea of a dual interior-exterior quality: in the background we can see the windows of the building, the roof of the second floor, the handrail, and the wire barriers; these architectural lines intersect with the blurred and shadowy wire barriers of the first plane, symbolically conferring a sense of confinement to what otherwise could be identified as any school courtyard, as the children seem to be peacefully interacting with each other, and many of them are looking toward the photographer and even smiling.

Conclusion Kati Horna narrates the city, tracing intersections not only of class and nationality, but also of disability. Her photographic series elaborated during her Parisian stay, her subsequent contribution to the documentation of the Spanish Civil War, as well as her series from her Mexican period, illustrate a translocation of the political into the private space through her narratives of border crossing. With the series La Castañeda, Horna demonstrates her ability to move across frontiers and capture the intimate intersection where political events merge with everyday life, confronting the cultural and epistemological construction of madness. Her later work would consecrate her as a “photographer of modern architecture” in Mexico (Jácome 2016, 91), as she depicted the aesthetic and rather abstract intersections of modern Mexican buildings through her 3  “Kati Horna, our star photographer, entered into this world inhabited by the insane … and brought to the rational light this tender image of irrational, pure happiness, of these beings in their spacious limbo where neither resent nor memory exist”. My translation. Transcription taken from Otayek 2019, 62. I am deeply grateful to Michel Otayek for his help and his important work on Horna.

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meticulous use of framing. Horna addresses urban borderlands thanks to her ability to read between the lines, deepening the city’s architectural narratives: In my photos I try to capture the unexpected side of architecture, the fantasy that can only exist in reality by being trapped between the lines. That’s the only way I feel I do justice to the architect and their work, and I think I provide a genuine account of it … every shape is animated by a magical message (quoted in Rodríguez 2013, 281).

Kati Horna’s house slowly became a legend in the city and is now part of the underground cultural imaginary of the capital, where she kept an intense and yet discreet relationship with the city’s artistic environment. In 2001, contemporary Mexican photographer Pedro Tzontémoc (b. 1964) made a photographic series of Horna’s house after her death and described the place where Horna created her own world as an extension of herself: “I had to cross the threshold: a big red gate on Calle Tabasco in the Roma. Her house was a few blocks from Insurgentes, and though it may be the world’s longest avenue and also one of the nosiest, you could escape the din once you were inside. Kati created her own unique parallel universe within this bubble of silence” (Tzontémoc 2019, 83). Tzontémoc captured the magical dimension of Horna’s domestic installations: small horse heads sneaking out from a potted plant, an ivy growing over a chair, marbles inserted in a door to create light refractions, and glass installations used to display unusual objects. Particularly, one of his photographs depicts the dual nature of this place as a domestic setting and a surrealist fringe, namely the photograph of the patio’s fountain, which was formerly the background of many artistic and family reunions, such as Leonora Carrington and Chiki Weisz’s wedding. The absence of human presence charges the atmosphere of the photograph with the memory of its past. Pedro Tzontémoc remembers Kati Horna saying that she became a photographer because her true vocation was being a vagabond. Indeed, she was a true wanderer not only through national and urban borderlands, but also through epistemological borders.

References Bataille, Georges. 1986. Erotism: Death and sensuality. Trans. Mary Dalwood. San Francisco: City Lights Books.

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Benjamin, Walter. 1983. Charles Baudelaire: A lyric poet in the era of high capitalism. Trans. H. Zohn. London: Verso. Breton, André. 1972. Manifestoes of surrealism. Trans. R. Seaver and H. R. Lane. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Carrington, Leonora. 2005. The hearing trumpet. London: Penguin Classics. Chevrier, Jean-François. 2013. A cosmopolitan biography in the feminine. In Kati Horna, exhibition catalogue, ed. Angeles Alonso Espinosa and José Antonio Rodríguez, 288–291. Puebla/Paris: Museo Amparo/Jeu de Paume. Fierro Gossman, Rafael. 2016. Casa de campo de don Arturo Quintana y Mercedes Peñafiel (“La castañeda”). In Grandes Casas de México, January 22,: https:// grandescasasdemexico.blogspot.com/2016/01/casa-­d e-­c ampo-­d e-­d on-­ arturo-­quintana-­y.html. Accessed 31 Oct 2023. Herner, Irene. 2011. Edward James y Plutarco Gastelum en Xilitla, el regreso de Robinson. San Luis Potosi: Gobierno del Estado de San Luis. Horna y Fernández, María Norah. 2013. Legacy and nostalgia. The reconstruction of memory. In Kati Horna, Exhibition catalogue, ed. Angeles Alonso Espinosa and José Antonio Rodríguez, 301–305. Puebla/Paris: Museo Amparo/Jeu de Paume. ———. 2016. Memory and the recovery of lived experiences: Kati Horna, ‘invisibilist’. In Told and untold: The photo stories of Kati Horna in the illustrated press. Exhibition catalogue, ed. Gabriela Rangel, 6–13. New York: Americas Society. Jácome, Cristóbal Andrés. 2016. Kati Horna, Mathias Goeritz, and architectural photography. In Told and untold: The photo stories of Kati Horna in the illustrated press. Exhibition catalogue, ed. Gabriela Rangel, 90–103. New  York: Americas Society. Kadri, Raihan, Krzysztof Fijalkowski, and Michael Richardson. 2016. Objective chance. In Surrealism: Key concepts, ed. Krzysztof Fijalkowski and Michael Richardson, 143–153. New York: Routledge. Molina, Andrés Ríos. 2009. La locura en el México posrevolucionario. El Manicomio La Castañeda y la profesinalización de la psiquiatría, 1920–1944. Históricas 84: 28–35. Olivier, Florence. 1992. S.NOB (1962–1963), revue du groupe de la Casa del Lago. América. Cahiers du CRICCAL 9–10: 165–173. Otayek, Michel. 2016. Loss and Renewal: The politics and poetics of Kati Horna’s photo stories. In Told and untold: The photo stories of Kati Horna in the illustrated press. Exhibition catalogue, ed. Gabriela Rangel, 20–39. New  York: Americas Society. ———. 2019. Photography, mobility and collaboration: Kati Horna in Mexico and Grete Stern in Argentina. PhD dissertation, New York University.

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Pawlik, Joanna. 2018. From snob to S.NOB: Edward James turns fifty in Mexico. West Dean College Arts, Collections, Library and Archive. https://www.westdean.org.uk/study/school-­o f-­arts/blog/collections-­l ibrary-­a nd-­a rchive/ from-­snob-­to-­snob-­edward-­james-­turns-­fifty-­in-­mexico. Accessed 31 Oct 2023. Rangel, Gabriela, ed. 2016. Told and untold: The photo stories of Kati Horna in the illustrated press. Exhibition catalogue. New York: Americas Society. Rodríguez, José Antonio. 2013. Introduction to the Kati Horna archive: A European photographer in the culture of Mexican photography. In Kati Horna, exhibition catalogue, ed. Angeles Alonso Espinosa and José Antonio Rodríguez, 280–283. Puebla/Paris: Museo Amparo/Jeu de Paume. Rivera Garza, Cristina. 2020. La Castañeda insane asylum: Narratives of pain in modern Mexico. Trans. Laura Kanost. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Susik, Abigail. 2017. Losing one’s head in the “Children’s Corner”: Carrington’s contributions to S.NOB in 1962. In Leonora Carrington and the international avant-garde, ed. Jonathan P.  Eburne and Catriona McAra, 105–125. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Traverso, Enzo. 2010. L’histoire comme champ de bataille : interpréter les violences du XXe siècle. Paris: La Découverte. Tzontémoc, Pedro. 2019. Kati Horna, retrato interior. Artes de México 132: 52–59. Weisz, Gabriel. 2003. La casa de los cristales verdes. Milenio, July 12.

