Feminist Review: Journal, Issue 47 (Feminist Review)

CONTENTS

Virgin Territories and Motherlands: Colonial and Nationalist Representations of Africa and Ireland C.L.Innes

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The Impact of the Islamic Movement in Egypt Hala Shukrallah

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Mothering on the Lam: Politics, Gender Fantasies and Maternal Thinking in Women Associated with Armed, Clandestine Organizations in the United States Gilda Zwerman

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Photo Essay: Treading the Traces of Discarded History Alison Marchant

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The Feminist Production of Knowledge: Is Deconstruction a Practice for Women? Kate Nash

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‘Divided We Stand’: Sex, Gender and Sexual Difference Henrietta Moore

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Reviews Suzanne Raitt on Decolonizing Feminisms

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Catherine Hoskyns on Women and Citizenship in Europe

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Sue Gardener on Women and Literacy

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Dorothea Smartt on When our Ship Comes In—Black Women Talk

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Hazel Slavin on Antibody Politic; Positively Women; Working with Women and Aids; and Women and HIV/Aids

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Sophia Chauchard-Stuart and Sheridan Nye on Lesbians Talk (Safer) Sex

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Beverley Skeggs on Feminism, Youth and Consumerism

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Sheila Rossan on Managing Women

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Maggie Humm on Introducing Women’s Studies

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Merja Makinen on The Making of Feminist Literary Criticism

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Elaine Jordan on Romancing the Postmodern; Comedy: the Master of Discourse; and The Adulteress’s Child

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Janet Ransom on Foucault and Feminism

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Caroline Evans on The Body Imaged and The Female Nude

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Sue Smith on Contemporary Feminist Theatres

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Noticeboard

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VIRGIN TERRITORIES AND MOTHERLANDS: Colonial and Nationalist Representations of Africa and Ireland C.L.Innes

The Irish poet Eavan Boland has written of her need to combat ‘the association of the feminine and the national—and the consequent simplification of both’ (1990, 24). Such an ‘association of the feminine and the national’ has prevailed not only with regard to Irish and European expressions of nationality, but also in a wide range of colonial and anti-colonial discourses including India, Africa, Australia and Canada. Over the past decade, discourses of nationalism and gender and the interaction between them have been the subject of a number of conferences and books (see especially Parker et al., 1992, and Nasta, 1991), but these books and papers tend to generalize on the basis of one nation’s experience, or to assume that the manifestations of nationalism are specific only to that particular geographical area. Thus Ashis Nandy (1983) draws upon the experience of India to argue that colonial and anti-colonial discourses generally tended to narrow concepts of sexuality and set up a sharp dichotomy between an aggressive warrior masculinity and a submissive, passive femininity as the normal gender roles. There are indeed many similarities between gendered expressions of nationality and race in different geographical areas, but also significant differences which relate in the specific cultures and histories of both the colonized and the colonizer. This essay seeks to compare constructions of Irish and African women within a gendered colonial and anticolonial discourse (with specific reference to Mother Ireland and Mother Africa and the sexual dichotomies set up within such discourse). Such a comparison may allow us to see more clearly the circumstances and political relations which reinforce associations of the feminine, the national, and the racial, and thus to combat the consequent simplification of each. A starting point for this comparison is a translation of the poem, ‘Femme Noire’ by Léopold Sédar Senghor, a Catholic who had planned to become a priest, but later became President of Senegal. Senghor was one of the founders of ‘Négritude’, a mainly literary cultural nationalist movement which in the 1940s and 1950s sought to affirm the value of African culture in the face of European dismissal of its existence or worth. ‘Femme Noire’ was written when Senghor was an exile in France, and like all his poetry was written in French. It is a poem which epitomizes the convergence of mistress, mother and land as the focus of the poet’s nostalgia and desire: Naked woman, black woman Clothed with your colour which is life, with your form which is beauty! In your shadow I have grown up; the gentleness of your hands was laid over my eyes And now, high up on the sun-baked pass, at the heart of summer, at the heart of noon, I come upon you, my Promised Land, And your beauty strikes me to the heart like the flash of an eagle. Naked woman, dark woman Firm-fleshed ripe fruit, sombre raptures of black wine, mouth making lyrical my mouth Savannah stretching to clear horizons, savannah shuddering beneath the East Wind’s eager caresses Carved tom-tom, taut tom-tom, muttering under the Conqueror’s fingers Your solemn contralto voice is the spiritual song of the Beloved. Naked woman, dark woman Oil that no breath ruffles, calm oil on the athlete’s flanks, on the flanks of the Princes of Mali Gazelle limbed in Paradise, pearls are stars on the night of your skin

Feminist Review No. 47, Summer 1994

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Europe supported by Africa and America. Engraving ascribed to William Blake from Captain Stedman’s Journal

Delights of the mind, the glinting of red gold against your watered skin Under the shadow of your hair, my care is lightened by the neighbouring suns of your eyes. Naked woman, black woman, I sing your beauty that passes, the form that I fix in the Eternal, Before jealous Fate turns you to ashes to feed the roots of life. (Senghor, 1965; translation by John Reed and Clive Wake) Senghor is the best-known and most prolix of Francophone African poets who frequently return to the trope of Africa as mother and mistress. It appears also in Anglophone poetry, fiction and drama, from the poetry of Nigeria’s Christopher Okigbo and its invocation to Mother Idoto, to the recurring figure of Mammy Water as a bewitching seducer and image of the nation and nature in the writings of Okigbo’s fellow Nigerian, Wole Soyinka. The Mammy Water figure also appears in the novels of the Ghanaian writers Ayi Kwei Armah and Kofi Awoonor. But this image of the Motherland as nurturing mother and sensual bride is by no means limited to African writing (or Caribbean, where women are frequently linked to the fruits and contours of the Caribbean islands). Irish readers will be familiar with James Clarence Mangan’s ‘Dark Rosaleen’, in which the allegorical significance of Rosaleen as colonized Ireland is foregrounded. The original Gaelic version which Mangan drew upon is in some ways closer to Senghor’s ‘Femme Noir’ in its sensual blurring of categories. I quote from Thomas Kinsella’s translation of the Irish folk song, ‘Little Black Rose’:

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You have driven me mad, fickle girl—may it do you no good! My soul is in thrall, not just yesterday or today. You have left me weary and weak in body and mind, O deceive not the one who loves you, my Roisin Dubh. I would walk the dew beside you, or the bitter desert, in hopes I might have your affection, or part of your love. Fragrant small branch, you have given your word you love me, the choicest flower of Munster, my Roisin Dubh. If I had six horses I would plough against the hill — I’d make Roisin my Gospel in the middle of the Mass — I’d kiss the young girl who would grant me her maidenhead and do deeds behind the lios with my Roisin Dubh! (Kinsella, 1986:252) Mangan’s later version of this poem suppresses the explicitly sexual elements quoted here, but retains some of its sensuality. Both versions play on a duality of identity between Ireland and the poet’s mistress, Rosaleen, and both draw upon the aisling tradition of political visionpoetry in this respect. Like the Senegalese griot tradition, which frequently rehearsed the history and fame of the aristocratic families who patronized the griots, the aisling poets often expressed nostalgia for the passing of a Gaelic aristocracy whose houses and courts had sustained them. But whereas the traditional Irish folk-song moves towards foregrounding the identity of Rosaleen as woman and mistress, Mangan moves towards a more spiritualized and allegorized representation: Over dews, over sands Will I fly for your weal; Your holy delicate white hands Shall girdle me with steel. At home…in your emerald bowers, From morning’s dawn to e’en, You’ll pray for me my flower of flowers, My dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen! You’ll think of me through daylight’s hours, My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, My Dark Rosaleen! I could scale the blue air, I could plough the high hills, Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer, To heal your many ills! (Kinsella, 1986:274) Senghor’s ‘Femme Noir’ is I think more akin to Mangan’s in its mode of allegorizing than the Irish folk-song, or to much African folk-song and dance, which is often frankly sexual. However, whereas Irish nationalist depictions of women and of Ireland as women become increasingly asexual and spiritualized in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, depictions of African women in a nationalist context are frequently allegorized but rarely spiritualized. Mangan’s Rosaleen is described in terms similar to those used for the Blessed Virgin Mary; Senghor’s characterization of the Black Woman emphasizes her body, her sensuality. There are, of course, many differences between the cultures and colonial experiences of Irish and African nationalist writers which may help account for this particular difference, but one significant context may have to do with the colonial representations of Africa and Ireland, which also relates more widely to representations of Black women and white women. Cartoons published in English journals and magazines such as Punch in the nineteenth century often display a wide dichotomy between Ireland as a country, and the Irish as a species, and this dichotomy is most frequently seen aligned to feminine and masculine dichotomies. Thus Ireland or Hibernia is depicted as a virginal young maiden, fair-haired and helpless, beseiged by a group of bestial, apelike Irish men. In depictions of Southern Africa or Kenya, the settler colonies, there is often less divergence between the images of a symbolic female Africa and her inhabitants, or between the depictions of African men and women. Rider Haggard’s African characters, for example, include handsome and noble African men and women as well as ugly and depraved ones. With regard to Western and Central Africa, however, the contrast between the

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John Bull offers protection to Hibernia, from the Fenian Frankenstein (Cartoon by John Tenniel, Punch, 8 June 1867)

gendered images of Ireland and Africa might well be epitomized in Conrad’s descriptions of Kurtz’s two mistresses, Black and white, in Heart of Darkness. Kurtz’s European mistress, ‘the Intended’ is described as fair, frail, and idealizing, not capable of’ ‘bearing very much reality’. Kurtz’s African mistress, on the other hand, is sensual, seductive, and threatening, and she is also an image of Africa: She carried her head high; her hair was done in the shape of a helmet; she had brass leggings to the knees, brass wire gauntlets to the elbow, a crimson spot on her tawny cheek, innumerable necklaces of glass beads on her neck; bizarre things, charms, gifts of witch-men, that hung about her; glittered and trembled at every step. She must have had the value of several elephant tusks upon her. She was savage and superb, wild-eyed and magnificent; there was something ominous and stately in her magnificent progress. And in the hush that had fallen suddenly upon the whole sorrowful land, the immense wilderness, the colossal body of the fecund and mysterious life seemed to look at her, pensive, as though it has been looking at its own tenderous and passionate soul. (Conrad, 1973:87) Conrad’s African Queen has some kinship with Senghor’s ‘Black Woman’, who although more nurturing and pastoral in her aspect, also possesses a ‘tenderous and passionate soul’ which is identified with ‘the whole sorrowful land’. She also bears distinct similarities to Elizabeth, the awesome protagonist of Joyce Cary’s The African Witch, and more distantly to some of Soyinka’s seductive courtesan heroines. But there are important differences between Conrad’s Black Woman and Senghor’s. The former is described chiefly in terms of her accoutrements and costume, all of which emphasize her strangeness. She wears ‘bizarre things, charms, gifts of witch-men’, to intensify the ‘savage’, ‘wild-eyed’, ‘ominous’ aspect of her character. And it is indeed appropriate that the narrator should note, in the context of a story about the greed for ivory and other goods which belies the imperial pretence of spreading civilization, that ‘she must have had the value of several elephant tusks upon her’. In contrast, Senghor’s Black Woman, we are told repeatedly, is naked, it is her body, her black skin, which become the focus of desire, which subsumes the land to which she belongs. Her skin is not merely ‘tawny’ but black. Conrad emphasizes the kinship of Kurtz’s mistress with ‘the whole sorrowful land, the immense wilderness’, the mystery that is Africa; Senghor seeks to naturalize and normalize both the blackness of the African woman and the land she embodies. But his task is also an aesthetic one; the beauty of her blackness must be affirmed precisely because it has so often been denied; for when colonial writers suggest that African women approximate the beautiful or desirable, they are likely to be ‘tawny’ rather than black. Conrad’s African Queen may be a mistress, a seducer, the symbolic representation of all that has ‘bewitched’ Kurtz and held him in thrall, but her ‘otherness’ means that she can never be a wife—her essence is to be untamed and undomesticated. Kurtz’s ‘Intended’ on the other hand, belongs out of nature, she is seen only in the house, and she is defined in terms of one whose essence is to await marriage. Hibernia, as depicted in English journals of the nineteenth century, shares that essence with ‘the Intended’; she is the virginal young woman awaiting Union, her role is to be wed to John Bull or England, and thus to be saved from defilement by the bestial men of Ireland.

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Britannia protects Hibernia from Land League agitators (Punch, 29 October 1881)

Only in the early twentieth century, as Home Rule for Ireland seemed about to become a reality, do English papers begin to allegorize Ireland as a Mother—often seen surrounded by unruly children as Britannia or John Bull hand her the keys to her house, and now no longer fair-haired, virginal and frail, but dark-haired and more robust. But in Ireland itself, the representation of the country as Motherland has a much longer history. Richard Kearney ascribes the developing concept of Motherland (as opposed to Fatherland) with reference to Mother Ireland, and by analogy Mother Africa and Mother India, to dispossession. It is true that a number of Irish and African cultures possess from long before the colonial encounter important myths (and sometimes political structures) which give women power and significance, and often the power to grant sovereignty. However, the actual conflation of such figures with the country itself as with the Shan Van Vocht, or Cathleen ni Houlihan, or Mother Africa and Mother India seems to be a product not so much of colonialism and dispossession itself as the consequent anti-colonialist and nationalist movements. And these movements are often figured as a kind of Oedipal or Family romance, in which the sons of the nation seek to usurp the imperial father-figures who have laid claim to the mother/wife. In this contest, the sons of the nation also seek to affirm their manhood in the process of redeeming the mothercountry, and restoring her to her youthful beauty. The rhetoric of manhood and nationhood is explicit in the speeches and poetry of Padraic Pearse, as well as Yeats’s and Lady Gregory’s nationalist drama, Kathleen ni Houlihan. I have mentioned earlier Ashis Nandy’s demonstration of its significance in the Indian anticolonial struggle, with its consequent emphasis on a clear dichotomy between feminine and masculine. In Africa, the assertion of manhood appears to be of greater significance in those areas where there have been well-established European settlements, and where large numbers of Africans have actually been dispossessed by those settlements, as in Senegal, Kenya, and Southern Africa. In Ghana and Nigera, where the British presence was mainly an administrative one, the conflation of mothers and land seems less pervasive. In such countries, invocations like this poem by the Senegalese writer, David Diop, are relatively rare:

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Joanna. Captain Stedman’s Afro-Caribbean mistress

O the bitter memories of extorted kisses Of promises broken at the point of a gun Of foreigners who did not seem human Who knew all the books but did not know love But we whose hands fertilise the womb of the earth In spite of your songs of pride In spite of the desolate villages of torn Africa Hope was preserved in us as in a fortress And from the mines of Swaziland to the factories of Europe Spring will be reborn under our bright steps. (Moore, 1968:62; translation by John Reed and Clive Wake) It is interesting to note that when Nigeria did gain its independence in 1960, it adopted a national anthem which addressed Nigeria as ‘our sovereign motherland’. The anthem was, however, written by a British woman. More recently Nigeria has adopted a new anthem invoking the father-image, an anthem which, according to Chinua Achebe (The Guardian, 7 May 1992), was ‘put together by a committee of Nigerian intellectuals’. The identification of country as woman significantly affects the ways in which male writers imagine and create women characters. Two of Ghana’s best known novelists of the sixties and seventies, Armah and Awoonor, Kenya’s Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Nigeria’s Wole Soyinka, Senegal’s Sembene Ousmane, all centre their novels, and the activities of their male

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A more robust and brown-haired Erin is given the keys of Home Rule by Brittania (Cartoon from The Leprecaun, June 1914)

characters, around a single woman or pair of women whose story and significance parallel that of their people and the land. Ngugi’s Mumbi and Wanja, Awoonor’s Dede, Soyinka’s Iriyesi (in Season of Anomie), Armah’s Jessawa (in The Healers), Sembene’s Ramatoulah (in Xala), are all to some degree allegorized as the nation, which has suffered, which has been betrayed, and which awaits or seeks a true male partner to rescue her. Often either the woman herself, or her mother or grandmother, are seen as repositories of traditional culture. In all these novels, the redemption of this central woman depends upon her partner becoming truly a man, taking on his manly responsibilities, and that involves also an acknowledgement of and reconciliation with the woman’s complicity in betrayal. For almost all of these female heroines have to some degree been involved in prostitution. In Irish literature, there is a similar overloading of central women characters so that they become in some sense signifiers of the nation. The mother figures in O’Casey’s plays are perhaps the most obvious examples, but arguably many of Synge’s women characters, such as Maurya in Riders to the Sea, Nora in Shadow of the Glen, and Pegeen in The Playboy of the Western World were conceived of by both playwright and audiences alike not only as ‘figures of Irish womanhood’ but also as in some sense representing the race as a whole in its suffering and in its yearning for redemption. Both in celebrating Maud Gonne and in bitterly dismissing her, Yeats identified her with the people of Ireland (as she also identified herself). Joyce in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Ulysses presents with some irony Stephen Dedalus’ identification of Emma Clery and the serving woman with ‘her race’, and his sense of betrayal that they listen to others, especially priests and Englishmen rather than him. Molly Bloom is also a faithless Mother Earth/Mother Ireland, and as in the African novels, the hero and heroine must come to terms with that history of betrayal before there can be reconciliation and redemption.

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In African fiction and drama, the heroine is often not merely faithless, but a prostitute. In part this focus on the prostitute figure derives from the Marxist ideology of major African authors such as Ngugi and Sembene Ousmane, for whom the change under imperialism from a traditional feudal or communal culture to a capitalist, wagelabour economy, is best imaged in the commodification of male-female sexual relationships. Rosie Redmond possibly has a similar function in O’Casey’s The Plough and the Stars. But this imaging of women heroines, who are often leaders of liberation movements, as prostitutes also has a different ideological context. In both Irish and African history, women who participated in demonstrations and sit-ins against British or French interventions were often arrested and charged with prostitution. The women who participated in the Ladies Land League mass meetings in Ireland in the 1880s were arrested and, charged under statutes designed to curb prostitution, were denied the status of political prisoners granted to the male members of the Land League, and were treated as common criminals and outcasts. Thus, T.P. O’Connor, a Member of Parliament, was horrified to find his sister Mary placed in solitary confinement and treated like ‘the most degraded of her sex’ (Ward, 1983; 28). Similarly, the Nigerian women who participated in the demonstrations of 1929 following the British government’s replacement of their own chief with an appointee more amenable to government policy, were rounded up and arrested as prostitutes. In both cases, political transgression was branded as sexual transgression. In West Africa, the British also established laws against women moving from rural to urban areas as a means of curbing prostitution. This particular context may help account for the prevalence of heroines who are prostitutes in African literature by men, and even by women. For the latter, however, prostitution is often portrayed as a means of personal liberation from family oppression. In general, it seems to me the women characters created by West African and East African female authors such as Flora Nwapa, Buchi Emecheta (in her earlier novels), Ama Ata Aidoo, Grace Ogot and Rebecca Njau, are not primarily read as symbolic of their country and its history, nor are their choices seen as having political consequences for the nation or community as a whole, although, as exceptional women who have either been successful or have been defeated, they may serve as models or warnings for other women. The Southern African writer, Bessie Head, on the other hand, most frequently writes in an allegorical mode, but her women characters do not, like Ngugi’s Wanja or Awoonor’s Dede, stand for a country or a culture; their role is to foreground the circumstances and histories of women who are typical rather than exceptional. Writing by Irish women in the nineteenth and early twentieth century often shares some of the characteristics of imperial writing in regard to the association of the national and the feminine, and simultaneously questions it. Here the ambivalent status of Anglo-Irish women as members of the ascendancy with a dual allegiance to England and Ireland, and as women who are excluded from the political structures, is significant. One might see Lady Morgan’s Wild Irish Girl as an early example of the heroine who is frequently identified with the Irish landscape and its inhabitants and who both signifies the otherness of Ireland as non-British/uncivilized, and subverts that signification, so that she is seen worthy of marriage to the English aristocrat. The heroine, Glorvina, begins as an image of the barbaric mistress; she ends as ‘The Intended’. The Big House of Inver, and to a lesser extent The Real Charlotte by Somerville and Ross, and Maria Edgeworth’s Castle Rackrent portray the decline and corruption of the Anglo-Irish ascendancy. What happens to Kurtz in a few years of exposure to Africa takes several generations in Ireland, but it happens, and the decline is both caused and signified by a series of native mistresses and their offspring. The powerful figure of the Shibby Pindy, the illegitimate daughter of the Prendevillee, is in some ways equivalent in signification to Kurtz’s mistress. Although nationalist Irish women writers and activists such as Lady Gregory or Maude Gonne did identify Ireland with Cathleen ni Houlihan, they saw themselves not as identified with her, but as active in her service. However, the women characters Lady Gregory creates in her plays, like Ama Ata Aidoo’s Anowa, generally begin by seeking personal liberation and expression rather than commitment to a cause or a community. Given Lady Gregory’s character and the time in which she was writing, it is not surprising that she does not portray prostitution as a means of escape. However, she does turn in some of her major plays to the theme of sexual and marital infidelity and its consequences, and the unforeseen consequences often are political. She chose to write about Grania rather than Deidre, because she saw Grania as a woman who ‘took the shaping of her life into her own hands’, and the play has much to do with betrayal and its consequences—first Grania’s betrayal of her elderly husband Finn, for the young and handsome Diarmiud; then Diarmiud’s betrayal of his oath to Finn, Grania’s sense of betrayal when she realizes the strength of Diarmiud’s loyalty to kin, and finally her return to Finn. Dervorgilla even more clearly takes up the question of the relation between personal choice and political consequence involved in the betrayal of a husband. It may be that Lady Gregory’s interest in recreating in her major plays the experience of strong women characters who violate marital fidelity has some relation to her own personal story, but it may also be seen as a questioning of the cultural nationalist family romance, which allows no role for women except as passive victims of the quarrel between fathers and sons/ colonial patriarchs and anti-colonial warriors. In the same essay quoted at the beginning of this article, Eavan Boland went on to speak of her alienation from the rhetoric and imagery of much Irish nationalist poetry and its simultaneous appeal to her. ‘There was nothing clear-cut about my feelings,’ she confesses:

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I had tribal ambivalences and doubts, and even then I had an uneasy sense of the conflict which awaited me. On the one hand I knew that as a poet, I could not easily do without the idea of a nation. Poetry in every time draws on that reserve. On the other hand, I could not as a woman accept the nation formulated for me by Irish poetry and its traditions. At one point it even looked to me as if the whole thing might be made up of irreconcilable differences. At the very least, it seemed likely to me that I was likely to remain an outsider in my own national literature, cut off from its archive, at a distance from its energy. Unless, that is, I could repossess it.’ (Boland, 1990:22) This article has sought to uncover some national terrains and the claims made upon them by male writers, both colonial and anti-colonial. I have barely touched upon the claims women writers have also made. But in recent years, Irish and African women writers alike have begun to repossess their national literature, not by continuing the simplified fusion of the national and the feminine but by problematizing concepts of gender and nation, and by writing women into a multiplicity of national narratives. As they deal with the conflicts which arise from recuperating national literatures from female perspectives, as they demystify and complicate assumptions about the nature of ‘the national’ and ‘the feminine’, contemporary African and Irish women writers have much to say to us and to each other. Note Lyn Innes is Professor of Post-colonial Literatures at the University of Kent, where she teaches contemporary English Literatures, including Irish, African and African-American. She is the author of Chinua Achebe (Cambridge University Press, 1990) and The Devil’s Own Mirror: the African and the Irishman in Modern Literature (Three Continents Press, 1990). Her most recent book, Woman and Nation in Irish Literature and Society, 1880–1935, was published by Harvester Wheatsheaf in 1993. References BOLAND, Eavan (1990) ‘Outside history’ P. N. Review Vol. 17, No. 1. CONRAD, Joseph (1973) Heart of Darkness London: Penguin. KEARNEY, Richard (1984) Myth and Motherland Derry: Field Day Theatre Company. KINSELLA, Thomas (1986) editor, The New Oxford Book of Irish Verse Oxford: Oxford University Press. MOORE, Gerald and BEIER, Ulli (1968) editors, Modern Poetry from Africa London: Penguin. NANDY, Ashis (1983) The Intimate Enemy: Loss and Recovery of Self Under Colonialism Delhi: Oxford University Press. NASTA, Susheila (1991) editor, Motherlands: Black Women’s Writing from Africa, the Caribbean and South Asia London: The Women’s Press. PARKER, Andrew, RUSSO, Mary, SOMMER, Doris and YAEGER, Patricia (1992) editors, Nationalisms and Sexualities London: Routledge. SENGHOR, Leopold Sedar (1964) Poèmes Paris: Editions du Seuil. —— (1965), edited and translated by Reed, John and Wake, Clive Prose and Poetry London: Oxford University Press. WARD, Margaret (1983) Unmanageable Revolutionaries London: Pluto Press.

THE IMPACT OF THE ISLAMIC MOVEMENT IN EGYPT Hala Shukrallah

Introduction Islamic ‘revivalist’ or militant movements have become a phenomenon in most parts of the Third World since the mid seventies. This movement, which has been particularly powerful as an opposition in many countries (Iran, Algeria, Egypt, Lebanon), has captured the interest and even enthusiasm of many secular Eastern as well as Western writers, who have begun to see its potential as a powerful opposition movement. Its appeal, or rather fascination, for the First World seems to lie in its effective mobilization of broad categories of people, cutting across class, gender and nations. For Third World peoples, however, it seems to offer an alternative to the ills of the modern world, particularly after almost a century of modernization has failed to bring about the promised progress, affluence or justice. The aim of this article is to examine what the Islamic alternative offers Third World people, in this case in Egypt. What it offers must be seen in the light of the needs it addresses or the gap it fills in people’s lives, both socially as well as ideologically. Given the central place that modernity has in the Islamic discourse, this will be seen against the impact that modernization has had, in recent years, on the lives of millions of people. In Egypt, the Islamic militant movement has already claimed the life of the former President in 1981, made attempts at the assassination of two Ministers of the Interior and has developed, in this decade, into an open confrontation with Coptic Christian minorities as well as secular writers and intellectuals. The Islamic movement in Egypt (in both its moderate and militant forms) also holds very crucial implications for women, whose advent into public life is seen to be part and parcel of Western cultural hegemony. Implicit in the broad appeal of this movement is a powerful subtext, which explains its mobilizing success in this last decade of the twentieth century for many Arab and Islamic countries. This is the revival of the idea of a unified Islamic nation, which can emerge out of the tattered and defeated remains of the secular nation-building projects of the postcolonialist regimes of the fifties and sixties. Many of these nations now suffer from economic burdens of debt, and like Egypt are subject to strongarm IMF policies. Seen against the background of increasing Western hegemony over the Third World, the idea of a PanIslamic nation holds a powerful appeal for much of the Islamic Third World. In this article, I argue that the popularity of the Islamic alternative in Egypt stems from its rejection of all other discourses, whether nationalist, secular, liberal or socialist. These discourses have become, in the present era, associated with a political system which is seen as synonymous with defeat, humiliation and impoverishment. Thwarted nationalist sentiments confronting growing Western political and cultural hegemony can more easily find an outlet in a struggle in the domain of symbolic and cultural representation; and it is in this domain, I suggest, that Islamic fundamentalism has been most effective. However, I question the validity of Islamic discourse, not only on the basis of what it offers, but what it implies for certain categories of the population, mainly women and ethnic, religious and other minorities. A universal characteristic of Islamic discourse is its attempt to recreate a homogenous community, through the reconstruction of a past whose cultural definitions and conflicts have lost their political significance. By selectively appropriating this past, lending it divinity and imposing it on the present, the struggle of socially disadvantaged groups and classes is diverted from the centres of power to ‘imagined’ areas of conflict (e.g., women’s dress). The imagination of the ‘Islamic community’ is fuelled by groups who lend themselves to symbolic representation of past cultural definitions and conflicts, which acquire added strength from present dichotomies, like modern/traditional, East/West. In Egypt, two groups best lend themselves to this cultural reconstruction: women and the indigenous Christians. The Islamic movement, therefore, has critical implications for both.

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On the one hand, women, as a category, are central to the process of the recreation of the community due to their role as symbolic ‘cultural bearers’ of national tradition. In the case of the Christians, the Islamic movement has drawn on both global conflicts (with the West), as well as more immediate conflicts (the Lebanese Maronite Christians’ collaboration with Israel) to symbolically recreate the indigenous Christians as the ‘other within’. These characteristics of Islamic discourse must therefore be seen in the light of the broader implications for issues of national identity, notions of citizenship as well as gender relations. The rise of the Islamic alternative and the crisis of secular nationalist discourse To understand the reasons for the rise of the Islamic alternative, we must, if we discount essentialist arguments, look at the issues to which this discourse is particularly sensitive and their relevance at this time. This discourse developed in opposition to other discourses, in the 1920s, which favoured modernity, either in Islamic or secular form. It lays particular emphasis on cultural authenticity versus Western cultural influences, on the moral and ethical structure of society versus the structural insecurities caused by modernization (Baykan, 1990). Throughout its history, these have taken precedence over economic questions, on which the Islamic movement has remained at best ambiguous. Its antagonistic relation to modernization and modernist discourses places it on a par with similar utopian or anti-secularist discourses in other parts of the world, like Christian fundamentalism in the West. Its particular character, however, is drawn not only from its traditional and historical roots, but also from its geographic and political placement in opposition to the West. Given the rapid growth of the Islamic movement in this region, especially in countries like Algeria and Egypt, which both have long histories of nationalist struggles, two aspects here bear mentioning. Firstly, Islam is indigenous to the region, providing not only a unity with the past, but a sense of ownership and identity. Secondly, the conflict between the West and the Arab World did not cease after independence. On the contrary, the West practices a special brand of heavy-handedness towards the Arab region, in view of its strategic position in relation to Western interests. Egypt’s military defeat in 1967 at the hands of Israel, with strong US and Western support, continues to stand as a hallmark for all later developments. Its psychological, economic and political consequences are being reaped to this present day. It stands as one of the main events which triggered a whole chain of transformations in Egyptian society, both from above and from below (El-Guindi, 1981; Hinnebusch, 1985). Underpinning this open hostility, the West legitimates itself through its projected cultural images of the ‘other’. This repeated projection of the Arab either as ‘lecher’ or ‘terrorist’ through a Western-controlled global communication system, has created what Edward Said describes as ‘the paradox of an Arab regarding himself as an “Arab” of the sort put out by Hollywood’ (Said, 1978:325). This conflict has been further exacerbated by the erosive effect of modernization on past communal structures. Islamic discourse has, therefore, achieved its present popularity because it has constructed itself against the cultural influence of the West and modernization. The ‘other within’ has understandably become a manifestation of both these elements in the consciousness of the ‘imagined community’ (Anderson, 1983). This process has been a complex one and this article can only deal with a small part. In the next section, I will discuss the emergence of this Islamic trend and its failure during the first era of modernization to achieve dominance among the other discourses. Modernization and national identity In Egypt, the process of modernization and modern state-building, out of which national identity emerged, radically changed the role and position of both women and the indigenous Christians. National identity was first forged as a response to French invasion, then to British colonialism. Between both events, it had gone through an evolution aided by the vision and process of modernization and the interests which it came to represent. The notion of citizenship hence came to be articulated and shaped by those groups who not only became actively involved in the struggle for independence, but who were also able to impose their vision of the future on the rest of society. During the last century or more of modernization, different eras have spelled progress and independence, while others meant deprivation and poverty. Between them, we can trace the rise of the popularity of the Islamist trend, which shaped itself as a cultural antithesis to modernization. Moreover, in constructing itself against modernization, it also defined itself against the ideological framework which was chosen to embrace the process of modernization, i.e., the secularist framework. Modernization became associated very early on in Egypt with Western influence and dominance. The Napoleonic invasion in the late eighteenth century, which took by surprise an Egypt torn with strife between the ruling cliques of Memluks, signalled the end of an era of Ottoman rule. It also began an era which saw the continued involvement of Western powers in the region.

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Following the Napoleonic invasion, and Muhamed Ali’s ascendancy to power in 1804, a process of modernization began, which had at its base the desire to pull Egypt into line with progress made in the West. Muhamed Ali launched a series of economic and administrative reforms, which involved building a military power as well as developing and modernizing the educational institution. By bringing Al Azhar (religious institution) under the control of the state, Muhamed Ali initiated the separation of religion from the system. Other reforms ranged from granting special scholarships to chosen students to study in France, the founding of the school of midwifery in 1831–2, as well as the building of an industrial base (Russel, 1992:125). Muhamed Ali’s successors’ involvement with the West, however, ended with economic crisis, debt and the subsequent colonization of Egypt by Great Britain (Zubaida, 1989:43–4). Faced with the economic and military superiority of the West, the ruling class in Egypt as well as intellectuals and religious Ulamma, began to advocate various reforms. The demand for modernization became a social movement which grew in conjunction with the growing nationalist movement against British occupation. Two trends developed from the above-mentioned movement, one relying on the tradition of Islam (Butterworth, 1982; Zubaida, 1989; El Said, 1989) and the other a secular trend. In the beginning, both saw modernization and Western influence as conducive to progress. The former trend, according to Zubaida, saw in Islamic teaching during the time of the Prophet the ‘principles of citizenship and democracy in a purer form’ (Zubaida, 1989). Their belief was that progress could be achieved through enlightenment and that ‘properly understood, religious belief should lead people to pursue science’ (Butterworth, 1982:89). They advocated a reform of Islamic tradition, in accordance with the spirit of Islam. In the course of political events, however, the conflict between modernity and Islam was resolved in favour of a secular framework and not of Islamic reformism. This created a divergence between the two trends, which culminated in the appearance of a populist Islamic trend, which ‘echewed the European influence of Abdu’s reformism and the intellectualism of Rida’ (Zubaida, 1989:47). To a large extent, the political process through which national identity was forged was the determining factor in the success of the secular discourse. The political process went hand in hand with the struggle against, in that instance, continued British threats of intervention under the pretext of the protection of the ancient Coptic Christians. Women also became central to this process in which formerly marginalized groups became integrated into the project for modernization as the foundation of national identity. Male modernizers (Islamic and secular), who saw women’s emancipation as necessary to progress, as well as women activists themselves, brought this issue high up on the political agenda and made it an integral part of modernization. Muhamed Abdu, for example (an Islamic reformist) called for a reform of the institution of marriage, which he considered exploitative of women. However, on this particular issue, the division between secular and religious institutions went against the interests of women. Laws which regulated marriages, divorce, polygamy and child custody continued to be governed by religious laws, which had upheld male rights for centuries. The dominance of secular institutions in the public sphere led to a compromise with the religious institutions in the private sphere, a sphere which most concerned women’s intimate lives, and which represented the last stronghold of the religious powers and the first to be attacked during the era of Islamic revivalism in the seventies (see Badran, 1991). In this process, national identity was forged within the framework of a secularist discourse allied with modernization. The Islamic trend, forced outside the modernist reformist framework which was dominated by secular discourse, developed a more populist appeal (the Muslim Brotherhood, for example, was formed in 1928) and had to define itself against and in opposition to secular discourse, whether liberal or socialist. It is against this background of political deadlock between warring opposition factions on the one hand, and the Egyptian monarchy and British occupation forces on the other that the 1952 revolutionary coup d’état took place (Hinnebusch, 1985: 11–12). From this point on, liberal secularists, socialists and Islamists all competed with one another for the right to forge the new identity of the country according to their own ideological precepts. Issues of national boundaries, identity, and notions of citizenship would be resolved in the context of the modern state built during Nasser’s regime. Nationalism: between secularism and Islam Under Nasser, Egyptian national identity merged with Arab as well as Islamic identity, albeit in the context of nationalist secularism and Pan-Arabism. Different sets of identities were somehow selectively emphasized to accord with the practical interest of the nation-state in its strategic and tactical confrontation with the West. This took place within a general drive toward modernization and industrialization, on the one hand, and economic and political independence, on the other (Hinnebusch, 1985:14). Ideologically, it translated into a nationalist populist regime which developed its own discourse out of a pragmatic assortment of existing discourses. However, the political manifestations of these discourses were severely suppressed. (During 1954–6 all political opposition, leftists, communists, liberals and Muslim Brothers were imprisoned and severely tortured. The Muslim Brothers were again rounded up in 1965 and several were executed.)

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In Habib’s opinion, the authoritarian nature of the regime ‘aborted’ the creation of the modern nation-state (Habib, 1991). The nature of the state didn’t allow the dynamic process which had dominated the political arena for the last half a century to be translated into its institutions and processes. These discourses were kept under the tight political as well as bureaucratic control of the state. It is possible that this prevented the synthesis between modernization and Islamic tradition that both Bessouki and Dekmejian talk about (see Dessouki, 1982a; Dekmejian, 1980). Both secularism and religion were tied to state ideology within the framework of the Nasserite regime and its political project. This factor had serious consequences for the categories of citizens—women and Christian minorities—who were most vulnerable to a compromise with religious institutions in the private sphere. On the other hand, against this background of secularization, certain groups of citizens who had been previously marginalized were integrated further into public life. With the expansion of the public institutions and the state’s increasing involvement in welfare reforms, embracing education, health, land and employment, broader categories of citizens benefited and became integrated into the new nation’s identity and citizenship. However, the refusal (or inability) to completely secularize all structures of civil society led to a denial of full citizenship to both women and the Christians. While all factions in society were denied political autonomy, women were denied social autonomy through the archaic law under which marriage and divorce were regulated. This law (the Personal Status law; see Bibars, 1987), which still gave the male members of a household the right to deny women the right to work, contrasted starkly with laws which integrated women in public life, through free education, equal opportunity in work, and equal pay. This caused what Badran terms ‘an awkward dichotomy between (women’s) role as citizens of the nation-state [watan] and as members of the religious community [umma]’ (Badran, 1991:201). This compromise, which denied women equal citizenship rights, enabled the regime to safeguard its dual identity between traditional and modern. In addition, it allowed Nasserism to continue using Islam both as a legitimating basis, when needed, and a component in its national identity. In the same way, the move toward secularism stopped short of a complete integration of Christians with Muslims within the concept of nationhood. While the Coptic Christians have been active in the process of modern nation-building, their rights to equal citizenship have been persistently undermined through state control of civil society. Although most institutions after Nasser were secular in character, marriages remained religious, with civil ceremonies held only for marriages between members of different creeds. Muslim men marrying Christian women were married under civil ceremony but in accordance with Muslim religion, the children then adopting the religion of their father. As for the opposite, i.e., marriages between Muslim women and Christian men, for the marriage to be legal the man would have to change religion or else the child would have no legal status. Conversion from Islam to Christianity was practically unheard of and would have constituted a serious breach of the norms of an Islamic society. Christians, although granted equal rights under the Constitution, held only token posts within the upper echelons of the ruling bureaucracy. On the other hand, both in education and the free economy, they had had equal access to resources. Many were members of powerful families whom British colonialism had attempted to alienate from national interests by integrating them within the ruling clique. This denial of full citizenship for both categories of citizens can be seen as an early form of what would be used and built upon in the later Muslim revivalist movement. The Islamic revival: the crisis of modernization and nationalism The Nasserite political project symbolically ended with the military defeat of 1967. Later development within the state and society would be a reaction to this event and its economic, political and psychological consequences. These developments would have grave repercussions for national identity and how it reflected both on women and Christians. In order to understand the environment in which the Islamic movement once more flourished, it is necessary to outline some of the historical developments during the period which saw its re-emergence. With the demise of Nasser (leader of the Pan-Arab nationalist project), the state was left with an ideological void which had to be filled. It also suffered from a bankrupt economy and a political crisis triggered by the national sentiments that the occupied territories continued to aggravate. With the loss of the unifying national project, two developments occurred from below. Opposition tendencies which had lain dormant were activated once more, leading on the one hand to a political movement with leftist democratic overtones, and on the other to a social movement saturated with mysticism and sophism (El-Guindi, 1983). On the economic side, Sadat, Nasser’s successor, embarked on the road to economic liberalization in conjunction with the establishment of stronger ties with the West. These economic reforms, which brought momentary respite and growth in the 1970s, culminated in debt and a severe economic crisis by the early eighties. The fruits of the promised growth never reached the large mass of the population, who were finding out that the new alliance with the West went to benefit the rich and powerful and not the poor. Over the twenty years of the Sadat and Mubarak presidency from 1970 to the present, prices