CHAPTER 14

Mobility and Dispossession on the Fringes of Literary Barcelona Patricia García

The Global City and the Center-Periphery Divide Postmodern urban critics have repeatedly argued that cities nowadays cannot be conceived as geographically bounded. Edward W. Soja in Postmodern Geographies (1989) posited that the sprawl of contemporary cities blurred the city’s edges and led to what Richard Skeates defines as “the existence of an all-encompassing urbanized space in which the distinction between center and periphery, if it could ever be said to have existed in reality, is perceived to have collapsed, leaving a boundaryless, formless totality: an infinitely extended city” (2003, 27). A similar argument was developed by Saskia Sassen in The Global City, with the city defined by spatial dispersion and global integration, “a new spatial expression of the logic of

P. García (*) University of Alcalá, Madrid, Spain e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 P. García, A.-L. Toivanen (eds.), Urban Mobilities in Literature and Art Activism, Literary Urban Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42798-5_14

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accumulation” (1991, 24) in a global economy.1 While this expansive view may be true for many contemporary literary works featuring urban sprawls and built-to-plan suburban housing, the peripheral novels this chapter presents tell a very different story. As my analysis will show, the idea of ‘the city’ perceived by the protagonists across these different novels, all three set in the urban peripheries of Barcelona, does not match this alleged collapse between center and periphery. Far from being diffuse, the city in these stories is something concise and tangible. The protagonists identify themselves in opposition to it. The city is semantically built as a stable signifier occupying a specific geographical, political and social space—a structure of power in the central parts of Barcelona, access to which is denied to the lead characters and to which they are subordinated as inhabitants of low-income peripheries. In considering the polysemantic characteristic of the term ‘urban periphery’ in this chapter, I exclude what in the longstanding North American tradition are referred to as suburbs, namely sprawling, low-­ density, middle-class residential developments in outlying parts of the city. Jorge Dioni López offers a timely analysis of the social dynamics of these enclaves in the Spanish context in La España de las piscinas (2020). In contrast, the urban peripheries discussed in this chapter are densely built working-class districts, or barrios in Spanish (as referred to in the novels), that are both geographically marginal and socially displaced from the centers of power, typically developed under state-subsidized mass housing schemes during the decades following World War II (Wacquant 2008; Urban 2012). These “areas and experiences that are located or take place at a distance from the perceived urban centre” (Ameel et al. 2015, 9) capture a conflicting and ever-shifting dialogue between what is understood as the core and its fringes. Numerous dichotomies have been employed to illustrate such a relationship of displacement. Carmen Gavira Golpe provides a prototypical iteration of the core-periphery dyad in the urban context with “the city” versus “the non-city” (1999, 112–113, my translation), the desired city and its opposite, the negated city (la ciudad negada): “The city exists as long as there is a non-city that surrounds it, created by itself with equal or even more precision than the central space: the negated city, the periphery,

1  See Wacquant’s critique of urban studies that operate under the ‘global city’ paradigm (2008, 6–7).

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the border, the outskirts, the suburbs, those areas outside the city walls” (112). With this chapter I hope to demonstrate that the framework provided by mobilities studies allows for a more fluid understanding of the center-­ margin dichotomy. It does so by highlighting the relational aspect, rethinking mobility-related themes across the core and periphery split. As the following sections show, in all the novels discussed here there is a constant engagement with the “regimes of mobility” (Glick Schiller and Salazar 2013) that bind the city to its peripheral areas. These vectors are the main subject of my analysis, centered on the contemporary literary peripheries of Barcelona.

Barcelona and the Non-City During the 1960s and 1970s, the city of Barcelona constituted an important industrial hub that attracted more than a million national migrants. In search of work that they could not find in their native provinces, these migrants settled in the peripheral areas of Barcelona, often in informal settlements2 and later in mass-produced, densely populated tenements that were built cheaply and quickly on the outskirts of the city by the municipal authorities. This social phenomenon was captured in the works of Francisco Candel and Juan Marsé. Donde la ciudad cambia su nombre (Where the City Changes Its Name 1957) and Los otros catalanes (The Other Catalans 1967) by Candel explore the social and cultural dimensions of families from southern Spain and of Roma communities inhabiting the industrial peripheries during the 1950s. A large part of Juan Marsé’s literary production also fictionalizes the struggles of the fringe communities of Barcelona, for instance through the character of Pijoaparte from El Carmel, on the northern edge of the city in the novel Últimas tardes con Teresa (Last Evenings with Teresa, 1966). Despite the influence that these narratives exerted on the cultural expression of city life, literary Barcelona has moved to the fringes only recently. Since the start of the twenty-first century, there has been a boom in novels dedicated to the experience of growing up within low-income migrant families in the working-class peripheries of Barcelona. Some examples of this are Paseos con mi madre (Walking with my Mother, Javier 2  On barraquismo, the city’s history of informal settlements, see Tatjer and Larrea (2010) and Roca i Albert (2018).

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Pérez Adújar 2011), La inmensa minoría (The Immense Minority, Miguel Ángel Ortiz 2014), Antes del huracán (Before the Huricane, Kiko Amat 2018), Tigres de cristal (Glass Tigers, Toni Hill 2018), Listas, guapas, limpias (Clever, Pretty and Clean, Ana Pacheco 2019), No soc aquí (I Am Not Here, Anna Ballbona 2020), Baricentro (after the name of this well-known shopping center, Hernán Migoya 2020), La travesía de las anguilas (The Eels’ Journey, Albert Lladó 2020) and El lunes nos querrán (They Will Love Us on Monday, Najat El Hachmi 2021). These texts share similar characteristics beyond that of their peripheral setting. They merge various narrative genres, especially autobiography, journalistic chronicle, the coming-of-age novel and, in some instances, the detective story. Authored by the second-generation descendants of national and international migrant families, these works attest to their authors’ hybrid and working-­ class heritages, rooted in the marginal areas of the city where they grew up.3 Writing becomes a way of exploring the author’s relationship to these marginal areas, notably through the lead characters’ search for their own identity beyond the confinement of their fringe neighborhoods. This is often expressed in the recurring trope of the return, which juxtaposes a character’s memories of their neighborhood during their childhood years against their impressions when they revisit as adults. My analysis moves mainly between La travesía de las anguilas (2020 LTA henceforth), the first novel by the journalist and playwright Albert Lladó, and Paseos con mi madre (2011 PCM henceforth), from the renowned author Javier Pérez Andújar. Summoned by a mysterious letter left behind in the will of one of his older friends, the first-person narrator of La travesía de las anguilas returns to the marginal neighborhood of Ciudad Meridiana (where Lladó grew up) on the north-east highway access to the city. The novel juxtaposes two temporalities: 2017, which constitutes the narrative present, and the narrator’s memories of his neighborhood during the 1992 Olympic Games. While La travesía de las anguilas is a tale of one urban satellite, Paseos con mi madre offers a constellation of city peripheries articulated through the movement of the first-person narrator. With autobiographical interpolations, the narrator functions as a chronicler of both the history and the everyday life of the working-class fringes of Barcelona. The narrative unfolds as he strolls with his mother (as 3  On autobiographical discourse and national migration (the so-called charnegos) in the Catalan context, with a particular focus on the literary production of Javier Pérez Andújar, see García Ponce (2015), Martínez Rubio (2016), Aramburu (2016).

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the title indicates) along the banks of the river Besós, which connects the deprived south-eastern neighborhoods of Sant Adrià and La Mina. This walk is then followed by further trips to other areas, as readers are guided through the chronicles of the peripheral parts of Barcelona. Instead of laying the emphasis on the literary representation of specific areas of suburban Barcelona, my goal is to explore how the notion of geographical periphery intersects with that of social marginality from the perspective of urban mobility and around the thematic axes of movement, mobilization and dispossession. The last section approaches these themes from a gender perspective as I turn my attention to another contemporary periphery novel, El lunes nos querrán by Najat El Hachmi (2021), to determine the extent to which gender—along with race—shapes the mobility issues raised in the previous sections.

Arrival—“Welcome to Barcelona”, from the Ditches La travesía de las anguilas is dedicated to Ciudad Meridiana, an area representative of underprivileged satellite neighborhoods that came into being during the later years of the Franco dictatorship: “a concrete valley, invented out of nowhere in the sixties” (LTA 2020, 14), “the result of the lack of scruples of real estate speculators and the indifference of the authorities” (back cover).4 The novel starts and ends with a chapter entitled Bienvenidos a Barcelona, in which the narrator revisits Ciudad Meridiana 25 years after having left. In these framing chapters, the narrator observes from the highway the “Welcome to Barcelona” sign that hangs on the cliff of Ciudad Meridiana, emulating the famous Hollywood letters (2020, 13). This sign welcomes those commuters accessing the city from the north-side highway. With this striking image as a starting point, the narrator sets out to unravel the symbolism of the sign’s motto: it is a welcome message but also a delimitation of a boundary, a demarcation between the city and its edges, and, he notes, the anticipation of something better to come. He argues that this “Bienvenidos a Barcelona” is missing a verb in the future tense, a verb which would signal the neighborhood’s peripheral condition: “a future verb, a ‘you will be 4  “un valle de hormigón, inventado de la nada en los años sesenta”, “fruto de la falta de escrúpulos de los especuladores inmobiliarios y la indiferencia de las autoridades”. All translations of the Spanish novels analyzed here are mine.

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welcome’. Not yet. Almost there. Just a few kilometers more”.5 As you cross his neighborhood, the narrator tells us, the city is always about to happen. Instead of using the negation of the city as an image of the periphery (Gavira Golpe 1999), the narrator employs the metaphor of the prologue or preamble to introduce the notion of marginality. Like the cliff sign, Ciudad Meridiana is defined by its liminal condition, an area that “announces Barcelona without being it yet” (36), a “ditch” (cuneta LTA, 14) with “skyscrapers in charge, solely, of scratching what remains on the margins” (14), “a bite of the city to which we welcome you” (17).6 This sense of subordinated detachment from the city center is heightened by the narrator’s memories of the 1992 Olympics, which he expands upon in the subsequent pages. While Barcelona was undergoing its greatest urban transformation of the century, he recalls how his neighborhood remained untouched, literally on the margins of this remodeling. The Olympics serve in the novel as a landmark by which to revise the historical memory of urbanism in Barcelona from the perspective of those inhabiting the peripheral area of Ciudad Meridiana, in particular, the official narrative associated with the figure of Juan Antonio Samaranch. This well-known icon in Catalan history, President of the International Olympic Committee, was praised for his role in the successful bid by Barcelona to host the Olympics. As a “city hero” (74), Samaranch was honored in 2010 with an official burial ceremony in the city’s cathedral in recognition of his role in creating the new, modern image of Barcelona as a world city, which developed into the so-called ‘Barcelona brand’. The narrator, however, discusses an often-forgotten counter-narrative that still lingers among the inhabitants of Ciudad Meridiana. Samaranch was also the president of the construction company that initiated a series of corrupt property projects in the city during the 1960s. It was through one of these projects that Ciudad Meridiana grew rapidly and cheaply, as part of a low-quality mass housing scheme without the necessary health and safety guarantees, “without even a miserable medical center, nor plumbing in good condition, nor stairs for the elderly, nor a metro stop. Just mud” (74).7 This 5  “a las letras les falta siempre un verbo de futuro, un seréis bienvenidos. Aún no. Falta poco. Apenas unos kilómetros”. 6  “anuncia Barcelona ahora sin acabar de serlo”, “una frontera muerta en la que nadie ha pensado”, “Rascacielos encargados, únicamente, de rascar lo que queda en los márgenes”, “un mordisco de esa ciudad a la que os damos la bienvenida”. 7  “ni un mísero centro médico, ni cañerías en condiciones, ni escaleras para los viejos, ni una triste parada de metro. Sólo barro”.

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counter-history that the narrator presents recalls how Samaranch, father of the World Olympics and symbol of Catalan  progress, turned Ciudad Meridiana into “one of Barcelona’s blind spots” (74) and, in leading the city to the exclusive brand that it now embodies, pushed the non-city further to the margins. In Paseos con mi madre, Pérez Andújar employs a similar trope, where moving through the periphery acts as a trigger of a dark history that the city chooses to forget. The narrator’s walk around the deprived area of Sant Roc, south-east of Barcelona, serves to introduce an alternative narrative to that of the official high regard in which certain public figures in the urban history of Barcelona are usually held. The narrator recalls Josep Maria Porcioles, city mayor during the Franco dictatorship and who has been honored by “the highest authorities of democratic institutions” (PCM 2011, 130). He underscores that the inhabitants of Sant Roc instead remember Porcioles as the symbol of corruption and of an urban speculation that affected them directly, responsible for over-crowded buildings with no transport infrastructure, schools or markets. Welcome to Barcelona: while in the city center the authorities celebrate its heroes and the landmarks of the global city, from its fringes, or—as the narrator of La travesía de las anguilas notes—from its ditches, the welcome sign is seen from a very different angle: the city’s history decays like the “stream of rust running, like a dry tear, down the letter B” (LTA, 125).8

Walking Along the Fringes—A Global Identity In suburban literature, particularly within the framework of North American cultural studies, the private vehicle is the quintessential element. Urban sprawl is associated with hyper-mobile lifestyles, with the car—and car commute—as the symbol of autonomy in white upper-middle class suburbia (e.g., Dines 2020). However, in the corpus of peripheral novels surveyed in this chapter, vehicular mobility is represented as a privilege, not only in the case of privately owned cars but also for public transport, which took a long time to arrive to these satellite areas (see section “Subaltern mobilities: territorial conquests”). Hence, the title of Pérez Andújar’s work—Paseos con mi madre, with its reference to the act of walking—can be read as a political statement. Throughout the whole

8

 “chorro de herrumbre que baja, como una lágrima seca, por la letra B”.