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soared, unemployment and inflation grew steadily, subsidies on basic goods were cancelled, land reforms dismantled, public sector industry sold and the health and education sectors deteriorated beyond belief (see Sadowski, 1987). The cataclysmic effect this period has had on the Egyptian people can be seen in the rising rate of labour migration, which has left no family untouched even in the remotest areas of Egypt. Rapid urbanization, bringing with it overcrowded shanty towns lacking any drinking or sanitary facilities have increased the burden of the lower income bracket. The IMF appears to have taken charge of people’s livelihoods and the Government to have relinquished any attempt to safeguard the nation’s interest. It seems to all observers to be steeped in its own corruption, while the vast majority struggle daily to prevent total destitution for themselves and their families. It is against this background that the state has strengthened its Islamic identity, giving it precedence over the formerly powerful Arab identity. It also embarked on an alliance with the Islamic movement in the early seventies, in an attempt to counter the effect of the then growing leftist opposition (see Kepel, 1985; Pipes, 1982). Between the 1970s and 1980s, a number of major developments were to affect the future frame that the opposition movement took. The return of the Israeli occupied Egyptian territory in 1976 symbolically closed the door on the Nasserite era and its particular brand of nationalist discourse. This in turn deprived leftist nationalist discourse of much of its political force, since it was rooted in many of the Nasserite symbols. Furthermore, the effect of modernization and the rapidly changing reality of the majority of the population created a sense of ‘anomie’ (Serageldin, 1982:55), which increased the need to fall back on an unchanging tradition of religious beliefs. Neither secular democratic, socialist or nationalist discourses were able to adapt, in the same way, to the rapidly changing reality of the people. Hence, with the failure of other discourses to challenge Western hegemony or to provide the much needed cultural and social protection against modernization, new dividing lines were opening to project and reflect this conflict between East and West through a discourse which emphasized an ethically and culturally distinct identity. The Islamic movement came to represent, by the end of the seventies, one of the ‘anarchies of criticism’ (Cocks, 1991:70) set against an ‘order’ which had failed to bring either prosperity or cohesion to the nation. By the eighties, it had achieved hegemony over other opposition discourses. Similarities between the Shah’s regime in Iran and Sadat’s regime in Egypt are evident from Najmabadi’s remarks on the reasons for religious revival in Iran. She notes that this revival should be looked at as: a conscious political rejection of the West and the political models associated with it (be they nationalism, socialism, or parliamentary democracy) in favour of the construction of an Islamic order, as a shift from modernization as the central project and concerns of society to moral purification and ideological construction. (Najmabadi, 1991:64) The growing Islamic movement in Egypt was a continuation of the 1928 anti-modernist trend, both politically and ideologically. Consequently, its enmity to the different secularist discourses, as well as to the model of national identity which had been forged within a secular framework, constituted the main targets of its discourse. The factions which it generated (moderate and militant) were to a large extent the product of the state’s own authoritarian nature and reflected its complex (violent as well as compromising) way of dealing with the Islamic movement. The Muslim Brotherhood—representing the moderate wing—composes the main body of the Islamic movement in Egypt. Their discourse established the common frame from which different social classes would come to forge their demands. Despite variations in the political manifestations of the Islamic movement, there is little variation in their political demands, namely the implementation of the Shari’a (God’s law) and the establishment of an Islamic state. Such difference as exists lies in the path which each takes to realize these demands. On the one hand, the moderates tread the path of peaceful evolution towards the Islamic state through its institutionalization within the system. In this, they have both tacit state support and powerful economic back-up from Saudi Arabia (see Pipes, 1982). On the other hand, the militant factions, who are an expression of a different social and economic class, effectively force the state, through violent outbursts in which the social order is threatened, into a compromise position with the moderate faction. The state is at once implicated as well as compromised, as a result of its own need for a legitimating discourse. Chhachhi refers to the ‘rise of state-sponsored religious fundamentalism’ in a number of countries in the seventies and its adoption as the ‘state ideology’ (Chhachhi, 1989:567), due to a crisis of legitimacy. The main appeal that this discourse holds is thus that it has constructed itself as an alternative to the ideological legacy of modernization (see Baykan, 1990) and articulates a discourse which centres around major areas of grievance. It draws its power from the general mood of the nation which has become disenchanted with modernization and its Western associations. Its attraction consists in its ability to provide what Dekmejian calls ‘a fall back ideology to capture the alienated, the disoriented and the angry’ (Dekmejian, 1980:11). Other opposition discourses strongly associated with the cultural precepts of the West, by contrast, have failed to make a synthesis with indigenous culture and have not been sensitive to the new faultlines along which dissident movements are being created as an outcome of new ‘stress situations’ (Burke, 1988a). Moreover, they have inherited a discourse which has

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been over-used and abused by Arab governments (Dessouki, 1982a:24). Secularist opposition movements are, consequently, trapped within their own lack of an alternative discourse, linked as they are to the heritage of modernization. Because of this they are forced to continue to reconstruct themselves against an Islamic discourse which is still unfolding. The above-mentioned factors account for the rapid growth of Islamic discourse and its infiltration into civil as well as state structures and institutions. Its increasing influence has meant that crucial concepts regarding the former secular framework of modernization, have been seriously compromised. Against a background of religious fervour, both private and public educational systems are being gradually Islamized, through Islamic schools and colleges. With the withdrawal of the state from the provision of social services, these are increasingly taking on a religious communal character (health services attached to mosques or Christian associations). What is significant in this context is that the increasingly religious character of previously secular institutions is creating a crisis of identity for two categories of citizens, women and the indigenous Christians, who are central to Islamic discourse in the community. Women are increasingly pushed into conforming to their role as symbolic antithesis to modernism, and as cultural bearers of Islamic tradition. The importance of this role in the reconstruction of the ‘true community’ has generated a fierce attack against women, in order to pull them back into line with this role. On the other hand, indigenous Christians are seen as a natural, physical obstacle to the creation of the new community. This justifies, in the eyes of the Islamic movement, their use as a target for the mobilization of the Islamic community and as a tool through which they can increase pressure on the state. In the next section, the implications of the Islamic movement for both categories of citizens will be discussed in more detail. Women and Christians: the role of symbolic and cultural representations One thing which has given the Islamic movement its popularity, after the profound sense of defeat which befell the nationalist project, is that it carries out its struggle against cultural symbols rather than inaccessible but more palpable targets. Both women and Christians have thus been victims of cultural representations which construct them in particular relation to Western domination. Women are seen as bearers par excellence of authentic values, while women who do not conform are said to be violating the very heart of the Islamic world order and are seen as mimics of Western values. During the Iranian revolution, women who didn’t conform were called gharbzadegi (Western struck) or the ‘painted dolls of the Shah’ (Kandiyoti, 1991a:7–8). Christians are envisioned and constructed as collaborators of the West. It is no surprise, therefore, that the movement likens Western domination with the ‘Crusaders’ of the medieval ages. This image of the West’s attempt to claim the spiritual lands for itself is a powerful one which continues to live on to this age, reinforced as it is through the countless acts of aggression during and after the colonial period. Both nonconformist women and indigenous Christians are being drawn as religious collaborators and mimics of the West. Providing continuous fuel to this imagery is the West’s almost absolute political, economic and military domination of the region, and its cultural impact. Outside the new ‘imagined community’ (Anderson, 1983) stand the indigenous Christians, women who refuse to conform to their role and Muslims who separate themselves from the symbols and images of the new Islamic community. In the process of establishing the unity of this community, against the previous notions of national identities and concepts of citizenship, and against the state political hegemony, ‘the other within’ is often a target of violence. This is causing a deep rift in the social fabric of the nation. Women as cultural bearers outside and inside the Islamic movement I have written further (Shukrallah, 1992) of the implications of the Islamic reconstruction of national identity for the Christians in Egypt. But its reconstruction also has direct implications for women, whose ‘gender interests have been intimately tied to state-building processes’ (Kandiyoti, 1991a:3). Women’s expanding roles and integration into public life was in the past closely connected with the process of modernization, as well as with secular nation-building. The weakening of the religious hierarchy and its control on society and the creation of secular institutions allowed women to have space outside the direct control of the patriarchal community. With the growth of the Islamic movement, this space created by the state was challenged. Not only did women not conform to their role in cultural reproduction but they threatened the very core of the patriarchal control of community, which took on the raiment of tradition and cultural authenticity. These were focal concepts for a society that had been forced to go through uncontrollable and rapid changes. The Islamic discourse created a deepening divide between cultural authenticity and women, which could only be breached at the expense of women’s identities. Leyla Ahmed, speaking of Middle Eastern feminists, expresses the dilemma of many women who, caught between their sexual identity and their cultural identity, i.e., ‘between two opposing loyalties’ are ‘forced almost to choose between Betrayal and betrayal’ (Ahmed, 1982:122). This enforced ‘choice’ has further divided the ranks of women according to how each has chosen to resolve the dilemma.

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This divide has been sharpened by the widening gap between the beneficiaries of modernization and its casualties after Sadat’s ‘Open Door policy’, which brought a flood of Western goods into the country. The almost manic wave of consumerism which swept the country in the mid seventies created a moral dilemma for the lower middle classes, whose inability to keep up with the consumerist appetite of the middle class, let alone the nouveaux riches, led to a deep inferiority complex as well as confusion and loss of identity. Mernissi notes that the key point in understanding the dynamic of Muslim life in the seventies and eighties is the need of certain sections of society for ‘unchangeable religious traditions’, which give a minimum sense of identity in face of ‘totally uncontrolled changes in daily life’ (Mernissi, 1987:6). The role of women as symbolic representatives has been discussed in relation to other ethnic groups (see Jalal, 1991; Chhachhi, 1989). The use of women as boundary markers for the community and the symbol of its traditional identity holds in Egypt as it does elsewhere in the Muslim and non-Muslim world. As Badran says: ‘men could change and retain authenticity while the burdens of continuity were placed on women’ (1991:209). To confront the increasingly changing and alienating society, the traditional roles of women are extolled and upheld as the model around which society should be built. YuvalDavis notes that: Women not only teach and transfer the cultural and ideological traditions of ethnic and national groups. Very often they constitute their actual symbolic figuration. (Yuval-Davis, 1989) The Islamic movement severely criticized women’s participation in public life. Through their access to the media and through thousands of publications widely distributed throughout the eighties, Islamic preachers spoke about the behaviour of women, denouncing it as the cause of the moral and ethical disintegration of society. According to one of the most popular Islamic preachers, ‘Sheikh Sharawi’ (who appeared on prime-time television): A woman who works while she has a father, brother, or husband to support her is a sinful woman. (Badran, 1991:226) Woman’s dress and behaviour in public also became the subject of great debate. They symbolized the release of rampant forces causing fitna (disruption) in society. Women therefore became the symbols around which control over society could be exercised. They were the models of virtue, if controlled, or the instigators of disruption, if uncontrolled. Male power was perceived as the only force which could exercise this control. Society, which had eroded the basis for much of this control and power, was called on to reinstate it in the interest of all members of the community. Against the 1979 Personal Status law, which curtailed male privileges previously held in the private sphere of marriage, polygamy, divorce and child custody, the Islamic movement formed an effective opposition. The law was revised in 1985, compromising many of the gains which had been won in the previous law (see Bibars, 1987). Amidst the anti-Western rhetoric and warnings of the dangers of the West to Islam, the lines of the true Islamic community are being redrawn, with women at the heart of this community. A meeting of ‘Muslim Sisters’ began thus: The pitiful West should be a lesson to us all. We should not give up our religion and imitate them, the price is too high. Islam then is our protection. (Cited in Genina, 1990; my translation) In this redrawing of the community, women represent the ‘ultimate and inviolable repository of Muslim identity’ (Kandiyoti, 1991a: 7). However, despite the growing Islamic rhetoric on women’s domestic role in society of the last ten years, the number of women working seems to be on the increase. This brings with it the image of the veiled woman, which has become a common sight on the streets as well as in the workplace in most major cities in Egypt. This phenomenon has baffled many observers who cannot understand how Egyptian women, who were the first to take off the veil in an act of defiance close to a century before would so meekly don it again. Empirical studies have shown, however, that this represents a much more complex phenomenon, which has both class and nationalist connotations. In order to understand women’s consenting role, without which Islamic discourse could not have achieved hegemony, we must understand how women have been recipients of the effects of different intersecting oppressive relations, which have shaken their perception of their identities. Women’s changing roles: between economic necessity and patriarchal resistance Amidst the changing realities of a very large section of Egyptian women, a gap exists between what women do and what society perceives they should do. Different cultural concepts and interests compete to shape the outcome of the struggle to close the gap. The most influential discourse at present is that of the Islamic movement, which upholds a patriarchal interpretation of women’s roles and identities. This has become the reference point for both women and men, thereby affecting women’s own perceptions of their roles and identity.

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The veil represents one of numerous examples of how women’s identities have become the object of competing discourses. It is among the lower middle classes that the veil was first re-donned. In El-Guindi’s opinion, this was done in the same spirit as the lifting of the veil more than half a century before: in other words, in the spirit of national sentiment and defiance against Western influence and imperialist relations. She argues that the significance of the new veil is that it is ‘egalitarian in character’, contrary to the veil at the turn of the century, which was only worn by middle-class women. She goes on to argue that: Although it ritually and symbolically separates women from men, it does not seclude women from mainstream society; women wear it when in public as they participate in society. To these women the veil is liberating, while dressing in attractive feminine style exposes a woman’s body to the lust of strange men who derive pleasure from looking at her as sex object. Dressing Islamic style is dignifying to women and humanizing. (El-Guindi, 1983) Fadwa El-Guindi reveals two main features of the new veiling, both products of the modernization of the seventies. First, it allows women to dress homogenously, without the sense of inferiority and shame caused by the gap in lifestyles that had become evident in the seventies. It is significant that the veil first re-emerged in the universities, which were themselves a legacy of the welfare and secularist policies of Nasser. Free higher education allowed women from different social strata to mix together freely. With the growth in consumerist and élitist practices, universities came to resemble fashion shows rather than places of study (Zenie-Ziegler, 1988:82). This placed an incredible burden on poorer women who felt the need to conform to the picture which society was upholding. One of the first actions of the Jamaat Islamyia in the universities was to open bazaars to sell subsidized Islamic dress for women. They also offered to those female students who were veiled the service of a segregated bus. Women who weren’t ideologically convinced were encouraged through expediency to conform to Islamic roles and rules of behaviour. Veiling spilled on to the streets in the eighties. However, as it became a widespread phenomenon, encouraged by the rising influence of the moderate Islamic movement within the middle and upper middle class, its political and class character was diffused. The second factor mentioned by El-Guindi is the increase in female participation in higher education during the last two decades. This is supported by Macleod’s study of lower-middle-class women. She records that due to this increase in education, there has been an increase in paid employment for women. Paid work was an essential feature in the lives of the women she interviewed, who were of a certain age (twenties to mid thirties) and came from the lower middle classes. Macleod points out that apart from the informal sector, which is supposed to have shown a significant increase in women’s labour, the formal sector has also shown a significant rise: While Egyptian women held only 3.3% of positions in industry in 1961, by 1976 they formed 13% of the industrial labour force. And while women held 4.5% of clerical positions in 1960, by 1976 they held 27.4% of these jobs. (Macleod, 1991:49) The increase in paid work and higher female participation in education, El-Guindi argues, makes veiling a ‘creative alternative’ for the sharing of public space with men (1980:466). However, while it is important to acknowledge that the increase in women’s participation in formal education and paid employment has led to an increase in the sharing of public space with men, the fact that women feel the need to adopt a special garb which would render them sexless, in order to overcome possible male harassment, ignores a link in this chain of logic. This link is the increasing influence of patriarchal resistance to women’s expanding roles. Women’s integration in public life, which has been an outcome of modernization as well as women’s own resistance to their traditional roles, has caused a change in traditional household relations and has helped erode the material basis of male/female power relations. In order to maintain power in male hands, women must be denied the fruit of their expanding roles. Patriarchal beliefs in resisting these changes create a chasm between women’s roles and their and society’s perception of them. An essential Quranic verse on male/female relations bases male/female inequality on the fact that man is the provider. The verse says: Men are in charge of women, because Allah has made the one of them to excel the other, and because they spend their property [for the support of women]…(4:34; cited in Al-Farouqi, 1990) Women, by adopting a defensive denial of self and sexual identity are able to neutralize an attack both on their class and on their gender. Arlene Macleod calls this the act of ‘accommodating protest’ (Macleod, 1991). It is part of the negotiating process which takes place between subordinate and dominant groups within a hegemonic power relation. With the increase in the influence of Islamic discourse, its hegemonic power has shifted from its purely lower-middle-class confines to some sections of the middle and upper middle classes. With their entrance on to the scene, both the political and

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class character of the dress has been diffused, and a new process of negotiation set in motion. Islamic dress is now changing its character, becoming more feminine, colourful and enticing, with special fashion shows held in prominent clubs and hotels. Conclusion I have tried to show how competing discourses and interests war with women’s own experience and affect the way in which they negotiate existing power relations. Women themselves become actors in the articulation of their own subordination, although they are in a continuous process of renegotiation of the terms of their subordination (Macleod, 1991:19). At the intersection of different forms of oppression, cultural, class and patriarchal, women have, by donning the new veil, made a statement which both expresses protest and consent at the same time. The advent of middle- and upper-class women into the field allows women to renegotiate the terms under which they wear this dress, but it is done in the midst of an escalating attack in which both moderate Muslim Brothers and militant Jihad groups are dictating the terms of this relationship. With the state’s compromising and complicit role in this continuous definition of women’s roles, women are increasingly placed in weaker negotiating positions. Decreasing choices and lack of political space for negotiation doesn’t stop at Islamic dress, but extends through the private sphere of marriage and divorce to the public sphere of work. The effect of modernization on changing household relations, and the erosion of communal support structures has resulted in the identification of patriarchal loss of power with a communal loss of identity. Consequently, this places women at the heart of the reconstruction of the ‘imagined’ community. Since the appeal of Islamic discourse lies not so much in the past as in the relation of that past to the present, any discourse which opposes the Islamic one must deal with its present implications, some of which are discussed in this paper. Hence, women and indigenous Christians, who constitute focal points in this formation, must be central to the construction of any alternative discourse. Note Hala Shukrallah graduated from Cairo University, and received an MA from Sussex University. She is a founding member of the New Woman Research and Resource Centre in Cairo, and a regular contributor to the New Woman magazine. She has conducted research on women for UNICEF and Oxfam. References AL-FAROUQI, L. (1990) ‘Women in Quranic society’ in Mesbah et al., (editors) Status of Women in Islam London: Sangam Books Ltd. ANDERSON, B. (1983) Impaired Communities London: Verso. BADRAN, M. (1991) ‘Competing agenda: feminists, Islam and the state in 19th and 20th century Egypt’ in KANDIYOTI (1991b). BAYKAN, A. (1990) ‘Women between fundamentalism and modernity’ in Turner, B. (editor) Theories of Modernity and Postmodernity London: Sage Publications Ltd. BIBARS, I. (1987) ‘Women’s political interest groups in Egypt’ MA thesis presented to Economics Political Science Department, American University in Cairo. BURKE, E. (1988a) ‘Islam and social movements: methodological reflections’ in BURKE et al. (1988b). BURKE, E. et al. (1988b) editors, Islam, Politics and Social Movements London: University of California Press. BUTTERWORTH, S. (1982) ‘Prudence versus legitimacy: the persistent theme in Islamic political thought’ in DESSOUKI (1982b). CHHACHHI, A. (1989) ‘The State, religious fundamentalism and women: trends in South Asia’ Economic and Political Weekly, London. COCKS, J. (1989) The Oppositional Imagination: Feminism, Critique and Political Theory London: Routledge. DEKMEJIAN, H. (1980) ‘The anatomy of Islamic revival: legitimacy crisis, ethnic conflict and the search for Islamic alternatives’ The Middle East Journal Vol. 34, No. 1, Washington. DESSOUKI, A. (1982a) ‘The Islamic resurgence: sources, dynamics and implications’ in DESSOUKI (1982b). ——(1982b) editor, Islamic Resurgence in the Arab World New York: Praeger. EL-GUINDI, F. (1981) ‘Veiling Infitah with Muslim ethic: Egypt’s contemporary Islamic movement’ Social Problems, Vol. 28, No. 4. ——(1983) ‘Veiled activism, femmes de la Mediterranee’ Peoples Mediterraneens 22–3. GENINA, N. (1990) ‘Tanzim El Jihad: Is it the Islamic Alternative to Egypt?’ (in Arabic) El Horreya No. 18, Egypt. HABIB, R. (1991) ‘Muslim union politics in Egypt: Two Cases’ in BURKE et al. (1988b). HINNEBUSCH, R. (1985) Egyptian Politics Under Sadat: The Post Populist Development of an Authoritarian Modernising State London: Cambridge University Press. JALAL, A. (1991) Convenience of Subservience in KANDIYOTI (1991b). KANDIYOTI, D. (1991a) ‘Introduction’ in KANDIYOTI (1991b). —— (1991b) editor, Women, Islam and the State London: Macmillan.