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book, the notion of nonprivatized transportation is proclaimed as the only democratic way of navigating urban space. The idea of walking in the city being a particularly effective way of encountering otherness has featured in works by Michel De Certeau (1988), Rebecca Solnit (2001) and, more recently, Stavros Stavrides (2019). These approaches have emphasized that the act of roaming in urban space has the effect of connecting, in that the pedestrian negotiates their own identity in relation to the strangers they spontaneously meet. Stavrides brings this idea further in positing a common identity that emerges from random urban encounters on the move: “The accidental structure of encounters results from intersecting personal routes which organize a personal and, simultaneously, collective inhabitation of the space” (130). The geography of Paseos con mi madre—with the movement of the narrator as the leitmotiv in each chapter—highlights this dimension that transcends the encounter between individual and other. It provides a sense of collective dwelling between those growing up, working or having been raised on the low-income outskirts of the city, and the act of moving along and across the working-class peripheries becomes a physical way of connecting all the fringe areas under a single identity. The first passages of Paseos con mi madre mirror the image evoked by the title and describe the narrator’s walks with his Andalusian mother along the riverbanks of the Besós river during his weekly trip to this area where he grew up, as he searches for “a dose of [him]self”9 (14) that he cannot find on the streets of Barcelona’s city center. In the opening chapter, he reflects on how his hybrid identity has shaped his narrative voice, as a Catalan individual of Andalusian roots growing up on the fringes of the city and never fully considered a citizen of Barcelona. The first sentence of the book, very simple in structure and tone, initiates and condenses his advocacy of the act of walking: “When I return to San Adrián del Besós I walk with my mother along the riverbank” (11), which is also an act of remembrance (“On our walk, we start to remember”, 12).10 This opening overlays the affective dimension with the spatio-temporal one, as the narrator describes the emotional link between this landscape, his mother’s roots and his own mixed roots, projecting this rhizome on the riverbank transformation over the past decades.  “una dosis de mí mismo”.  “Cuando vuelvo a San Adrián del Besós paseo con mi madre siguiendo la orilla del río”, “En nuestro paseo, nos ponemos a recordar”. 9

10

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The following chapters show that the narrator’s musing on the peripheries transcends the exploration of his own sense of belonging. He weaves a narrative that interconnects the fringes of Barcelona and those of the great metropolitan area. By so doing, he becomes a chronicler of the peripheries, “describing the physiognomy of the people of the outskirts, of the cities that surround Barcelona” (70)11 by identifying the commonalities of those settled there. His object of study is “those building blocks that surround Barcelona and to which the city has turned its back”12 (PCM, back cover). From this departure point, the narrator sets out to experience the marginal areas of Barcelona by traveling through and in them by foot, bus and train, observing as he does the many architectural and social analogies that configure these fringe neighborhoods and towns: the beehive-type carceral mass-housing, the social wounds of unemployment, high rates of domestic violence and drug abuse, workers’ strikes, organized local action aimed at securing better services and the impact of late capitalism on the local  economic and cultural fabric of the neighborhoods. Through a first-person account, and with an overtly journalistic perspective, the narrator exhibits the embodied curiosity of what some scholars call the “ethnographer-flâneur” (Jenks and Neves 2000; Coates 2017). In each chapter, he highlights that one can only truly understand the social and cultural web of peripheral neighborhoods surrounding Barcelona by traveling as a pedestrian or as a passenger in public buses and trains: I go everywhere in search of the blocks, transfiguring myself, transforming myself into that landscape of concrete and vacant lots, overflowing like a deep river that crosses the outskirts. The way to access the barrios is by a commuter train full of people, by a subway like a dry land worm, by buses that cross the ring roads at full speed. (152)13

This act of roaming across and along the margins transcends the geography of Catalonia. In his walks and journeys, the narrator refers to a “peripheral identity” that extends worldwide, a globally relatable identity  “describir la fisonomía de la gente de los barrios, de las ciudades que rodean Barcelona”.  “los bloques de edificios que rodean Barcelona, y a los que la ciudad ha dado la espalda”. 13  “Voy a ir por todas partes en busca de los bloques, transfigurándome, transformándome en ese paisaje de hormigón y descampados, desbordándome como un río hondo que atraviesa las periferias. A los barrios se va en tren de cercanías llenos de gente, en metro como una lombriz de secano, en autobuses que cruzan a toda castaña las rondas”. 11 12

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of translocally connected spaces (Matteis 2021). The imagery that expresses this common identity is that of an archipelago of peripheries, further from their city center than they are to each other despite their geographical distance across cities, countries and continents. His neighborhood, he writes, is closer to the tenements on the M30 motorway in Madrid, the suburb of La Chana in Granada or the basketball courts in Harlem, areas that share family ties across nation-states, than to any central area in Barcelona (PCM, 19–20). Deploying a pun on family ties, the narrator proclaims that the city landmark of the church of La Sagrada Familia “was not part of our family” (20): “Rather than feeling part of any country, any homeland or nation, I belong to the international of the tenement flats. Wherever I go, in any city in the world, I want to visit its outskirts before its museums” (107).14 The emergence of a shared translocal peripheral identity, with the strength of a collective force, challenges the paternalistic relationship of domination-subordination that is frequently attributed to the center-periphery dichotomy (Urban 2012, 2–4).

Subaltern Mobilities: Territorial Conquests In her article “Slumdog Cities: Rethinking Subaltern Urbanism” (2011), Ananya Roy advances a powerful argument on marginal urban spaces by identifying and asserting the multiple “forms of popular agency that often remain invisible and neglected in the archives and annals of urban theory” (Roy 2011, 224). This type of analysis is often pursued by scholars of slum literature, such as Eric Prieto (2014) and Lena Englund (2022), who show that this literary form allows us to reflect on the impact of local communities beyond the structuralist paradigm that presents them as inevitable victims of systematic inequalities. Without jumping to simplistic pro-agency conclusions, this line of thought identifies literary examples in which those marginal communities regenerate social cohesion in their neighborhoods thanks to different cultural and political actions narrated in the works, and to “their efforts to shape the world around them in meaningful ways” (Prieto 2014, 121). Lladó’s and Pérez Andújar’s narratives also depict several forms of subaltern urban resistance against the historical neglect by the authorities, through grassroot organizations that 14  “Antes que sentirme de ningún país, de ninguna patria o nación, voy a pertenecer a la internacional de los bloques. Allá donde vaya, en cualquier ciudad del mundo, antes que sus museos querré visitar sus extrarradios”.

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design collective strategies to fight or resist forms of neoliberal appropriation of their neighborhood (see Aricó, Mansilla, Stanchieri 2016). Both texts tell of historical strikes and mobilizations to obtain the local services that were long promised but not delivered to the inhabitants of the peripheral neighborhoods by the authorities, notably public schools, sport infrastructures and medical centers and transport systems. The marginality of these satellite areas is particularly heightened by the lack of public transport to connect them to the central city areas: “The metro line took longer to arrive to the peripheral areas, like democracy to poor countries” (PCM, 44).15 Although these means of transportation were repeatedly promised, actually providing them was for the administration either not a priority or, as La travesía de las anguilas illustrates, declared as being nearly impossible due to the hilly topography of Ciudad Meridiana. This form of mobility limitation was, following Harvey, a means of intervention in the reproduction of social life: “Control over spatial organization and authority over the use of space become crucial means for the reproduction of social power relations” (1989, 187). This aspect also has a gender component that I will develop in section “Gendered mobilities and coping strategies”. Lladó and Pérez Andújar recount memorable scenes during the 1970s and 1980s in which locals took action to modify the institutional restrictions imposed upon them to control their boundaries. The neighbors forcefully proved the city council wrong by seizing control of several public bus lines and bringing them to their neighborhoods. By so doing, they demonstrated to the authorities that implementing a better bus system was not just possible but was a matter of urgency for the dignity of the area. The narrator of La travesía de las anguilas recalls the day on which the inhabitants of Ciudad Meridiana deviated bus line 33. With the complicit help of the bus driver, they forced the bus to cross the steep hinterlands. This act of rebellion against the official institutional line exemplifies Stavrides’ concept of urban agency as a “threshold-making” practice (2019). This is particularly noted in Lladó’s recall of this historical moment, in which he employs the concept of inventing space collectively: “There the neighbors were waiting for them with rakes, sickles and hoes, with which they beat back bushes, and thus invented an itinerary along

 “El metro irá llegando a los barrios más tarde como la democracia a los países pobres”

15

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the way” (LTA, 33 emphasis mine).16 Through this creative act of carving out space to improve the shortcomings of their area, the locals created their own bus line, which to this date still operates. The narrator of Paseos con mi madre recalls a similar intervention, which he regards as an act of democratic conquest of the inhabitants’ own land: Getting the bus to go where there was previously no service or bringing the subway to those areas where nothing was available to enable them to go to work without having to step in puddles, without enduring the rain and cold at dawn, without walking through the vacant lots that separated the neighborhood from public transport, all this is the democracy that was made reality by those inhabitants, by locking themselves to the premises of their local associations, by chaining themselves to fences, by blocking the traffic, and by protesting and fighting on the streets. (PCM, 58)17

In later scenes, this form of collective action against imposed conditions reoccurs: for example, the workers’ strikes in Chap. 13 and the further instances of ad hoc bus line ‘creations’ in Chap. 14. Both narrators are also aware that the systems of mobility bear a class mark that has shifted over time. The right to move using public transportation, to have their own local buses and access to a metro stop, was a privilege and as such was fought for by the previous generation. Obtaining better connections to the city, however, did not improve the logic of exclusion because it did not come with further structural changes. Today, they establish, the class burden is inescapable. Public transport in and out of these areas is “a hidden vehicle of poverty. Today the subways that penetrate the periphery are taken only by those who cannot travel in any other way” (PCM, 160).18 The mark that the locals once proudly carved on those “impossible mud alleys” (LTA, 33) by obtaining the first bus lines for the area is today a stigma. 16  “Allí los vecinos los esperaban con rastrillos, hoces y azadas, con los que iban apartando matorrales, e inventándose un itinerario sobre la marcha.” 17  “lograr que pase el autobús por donde no pasaba nada o que llegue el metro a donde no llegaba nada para poder ir al trabajo sin necesidad de pisar charcos, sin aguantar la lluvia y el frío de la madrugada, sin andar por los descampados que separaban el barrio de los trasportes públicos, esa es la democracia que hicieron realidad estas gentes encerrándose en los locales de sus asociaciones de vecinos, encadenándose a verjas, cortando el tráfico, protestando en la calle, luchando”. 18  “un transporte oculto de la pobreza. Hoy los metros que se adentran en la periferia únicamente los cogen quienes no pueden viajar de otra manera”.

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The City Denied: Dispossessions The trip to the city center is a key trope throughout the corpus of periphery novels. Despite the closeness of their neighborhoods to the central area, traveling from center to periphery is narrated as an epic adventure by the protagonists, “combining several buses, which was the closest thing to going through the jungle from liana vine to liana vine” (PCM, 155).19 Theirs is also presented as a journey into a hostile land with access restricted or even denied to them and their peers. The distance that the city trip entails is heavily exacerbated by social class, and by the stigma associated with the place in which they live. In Paseos con mi madre, the narrator emphasizes the idea of the negated city by giving voice to the stories of those inhabitants of the periphery whose family origins or financial status has prevented them from accessing the central areas: “the people who had come to live in Barcelona and yet who would not set foot in Barcelona for decades, perhaps ever in their lives” (PCM, 20).20 The impossibility of the city, from the perspective of those on the fringes, is conveyed with reference to an unbridgeable distance that exists despite its geographical proximity. The narrator expresses this with the simile of trying to touch one’s elbow with one’s own arm: Barcelona “is so very close but it is unreachable” (PCM, 57). Similar arguments of embodied exclusion are made by Sara Ahmed in relation to race under the theme of “being not” (2007, 160–163), when nondominant bodies gain consciousness of the spatial mechanisms that stigmatize them as foreign and as unwanted in a given place. As Gloria Anzaldúa (1987), among others, has posited, this involves an embodied awareness of an often-invisible frontier. Following the embodied metaphor in the context of national migrants settled in peripheral Barcelona, Mikel  Aramburu calls this invisible border “the blood-relative wall” (la muralla consanguínea, 2016, 144), highlighted in Paseos con mi madre: “Faced with the widespread image of Barcelona as an open and cosmopolitan city, for Pérez Andújar kinship operates as an insurmountable border that determines who belongs to the city and who does not” (Aramburu 2016, 144).

 “combinando autobuses, que era lo más parecido a atravesar la selva de liana en liana”  “la gente que se había venido a vivir a Barcelona y que no iba a pisar Barcelona en lustros, quizá en su vida” 19 20

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Access to the space restricted to the protagonists, the space of “the city”, features in both novels as a confrontation with the authorities. In several scenes, the narrators are stopped by the police force in central areas, asked for their identity cards and, merely for being outside the confines of their neighborhoods, treated as suspect entities in the (wealthier and tourist-oriented) space of the city center. This “differential economy of stopping” (Ahmed 2007, 161) is the work of those power figures who determine who is undesirable in certain areas—by those who design or enforce the moral geographies of the city: “For bodies to whom the skin of the social is not extended, bodily movement is not so easy. Such bodies are stopped, where stopping is an action that creates its own effect. Who are you? Why are you here? What are you doing? Each question, when asked, is a kind of stopping device: you are stopped by being asked the question, just as asking the question requires that you be stopped” (Ahmed 2007, 161). In Paseos con mi madre, the narrator recalls the many times he was stopped in his youth by the police during his trips to the city. This dialogue exemplifies such confrontation: –– –– –– –– ––

[Policeman] What do you say your name is? he insisted. [Protagonist] Javier. [Policeman] How many times have they taken you to the police station? [Protagonist] Never. [Policeman] Never! So you are from San Adrián del Besós… And what are you doing in Barcelona then?

There was no way of approaching Barcelona without encountering that ‘then’. A distance of kilometers extends between the first and the last letter of this word. (26, emphasis mine)21

Recalling similar forms of spatial stigmatization when they were young, the adult narrators in Pérez Andujar’s text and in that of Lladó both observe a different form of exclusion in the present moment, this time an 21  ¿“Cómo dices que te llamas?, insistió./Javier./¿Cuántas veces te han llevado a comisaría?/Nunca./¡Nunca! Así que de San Adrián del Besós… ¿Y se puede saber qué estás haciendo entonces en Barcelona?/A Barcelona no habrá forma de acercarse sin tropezar con ese entonces. Se extiende una distancia kilométrica entre la primera y la última letra de esta palabra”.