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MACLEOD, A. (1991) ‘Accommodating Process: Working Women, the New Veiling and Change in Cairo’ New York: Columbia University Press. MERNISSI, F. (1987) The Fundamentalists’ Obsession with Women: a Current Articulation of Class Conflict in Modern Muslim Societies Pakistan: Simorgh Women’s Resource and Publications Centre. NAJMABADI, Afsaneh (1991) Women’s Autobiographies in Contemporary Iran Harvard University, Centre for Middle Eastern Studies. PIPES, D. (1982) ‘Oil Wealth and the Islamic Resurgence’ in DESSOUKI (1982b). RUSSEL, A. (1992) ‘The brain drain in Egypt’ Journal of Developing Sciences Vol. 8, No. 1. SAID, E. (1978) Orientalism, Western Conceptions of the Orient Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. SADOWSKI, Y. (1987) ‘Egypt’s Islamist movement: a new political and economic force Middle East Insight. SERAGELDIN, I. (1982) ‘Individual identity, group dynamics and Islamic resurgence’ in DESSOUKI (1982b). SHUKRALLAH, H. (1992) ‘The construction of the Islamic alternative: its impact on women and the Christian minority in Egypt’ MA thesis, Institute of Development Studies, Sussex University, Brighton. YUVAL-DAVIS, N. (1989) Introduction in YUVAL-DAVIS et al. (1989). YUVAL-DAVIS et al. (1989) editors, Women, Nation, State London: Macmillan. ZENIE-ZIEGLER, Wedad (1988) In Search of Shadows: Conversations with Egyptian Women London: Zed. ZUBAIDA, S. (1989) Islam, People and the State London: Routledge.

MOTHERING ON THE LAM: Politics, Gender Fantasies and Maternal Thinking in Women Associated with Armed, Clandestine Organizations in the United States Gilda Zwerman

Introduction Since the emergence of the contemporary women’s movement, activists and scholars have been interested in women who engage in political violence, particularly in the context of left-wing, nationalist and progressive social movements. As part of the new scholarship in women’s studies in the early 1970s, researchers investigated the lives of women who played prominent roles in anarchist, socialist and feminist movements of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Autobiographies of these revolutionary figures, as well as compilations of their letters and speeches were reprinted by radical presses. Feminists also documented first-hand accounts of the experiences of Third World women fighting in guerrilla organizations in their nations’ struggles against colonialism. In this period, studies on women and revolution represented not merely academic inquiries. They catalyzed ongoing discussion within the women’s movement concerning the historical relationship between feminism and left-wing politics and the implications of these ideological perspectives for women in contemporary Western societies. Although American feminists noted and criticized the level of male domination that operated within socialist and nationalist movements, the early literature invariably affirmed the worthiness of womens’ participation in the process of social change, even when violence is a part of that process. By the end of the 1970s, however, enthusiasm about the ‘marriage’ between socialism and feminism began to wane. Some authors continued to argue that women’s participation in the front lines of Third World revolutionary movements secured the inclusion offeminist issues in the political programme of those movements. Butmounting evidence of the resubjugation of women after a violentrevolution, as in the case of Iran, generated doubt and disappointment.Western feminists began to question whether war, revolution, or evenprogressive social movements that employ violence could ever serve theinterests of women. In 1982, the Women’s Studies International Forum dedicated an entire volume to exploration of the relationship between ‘Women and Men’s Wars’. In this volume, a new ideological position was consolidated: strategies for political change that included violence do not serve the interests of women, mothers, or feminism. Since then, Ruddick (1982), Elshtain (1987) and Morgan (1989) have become prominent architects of this new ‘pacifistmother’ model of women’s political activism. Specifically, Ruddick’s theory argues that there is an inextricable relationship between ‘maternalism’ or ‘maternal thinking’—as a consciousness that arises from women’s socialization for mothering and the activity of mothering—and a commitment to nonviolence. This commitment is derived from the mother’s interests: to preserve the child; to foster the child’s physical, emotional and intellectual growth; and to shape the child’s growth in such a way that s/he becomes the sort of adult that the mother can appreciate and others (in her group) can accept. According to Ruddick, achieving these interests on behalf of such a fragile object—the infant/child—requires that women develop a metaphysical attitude of ‘humility’, and acceptance of a world beyond her control, a world in which damage and death are accepted as facts. Maternal sensibility involves a capacity for ‘cheery endurance’, ‘concrete thinking’, and ‘attentive love’ as well as a commitment to ‘avoid battle whenever possible, to fight battles nonviolently, and to take, as the aim of battle, reconciliation between opponents and restoration of connection and community’ (Ruddick, 1982:215–7). Elshtain, borrowing elements of Ruddick’s work, encourages women to embrace the politics of ‘feminist pacificism’, to remain at home with young children and to fight militarism. In Elshtain’s work, the concepts of ‘war’ and ‘violence’ are viewed as antithetical to the essence of ‘woman’. Therefore, the distinctions between ‘just’ and ‘unjust’ wars are not relevant. War is men’s: men are the historic authors of organized violence, while women are invited to turn away…. Whatever women may finally do once wars have begun—observe, suffer, cope, mourn, honor, adore, witness, work—women don’t start them. (Elshtain, 1987:164–6)

Feminist Review No. 47, Summer 1994

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Less constricted by the rigours of historical research and philosophical logic than either Elshtain or Ruddick, Morgan equates all war with terrorism. She purports that the overwhelming majority of women in the world—regardless of geographic location or the political regime in which they live—reject violence as a means of political struggle. The reasons for this, she argues, derives from the ‘truth’ of women’s oppression which exists both before, and remains even ‘after the revolution’: Again and again, power changes hands but does not alter definition. Again and again, this is done for the sake of, in the name of, on behalf of, from, over, ‘the people’, ‘the masses’, ‘the proletariat’, ‘the workers’, ‘the farmers’, ‘the populace’—none of whom are perceived as female…. And they wonder why their revolutions have not ‘worked’. (Morgan, 1989:164) Rhetorically, she asks, ‘What do men know about life?’ The answer, of course, is ‘nothing’. According to Morgan, the alternatives to political violence lie in the gender-segregated categories of cultural feminism: the ‘she-self’, the ‘meta-national community of women’ and ‘female energy’. Those women who do not recognize this truth, who join men in war, who wittingly participate and vie for power in male-dominated groups that engage in political violence are, in Morgan’s words, ‘demonlovers’, dancing themselves toward the false liberation of death. Numerous criticisms of the ‘pacifist-mother’ model have been made. Some critics have questioned the internal logic of the perspective. For instance, Davion points out that advocates of the ‘pacifist-mother’ impute to women the capacity to engage in violence when she or her children are threatened by direct attack, such as rape or domestic violence. However, they fail to explicate the process by which women are rendered ‘incapacitated’ to fight against the injustices they may perceive in the broader political realm (Davion, 1990:90–100). Other critics charge that efforts to construct a theory of female political action rooted in the ‘pacifist-mother’ model reflect racial, class, Eurocentric and even heterosexual biases (Di Leonardo, 1985). Certainly, there are circumstances under which women appear to engage in violence voluntarily. In the criminal sphere, there are women who seek vengeance through violence, who selfishly or senselessly harm others, who abandon and abuse their children. In the political sphere, there are women who serve in their nation’s military and an increasing number who occupy ‘near-combat’ positions. There are also hundreds of Third World women who continue to join nationalist guerrilla movements despite Western feminists’ ‘warnings’ about ‘men’s wars’. Finally, in between the criminal and political spheres are a small, idiosyncratic, group of women who pose, perhaps, the most unsettling challenge to the ‘pacifist-mother’ model of activism. They are the women associated with post-New Left insurgent organizations in the United States, including the Fuerzas Armadas De Liberation (FALN), Los Macheteros EPB, Republic of New Africa, Black Liberation Army, United Freedom Front and Weather Underground.1 With histories of activism in the social movements of the sixties, these women intensified their involvement in the revolutionary activity during the decline in the cycle of left-wing protest. Instead of becoming feminists or activists in the more tempered social movements of the 1970s and 1980s, or instead of dropping out of politics altogether as many of their contemporaries did, these women chose to join small, unpopular, male-dominated groups advocating ‘armed struggle’ inside the United States. Many of these women are also mothers. Unable to account for the choices of these insurgents within the ‘pacifist-mother’ frame, feminists quickly dismiss these exceptions as miguided, ‘male-identified’ women. In haste, they miss the opportunity to consider the question of why a handful of women in the US, most of whom share many political concerns with women who ‘chose’ feminism, ‘chose’ armed struggle instead. In 1986, I conducted a series of interviews with women who were incarcerated in state and federal correctional facilities for their participation in acts of left-wing political violence in the US during the late 1970s and 1980s.2 This paper examines the experiences and selfperceptions of fourteen women—four Black, five Puerto Rican, and five white—all of whom are mothers. Using theories of the ‘pacifist-mother’ as a point of contrast, this examination shows that what is exceptional about these women lies predominantly in the realm of consciousness, not behaviour. That is, despite their advocacy of armed struggle, these women experienced daunting conflicts about participating directly in the violence. This is equally true for Black, white and Puerto Rican women. The origin of this conflict appears to be gender-related. Some women specifically connect their identity as mothers to an emotional identification with the victims of violence which, they say, prohibited their participation. Others felt that the conflict did not derive from the activity of mothering per se but from a pre-existing, ill-defined emotional state which they related to their socialization as females. Yet, their conflicts did not preclude them from joining the organization in the first place, taking some peripheral role in the violence, and construing their experience of fear and revulsion as invalid or temporary. In some cases, they even took full responsibility for violent actions they did not personally commit. What attractions did association with small, armed, clandestine organizations hold for these women? Did this association fulfil needs in these women that do not exist in their feminist—and nonviolent— counterparts? How do these women reconcile their maternal responsibilities with support for political violence? To what extent are they resolved about the roles they took in relation to men, mothering and violence? Just how exceptional are they?

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The context The participation of these women in acts of political violence was neither spontaneous nor coerced. Along with their male counterparts, each woman played a role in planning these actions. They viewed their participation as an expression of a longstanding commitment to revolutionary social change. Most of the women were associated with these groups over a period ranging from three to fifteen years. Although involvement with political violence did not necessarily consume their entire being and consciousness, the accoutrements and activities of the urban guerrilla were woven into the fabric of everyday life. They wore wigs, dyed their hair, covered facial scars, changed their names, falsified documents, carried guns, hid fugitives, found safe-houses, secured vehicles, and staked-out bombing targets. About four or five times a year these clandestine operations would culminate in an ‘action’—a violent protest of government or corporate policies that victimize Third World populations, both here and abroad. Tonight armed units of the United Freedom Front bombed offices and facilities of the Motorola Corporation in New York City. This continues our expanded campaign against the US military machine and the death merchants (war contractor companies), who grow rich from the profits of war production. This action is an expression of solidarity and support for the People of Central America, who are courageously resisting US imperialism in their struggle for Freedom and Self-Determination. (United Freedom Front, 1984) Waiting for them to return home from such ‘actions’ were their children: between one and three of them, ranging in age from three months to sixteen years. Most of my time was spent doing [legal] political organizing. I guess I faced the same dilemmas that most ‘working’ mothers have, finding good child-care arrangements and figuring out how to spend as much time with my child as I could. I took [my infant child] almost everywhere: to restaurants, meetings, on trips, and even on [target] surveillances. Then there were the ‘other’ responsibilities. I had assumed these based on my conviction that women should participate on every level of political activity, including the violence. But I guess there is no way to explain this to a baby, no way to get the child’s consent. So, there was always that moment, or that day before an action, when I looked down at my child, asleep, and gave my word, ‘I’ll see you tonight’. For each of these children, there came a night when their mother did not come home. Or, for some, the moment when they watched as their mothers were dragged from their home in handcuffs and shackles by scores of police, marshalls and SWATteams. One woman recalls the morning of her ‘capture’. We were having a birthday party for my three-year-old son. He and my other two children stayed up late the night before making stuffed shells and preparing all this food—we had shopped for three days for this party. Most of the decorations were hanging and the kids were blowing up balloons downstairs in the basement and packing little bags with initials —thank god, they only wrote the initials—with little gifts they had picked out for the children that were coming. You know, like jacks, silly putty, superballs, little goofy things. They were playing songs by The Village People and Michael Jackson on the stereo. Everything was so festive. I was still in my bathrobe when the phone rang. I answered. The voice said, just like in the movies, ‘This is the FBI, your house is surrounded. Come out with your hands up.’ And I laughed and said, ‘Hey, this isn’t funny, you know. Don’t make a joke like that.’ I was trying to hope that it was just one of our comrades. But I knew it wasn’t. This was not a familiar voice. Terror. I looked out the window. You know how when things are too hard to deal with, you think, ‘I really don’t want to be in this movie.’ Then I thought, ‘This really is happening.’ We were living in a quiet, working-class neighbourhood, on a not-very-crowded street of one- and two-family houses. Outside, there were at least a dozen cars, all up and down the street and on the sidewalks. Surrounding these cars and on the roofs of some houses were men in uniform, with guns on their backs, guns in their hands, guns attached to their legs. They came running out, all in formation, pointing the muzzles at the windows. And then I saw—it really was like a movie—this soldiers’ tank, right there in front of the house. A big giant tank with men coming out from a door on the bottom. You wouldn’t believe the things I thought about…like how they’re wrecking my lawn. I ran downstairs to tell [my husband]. He was in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet, reading some book on Marxism and American Indians. I said, ‘the FBI are outside and we have to go out.’ He jumped up and practically knocked me over to the side, yelling, ‘you’re kidding’, as he ran upstairs. And then, there I was standing in the basement, by myself. It was probably only for a few seconds and I thought, ‘what am I going to do? This is really it.’

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They [the FBI] called back and got [my husband] on the phone. They said to hurry up. [My husband] told them that there were kids in the house and not to do anything crazy, that we were trying to dress the children. They said, ‘No. Send them out as they are.’ It was pouring rain. They [the kids] didn’t have any shoes on yet. [My husband] said not to go out with the children, to let them go alone. So, I started arguing with him. ‘I have to go with the children.’ He said, ‘No, you have to do it this way. They might try to shoot us, and the kids will be right there.’ So we started embracing. We told them that the police are here and that Momma and Dadda will have to go in the van. I told them to tell the police that they wanted to go to Grandma right away. They were stoic about it. I think they were in shock. When they stepped out, the police told them over the loudspeakers to raise their hands over their head. We looked out the window and watched them standing in these big puddles. [The eldest child] was hunched over with one hand up and one hand pushing [the youngest child] forward. [The little one] was just making this noise, not really crying, just like ‘Ahhhhhhh’. He was just freaking out. That’s when I thought, ‘I can’t deal with this.’ Following their mothers’ arrest, childrens’ lives were in completealbeit temporary—disarray. Some were taken by authorities to shelters where they were ‘hidden’ from parents and attorneys for up to six weeks. Others were sent to grandparents or aunts they had never met, or held overnight by a baffled neighbour, or tossed around from ‘comrade to comrade’. In one case, a child was ‘arrested’ (kept in the gaol cell) along with its mother. Today, many of these women are serving lengthy prison sentences. Their charges include weapons possession, habouring fugitives, armed robbery, bombing of corporate and government buildings, assisting in the escape of radicals from prison, murder, sedition, and conspiracy to overthrow the United States government by force. Their children are being raised by others and will probably be grown by the time their mothers are parolled or released. Choosing armed struggle It is difficult to discuss the political development of these women in categorical terms or in terms of a unitary pattern of any sort.3 Each woman tells a unique story about the path leading to armed struggle. Some accounts emphasize a sense of loyalty to the ideological and organizational commitments they had made to revolution in the late 1960s. These women detail a gradual transition from nonviolent, reformist activism in the Civil Rights movement and early New Left organizations; to experimentation with confrontational violence with the police; to a protracted search for a model of revolution that would ignite a sense of urgency for radical social change in the US. During the 1970s, their militancy continued to escalate, despite the erosion of popular interest in revolution, despite the end of the war in Vietnam, and despite the dwindling size and the growing conflicts within their splinter groups. One woman describes an entire life—from her childhood as the daughter of functionaries in the Communist Party, to her adolescence in CORE (Congress of Racial Equality), SDS (Students for a Democratic Society), WITCH (Women’s International Terrorist Conspiracy from Hell), and Weatherman, through adulthood in small revolutionary splinter groups such as the Weather Underground, Midnight Special, May 19th Communist Organization; and finally, in the Revolutionary Armed Task Force—spent in the American Left: Until I was about eight years old, I had lived in a home and in an extended ‘Party family’ that encouraged important ideals, like tolerance of diversity in the world; awareness of history; of racism, and other forms of injustice. I had completely internalized the importance of a social conscience and the need to strive to make one’s life have a purpose; to move history forward. But in 1956, the American Communist Party split over Stalin’s invasion of Hungary and my parents split from the Communist Party. My father became embittered and cynical about ‘having his mind and life eaten away by Party politics’. And my mother started getting more and more into wanting her family to be like from Father Knows Best. I couldn’t bear the loss of community and ideology and purposefulness in my life. I became politically active in my own right by the time I was fifteen. I was always drawn to the most militant groups. And if the group I was in wasn’t radical enough, I would push at the edge. In the late sixties there was a large movement, a whole generation feeding into that militancy. Incidents of political violence were not uncommon. A lot of people went underground. A lot of people went to gaol. And I was in the thick of it. But when the movement receeded, I held on…. I could not forsee reinventing an identity for myself outside the context of a revolutionary movement. I didn’t see any alternative I believed in. Many people stopped being revolutionaries: they said they wanted to check out broader dimensions of political work. But to me, it looked like that choice inevitably led to becoming yuppies, professionals and armchair intellectuals.

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So I dug my heels in. Depressed and disgusted with the racism and parliamentarism of the Left and the Womens’ movement here, I looked to the Third World—to images of women in the national liberation movements of Mozambique and Palestine—for inspiration. I joined forces with Black, Puerto Rican and Native American revolutionary organizations which viewed themselves as militias of oppressed colonies within the US. Many of their members were already fugitives, prisoners and ex-prisoners. We read Malcolm X, Regis Debray, and Frantz Fanon. We obtained guns and prepared to leap into history. Most of the other women who became involved in armed, underground groups had less extensive and explicitly political histories. They trace their subjective predispositions for revolution to poignant observations and experiences of social injustice —both racism and economic oppression—they had in childhood or early adolescence. In a television documentary, one Puerto Rican woman recalls an incident that occurred when she was eleven years old: I never forgot this. It was my first encounter with racism. You know, I’m very light skinned. I was blond when I was a baby. So everyone thought I was an American child until I opened my mouth. I couldn’t speak any English. My mother had taken me and my little brother shopping. It was a department store where most Latinos would shop [laughs], but no one spoke any Spanish there. My mother bought me these little pretty dresses. When the cashier asked her how she was going to pay, with money or lay-away, or whatever, my mother didn’t understand her. She was holding part of the money in her hand and looking at the papers for the lay-away, but she didn’t understand what to do. And the cashier said, ‘Look at these dirty people. They don’t even speak any English.’ She just went on and on. And I was young. I had just been here for three or four months, but I had picked up enough English to know that what she was saying wasn’t good. I knew it was negative. I looked at my mother and she was very emotionally upset. She understood that this woman was insulting her. My little brother was crying. It was a big scene. I turned to my mother and said, ‘Don’t you worry. I’m going to learn good English. They won’t know that I’m even from anywhere else. And [laughs] I’m going to teach them all a lesson’. (Rudman, 1987) Similarly, a white woman in my study speaks of the painful limits of her family’s working-class existence and the vow she made, as a child, to escape: I grew up in a very small factory town. A woollen mill town. That’s where just about everyone worked. Everybody grew up and that’s what they did, work in the woollen mill. My mother worked there. My father worked there. My brother worked there. As a kid, after school, a lot of times I would go over to the mill, to hang around and wait for my mother and father. I used to sit on my father’s car and watch the people walk out. How bad they looked, how bad they walked, sick, coughing. My mother would come out pure white, that wool dust all over her. And I’d say, this ain’t where I’m going. I’M NOT GOING IN THERE! My mother died in the mill. I was fourteen. For the women who did not have long-standing histories as militants in the New Left, the transition from ‘just being politically aware’ or peripherally involved in a progressive community group to revolutionary politics was relatively swift. Significantly, their radicalization did not occur during the sixties but later, in the mid to late 1970s, after the mass base of the New Left had all but disappeared and after they became intimately involved with a particular individual who inspired their political development.4 Invariably, that individual was a man—a revolutionary already committed to political violence or an ex-prisoner or fugitive who would eventually be drawn to one of these small, revolutionary groups. These women refer to the men in their lives—husbands, lovers, fathers of their children—as having influenced them, encouraged them, but as one woman claims, It was never like him pulling me by the hair and saying ‘Woman, you’re going underground’, or anything like that. These were my politics, but without his encouragement or us being in the situation we were in because of him being a fugitive, I may not have acted on them in this way. Significantly, the women do not perceive themselves as having been coerced by men or used as unwitting pawns in a male agenda for violent revolution. Even in cases where it seems blatantly evident that an emotional tie to a man determined the woman’s ‘choice’ to engage in armed struggle, they insist on taking full responsibility for their part. One woman who was, perhaps, least certain about the degree of voluntarism she had exercised, and most articulate about the influence of her