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exclusion implemented by urban speculation. The conclusion is similar for both works: although in the past the inhabitants of the peripheries were segregated from the city, they nonetheless still developed a sense of belonging to their own neighborhoods. Today, the inhabitants of these areas are dispossessed even from this land, by means of the many evictions and the other alienating consequences that result from globalizing projects, such as big shopping centers that destroy the viability of local businesses. The city’s peripheral areas might have more sanitary, transport and educational services than ever before and yet there is a sense of placelessness. The neoliberal city has pushed the fringes further to the margins (Benach and Delgado 2022) and, by doing so, the city seems further away, as do the dreams of upward social mobility. In the context of Barcelona, this process also affects non-national migrants arriving from Latin America and North Africa. Paseos con mi madre describes the contemporary peripheries as the space of the placeless, of those “who have nothing” (20), while the city is restricted to those whose ancestors settled there: “In Barcelona, ​​space is a euphemism used to refer to speculation. The word space is used mainly with the meaning of commercial premises” (20). In the same vein, the narrator of La travesía de las anguilas reminds readers that Ciudad Meridiana is the area in Spain with the highest number of evictions. The welcome sign “Benvinguts a Barcelona”, the narrator recalls, was once vandalized by locals to protest against the recurrent evictions. They covered the word “Barcelona” with “eviction city”, in a crude poetic replacement of the city’s name by its current dispossession: “Welcome to eviction city”, as the narrator puts it, “an evicted metropolis” (LTA, 15).

Gendered Mobilities and Coping Strategies Given that mobility is “a thoroughly social facet of life imbued with meaning and power” (Cresswell 2006, 4), feminist urban scholars (Hayden 1980; Massey 1994; Kern 2020) and mobility scholars alike (Uteng and Cresswell 2008; Oswin 2014; Clarsen 2014) have consistently shown that the gendered body affects the capacity to move in and out of the city. However, the gender variable is often either omitted or blurred within other markers of discrimination in literary approaches to what Mimi Sheller defines as the “various complex systems, assemblages and practices of mobility” (2014, 45). In the Spanish post-war context, this variable is particularly important. The aforementioned migratory patterns of workers

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from other Spanish areas into Barcelona during the post-civil war decades created a marked gendered division of labor, with male migrants largely involved with factory work and their wives dealing with the household. These classic gender dynamics began to be challenged by the next generation, by the daughters of those migrants (among whom are the writers mentioned here), who had access to opportunities previously denied to their families, such as going to university in the city center. The unequal practices in Paseos con mi madre and La travesía de las anguilas revolve around the issue of class, which in turn defines the different mobility regimes. Neither text considers, however, the crossroads between class and gender, and how this marks the subject on the move and generates further unequal mobilities. There are several contemporary works by female authors that place the gender of their main characters at the center of their character-construction and plot. All of them are published within several years of each other and all engage with urban peripheries, for example, Listas, guapas, limpias (Ana Pacheco 2019), No soc aquí (Anna Ballbona 2020) and El lunes nos querrán (Najat El Hachmi 2021). This corpus also presents a wealth of mobility-related themes that intersect with those of living on the city fringes; however, the female body alters the portrayal of those regimes of mobility mentioned in the previous sections, as I discuss here with the novel El lunes nos querrán (They Will Love Us on Monday) as the main example. This coming-of-age novel tells the story of a 17-year-old teenager of Moroccan descent living “on the periphery of the periphery of Barcelona, though it could have been the periphery of the periphery of any city” (2021, 21). Together with her female friends, the protagonist finds ways of breaking away from the gender expectations placed upon her in an oppressive neighborhood. She later attends university in Barcelona, an experience that will sharpen her awareness of her condition as a female migrant Muslim living on the urban fringes. In her portrayal of “the reality of their neighborhood” (87),  the unnamed protagonist highlights how her racialized and migrant body is marked by a series of intersections beyond that of class, “as poor, women and immigrants” (87).22 This is the first noticeable difference from the previously discussed novels, as here the lead character experiences a multiple, intersected, marginality—a marginality from the dominant spheres imagined as the city center but also, as compared with her male peers,  “Nuestra realidad de barrio, de pobres, de mujeres y de inmigrantes”.

22

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within the confines of her peripheral town. This is reflected in asymmetries in everyday mobility patterns, for example sisters having to deal with household chores while brothers “came and went as they pleased, even making fun of my domestic obligations” (58).23 The image of the inquisitive “vertical neighborhood” reoccurs (22, 29, 44), alongside that of hypervigilant neighbors controlling her movements and those of her female friends: When night fell in our vertical neighborhood, the lit windows of hundreds of tiny floors looked like eyes watching us. All our movements, our conversations, gestures and actions, everything was public and visible to the neighbors piled on top of each other, neighbors who dedicated a good part of their time to controlling our lives. (22)24

The novel explores intergenerational differences in terms of mobility permissions and restrictions within the neighborhood, with the generation of the main character being allocated some “privileges” (30) denied to their mothers and grandmothers, such as “going out to attend high school or to run specific errands, an unprecedented margin of freedom for women like my mother, who did not leave the house more than once a week” (30).25 As in the previous literary texts, the trope of accessing the city is again key in this novel, but here with an emphasis on escaping the hypervigilance of the home neighborhood.26 A turning point in the narrative occurs upon the protagonist’s enrolling in a university in the city center. This involves a daily commute to Barcelona that is also an exercise in transiting through cultures, religions and social classes and negotiating their differences by means of her body. The trainline frontier thus becomes a threshold with shifting identities on either side, manifested in the changing of dress and language codes as well of behavior patterns when crossing the train tracks (188).  “salían y entraban cuando querían, burlándose incluso de mis obligaciones domésticas”  “Cuando se hacía de noche en nuestro barrio vertical, las ventanas iluminadas de centenares de pisos minúsculos parecían ojos que nos observaran. Todos nuestros movimientos, nuestras conversaciones, gestos y acciones, todo era público y visible para los vecinos amontonados los unos encima de los otros, unos vecinos que dedicaban buena parte de su tiempo a controlar nuestras vidas”. 25  “salir para ir al instituto o para hacer recados concretos, un margen de libertad inaudito para las mujeres como mi madre, que no salían de casa más que una vez por semana”. 26  “lo que teníamos que hacer era irnos de allí. Vivir en Barcelona, lejos de los chismes y el control de la gente”. 23 24

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Another core mobility theme in gender-conscious periphery novels is the question of safety. To what extent are everyday mobilities in and out of the city and periphery perceived as safe for a gendered body? This is also a major difference from the previously analyzed corpus, in that there are scenes of sexual harassment or rape, sometimes on multiple occasions and places. A gendered geography of fear is outlined, demarcating which sites are to be avoided based on the traumatic memories acquired upon moving through them: like the town’s industrial estate in No soc aquí, or jogging alone around the neighborhood in El lunes nos querrán or, in the same novel, the local square at night where her friend is raped. The image used across scenes is that of physical assault on the move; a persecution, a forceful conquest of their space, a bodily invasion that needs to be expelled: I was assailed by the idea that the fatty would begin to chase me every day throughout the town. I was assailed by the uneasiness of the persecution (No soc aquí, 128). His desire, or whatever it was that had pushed him to follow me, imposed itself on my few spaces of freedom (El lunes nos querrrán, 67–68) She vomited to get the rapist out of her, but it didn’t work […]. (El lunes nos querrrán, 155)27

Considering the asymmetrical mobilities among genders and generations, the focus of El lunes nos querrán, once more in contrast to the previous novels, is on the establishment of safe everyday mobility regimes for the protagonist with her female peers. This allows them to move collectively beyond the constrictions placed upon their gender. One example is their habit of jogging together around the outskirts, a liberating activity that stirs great controversy among the locals. This seemingly banal act creates a sense of collective ritual through its repetitiveness (Kellerman 2012). In spatial terms, their neighborhood’s borderlands are made meaningful by means of shared movement patterns that form sorority networks on the move in order to transgress the multiple frontiers imposed upon them. The thematization of gendered mobilities, particularly in El lunes nos querrán, exposes approaches that remain invisible in Paseos con mi madre and La travesía de las anguilas. This brings to light other aspects of 27  “Me asaltaba la idea de que el seboso ese empezara a perseguirme cada día por todo el pueblo. Me asaltaba el desasosiego de la persecución”/”Su deseo, o lo que fuera que lo había empujado a seguirme, se imponía a mis pocos espacios de libertad”/“Vomitaba para sacarse al violador de dentro, pero no funcionaba”.