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husband on her ‘decision’ to go underground, similarly refused to take the role of victim: ‘Look, the bottom line is, I could have left him. I had places I could go to.’ Thus, making distinctions between the women’s attraction to ‘the man’ and her attraction to his politics is nearly impossible. No one would say outright that they were in it purely for love. These women appear to have been drawn to these men more because of, rather than in spite of, the men’s interests and associations with revolutionary political violence. Although they differ from the long-standing politicos in terms of organizational history and degree of self-directedness, they became just as passionate about revolutionary politics and excited about their involvement in armed, underground organizations. What was the attraction? The (feminist) road not taken and the female guerrilla Mullaney’s study of women associated with revolutionary movements in nineteenth-century Europe found that their motives for joining were totally different from those of revolutionary men. She explains: Yes, they may have been searching for power, but power of a different sort …the chance to exercise power not over others, but finally over themselves. It was only within radical movements that women could prove their usefulness to society and hope to be treated as equals of men. By choosing to revolt against the present authority structure of her society, a woman may implicitly have felt that she was working toward a newer world where the opportunities available to her as a woman would be quite different. (Mullaney, 1984:55) Studies of women who participated in Third World national liberation movements in the latter part of the twentieth century echo similar gender-based motivations. Jaquette (1973) writes that for women in Latin America, joining a national liberation movement implied a loosening of the chain that bound women in double subjection to colonial power and also to their feminine condition within that regime. The women who joined armed, underground, insurgent organizations in the US view themselves as an extension of this legacy of revolutionary women. Yet, in contrast to most of their alleged progenitors, these women are living in a political and cultural context in which a popular revolutionary movement does not exist. Rather, feminism is the largest and the most popular social movement of the contemporary period. Conceivably, these women could have chosen to address genderbased concerns and ‘work toward a newer world’, without male revolutionaries and without violence. Indeed, all the women discuss having some contact with feminism during the late 1960s or 1970s and note that their contact gave cause for reflection and pause before casting or recasting their lot with armed insurgents. One white, middleclass woman had actually joined a women’s organization for a brief period in 1973: They said that they were socialist feminists. They said they were trying to figure out how to reactivate a mass [Left] movement that was rapidly disintegrating. And they said they were committed to maintaining their identity as radicals. I thought we had more similarities than differences. But I was wrong. They were ambitious, would-be professionals, who ultimately relied more on European radical traditions as a basis for their politics. And what did they do? Talk. Talk. Talk. Read. Read. Read. In the face of the National Liberation Front’s struggle in Vietnam and the rise-up at Attica [prison] and Black Nationalism, feminism seemed completely self-serving, limited…and boring. Other white women, particularly those of working-class origin, with less education and limited participation in the New Left, say that they were sympathetic to the Women’s movement, but were ultimately intimidated by the ‘personal’ expectations that feminism imposed: One woman recalls: I remember going to a demonstration by myself in the early 1970s. I was thinking, ‘This is great, women standing up for themselves, demanding equal rights, demanding abortion.’ As I approached, a woman came up to me with a leaflet. She gave me the once-over. She looked in back of me to see how long my hair was. I was wearing eye-liner and a little lipstick. I wasn’t wearing a skirt or anything, but I wasn’t wearing army fatigues either. She scowled and she shoved the leaflet at me, ‘You sure can use this.’ I thought, ‘I’m out of here.’ For the Black and Puerto Rican women, getting drawn into an autonomous women’s movement was even less of an option, as they were keenly aware of the under-representation of minorities and the prevalence of racism in the feminist milieu. The Black women, all of whom had been involved with the Black Panther Party in the late 1960s, expressed the greatest difficulty envisioning feminist alternatives for themselves. They felt that leaving the fold of a Black-based liberation movement for a largely white, autonomous women’s movement constituted a betrayal of their race and of the men. All the women rejected what they identified as the ‘imperialist’ context of Western feminism in which they view white, middle-class women as

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enlarging their personal and economic freedoms not merely in advance of but at the expense of poor women, women of colour, prisoners, etc. Certainly, these revolutionaries are raising legitimate criticisms of American feminism—its middle-class base, its racism, its reformism. And certainly women are entitled to feel uncomfortable with the requisites of lifestyle and hairstyle which they perceive the movement imposing on its members. However, their critique of feminism still does not explain the alternative they pursued: to import a model of revolutionary theory and practice developed for Third World peasant societies and engage in a similar form of ‘armed struggle’ inside the US. Many chroniclers of the New Left argue that at the peak of the movement, advocacy of armed struggle had a logic that was justified by the turmoil of the times. However, in the 1970s, as the New Left receded, as feminism became more prominent, and as the political climate of the US shifted to the right, sustaining a commitment to armed struggle, especially on the part of women, simply defied political logic. Rather, the attraction of armed struggle seems to lie in the construction of reality and identity that is embodied in the role of the female in this type of movement: the female guerrilla—a woman with a rifle slung over one confident shoulder and a baby cuddled in her protective arms. This image has an appeal that was not entirely political. The female guerrilla symbolizes the stereotypical extremes of gender identity. It permits the traditional character and dichotomy between masculinity and feminity to remain intact, while giving the women access—albeit temporary and highly supervised—to the male realm of power and aggression. As co-sponsors of dramatic, armed actions, these women project themselves into the public eye as Amazon-like figures, who exceed even radical visions of their sex. Both as radicals and as women, they appear fearless and defiant. However, below the ground, a very different figure exists. Below the ground, these women were romantically and/or ideologically subordinate to male revolutionaries. Below the ground, these women were, at best, secondary players in the ‘military’ and political structure of their organizations. Below the ground, even in the occasional foray into the male realm of power and aggression, the women were often daunted by unwelcomed, uncomfortable affective states. Below the ground, these women kept house and raised children. Below the ground, these women expressed more traditional aspects of feminine identity than any feminist construction of womanhood. But below the ground, no one could see this. The clandestine movement provided a ‘safehouse’ in which, on the one hand, the women could express genuinely radical sensibilities and, on the other hand, ‘pretend’ to be traditional women, dependent and subordinate to men but ‘for the revolution’, not for themselves. In effect, they could both have and hide their stereotypically feminine needs.5 Unfortunately, participating in violent actions was the price of the ticket. Violence In contrast to popular images of women—‘Bonnie’, ‘Little Drummer Girl’ and more recently, ‘Thelma’—who enter the male realm of violence and become intoxicated with the power of the pistol, these women did not grow into their guns. Despite their advocacy of armed struggle and their identification as female guerrillas, they remained uncomfortable with taking an active role in the violence. One woman describes this contradiction as a ‘gap’ between her political convictions and personal feelings: About the weapons, using them, the people that might be hurt… I had a really hard time. I tortured myself about it for a really long time: ‘did I have to do this?’ ‘could I get someone else to do it?’ ‘could I do something else?’ ‘what else could I do?’ The women never initiated violence. Most kept their distance from the site of an ‘action’. Rather, they played peripheral or ‘supportive’ roles that were more associated with sustaining the group than with executing violence. The nature of the ‘support’ each woman provided varied depending on the group’s size, level of clandestinity and the intensity of each woman’s conflict about violence. Women who were not fugitives or living with fugitives had more choices as to the type of support they could provide, while avoiding direct participation in the violence. They could remain active in public political arenas in order to recruit new members; they might take jobs that provided financial support to the group; or they could perform tasks—such as buying equipment or target surveillance—that were related to the execution of an action, but did not require them to be present when the violence was enacted. In smaller groups in which members were completely clandestine, women who did not participate in the violence had fewer options: their ‘supportive’ role in the underground parroted the most traditional, gender-based, assignment…they were the ‘housekeepers’: they stayed at home, with the children, almost all of the time, while the men were away, sometimes for weeks at a time, ‘working’. One woman reflects on eight years of living in this type of situation:

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I had a role in the underground. And I wouldn’t want to ever put it down. It was an important role, but it was minimal. My role was to rent houses, buy cars and things like that. It wasn’t like I went underground knowing that this was going to be my role. But because of the decisions I made, about the violence and my children, that they were number one to me, and because of the lifestyle that required that someone had to spend a lot of time in the house, with the children, I made them my commitment…but the isolation of it. Because you don’t want to have too many relationships. And relationships you do have centre around the kids. I felt it was isolation. I felt like I really wasn’t hardly doing anything. I felt more like, Jesus, my whole life is about trying to survive here with the kids. I was really questioning whether I was really a revolutionary. Another woman tries to explain how a woman’s identity as a revolutionary could be affirmed even though the housekeeper role involved little, if any, activity that could be described as radical or political. Let’s say, you’re going shopping. There you are, leaving, not really your own house, it’s a safehouse. You might be living there for a week or two years. The kids may be in school or maybe they’re hiding in the house. Your neighbours say hello, but they do not know your real name. They’ve never seen your real hair. They certainly wouldn’t believe that you are carrying a gun in your purse, or your boot. You get into a car, which may not be the same car you were driving last week, which may take some quick explaining. You study a map and try to choose a new route to the mall, or shop at a different mall than you did last week. Maybe you have to pick up a mail order, which may be in a post-office box in another town. When you get to the supermarket, you scout the parking lot. Inside, you memorize the ‘enter’ and ‘exit’ doors. You pay for everything in cash or, if you’re into being risqué, with one of several credit cards that have been ‘secured’. And hopefully, you make it back to the car and back to the safehouse without raising suspicions or being tailed. Question: How did you feel about this lifestyle? Answer: Bored, in a terrifying kind of way. Only a handful of the women participated directly in the violence. They were referred to by the group as ‘combatants’ and described as ‘more developed’ than the women who took ‘supportive’ roles. But they too express having ‘emotional’ conflicts about violence and took ‘secondary’ positions, mainly as ‘transporters’—of other combatants, weapons, explosives, money, etc.—during an action. They recall feelings of dread each time a specific action was planned; they prayed for a cancellation; they looked for legitimate reasons to excuse themselves ‘this one time’; they promised themselves that this would be their very last action. They became visibly upset when violence was used. Yet, they did not express these feelings either to the men or to each other and they did not speak out when tactics, almost certain to increase the likelihood of violence, were suggested. At the meeting where plans for this action had been made, someone (a male combatant) had actually proposed what I thought was a major change in the group’s strategy: from ‘defend yourself, if necessary’ to ‘don’t wait, shoot first’. All the other men agreed. For one second there, the women glanced around at each other. But we said nothing. Nothing! I know, I was really freaked out by this, on a political as well as a personal level. Question: Why didn’t you say something? Answer: Because I really couldn’t imagine myself shooting at all. And frankly, I didn’t think I would have to, given where I positioned myself. And then I thought, ‘maybe one of them (the men) would end up in a fire fight and who am I to decide this for them? Once again, these women—both the ‘supporters’ and the combatants’— did not perceive their positions as having been assigned to them by the men, simply because they were women. They believed that their roles were ‘temporary’, ‘situational’, and above all, not self-defining. What we [the group] said is that staying home and taking care of the kids was not an expression of woman’s biological or social destiny. We said it was a necessity to clandestine life and should be applauded as a ‘sacrifice’ on the part of anyone that took this role, equivalent to the sacrifices that others make as combatants. Theoretically, a man could take this role. Nor did they view their conflicts about violence as a reflection of a different moral or political consciousness than the men, or as an emotional warning about the politics itself. Rather, they understood their subordination to be a self-imposed consequence of their own personal weaknesses and fears as revolutionaries, which they would ‘hopefully’, ‘eventually’ overcome.

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In hindsight, many women, now separated from their compatriots-and husbands—characterize their construction of reality underground as ‘somewhat delusional, but not entirely self-delusional’. Apparently, the men—their attitudes, their rhetoric, and the way they played out the male gender role—were essential in helping the women rationalize their conflicts and idealize the secondary positions they had. Gendering the armed struggle Most women report that when their partners were at home and the situation was relatively calm, the men made an effort to fulfil the counterpart to the female guerrilla, to be the ‘new socialist man’. I hated to clean. Even while he was away, I never cleaned the house. I saved it for him. He’d come back, kiss me and the kids, and grab the vacuum cleaner. Since the kids never knew what he was doing when he wasn’t home, all they saw was a man, who was a husband and a father and who cleaned the house. I thought that was a positive image for them and it made me feel hopeful about our political ideals. Another woman reports: He wasn’t home often, but when he was, he did everything. I remember evenings when he’d cook the dinner, do the dishes, change the baby’s diaper, bath the kids. And I went out dancing. We were aspiring to be equal. Sometimes it felt like we were. Beyond their own occasional participation in female-identified tasks, the men also prepared the women for (eventual) combatant roles. The women were given guns and weapons training. They practised martial arts. Sometimes the women would participate in rehearsals for an action. Every so often, the group would even discuss the possibility of the women engaging in an action by themselves. At the same time, the men were sensitive to the conflicts in the women and did not force the issue. They permitted each woman to negotiate her proximity to the violence, to take on only the tasks she felt able to handle, and to invent a stylized label and rationale for whatever role she took, without unsettling her basic commitment to armed struggle. Invariably, the most legitimate reason the women had for not participating in the violence (‘this one time’) was their children. Evidently, there was an implicit agreement within the group-undoubtedly derived from the new socialist male’s limitations on housekeeping and the female guerrilla’s fear of violence—that the men’s ability to take care of the children wasn’t ‘as developed’ as the women’s. Thus, as the image of the female guerrilla implies, the division of power between women and men remained separate, though not entirely segregated. The men made (most) decisions concerning the violence while occasionally participating in housekeeping and child-rearing. The women controlled the parenting while taking supportive or secondary roles in the violence. Some women indicate that the only way they ever felt ‘entitled’ to challenge this division and the precedence of decisions concerning armed struggle over everything else, was to assert their concerns as a mother or a pregnant woman. The following woman on a documentary video says: Up until that point, T. [another female in the group] and I had accepted submissive roles. But then, I was six months pregnant. He wasn’t, OK? He [her husband] did not have to worry about his bulging stomach and try to cover it up every way. He said, ‘OK, you’re pregnant. Therefore, you have to remain in a certain role because of your condition.’ But my ‘condition’ was that they [the FBI] were looking for me too. I pointed this out to him. [I said], ‘If the police come, you’re going to get arrested. But so am I. And so is this baby…. They’re out to get us, dead or alive. Preferably dead. So hey, this is serious business. So let’s not fight about who’s going to cook, or who’s going to make coffee, or stay in the house. So, let’s clear some things up around here. We [T. and I] want some things changed around here’. (Rudman, 1987) As long as the women remained underground where participation in violence defined the essence of political commitment as well as the basis of women’s liberation, the division of power between the women and men could not be acknowledged for what it was: an inherently sexist arrangement that was built on compromise and delusions about the needs of women and the needs of children.

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Mothering Each woman’s rationale for having or bringing children into the unstable, high-risk lifestyle of armed, underground organizations varies. Some depersonalize the maternal role. They rely on their identification with the female guerrilla wherein an abstract dedication to transforming the world for all children is substituted for a concrete sense of responsibility to their own children. Two women articulated this view. G. is serving a life sentence in prison and unable to see her children because they remained underground with her comrades. She makes the following point on a documentary video: I have a great belief that children are biologically ours [the mother’s], but they are not our possession. They are the children of humanity. That’s why I feel very confident to leave my child with my comrades. Because I know my child is well taken care of… We [revolutionaries] guide our children. We don’t train them. We don’t have terrorist camps. Our responsibility is to teach our children who their enemy is. As long as they know that, they can move forward. Our children are growing up very proud. (Rudman, 1987) Similarly, exiled Black revolutionary Assata Shakur discusses her decision to conceive a child in gaol. At the time, both she and her partner were on trial for murder and facing extraordinarily lengthy prison sentences. ‘I have to think.’ My mind was screaming. Who would take care of my baby? I thought about what Simba had said about our children being our hope for the future. I had never wanted a child. Since I was a teenager I had always said that the world was too horrible to bring another human being into… What had my mother and grandmother and greatgrandmother thought when they brought their babies into the world? What had my ancestors thought when they brought their babies into this world, only to see them flogged and raped and bought and sold. How many Black children are separated from their parents? How many grow up with their grandmothers and grandfathers? Didn’t I stay with my grandparents until my mother finished school and was on her feet? I remembered all the discussions I had had. ‘I’m a revolutionary,’ I had said. ‘I don’t have time to sit at home and make no babies.’ ‘Do you think that you’re a machine?’ a brother had asked me. ‘Do you think you were put on this earth to fight and nothing else?’ ‘I am about life,’ I said to myself. ‘I’m gonna live as hard as I can and as full as I can until I die. And I’m not letting these parasites, these oppressors, these greedy racist swine make me kill my children in my mind, before they are even born. I’m going to live and I’m going to love, and, if a child comes from that union, I’m going to rejoice. Because our children are our futures and I believe in the future and in the strength and rightness of our struggle.’ I was ready for whatever happened. I relaxed and let nature take its course. (Shakur, 1987:92–3) Most of the women have a less depersonalized view of their responsibilities as mothers. Rather, they emphasize ‘unfortunate’ or ‘unanticipated’ circumstances—mainly involving their husband’s fugitive status —in their explanations for having and/or raising children underground. As a result of these circumstances, these women—primarily the ‘housekeepers’—spent most of their time juggling the requisites of armed struggle and the needs of children. They went to great lengths to provide them with a normal, routine, and ‘progressive’ lifestyle. One woman recalls: There was one time when something went wrong and we all had to move quickly. As soon as we crossed the state line, I stopped at a phone booth and went to Yellow Pages to find a listing of the schools in the area. One of the kids was having trouble learning to read. I demanded that the next safehouse be in walking distance from a Montessori school. They also tried to prevent children from exposure to traumatic situations: like a sudden move, the appearance of an unfamiliar fugitive in the household, the disappearance of a parent, or holding clandestine meetings in their presence where some of the rituals would be frightening. But these events were part of the lifestyle and ultimately, unavoidable. One woman explains: The children’s routines were often compromised for the sake of security. But their needs were not ignored. Sometimes their requests—for a friend to sleep over or to take a photo—would lead to a major political discussion in the group. Even a minor thing, like a kid’s ear infection, could abort an action that had been in planning for months. Although these women say that they chose the politics and they chose the men, their decision to have or bring children into the underground is —somehow—removed from the realm of intentionality.

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I really didn’t think that anything this bad could happen. I thought that my [peripheral] contribution to the armed struggle was very minor and unindictable. Changing my name, wearing a wig, renting cars…and I always paid for the cars. I thought, ‘These are not crimes. At worst, I’ll get arrested for a few days, but I won’t be indicted. My children may have to live without their father, but not without me.’ I never let myself think of the overall context. Question: Why not? Answer: I couldn’t have done it. A few women expressed a much greater degree of conflict, and guilt about having children in this context and exposing them to physical and emotional risks. One woman acknowledges her intense attraction to male revolutionaries—‘the more risqué male comrades’—but is critical of herself for succumbing to it. She says that she felt pressured by men in the organization both to have children (to engage in ‘revolutionary fucking’) and participate in high-risk activities. At the same time, she felt that both she and her children were not being protected either by their father or by others in the organization. In retrospect, she sees herself as weak and passive, not as a revolutionary but as a woman, relying on men, searching for a protector and mentor. She believes that her children have suffered tremendously and has difficulty encouraging them to embrace the very politics and people that were responsible for so much trauma in their lives: ‘All I can tell you is this: the next man in my life, if there is one, will be unarmed.’ Only one woman characterizes her decision to have a child while engaged in clandestine work and violence as ‘irresponsible’. She discusses that time in her life: My decision to have a child was not just a personal one. It involved a male comrade, the women in my household and others who were willing to help me have and take care of this child despite the escalation of my political work. I loved being pregnant and the baby’s birth took place in my home, with a midwife, and several other women in attendance. Afterward, my parents came over with bagels and lox. Although I kept most parts of my life separate from my parents, I have always maintained a relationship to them and I certainly wanted them to have a role as grandparents. They were in shock when they realized that I had had a home birth. This, of course, was the least of their reasons for shock. For me and for the women in my personal and political network, mine was not just another baby in the household, my child was a symbol, the living proof that it was possible to be a revolutionary, a lesbian, and a mother. That night after everyone cleared out of my bedroom, I held this infant and thought about the aspirations and realities [the child] was inheriting by being my child. I became completely overwhelmed with joy, because [the child] was here, and grief, because I didn’t know how long I would be. Somewhere inside, I knew this was crazy. This woman admits to being confused…‘not about my politics, but my drive to do everything and want such contradictory things. I can live with taking responsibility for all this [a life sentence in prison] for myself, but how did I do this to my kid? Motherhood appears to be integral to maintaining the ‘balance’ between the radical and traditional extremes that exist in these women. Most acknowledge that they often used their maternal role to obscure— from others and from themselves—the conflicts and contradictions they experienced underground. They point to deriving emotional comfort from having babies and focusing on the infant’s needs in an otherwise tense situation; using maternal responsibilities as an excuse for not participating in the frontlines of a violent action; imposing the needs of children in order to curb the group’s inclinations toward high-risk actions; and using the image of themselves as a loving mother in order to offset or even cancel negative self-images that arose due to participation in illegal and destructive activity. In the underground, they imposed the exigencies of mothering in order to rationalize their limitations as combatants and they imposed the exigencies of revolutionary violence in order to rationalize their ambivalence about being housekeepers and exclusive mothers. However, when the ‘armed struggle’ ended and these women emerged from below the ground, they were forced to choose. The defence The disparity between the women’s consciousness and their behaviour in the armed struggle reached the moment of reckoning during preparation for trial. Would they project themselves as female guerrillas in court, keep their subordination in relation to the men secret, deny their angst as women and as mothers, and face all the consequences for their group’s actions? Or, when faced with life in prison, would a new construction of reality—in relation to politics, men, children, and her own identity— impose itself on their future? Clearly, their separation from the revolution was not voluntary. Suddenly, they were no longer living in tightly sealed clandestine households. They had little contact with their children. But despite living in sex-segregated gaol cells, the women did have daily meetings with their husbands and co-defendants during months—even years—in pre-trial detention. In these meetings, legal preparations for trials were made; prison conditions were assessed; visits with children were anticipated; and

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efforts were made to maintain a sense of camaraderie and unity regarding public statements about who they were, what their actions represented and how they should conduct their defence. Apparently, the men continued to encourage or ‘inspire’ the women to identify publicly with inflated definitions of the roles they had underground and take uncompromising, ‘principled’ positions—such as ‘anti-imperialist freedom-fighter’ or ‘prisoner of war’. Ironically, the government’s response reinforced this position. As the draconian, paramilitaristic tactics used during their arrest presaged, the counter-terrorism ‘experts’ in the Reagan administration had clearly decided not to handle this cohort of radical women with kid gloves (Zwerman, 1988). The indictments were crafted such that ‘supportive’ and ‘secondary’ roles were defined as integral to the acts of violence. Nor did the constituencies of existing progressive social movements do much to contest the government’s harsh response or to provide support for these revolutionaries. Certainly, the ‘freedom-fighter’ position was one way in which the women could—finally—put an end to the conflict they had experienced underground. The prison bars provided the mother of all excuses for not participating in the violence and their conditions of confinement and lengthy sentences would be objective proof that they were self-authorized protagonists in the armed struggle. Mitigating this resolution were the visits and phone calls and letters from their children as well as contact with estranged family members and friends on whom the women now depended to take care of their kids. As one woman put it, ‘I’d rather face bullets than face my parents.’ From their children, the women were confronted with questions that simply cut to the quick of the contradictions in their identity: ‘Are you a bad person?’ ‘When are you going to get out?’ Don’t you want to be with us anymore?’ Interestingly, most (outside) family members just assumed, or perhaps, they just wanted to believe, that the women—their daughters, sisters, nieces—were secondary players in the men’s plan for violent revolution. One woman recalls her father’s reaction during their visit in gaol a few days after she had been charged with ‘seditious conspiracy’. At first he laughed. Just the thought of his ‘little girl’ being charged in federal court with trying to overthrow the United States Government by force. Then he started reading the counts in the indictment. He couldn’t believe how we had lived and what we had done. He hadn’t seen me in years and he had never met my husband. But as soon as he finished reading, he looked me square in the eyes and said, ‘You don’t have to take the rap for this. He did this. You just get up there in front of the judge, stand next to the flag, say the pledge of allegiance, and get the hell out of here and take care of your children.’ The gruelling realities of incarceration, the tedium of legal proceedings, and the frustration of having their requests for support from the Left and progressive groups turned down, also diminished the women’s enthusiasm for the ‘freedom-fighter’ defence. But when they started to consider alternatives, personal and conjugal relationships began to unravel. Friends fought. Couples broke up. Infidelities and deceptions were discovered. For some women, the compromises and deals they had tolerated for the sake of armed struggle seemed less extenuating and less appealing under these circumstances. Yet, in the end, most of the women took political positions. Alongside their male compatriots, they carried out their duties as dedicated revolutionaries. They walked into court with a raised clenched fist, criticized the judge, acted belligerently toward the marshals, made a mockery of the legal proceeding, denounced the entire American system of justice, and were sentenced accordingly. Four women broke rank. They developed what their attorneys referred to as ‘a quiet defence’. This included portrayal of themselves as relatively minor figures in the underground, apologies for deaths and injuries that occured during the actions, and plea bargains with the District Attorney. Although they were not forced to renounce their radical political beliefs or provide information that would incriminate or compromise the security of others, they were expected to renounce violence publicly. The women anguished over every word and every nuance in these statements. Whereas the ‘freedom-fighters’ describe their day in court as ‘invigorating’, those who took the ‘quiet defence’ were ‘humiliated’. Not about the politics. Not about having supported violent actions. Not about being attracted to the men who initiated these actions. And not about having jeopardized the physical and psychological security of their children. Their humiliation stemmed from having to unveil publicly their actual role in the underground: to acknowledge that their connexion to the armed struggle was more fantastical than real. During her final interview, one woman remarked: The thing about all this stuff is not really how exceptional it is, but how classic it all is. That’s one of the things I fight most against recognizing. Question: Why? Answer: Because it’s…hmmmmmm, humbling, that’s why.

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Conclusion The radical beliefs, romantic inclinations, and gender fantasies of these insurgent women are not aberrational. They are not intrinsically pathological. They are not even uncommon. However, they do undermine efforts to construct a unitary model of women’s consciousness and an idealistic ‘truth’ about the relationship between women/mothers and political violence. This discussion of the experiences and selfperceptions of women in armed, underground organizations—marginal though they may be—suggest (1) that women’s role in reproduction does not entirely direct and dominate her consciousness; (2) that the political, moral, and emotional aspects of consciousness are not consistent; and (3) that fantasies about aggression, passivity and violence are integral aspects of women’s consciousness and cannot be exorcized by the moral imperatives that underly the ‘pacifist-mother’ model of activism. Notes This paper was presented at the American Sociological Association Meetings in Pittsburgh, PA, in August 1992. Research was funded in part by a Presidential Faculty Development Grant from the SUNY Research Foundation. The author wishes to thank Professors Donatella della Porta, Berenice Fischer, Mary Fainsod Katzenstein, Alberto Melucci, Irma Josefina O’Neill, Rayna Rapp, David Schwartz, Verta Taylor, Gilbert Zicklin and the members of the ProSeminar in Collective Action and State Formation at the New School for Social Research, especially Ariel Salzman, for their helpful comments. The author also wishes to thank all the women who participated in the interviews. In many cases, the interviews were conducted under highly stressful conditions. Their co-operation and candour is greatly appreciated. Gilda Zwerman is an Associate Professor in the Sociology Programme at SUNY College at Old Westbury. 1 In the United States, very little has been written about these groups beyond journalists’ accounts of arrests and trials and case studies in the field of criminology that often appear in the publication Terrorism: An International Journal (ed. Jonah Alexander). WagnerPacifici (1986), Melucci (1981), della Porta and Tarrow (1986) and Passerini (1992) are among the few scholars who have analysed the experiences of these protagonists in the context of social movement research. 2 Except in three instances, all quotations were selected from interviews conducted by the author with women political prisoners in the United States between 1985 and 1987 and in 1991. The time spent with each respondent varied, from a minimum of four hours to a maximum of twenty-four hours. 3 There is a vast literature that focuses on the socialization of students who became activists in the New Left. However, few recognize distinct attributes of those who have engaged in ‘high risk’ politics. MacAdam (1986) and Flacks and Whalen (1990) have discussed this issue. 4 Most recent studies of the New Left in the United States characterize radicals who became associated with armed, underground, revolutionary organizations as anachronistic leftovers of the movement, for whom the entire decade of the 1970s was merely a pinpoint on a trajectory that skipped from 1969 to prison. Extracting the experiences of the women along this trajectory suggests that the period of decline in the cycle of protest in the US, 1973–78, requires further, detailed examination. 5 Unique to this image is the potential to play out what may be termed a ‘disidentification’ with the feminine passive role. In this context, disidentification refers to their compelling, unconscious need to be passive, an association of female passivity with powerlessness, and an experience of this need and the satisfactions derived from getting this need met as unacceptable and humiliating. For these women, as is the case for most socially conscious and feminist women, it is likely that recognition of their own vulnerability contributes to an identification with all victims of oppression and injustice. But in these women, it seems that the identification is more intense and fantastical: they are unable to distinguish between themselves and others whose circumstances may be even more oppressive. The strengths and resources they do have, or could realistically obtain, seem insufficient to counter their fantasies of how passive—and powerless—they believe themselves to be and how embarrassing it is to have this attribute in the first place.

References DAVION, Victoria (1990) ‘Pacificism and care’ Hypatia 5. DELLA PORTA, Donatella and TARROW, Sidney (1986) ‘Unwanted children: political violence and the cycle of protest in Italy, 1966– 1973’ European Journal of Political Research 1. DI LEONARDO, Micaela (1985) ‘Morals, mothers, and militarism: antimilitarism and feminist theory’ Feminist Studies 11. ELSHTAIN, Jean (1987) Women and War New York: Basic Books. FLACKS, Richard and WHALEN, Jonas (1990) Beyond the Barricades Berkeley: University of California Press. JAQUETTE, Jane (1973) ‘Women in revolutionary movements in Latin America’ Journal of Marriage and the Family 55. MACADAM, Doug (1986) ‘Recruitment to high-risk activism: the case of Freedom Summer’ American Journal of Sociology 92 (July): 64–90.

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MELUCCI, Alberto (1981) ‘New movements, terrorism and the political system’ Radical America 56 (Fall). MORGAN, Robin (1989) The Demon Lover New York: W.W. Norton. MULLANEY, Marie (1984) ‘Women and the theory of the revolutionary personality’ Social Science Journal 21. PASSERINI, Luisa (1992) ‘Mythbiography in oral history’ International Social Movement Research 4 (June/July). RUDDICK, Sarah (1982) ‘Maternal thinking’ in Thorne, Barrie and Yalom, Marilyn (editors) Rethinking the Family New York: Basic Books. RUDMAN, Lisa (1987) Have You Seen La Nueva Mujer Revolutionaria Puertoriquena? Documentary video, San Francisco: PCTV. SHAKUR, Assata (1987) Assata: An Autobiography Westport: Laurence Hill. UNITED FREEDOM FRONT (1984) Communique No. 7. WAGNER-PACIFICI, Robin (1986) The Moro Morality Play Chicago: Chicago University Press. ZWERMAN, Gilda (1988) ‘Special incapacitation: the emergence of a new correctional facility for women political prisoners’ Social Justice 13.

TREADING THE TRACES OF DISCARDED HISTORY: Critical Research Installations Alison Marchant

My installations track the histories of working-class women, and in doing so, I reclaim my own history and culture, as a working-class woman myself. ‘Time & Motion’ was a site-specific installation located on the disused upper floor of a working cotton mill in Rochdale, and included an interview with my relative who was a weaver.1

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As working-class people we express ourselves in direct ways, both when we write and speak, our delivery locates our position of difference: ‘We aren’t as conformist as the middle classes, and we aren’t brought up to obey the same set of rules, and it’s these rules that serve to inhibit and oppress us’ (Julia Tant). We aren’t so formal and distanced; these photographs of Maria Maksymowych and Pat Gormley capture the flow of their/our intellectual expression.

‘Tying The Threads’ charts experienees of carders, spinners and weavers who once worked in the mill or continue to do so. Against a backdrop of objects, images and text (logging progressions of working-class suffragist mill workers,2 strike and riot dates leading to the present) the women’s voices speak for themselves, creating a scene of confrontation. These critical research installations represent a struggle for re-definition, where more meaningful associations are madesuspending the moment of exploitation, and portraying it as potentially paralysed,3 free from the voyeurism and misrepresentations of a middle-class view… Our history is our empowerment. The historical site is a catalyst of meaning, our roots, our culture, one which is constantly denied to us, while pretending our visibility with false definitions. Outside the gallery, my installations address a working-class audience in working-class spaces, in a way which is not patronizing in its form or content. When in the gallery these installations also aim at bringing the working-class audience into the otherwise middle-class space, just as, ‘Tying The Threads’ crowded Oldham Art Gallery with mill workers during the preview-reflecting a process of shifting and reclaiming space. Why shouldn’t we claim the gallery as well as the street? More recently I have fused elements of both these installations together into ‘Treading The Traces Of Discarded History’, a ‘new’ installation which is currently touring with ‘Renegotiations: Class, Modernity & Photography’.4 ‘I started work when I was fourteen. We had no choice, you knew you were going into the mill. If you were clever or whatever, it didn’t matter you still had to go there. Well it was a bit of a shock the first time I went in, the noise and the dirt and the fluff it was terrible. I thought, oh, I won’t be able to stand this, but you did.

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We had to lie on the floor, sweep under the looms…and the fluff was deep, deep and everywhere was covered in this fluff, it couldn’t have been healthy. We had no protection. Breathing that all in. Many people I knew had bronchitis and other ailments later in life. I’m not surprised, because all that was in the air at the time. I recall when the mills closed we were out of work without redundancy…the industry packed up and moved abroad…the weavers abroad were worse off than we were, they worked a sixty-hour week on a pittance, which was how the managers turned the clock back.’ (Alice Slater, b. 1914. ‘Time & Motion’) ‘I was up at half past five in the morning, and my sisters used to drag me to the mill, one either side of me. I hated it, I was never settling. They said I had factory fever. The manager was like a big bull dog, and he used to look at me. In the weaving you had to draw your ends in. So one day while I was drawing my ends in, I looked out of the corner of my eye and I thought: “If I set this loom off my picking stick is going to hit him right in his big belly.” I knew everybody was watching me because they knew I would do it. So I set it going and it hit him. He went puce! Then I thought he would explode. I had to go to the office... He said, “Lucy, you are a very naughty girl!” I just stood there, twelve years old. And he said, “I want you to sign this paper!”… I said “I was brought up to always read the small print on anything before I sign it, and I’m not signing that!”… So I got my pen and crossed the whole paper, then I tore it up.’ (Lucy Lees, b. 1906. ‘Tying The Threads’) ‘But we had fun, I liked it in the mill because the mill girls, is one, how should I say…they stick together. But only the ring room girls and the cardroom, not the winders. The winders were a different class altogether. They had their own union, but the ring spinners and doffers and the cardroom had one different union. The winding girls, they wouldn’t even associate with you. They wouldn’t even come into the ring room, even if you had a little party, especially at Christmas, they wouldn’t join in, no, no, no. But we were one class and we stuck up for one another. I can remember one big demonstration we had, we were from the “Roy” mill [demonstrating in London about “bad material”] and we came through the entrance to Marble Arch, down to Westminster…we marched through there and then we were talking, there. In 1976, that’s fifteen years ago. It was very dusty, but the ring room didn’t get as much dust as the cardroom, but still they brought it out in the sixties; they brought out, whoever worked in the ring room and gets byssinosis, they get a pension. Before that, it was only the carders who got that, nobody else. Then they made it for the ring room and all, but the winders didn’t because by the time it got to them the dust was all gone… If you had something nice on, even if you’d just go in the mill to take a sick note or something, you had to put something over you because the cotton would stick and you ruined all your clothes. When the men did the oiling they had a certain kind of oil, and when they oiled the spindles, they had little cups, and they had to take the spindles out and put oil in. You had to move because that oil gave you skin cancer.’ (Ingrid Wilson, b. 1931, Austria. ‘Tying The Threads’) Notes 1 ‘The Gracie Fields Live Art Commissions’, exhibition catalogue, Rochdale Art Gallery, 1990, pp. 14–17. ‘Time & Motion’, poster/ catalogue, Blackburn Art Gallery, 1991. 2 See ‘One Hand Tied Behind Us’, Liddington & Norris, Virago, 1978. 3 ‘Tying The Threads’, poster/catalogue, Oldham Art Gallery, 1992. ‘Oral History’, Autumn 1992, ‘Making Histories’, pp. 48–50. 4 ‘Renegotiations: Class, Modernity, & Photography’, exhibition catalogue, Norwich Institute of Art & Design, 1993, pp. 42–5.

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THE FEMINIST PRODUCTION OF KNOWLEDGE: Is Deconstruction a Practice for Women? Kate Nash

This paper is intended as an introductory overview of some of the main points feminists have made for and against deconstruction. The principal protagonists of deconstruction I take to be Michel Foucault and Jacques Derrida and this article sets out what I take to be the most important aspects of the current debate between the ideas of feminism and those of these two thinkers. It would equally be possible, however, to stage this as a debate within feminism, given that some feminists have elaborated and defended a poststructuralist or deconstructionist position—Judith Butler and Jane Flax, for example. This paper will draw heavily on these feminist appropriations of deconstruction, as well as on the work of feminists more ambivalent about the proposed alliance between deconstruction and feminism—principally that of Sandra Harding—and of those whose theoretical work is directly opposed to the principles of poststructuralism and is therefore implicitly, where it is not explicitly, critical of deconstruction. The work of Nancy Harstock, for example, falls into this last category. In some ways it is quite illegitimate to lump Derrida and Foucault together at all—they have disagreed with each other quite vehemently and fundamentally—but I think it can be justified in the context of the review I’m proposing here because their work has been seen as offering similar advantages and problems for feminist theory and practice. The aspects of that work I will focus on are firstly, the way it may be said to problematize the modern epistemological model of ‘the mind as the mirror of nature’; this problematization has been seen as both promising and dangerous for feminist accounts. And secondly, the way it has problematized humanism—the belief or argument that there is an essential human nature with certain human attributes that (a) needs to be liberated and (b) has the potential to be, and can be, liberated if its needs are accurately represented and met. Similarly, anti-humanism has been seen as a very promising but dangerous line for feminism to take. What I plan to do in this paper, then, is to present the debate under three main headings: advantages feminists have seen in postmodernism, then disadvantages, and finally my own attempts to think through what’s involved in each of the points that has been raised. Advantages of deconstruction for feminism One way to conceive of deconstruction is as an answer to the question ‘What does it mean to know something?’ For modern epistemology the answer to this question has been that to know is to represent the world accurately, to mirror it in the mind (Rorty, 1980). This picture, or metaphor, of the mind as a mirror involves further assumptions about how the world and the one who knows it must be constituted for knowledge to be possible. He (she was generally not so constituted according to the philosophers who developed this epistemological model (Lloyd, 1984)) is able to (a) isolate clear and distinct ideas from any other conscious or unconscious processes of the mind or body and (b) relate those ideas to distinct objects in the world. His ability to know is guaranteed by the transparent relation which must exist between mind and external reality and by the rigorous use of reason in the scientific method. The metaphor of the mind as a mirror, so vividly elaborated by Descartes at the beginning of the modern era, has now been thoroughly discredited philosophically, by conventional philosophers of science like Thomas Kuhn (1970) and Paul Feyerabend (1988) as well as by poststructuralist philosophers like Derrida and Foucault. For these (it is tempting to call them postmodern), philosophers, knowledge is produced discursively, within a system of rules that govern what can count as a real object or process, or a ‘true’ or ‘false’ statement. Within such systems reason and experience are themselves no more than discursive constructions legitimating certain statements and denying others authority; they are seen as having no privileged access to an extra-discursive world. This commitment to the discursive construction of truth is apparent in Derrida’s work. It is impossible to sum this work up in a few sentences but I will try to describe it in a way that will bring out the advantages feminists have seen in it. Derrida’s critique of ‘the metaphysics of presence’ has problematized the conception of experience as simple and transparent that is required by the metaphor of the mind as a mirror. In Wittgenstein and Derrida, Henry Staten describes Derridean deconstruction as showing how the form of any possible cognition is never self-identical; it is only made possible by what