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everyday mobilities, border-crossing and geographies of fear that consider the way in which their gender informs the experience of female characters living in urban peripheries.

Conclusion This chapter has explored the intertwinement of periphery and mobility by asking which specific mobility regimes and practices operate on the low-income urban peripheries of the chosen narratives, how unequal mobilities engage with the concept of periphery in the urban context and how this affects character construction, plot development and imagery across the literary texts studied here. The examined works are built on a range of images that refer to the search for mobility or to the exclusion from it. While the issue of geographical and social segregation is pervasive, a considerable emphasis is on the mobility schemes between center and periphery, on establishing new transport systems that reach those areas, on traveling back and forth, and on revisiting marginality from a different angle upon a character’s return. In other words, the focus seems to be less on isolation than on (asymmetrical) connection. Core and margin emerge as flows of movement between these two interrelated concepts. As I hope to have shown, the core-margin dyad is more fruitfully explored when approached not as juxtaposed but as relational. This allows for “a mobilized reconceptualization of space and place” (Aguiar, et al. 2019, 2) in which the center and periphery split creates an entanglement of mobilities. The mobility regimes analyzed in the previous sections show various shades of mobility and immobility patterns that overlap. The characters are strongly place-bound to their stigmatized satellite towns but they also venture into the city center, live there and occasionally return to their childhood areas. They are marked by multiple mobile categories: they are arrivers, leavers, walkers, joggers, commuters, migrants, border-crossers, invaders and place avoiders. This constellation of motion and mobility images illustrates the complex dynamics of placelessness and exclusion, belonging and escape, safety and fear, border-crossing, place-making activism, everyday mobilities and sorority networks operating on the fringes of cities. With this chapter, I hope to have contributed to the appreciation of the literary, historical and ideological significances of such imagery of mobility, immobility and collective mobilization of contemporary novels set on the low-income outskirts of Barcelona. The

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mobility-conscious analysis sheds light, on the one hand, on the various power imbalances in the act of occupying and transiting urban environments impacted by class and gender and, on the other, on the potential of this narrative genre to imagine and remember effective insubordination acts on and from the urban fringes. Acknowledgment  This work was supported by the Ramón y Cajal research program, under Grant RYC2018– 024370-I (Ministerio de Universidades, Spain/ European Social Fund).

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Index1

A Aberdeen, 160, 169–172 Abjection, 17, 131–149 Activism, 8, 15, 89, 93, 95, 97, 105, 106, 119, 125, 321 Aeromobility, 4, 16, 162 See also Airplane; Airport Agency, 9, 13, 41, 46, 47, 58–60, 97, 138, 164, 201, 237, 312, 313 Airplane, 157, 162, 171 Airport, 161, 162, 165, 169, 171 Alienation, 57, 85, 131–149, 250, 254 Ambivalence, 16, 51–66, 168, 265 Argentina, 261, 268, 269, 278 Art artistic resistance, 114, 119–124 site-specific art, 178 socially engaged art, 194, 195, 195n24 visual arts, 120, 177, 177n2 See also Artivism

Artivism, 8, 93 See also Art Assemblage, 3, 4, 13, 14, 138, 147, 188 Australia, 268, 269, 275, 277 Automobility, 4, 11, 38, 145 B Banal, 11, 101, 124, 132–134, 137, 141, 142, 144, 148, 265, 320 Barbarism, 269, 270 Barcelona, 17, 18, 288, 303–322 Basti, 53, 56, 210, 211, 213, 216, 221, 223–225, 228 Belonging, 11, 27–47, 52, 54, 59, 62, 77, 80, 84, 85n5, 96, 147, 158, 215, 221, 236, 263, 264, 268, 311, 317, 321

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

1

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 P. García, A.-L. Toivanen (eds.), Urban Mobilities in Literature and Art Activism, Literary Urban Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42798-5

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INDEX

Border border-crosser, 8, 9, 321 border-crossing, 8, 9, 17, 18, 246, 248, 253, 285, 321 border-makers, 9 border negotiation, 9 border poetics, 235, 237, 250, 253 borderscape, 8 textual borders, 238, 243–246, 248, 250, 253–255 See also Margins; Threshold Brussels, 70–73, 77, 105 Bus, 16, 36, 44, 46, 82, 113, 131–149, 214, 216, 217, 220–228, 273, 311, 313–315 C Car, 4, 16, 28, 36, 38, 46, 120, 135, 140, 144, 145, 157–160, 163, 167–169, 171, 211, 214, 219, 221, 275, 276, 309 See also Automobility Cartography cartographic humanities, 105 cartographic imagery, 89, 94, 98 cartographic objects, 94, 102–103, 106 creative cartographies, 101 See also Counter-mapping; Map Chengzhong cun, 176 See also Village in the city Choreography, 122 Chronotope, 132, 139, 140, 148, 149 City citiness, 10, 14 divided city, 237 fragmented city, 34, 40 open city, 72, 73 postcolonial city, 131–149 See also Village in the city Civilization, 269, 270

Cognitive approaches, 246, 247, 249, 253 Colonialism, 47, 96, 146 Commuting, 11, 212, 223–226 Confinement, 14, 137, 299, 306 Cosmopolitan, 73, 75, 81, 81n4, 269, 315 Counter-history, 309 Counter-mapping, 93, 97 See also Cartography; Map Countryside, 271–273, 17, 34–40, 42, 44, 46, 143, 147, 148, 176, 178, 185, 186, 190, 193, 200, 260, 266, 267, 273, 275, 282 D Dakar, 16, 131, 136, 138, 139, 141 Delhi, 16, 17, 51–66, 209–228 Demolition, 52–54, 56, 58, 59, 121, 194, 196, 198, 199, 199n31, 210, 211, 221, 224, 226, 228 Displacement, 3, 17, 53, 56, 63, 71, 134, 143, 144, 260, 267, 285–287, 292, 295, 304 Dispossession, 16, 52–55, 65, 66, 289, 303–322 E Embodiment bodily mobility, 42, 242 Encounter, 4, 10, 13, 14, 37, 39, 41, 42, 58, 71, 90, 132, 136, 139, 140, 146, 148, 149, 169, 198, 220n5, 235, 237, 250, 253, 254, 261, 269, 288, 310 See also Throwntogetherness Eviction, 53, 59, 196, 199, 209–212, 221, 223, 317 Exile, 6, 18, 75, 285–290, 292, 295, 296

 INDEX 

F Fantastic Fantastic of Space, 265, 266, 268 See also Unusual; Weird Flânerie flâneur, 3, 12, 16, 40, 70–85, 287 See also Urban stroller Floating population, 200 Freetown, 159, 162–164, 171 G Gentrification, 241, 276 Ghetto, 15, 291, 292 Guangzhou, 178, 180, 182, 195, 196 H Harare, 16, 131, 143–147 Hindi, 17, 209–228 I Immersion, 76, 246, 247 Inactivity, 14, 114 Informality informal settlement, 17, 52–54, 56, 65, 176, 210, 305, 305n2 informal urbanism, 15, 16 Infrastructure, 4, 5, 11, 13, 43, 55, 122, 132, 138, 141, 143, 145, 163, 178, 193, 195, 209n1, 210, 216, 217, 251, 309, 313 Istanbul, 120 Itineracy itinerant, 16, 52, 53, 57, 66, 181n8, 280 itinerary, 15, 137, 141 J Johannesburg, 16, 27–47