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surrounds it, by the formlessness that makes that particular cognition what it is. What this means is that experiences can never be isolated from the context in which they reveal themselves, a figure can never be detached from its ground, and any and every experience involves undecidability, the separation of what is from what is not and at the same time the necessity of what is not to what is. (Staten, 1985:7–16) According to this understanding of experience, the mirror of the mind is always cracked and distorted and the clear and distinct ideas of the modern epistemological ideal are constantly blurred and distorted by what surrounds them. Interestingly, for the Ancient Greeks the formlessness or matter which surrounds Form and makes it possible was equated with the female principle while Form was equated with that of the male. Women were thought to provide the matter, the flesh and blood, necessary for the growth of a foetus while men were held to provide the child’s identity as a human being, the formative principle which was the real cause of generation. (Lloyd, 1984) We might then be tempted to see the understanding of Form as always contaminated by Formlessness as the invasion of ‘male-stream’ philosophy by female fluidity. Derrida’s work shows, then, how no two categories, or cognitions, are identical because of the way identities depend minutely on the contexts in which they appear. This is important for feminists because focusing on the contextual nature of constructions of gender identity is a good way for us to examine in very close and precise detail exactly how gender identities have been constructed, in relation to each other and in relation to other terms with which they appear, and also, as Judith Butler emphasizes, how they are contested and subverted through repetition in very different contexts from those in which they have hitherto been used and considered appropriate. We may, then, see opportunities for, and occasions of, subversion in the fine detail of everyday social practices. (Butler, 1990) Foucault’s work similarly abandons the aim of achieving transparent truth, though for somewhat different reasons. Arguably, his most important work for feminists is that which has been concerned with the way in which the modern body and subjectivity have been constructed by the social sciences as they have been embedded in, and have extended themselves through, practices of social control. Although, notoriously, Foucault himself has very little to say about the construction of the gendered body and gendered subjectivity, his approach has been taken up and used by feminists working on these questions. (See the articles in Irene Diamond and Lee Quinby (1988), especially those by Sandra Lee Bartky and Susan Bordo.) Again the emphasis of Foucault’s approach is on detail and context. In a series of books tracing the entwining of knowledge with the modern discipline of the body and the search for the true self stimulated by psychoanalysis, Foucault has shown how individuals are produced by the detailed descriptions, categorizations and hierarchical organizations in modern prisons, schools, armies, hospitals and so on, and how we regulate ourselves according to these normalizing techniques. (Foucault, 1973, 1977, 1984) He is also, of course, very interested in the historical context, the ‘conditions of possibility’ of particular descriptions and categorizations, and his attention to detail does not prevent his working on a grand historical scale. More generally we could say, I think, that the importance given to detail and context in the theory and method of deconstruction is readily appreciated by feminists at the moment because of the way we have come to distrust the grand monocausal theories of women’s oppression. Either because—like the ambitious theories of patriarchy that were a feature of early second-wave feminism—they turn out to impose the concerns of white, middle-class women on all women at all times (see, for example, Flax, 1990); or because—like the attempts to ally feminism and Marxism—the central categories of grand theories are simultaneously too abstract and too specific, and also too fixed in their theoretical framework, to allow the specific positions of women to be considered (Barrett, 1980). Like deconstruction, then, feminism is now intent on detail—on the closely contextualized construction of gender identity, particularly in terms of the sociological categories of class, ethnicity, sexuality and so on. For this reason, the theory and practice of deconstruction can be seen as useful to feminism. The second important feature of deconstruction for feminism is the way it emphasizes how the modern ideal of knowledge has always been closely connected with the desire for control. In this respect Foucault’s influence has been especially important. His work emphasizes the way power and knowledge are inextricably linked in modern societies—the extension of truth is always also an extension of power, so we must recognize the inherent danger of the assumption that knowledge is simply a disinterested reflection of reality and that the use of reason will lead to progress (Foucault, 1980). Perhaps the most significant aspect of this emphasis for feminism is the way it encourages us to see the knowledge we ourselves produce as powerful. The idea that knowledge in itself is powerful is something of a double-edged sword. Insofar as feminism aims at changing women’s position in society, power is vital to the feminist project and we want our knowledge to be powerful—we want our thought to contribute to the categories with which the world can be experienced. On the other hand, what poststructuralism also emphasizes is that texts and discourses always escape their authors’ intentions; the way they are used and the possibilities and meanings which they produce cannot be definitively fixed in their construction. In this respect, then, the Foucauldian analysis of the interdependence of knowledge and power alerts us to the possibility that our formulations of women’s position may contribute to the techniques of normalization he describes in his work (Butler, 1990:3– 6). We can easily imagine other ways in which feminism could itself contribute to the normalization of gender relations. This is clearly a problem for feminist standpoint epistemology which privileges women’s special access to knowledge—Nancy Harstock’s account, for example, which suggests that women (and workers) are more in touch with the concrete than are men comes very close to the age-old idea that women are incapable of abstract thought (Harstock, 1983:234). It is also a problem

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for the feminist development of an ethic of care which proposes that women are less detached and less interested in universal moral judgements because they are more sympathetically related to others (Gilligan, 1982). This fits very well with a traditional view of women as incapable of rising above the particular interests of those to whom they are close in order to reach impartial and just decisions. Such theories clearly legislate against some constructions of the category ‘women’, and they certainly attempt to legislate against variable constructions as a normative and methodological ideal (Butler, 1990:5). In this respect they seem to contribute to the regulation and reification of gender identities, and along fairly traditional lines at that, a regulation and reification that it is surely one of the aims of feminism to disrupt. Derridean deconstruction may help us remain alert to another possibility inherent in the way texts always escape their authors’ intentions. The insistence on the way in which every construction is made possible by what is excluded from it, by the undecidability repressed within it, can help us to be continually aware of the exclusions created by the texts we ourselves produce and of the undecidabilities repressed in our own discourse (Butler, 1990:15–17). Again this reminder chimes well with the feminist confrontation of the possibility that claims on the behalf of ‘women’ as an undifferentiated constituency may be insufficiently sensitive to differences repressed within that category—differences of class, race, sexuality, etc. More positively, Judith Butler sees the re-emergence of the possibilities repressed in the construction of gender identities as potentially subversive of what she calls ‘the heterosexual matrix’—the ‘normal’ or ‘hegemonic’ relations between and within the sexes that feminism seeks to challenge and displace. (Butler, 1990:142–9) Finally, the critique of knowledge as a reflection of the world in the reason and experience of the knowing subject, and the account they give of knowledge as produced discursively, leads poststructuralist theorists to emphasize that knowledge is always partial and incomplete. Knowledge is not elaborated by a knowing subject as modern philosophy would have it; rather knowledge positions subjects within certain discourses by enabling certain possibilities and excluding or repressing others. And again this fits well with feminist conclusions resulting from feminist critiques of knowledge produced in the last couple of decades. As critics of empiricism like Sandra Harding have pointed out, the supposedly neutral and objective knowledge produced by rigorously scientific methods has often either ignored women’s concerns altogether or has dealt with them from a patently male perspective (Harding, 1987a: 6). In this respect, poststructuralism helps provide a response to critics of feminist research who see it as biased and subjective. By theorizing the impossibility of ‘objective’ knowledge as a ‘mirroring of the world’ by a knowing subject, and by showing how both subjects and objects may be seen as discursively constructed, deconstruction emphasizes how knowledge is always partial and incomplete, always produced from a particular perspective. In this way it helps confound a rigid distinction between subjective and objective knowledge and releases us from the burden of trying to show how knowledge produced from an overtly political position—feminism—is really more objective than (androcentric) research results achieved using ostensibly neutral methods and theories. Feminist difficulties with deconstruction Texts and discourses, the objects of deconstructive analysis, should not be seen as simply linguistic. This is an unjustified criticism of the approach that I have not got room to go into here. I’ll simply say that texts and discourses should not be seen as simply linguistic because they provide the only possible categories by which the social, and indeed natural, world is structured in its everyday practice. See Laclau and Mouffe (1990:100–3) and Barrett (1991:76–7) for elaboration of this point. However, deconstructionists are nevertheless agnostic about the extent to which the texts they themselves produce, which clearly are linguistic, correspond to, or are creative of, anything outside that text. In fact they seem quite remarkably unconcerned about epistemology altogether. Foucault, for example, describes his own historical accounts as ‘fictions’, albeit as fictions that he would like to have an effect on what he calls ‘political reality’ (Foucault, 1980:193). He does not give us any criteria for distinguishing ‘fiction’ and a good, or adequate account of this ‘reality’. The agnosticism of poststructuralism concerning the validity of knowledge-claims is seen as quite disturbing by many feminists. Firstly, because it seems to imply relativism, and relativism can only serve to legitimate the status quo. As Sandra Harding puts it, a relativist stance ‘accepts the dominant group’s insistence that their right to hold distorted views (and, of course, to make policy for all of us on the basis of those views) is intellectually legitimate’. (Harding 1987b) Secondly, because if we have no way of guaranteeing a close, if not perfect, fit between theory and the social world outside theory, how can feminists use theory to represent and improve women’s position in society? More specifically, deconstruction seems to lead to a denial of the relevance of women’s experience where this has been a touchstone for the generation and testing of feminist understanding. If, as Foucault would have it, knowledge is always produced in close association with power, and if, as is the case according to Derrida, every account is a construction riven by negation and undecidability, it seems impossible to retrieve an authentic or coherent women’s voice which could give us an insight into how any particular group of women (never mind all women, a project which creates its own difficulties), experience the world. An equally radical difficulty that some feminists have found in the deconstructive project and its theorization of reality as discursively constructed, is the following problem. If all identities are to be seen as constructed in discourse, how can we understand women to have been, and to continue to be, oppressed? The idea of oppression seems necessarily to involve

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something outside social constructions which is denied or prevented from being realized. In modern social and political theory this ‘something’ is generally taken to be the capacity of each individual for autonomy and creativity. It is the denial of this capacity and the prevention of its full realization that are taken as the basis of a critique of existing, oppressive social practices. Not only, then, does the poststructuralist view that everything is discursively constructed seem somehow to be suggesting that one gender identity is very much like another—they’re all equally constructed—but also, the argument that every human attribute is a category of discourse seems to make the claim that women are oppressed impossible; what is to be liberated if all identities are discursively constructed? And, as Biddy Martin (1988) puts it, without the possibility of the claim that women are oppressed what would be the point of feminism? Finally, many feminists have serious reservations about the possibility of combining deconstruction with any ethical stance whatsoever, far less one compatible with, or derived from, feminism. In the case of Derridean deconstruction, for example, which emphasizes the undecidable nature of any identity, feminists have asked how it is possible to construct an ethical or political identity using such an approach. How can we identify or believe in a project which we know to be based on exclusion and undecidability? And how can we decide on legitimate demands and requirements from such an unstable position? Nancy Harstock (1990) sees deconstruction as actively undermining feminism for these reasons; is it not suspicious, she asks, that just as women are beginning to make demands as women, the whole idea of a stable identity from which demands can legitimately be made is discredited? More positively, critics like Christine Di Stefano (1990) argue that Derridean deconstruction can offer, at best, a strategy of resistance to oppressive identities by showing how differences have been repressed in their construction; it cannot be used to generate substantive alternatives to already available identities. Foucault’s work has also been seen as extremely limiting ethically and politically. If all knowledge is caught in the powerknowledge nexus he describes then it would seem that any assertion of a political identity will also be caught within those relations of power. In fact, as Lois McNay clearly shows in her recent book Foucault and Feminism (1992), Foucault is able to envisage subversion of the modern ‘regime of truth’ only in terms of an individual creativity of the self—collective action of any kind is extremely suspect in his terms because of the way it will inevitably contribute to power relations and threaten the possibility of this subversion. A response to these concerns Having laid out the advantages and disadvantages feminists have seen in deconstruction, I will now make some brief comments about how serious I think the disadvantages actually are in each case and where I think feminism and deconstruction really are incompatible. Firstly, it seems that the abandoning of the modern epistemological model need not give rise to relativism. In order to fully appreciate this I propose that we understand knowledge as rhetoric. The term ‘rhetoric’ has almost always been used in a derogatory way, to refer to trickery or to excessive ornamentation of language, especially since the modern epistemological model promised clear and distinct reflection of the objects of the world and a transparent scientific language to represent truth which would be self-evident to anyone able to attain sufficient objectivity to recognize it. The way in which modern epistemology has now been descredited shows to advantage a strategy for justifying belief which emphasizes language over direct experience, the creation of objects in discourse over their discovery by the rigorous use of a scientific method and the power of the knower to make his or her knowledge acceptable or convincing over the passively reflecting neutral subject (Bender and Wellbery, 1990). Rhetoric suggests a theory of knowledge that does not require the accurate representation of objects, or the correspondence of theoretical objects with those of the ‘real’ world ‘outside’ theory. It has been described as the ‘art of probing what men [sic] believe they ought to believe rather than proving what is true according to abstract methods’ and as ‘the art of discovering good reasons, finding what really warrants assent, because any reasonable person ought to be persuaded’ (Booth, 1974:xiv). Rhetoric disregards the fundamental precept of modern epistemology which requires us to doubt everything until we arrive at some indubitable truth, in favour of proceeding as we actually do normally when we want knowledge, that is by doubting only what we have good reason to doubt. We can never have certain knowledge according to the theory of rhetoric but we can, and do, have good reasons for the beliefs we hold. For a model of epistemology based on rhetoric, then, scepticism and relativism are not problems at all, they are worries which arise only in the context of an outmoded and impractical prescription of how we should approach the world in order to get certain knowledge. According to the rhetorical model there is no methodical procedure for obtaining certain knowledge, as modern philosophy of science supposes; knowledge consists in having, at best, good reasons for holding the beliefs one holds about the world and, at least, no good reasons for giving them up. This is not a counsel of relativism where relativism is the view that all ways of looking at the world are equally valid. To adopt a relativist stance on the rhetorical model of knowledge would be to suppose that there were equally good reasons for both holding and not holding a belief and while it might be possible to adopt such a position it would seem to be extremely difficult, and painful, to sustain on any long-term basis, at least with regard to beliefs in which one is consciously interested. Certainly those who consider relativism to be a

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problem are not in this uncomfortable state: they are sure they have good reasons for finding relativism unacceptable! Clearly, ‘good reasons’ are good only in relation to other reasons; they are those which don’t conflict with other strongly held beliefs, but since we cannot even imagine being in the position of holding no beliefs at all, we will always have some beliefs against which to judge others and we need not worry about finding some ultimate meaning of ‘good’ against which to judge all our beliefs. As feminists, then, we need not scare ourselves with the prospect of falling into relativism; we have good reasons for preferring feminist to non- or anti-feminist beliefs, for preferring one feminist definition of women to another and for whatever short- or long-term political strategies we propose or support. Furthermore, since feminism is a political and ethical perspective we have good reasons to try and convince others that their current beliefs are compatible with, or require them to adopt, a similar feminist position to our own. Here rhetoric as the study of techniques of persuasion, or, as we might prefer to say, of the practice of giving good reasons to believe to particular audiences, has a very obvious value. Secondly, I do not think that the appeal to experience which has been at the heart of second-wave feminism need be seen as incompatible with deconstruction. One way to see feminism’s appeal to experience would be as a particularly effective and important rhetorical device which gives certain accounts greater authority than others. This is certainly, I think, an important aspect of the appeal to experience. I also think, however, that it may point to some interesting philosophical ideas about the failure of discourse completely to capture reality in its net of categories, to how brute existence escapes categorization in language and to the anomalies produced by discourse. I’ll briefly outline these possibilities here. Although I am for the most part in agreement with the poststructuralist conception of experience as discursively produced, I am also inclined to agree with Richard Rorty when he asks whether we might not also want to use the term ‘experience’ to describe whatever it is that babies feel before they learn to speak? For this reason Rorty suggests that we follow Wilfred Sellars in distinguishing between ‘knowing what X is like’ (where X is any sensation or feeling whatsoever: ‘suffocation, heat, ecstasy, pain, fire, redness, parental hostility, mother love, hunger, loudness and the like’ are the examples cited by Rorty), which need not involve language, and ‘knowing what sort of thing an X is’ which involves being able to link the concept of X-ness to other concepts in order to justify claims about Xs, an ability which does require the use of language (Rorty, 1980:183–4). It seems reasonable to suppose that this experience of ‘knowing what X is like’ is not entirely restricted to babies. We all, I imagine, know what it is to search for the words to describe some inarticulate feeling or sensation before settling for an unsatisfactory solution because we don’t know the precise word for whatever it is we want to describe. Once we do put a name to these feelings and sensations we may find that they are actually quite inappropriate to our normal description of a particular situation or occasion; we may feel hate, for example, where we expected to feel love, distress where we expected to find comfort and so on. This type of experience might best be understood as similar to the scientific anomalies described by Thomas Kuhn (1970). He found that scientists who were expecting to find certain effects revealed by their theoretical perspective and scientific instruments often found quite different effects produced. They were generally able to ignore such effects for quite some time, usually until a new scientific paradigm was proposed, when the anomalies produced as a result of using the old one became part of the argument for abandoning it. I suggest that we see the persuasiveness of feminism’s appeal to experience in a similar way. What second-wave feminism did, and still does to a certain extent, was to name and explain a number of inappropriate ideas and emotions which a certain group of women was at least partially aware of, but had not previously had the opportunity, or in many cases perhaps, the inclination, to express. These inappropriate ideas and emotions are best seen, I would argue, as the by-products of androcentric discourses, just as Kuhn’s anomalies are the by-products of particular ways of describing the world scentifically. Of course, I don’t want to claim that in this way we can create some kind of pure language which would be more appropriate to women’s experience than the ‘normal’ language of everyday social practices. The dream of representing women’s authentic experience in some pure feminist language is unacceptable because the very attempt can only lead to the neglect of differences within the category ‘woman’ that I have referred to above, and because it would be an attempt to foreclose other, possibly disruptive, representations of women. Feminism was able to articulate these ideas and emotions only by cobbling together a discourse from bits of language already saturated in meanings from other contexts in which they had been used: words like ‘oppression’, ‘sexuality’ and ‘equality’ brought certain problematics with them which feminism as an academic discipline is still working through, and which no doubt also exercise their persuasion over those who identify themselves as feminists. It also seems to me that the supposed incompatibility between an understanding of identity as constructed in discourse and of women as being oppressed is not insurmountable either. This incompatibility is dissolved if we understand oppression itself as discursively constructed, as a construction of the democratic humanism of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries which predicated all men and, much more ambiguously and problematically, all women, as intrinsically free and equal. Feminism must still, it is true, be seen as predicated on humanism, or at least on some version of humanism, but to see the idea of oppression as an historical condition of feminism, rather than an extra-discursive condition, in no way diminishes its importance. On the contrary, as Ernesto Laclau argues, humanism may become more valuable to us if it is seen as an historically

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produced phenomenon that can disappear rather than the expression of an eternal underlying human essence. (Laclau, 1990: 244–5) According to the rhetorical model of knowledge outlined above we might ask ourselves whether seeing oppression as the product of a particular political discourse rather than of the repression of certain innate capacities really diminishes our commitment to feminism? There does, however, seem to be a tension between the practice of deconstruction and feminism as a project that aims to change women’s position in the world. There is a tension between deconstruction and feminism as an ethical and political project. A familiar way of describing the practice of deconstruction is as anti-essentialist; it aims to show the accidental and singular in every apparently precisely defined general category and proposition; to show how every identity is contingent, provisional and incomplete. I think it is undeniable that anti-essentialism, the demonstration of the inadequacy, incompletion and undecidable nature of every characterization of ‘woman’, or even ‘women’, has been an important feature of second-wave feminism and in this respect feminism and deconstruction would seem to be closely related. Insofar as this problematizing of the identity of women is political, and feminists have generally understood it to be so, deconstruction and the feminist political project are compatible. However, as some theorists have recently pointed out, feminism itself is apparently irretrievably implicated in the positing and defence of essential categories. Which feminist would deny, Theresa De Lauretis (1990) asks, that there is an irreducible, essential difference between feminist and non-feminist understanding and practices? While it is certainly a mistake to see feminism as unified (it is generally agreed that there is a plurality of feminisms), nevertheless it is difficult to understand feminism unless one sees it as a social and political movement which is, in various different ways, for women. It’s hard to imagine anyone claiming to be a feminist who did not hold the view that gender inequalities had, on the whole, seriously disadvantaged women and that women should be freed from this disadvantage but if such a claim were made, we would, I am sure, deny that the person making it could be considered a feminist. Feminism is, in this way, further embroiled in essentialism because it seems to require, in some cases at least, the definition, or construction of ‘women’, the category on behalf of which it makes its claims and demands, rather than its deconstruction. There is no need to exaggerate here. Although feminism needs to posit the identity of ‘women’ on occasion, there is no need for it to posit some timeless essence of womanhood. On the contrary, as I pointed out previously, we should always remain attentive to the context of any definition and aware of the exclusions and differences repressed in our own discourse, for the sake of the effectiveness of whatever strategy required us to make the definition in the first place. Moreover, we have always to bear in mind the way that meanings invariably escape our intentions. Nevertheless, there is evidently a tension between what we might want to call the deconstructive politics of feminism and the assertions, or constructions of unified identity that feminists are frequently called on to make on behalf of the category ‘women’ which gives the project its political specificity. Deconstruction invites us continually to uncover difference and to deny the apparent unity of gender categories, while the specificity of feminism as a social and political movement for women may on occasion insist on the irrelevance of those differences and lead us to posit a unity for the sake of improving the day-to-day conditions of women’s lives, a unity which we may want to deny again as oppressive in another context. I suggest that this tension has been, and is, a fruitful one for feminism and that we should try to keep both possibilities open. Notes I am indebted to Mary Maynard and Joanna De Groot for their clear and stimulating presentation of the central questions of this paper at the Women’s Studies Network Conference (UK) August 1991. Kate Nash teaches in the Department of Sociology at City University and is working on a doctoral thesis on feminism, liberalism and the public/private distinction, in the Department of Government at the University of Essex. References BARRETT, Michèle (1980) Women’s Oppression Today: Problems in Marxist Feminist Analysis London: Verso. ——(1991) The Politics of Truth: from Marx to Foucault Cambridge: Polity. BARTKY, Sandra Lee (1988) ‘Foucault, femininity and the modernization of patriarchal power’ in DIAMOND and QUINBY (1988). BENDER, John and WELLBERY, David E. (1990) editors, The Ends of Rhetoric: History, Theory, Practice Stanford: Stanford University Press. BOOTH, Wayne (1974) Modern Dogma and the Rhetoric of Assent Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press. BORDO, Susan (1988) ‘Anorexia Nervosa: psychopathology as the crystallisation of culture’ in DIAMOND and QUINBY (1988). BUTLER, Judith (1990) Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity London: Routledge. DE LAURETIS, Theresa (1990) ‘Upping the ante in feminist theory’ in HIRSCH and FOX KELLER (1990).