327

K Kabadi, 52, 60, 61 L Liminality liminalities, 9, 248, 287 Lived experience, 51–55, 132 Livelihood, 51–53, 57, 59, 60, 65, 66, 193 London, 160, 161, 166, 171 M Map map mobilization, 89–106 mapping activism, 93 mobilities of maps, 91 See also Cartography; Counter-mapping Margins, 9, 17, 51–66, 89, 100, 102, 105, 106, 259–282, 286, 289, 293, 298, 299, 308, 309, 311, 317, 319, 321 Mass housing, 18, 304, 308, 311 Mazdoor, 57, 58, 63 Meditation, 75, 113, 118 Memoir, 17, 56, 155–159, 161, 165, 168–172 Metro, 13, 16, 209n1, 214–221, 223, 224, 227, 228, 308, 313, 314 Mexico City, 287, 290–298, 298n2 Mobile subject, 3, 4, 11, 13, 15 Mobilities bodily mobility, 42, 242 everyday mobilities, 3, 11, 12, 134, 149, 319–321 exploitative mobility, 41 gendered mobilities, 18, 40, 313, 317–321 local mobilities, 31

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INDEX

Mobilities (cont.) poetics of mobility, 17, 137, 138, 143 politics of mobility, 4, 5, 8, 200 racialized mobilities, 30, 35, 41 subaltern mobilities, 309, 312–314 systemic mobilities, 4, 13, 14 Mobility system, 4, 11, 13, 15, 18, 137, 138, 219 Modernity urban modernity, 12, 34–47, 133, 134 N New Mobilities Paradigm (NMP), 1–3, 5–7, 28–30, 70, 90, 160, 247, 266 New York, 16, 71–73, 76 NMP, see New Mobilities Paradigm Nomadism nomadic subject, 69–85 Non-human, 4, 13, 15, 80, 83, 90, 91, 102, 106, 140 Not moving, 111–125 See also Standing still; Stasis; Stopping O Oslo, 236, 238–242, 244, 246, 249–251, 254, 255 P Paris, 123, 241, 285, 286, 288, 291 Passangering, 13 Passersby, 83 Pause, 10, 14, 77, 111–125 Pedestrian/pedestrianism, 11, 74, 164, 240, 287, 310, 311

Performance, 2, 7, 8, 16, 90, 92, 111, 117–120, 122–124, 148, 184, 184n14, 184n15, 200, 292 Periphery peripheral nation, 268–274 peripheral vision, 242, 246 See also Margins; Satellite; Suburb Persistence, 84, 112 Photography, 8, 17, 98, 118, 199n32, 286, 287, 294 Photomontage, 286, 287, 289, 290, 293 Poland, 114, 115, 119 Postcolonial studies, 6, 15, 28, 95, 134, 156, 260 Postmigration literature, 17, 235–255 Predictive processing, 245, 248, 253 Protest, 16, 33, 93, 94, 96–99, 105, 119–122, 124, 194, 214n4, 218, 286, 317 Psychiatric institution, 286, 287, 297, 298 Public art, 114, 119, 120 Public space, 9, 10, 16, 111–114, 116–119, 122, 124, 136, 139, 197, 215 Public transport, 3, 10, 11, 13, 14, 17, 131–149, 157, 210, 212–214, 214n4, 220, 221, 226–228, 314 R Race, 5, 15, 16, 18, 29–31, 33, 35, 40, 41, 44, 73, 74, 77, 82, 85, 168, 169, 307, 315 Racism, 10, 28, 43, 47, 77, 83, 157, 254 Relationality, 3, 5 Relocation, 156, 160, 195n25, 198, 211, 221, 225, 226 Repetitive/repetitiveness, 11, 12, 190, 320

 INDEX 

Resettlement colonies, 17, 58, 210–212, 216, 221–224, 226 Return, 40, 59, 62, 63, 72n2, 143, 147, 157, 161, 170, 171, 191, 272, 273, 280, 306, 310, 321 Rhythm, 5, 11, 44, 111, 114, 122, 138n3, 141, 145, 163, 164, 182, 188, 190, 246, 248, 249 Road, 4, 5, 39, 58, 139, 145, 148, 158–160, 163, 164, 168, 273, 276, 278, 279, 281, 311 Routine, 11, 112, 116, 120 Rural, 16, 35, 45, 132, 135, 139, 142–148, 158, 169, 175, 178, 180–182, 180n6, 181n7, 182n10, 184n14, 185, 192–194, 194n22, 195n25, 200, 210, 218, 219, 260, 265, 267, 269, 273 See also Countryside S Satellite, 17, 104, 105, 214, 220, 228, 250, 255, 306, 307, 309, 313, 321 See also Periphery; Suburb Scaffolding, 246 Sedentarism sedentarist approaches, 2 sedentarist theories of literature, 247 Segregation, 15, 32–34, 178n3, 214n4, 321 Shenzhen, 16, 175, 177–180, 184–186, 188–190, 194, 195, 199, 199n32, 200 Shetland Islands, 169–171 Slum, 15, 33, 35, 36, 312 South Asia, 16, 51, 52, 55, 59, 66 Space spatializing practices, 27, 47 Speed, 3, 4, 14, 137, 164, 178n3, 184, 190, 199n33, 200, 212, 311

329

Standing still, 16, 111–114, 117, 119, 120, 122–124, 143 See also Not moving; Stasis; Stopping Stasis, 5, 14, 29, 237, 266, 271, 274, 281 See also Not moving; Standing still; Stopping Stigmatization, 193, 316 Stopping, 16, 111, 114, 124, 245, 316 See also Not moving; Standing still; Stasis Suburb, 34, 35, 37, 40, 41, 44, 236, 238, 242, 250, 251, 288, 304, 305, 312 See also Periphery Surrealism, 18, 285, 292, 293, 295 Suspension, 14, 112, 158, 247, 266 T Tehran, 167 Temporality, 5, 11, 71, 72, 139, 143, 306 Threshold, 9, 18, 237, 238, 245, 249, 253, 254, 262, 267, 268, 293, 300, 319 See also Border; Margins Throwntogetherness, 10 See also Encounter Transculturality, 15, 74, 75, 78 Transit transitionality, 17 Translocality translocal, 312 Transport modes of transport, 3, 10, 16–18, 155–158, 161–162, 171, 212 transportation, 3, 16, 17, 28, 44, 46, 131, 132, 134, 146, 149, 157, 210, 214, 224, 226, 228, 309, 310, 313, 314 See also Vehicle

330 

INDEX

U Unusual, 254, 263–268, 270–272, 274, 276, 278, 280–282, 288, 293, 300 See also Fantastic; Weird Urban stroller, 12 See also Flânerie W Walking, 3, 10, 12, 13, 39–43, 46, 70, 71, 73n3, 74–76, 114, 140, 145,

160, 162, 163, 165, 171, 212, 217, 219, 224, 253, 309–312, 314

War civil war, 156, 161, 289 Second World War, 35, 83, 104, 286, 290, 304 Waste worker, 15, 52, 60 Weird, 17, 263, 270, 273, 274, 281 See also Fantastic; Unusual Worlding, 52, 63, 66