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DIAMOND, Irene and QUINBY, Lee (1988) editors, Feminism and Foucault: Reflections on Resistance Boston: Northeastern University Press. DI STEFANO, Christine (1990) ‘Dilemmas of difference: feminism, modernity and postmodernity’ in NICHOLSON (1990). FEYERABEND, Paul (1988) Against Method London: Verso. FLAX, Jane (1990) ‘Postmodernism and gender relations in feminist theory’ in NICHOLSON (1990). FOUCAULT, Michel (1973) Birth of the Clinic: An Archaeology of Medical Perception London: Tavistock. ——(1977) Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison Harmondsworth: Penguin. ——(1980) ‘Truth and power’ in GORDON (1980). ——(1980) ‘The history of sexuality’ in GORDON (1980). ——(1984) History of Sexuality: An Introduction London: Peregrine. GORDON, Colin (1980) editor, Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings 1972–77 Brighton: Harvester. HARDING, Sandra (1987a) editor’s introduction to Feminism and Methodology: Social Science Issues, Milton Keynes: Open University Press. ——(1987b) ‘The instability of the analytical categories of feminist theory’ in HARDING and O’BARR (1987). HARDING, Sandra and O’BARR, Jean F. (1987) editors, Sex and Scientific Inquiry London: University of Chicago Press. HARSTOCK, Nancy (1983) Money, Sex and Power: Toward a Feminist Historical Materialism New York: Longman. ——(1990) ‘Foucault on power: a theory for women?’ in NICHOLSON (1990). HIRSCH, Mary and FOX KELLER, Evelyn (1990) Conflicts in Feminism London: Routledge. KUHN, Thomas (1970) The Structure of Scientific Revolutions Chicago: University of Chicago. LACLAU, Ernesto (1990) New Reflections on the Revolution of Our Time London: Verso. LACLAU, Ernesto and MOUFFE, Chantal (1990) ‘Post-Marxism without apologies’ in LACLAU (1990). LLOYD, Genevieve (1984) The Man of Reason: ‘Male’ and ‘Female’ in Western Philosophy London: Methuen. MARTIN, Biddy (1988) ‘Feminism, criticism and Foucault’ in DIAMOND and QUINBY (1988). MCNAY, Lois (1992) Foucault and Feminism Cambridge: Polity. NICHOLSON, Linda (1990) editor, Feminism/Postmodernism London: Routledge. RORTY, Richard (1980) Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature Princeton: Princeton University Press. STATEN, Henry (1985) Wittgenstein and Derrida Oxford: Basil Blackwell.

‘DIVIDED WE STAND’: Sex, Gender and Sexual Difference Henrietta Moore

This article was originally presented as a paper, and since much of what it discusses turns on problems of position, location, self-representation and representativity, I have decided to leave it, as far as is possible, in its original form. Extensive use of the first person pronoun is frowned on in the contexts in which I am used to working, but I have deliberately retained it in this text to try and convey a sense of particularity, of myself speaking in a specific context(s). The use of ‘we’ is a highly politicized act both in anthropology and in feminist contexts. Its use here is intended to convey a sense of audience, that is of myself speaking to others. But, and much more importantly, it also operates as a mark of interrogation, a fictive unity that reveals the lines of fragmentation at the very moment when it claims affinity.1 The original impetus for this paper was a question concerning the way in which feminism had influenced or affected my own work. This perfectly reasonable request engendered in me a feeling of intense panic. My first thought was ‘Oh God, how has feminism influenced my work’? The root of the anxiety, of course, is one about being found out, being exposed as ‘not the real thing’, ‘not a proper feminist’. The anxiety of failure and lack is not entirely confined to feminists. In fact, it is probably rather a common paranoia among academics. However, what this anxiety raises for me as a feminist is the question of positionality. Feminist politics and feminist practice have always required a clear sense of position and of the politics of location. For one thing, there has been the necessity of speaking out, declaring one’s feminist politics within the workplace or the home or the political party or wherever. In addition, the powerful, sometimes acrimonious, debates within the feminist community itself have demanded that one own up as to where one locates oneself in terms of a variety of carefully drawn and demarcated internal divisions: radical feminist or socialist feminist, for example? These divisions are important because they have guided the political programmes proposed by different groups of feminists, and because they bring already politicized identities into play. They raise, therefore, what I am going to call, after Nancy Miller, the problem of representativity (1991: 20). Who and what do we represent when we speak out, and how do we negotiate the inevitable problem in the social sciences of having to speak about people while trying not to speak for them? The question of who speaks for whom and on what basis has given rise in feminist debate to a number of very significant divisions; one of which is the split between theory and practice. The main issue here is one about how to link theoretical work with political activism. Those who have not seen themselves as theorists have demanded to know what purpose theory serves for them and how readily, if at all, theory takes account of their experiences, concerns and struggles. Feminist theory has seemed to many not only arcane, but élitist, racist and/or patriarchal. Thus, the politics of location make two things abundantly clear. Firstly that there is no single, homogeneous body of feminist theory; and secondly, that the divisions between different groups of women, as well as between practising feminists, make it impossible to assert a commonality based on shared membership in a universal category ‘woman’. Such divisions have a particular resonance for me because I work as a social anthropologist. As it happens, I work with and across divisions of race, class, sexuality, ethnicity and religion. I question the purpose of my work, especially my theoretical writing, for the people I work with because I do not find it easy to know of what immediate use it could be to them. I frequently try to deal with this problem, at least in part, by grounding my theoretical thinking in the details of daily life and in the realities of postcolonial political economies. I do not succeed in this as often as I should like, and I tenaciously hold on to what I try to convince myself is an acceptable political position by giving as much space and time to working on issues of agricultural change, women’s labour and nutrition, as I do to writing on theoretical questions. The gross imbalances of power involved in my research situation mean that, at every turn, the very fact of writing and talking about other people’s lives can never be clearly separated from the question of whether or not one is speaking for them. This is a perennial problem for all feminist social scientists, in spite of a commitment to feminist methodologies and participatory research. Many of my feminist colleagues are very critical of my involvement in anthropology; often projecting on to me their own anxieties about how to deal with issues of race and class, and about how to manage the increasing gap between feminist activism and the academy. I inevitably do the same to them. The most significant impact that feminism has had on my work has been to create a space in which I must

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continuously engage with these issues of positionality and representativity. In this paper, I want to take up a very small part of this theme and discuss the way in which theoretical treatments of sex, gender and sexual difference are connected to what it is that unites and what it is that divides us as women and as feminists. The assertion of the non-universal status of the category ‘woman’ is by now almost a commonplace. However, anthropology has had a particular historical role in the development of feminist theory because of its contribution to the critical reworking of the category ‘woman’. In the 1970s, feminists outside anthropology drew readily on the cross-cultural data provided by anthropological research to establish variability in gender and gender roles, and thus provide substantive content for the feminist position that gender was socially constructed and not biologically determined. However, cross-cultural variability in the social construction of gender could not and did not account for women’s universal subordination, and in order to remedy this, anthropology developed two very important comparative theories to try and address this issue. The first asserted that women were everywhere associated with nature, partly as a result of their reproductive functions, while men were associated with culture. It was suggested that the devaluing of nature in relation to culture accounted for the hierarchical relations between women and men (see Ortner, 1974). The second theory emphasized that women were inferior to men because they were linked to the domestic sphere, once again in consequence of their role in reproduction and child care, while men were associated with the public sphere of social life (see Rosaldo, 1974). These comparative theories of women’s subordination were not long-lived. The categories of nature, culture, public and private were themselves found to be historically and culturally variable, and the homologies posited between these categories and the categories of gender difference were revealed to be far from universal.2 What is important about these two comparative theories of women’s subordination is that they attempted to provide socially, as opposed to biologically, based accounts of women’s position in society and of the origins of gender difference. The preconditions for this project were, of course, that the biological and the social had already been separated from each other as explanations for the origins of gender difference. Whatever role biology was playing, it was not determining gender. The very fact that these comparative theories were social rather than biological in their determinations opened them to critical reinterpretation by feminists of colour, feminists from the developing world and lesbian feminists. They challenged the notion of the universal category ‘woman’, and the assumption of underlying commonalities of existence for all women. Trans-cultural and trans-historical patterns of female subordination were rejected, and theoretical concepts were reformulated.3 In the social sciences, at least, this produced a crisis both about the political purpose and organization of a feminist politics which did not appear to have a coherent constituency, and about the status of analytical models of gender. In general, it would probably be fair to say that many responded to the latter crisis by asserting the necessity for culturally and historically specific analyses. We could look for commonalities between well-specified situations, but we would never be able to state in advance what would be the consequences of the intersections of race, class and gender, for example. What is interesting about this crisis is that it generated a simultaneous move towards pluralism and specificity. The very fact of having to reduce the scope of any model or analytical statement to a particular situation produced an enormous range of empirical outcomes and theoretical positions. We now recognize this development as part of a general critique of universalizing theories, metanarratives and totalizing typologies. The current debate is, of course, one about whether we locate the origins of this movement in poststructuralism and deconstructionism or in feminism. However, as regards feminist theory in the social sciences, the shift in methods of gender analysis towards a specificity which would account for a plurality of experiences and contexts was not as radical as it seemed. One fixed position remained and that was the division between sex and gender. Gender was seen as socially constructed, but underlying that idea was a notion that although gender was not determined by biology, it was the social elaboration in specific contexts of the obvious facts of biological sex difference. It did not matter that almost everyone recognized that both biology and culture were historically and culturally variable concepts, as were the relations between them. The problem was that the elaboration of the social determinations and entailments of gender in all their specificity had effectively left the relationship between sex and gender very under-theorized. Recent work in anthropology has returned to this question of the relationship between sex and gender. Sylvia Yanagisako and Jane Collier (1987) have suggested that the radical separation of sex and gender characteristic of feminist anthropology is a specific and rather pervasive ethnocentrism. They argue that it is part of a Western folk model which dominates anthropological theorizing, and, like so many of the other binary categorizations in anthropology—nature/culture, public/private—it does not stand up to cross-cultural examination. In many ways, this simply marks the impact of neo-Foucauldian thinking in anthropology. It is worth recalling here Foucault’s argument in The History of Sexuality Vol I that ‘sex’ is an effect rather than an origin, and that far from being a given and essential unity, it is, as a category, the product of specific discursive practices. The notion of ‘sex’ made it possible to group together, in an artificial unity, anatomical elements, biological functions, conducts, sensations, and pleasures, and it enabled one to make use of this fictitious unity as a causal principle, an omnipresent meaning; sex was thus able to function as a unique signifier and as a universal signified. (Foucault, 1984: 154)

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Foucault’s basic argument is that the notion of ‘sex’ does not exist prior to its determination within a discourse in which its constellations of meanings are specified, and that therefore bodies have no ‘sex’ outside discourses in which they are designated as sexed. Consequently, the construction of fixed binary sexes, with fixed categorical differences is the effect of a specific discourse. What is more, if binary sex is an effect of discourse, then it cannot be considered as a unitary essentialism, and, more importantly, it cannot be recognized as invariant or natural. This is, in essence, the argument Thomas Lacqueur makes so elegantly in his recent book (Lacqueur, 1990). However, two quite radical positions follow from this point. First, in terms of anthropological discourse, the distinction between sex and gender on which feminist anthropology has rested its case falls away. As Judith Butler (1990) points out, in her reading of the above passage from Foucault, perhaps there is no distinction to be made between sex and gender after all. The second point, which follows from the first, is that, as Yanagisako and Collier (1987) assert, we cannot necessarily assume that binary biological sex everywhere provides the universal basis for the cultural categories ‘male’ and ‘female’. If gender constructs are culturally variable, then so are the categories of sexual difference. This is not the first time in anthropology or anywhere else that the fixed binary categories of sex have been interrogated; one only needs to point to the extensive literature that exists on the ‘third sex’, hermaphrodism and androgeny.4 However, the recent work in anthropology has a rather different purpose. We know that the recognition of anatomical differences between women and men does not necessarily produce a discrete, fixed, binary categorization of sex in the manner of Western discourse. Ethnographic material suggests that the differences between women and men which people in other cultures naturalize and locate in the human body and in features of the physical and cosmological environment are not necessarily those which correspond to the constellation of features on which Western discourse bases its categorizations. For example, the social differences between women and men may be located in the body as natural differences, as in situations described by anthropologists working in Nepal, where the differences between the female and the male are conceived of as the difference between flesh and bone.5 However, these differences of gender are said to be located in all bodies, thus collapsing the distinction between sexed bodies and socially constructed genders usually maintained in anthropological discourse. The female and the male, as flesh and bone, are, of course, necessary features of bodily identity. This produces a discursive space where theories of social (gender) difference are grounded in the physiology of the body, and thus function as part of the biological facts of sex difference. This is, of course, very close to Foucault’s own project which is concerned with how it is that sexual differences and the category of sex are constructed within discourse as necessary features of bodily identity. In Western discourse, it appears, it is not just that we need to have a body in order to have a sex, but that we need a sex so as to have a body. This rather strange way of thinking, of modelling the relationship between bodies and the categories of sexual difference, is precisely that which is most readily undermined by ethnographic material. Many of the differences which concern people around the world are internal to bodies, that is within them rather than between them. The question is, are we to speak of these differences as differences of sex or of gender? This point is difficult to grasp for many of us because we have the gravest difficulty in understanding categories of sex and notions of sexual difference which do not correspond neatly to discrete physical bodies already designated as sexually differentiated. Sex then, as far as we understand it within the terms of Western discourse, is something which differentiates between bodies, while gender is the set of variable social constructions placed upon those differentiated bodies. It is precisely this formula which obscures rather than illuminates when it comes to the analysis of sex, sexual difference and gender cross-culturally. In many instances, as I have already suggested, gender differences are internal to all bodies and are part of the process through which bodies are sexed. In such situations, it is far from apparent how we should distinguish sex from gender, and, even more problematic, it is unclear as to exactly what gender as a concept or a category refers to. This argument is, of course, quite different from those which have been made about the ‘third sex’, hermaphrodism and adrogeny. The instability, or potential instability, of the category gender in cross-cultural analysis is an alarming prospect. However, when we talk in general terms about discourses on gender and on the relationship between sex and gender, even if by this we only really mean to say different ideas about sex and gender, we still have to ask ourselves the question, ‘Whose discourses are we referring to?’ At one time, anthropology subscribed to the view that each culture had its own model of gender, its own definitions of the categories female and male. This view, which was much reinforced by a predominantly Durkheimian view of culture and by the kind of liberal cultural relativism still prevalent in the discipline, has changed in recent years as anthropologists have moved towards working with models of culture which stress conflict and indeterminacy, and as they concentrate more on the differences within cultures as opposed to simply between them.6 However, it does not solve the problem of how to link what we might call dominant cultural models of gender to the specific experiences and situations of particular groups or individuals within that social context. This is not, of course, a problem which is confined to anthropology, but it raises once again the problems of positionality and representativity. One set of problems here is about how the experiences of race, sexuality and class, as well as other forms of salient difference, transform the experience of gender. But, there are additional problems about how we are to conceptualize and analyse the over-determined relationships between dominant and sub-dominant discourses on gender, the body, sexuality and sexual difference. These questions become particularly acute when we acknowledge that they are crucial not only in and for

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our work, but in and for our lives. What relationship do feminist understandings of gender have to dominant gender models and ideologies?; can the former ever be entirely free of the latter?’ is this what we are striving for? This is not only a matter of politics, but it is also a matter of subjectivity and self-identity. When we are busy discussing other people’s discourses on gender, their views about the body, their gender identities and subjectivities, how easy do we find it to produce the kind of analysis which we would like to see applied to ourselves? As Adrienne Rich remarked: Perhaps we need a moratorium on saying ‘the body’. For it’s also possible to abstract ‘the body’. When I write ‘the body’, I see nothing in particular. To write ‘my body’ plunges me into lived experience, particularity… To say ‘the body’ lifts me away from what has given me primary perspective. To say ‘my body’ reduces the temptation to grandiose assertions. (Rich, 1986:215) By ‘grandiose assertions’ Rich means presumably universalizing, comparative theories. As a lesbian feminist, Rich is only too well aware that the dominant discourses on gender, the body and sexuality prevalent in her own cultural setting do not fit her personal understanding of these categories and/or processes very closely. Lesbians, like many other groups, have evolved their own discourses, what some have termed sub-dominant or alternative discourses, on these issues. It is on this basis that writers talk of different kinds of experience—‘the lesbian experience’ or ‘the Black experience’, for example—and seek in terms of feminist theory to establish the grounds for theoretical approaches based on positionality and representativity. However, the problem is not just how to recognize the existence of specific groups who may have alternative perspectives and may not subscribe to dominant discourses within any particular setting. The more pressing problem with regard to gender, the body and sexual difference is to work out what bearing social and/or cultural discourses have on individual experience. This is, of course, simply a modern version of an old problem in sociology and anthropology about the relationship between the individual and society. In anthropology, this problem has often been run in terms of the relationship between dominant cultural symbols and the individual’s understanding and interpretation of them. This is a key issue in feminist theory, of course, where feminist standpoint theory invites us to take women’s experiences as a starting point for analysis.7 Standpoint theory assumes that women have a different perspective from men, and that different groups of women will also differ in their standpoints. In this sense, it privileges groups over individuals, but a more radical reading of its premises would suggest that we all have different experiences and understandings of cultural discourses, symbols and institutions. The question here is one about how much any of us share with each other. The specific and the universal, the particular and the comparative, how are these two polarities to be brought into conjunction with each other? I have always been a supporter of the specific and the particular over the universal and the comparative, and I have always assumed that this is the result of my experience of research in Africa. However, in her Amnesty Lecture on ‘Women and Human Rights’ (Oxford, 5.2.93), Catherine MacKinnon argued for both the universal and the particular. MacKinnon holds to a radical feminist version of standpoint theory. In her work she consistently emphasizes what it is that women, in the global sense, share, and her work has been extensively criticized on precisely this point. She was talking about the mass rape and enforced impregnation of women in Croatia and Bosnia-Herzegovina. She argued simply that these crimes have been and continue to be practised on women in many different times and places, and without erasing or ignoring the specifics of what is going on in the former Yugoslavia, it is important to recognize that women suffer these crimes at the hands of men and they do so because they are women. Women are in fact universal in their particularity. It was very hard at that moment to deny the force of her argument, or even to think of any compelling reason why I should ever have disagreed with it. Women do fear sexual violence. If we want some empirical justification for such a universalizing assertion it is only a matter of looking at the various women’s grass-roots organizations around the world and at what they are campaigning against. Rosi Braidotti, starting from very different assumptions, makes an argument which has strong parallels with MacKinnon’s. She speaks of a vision of women as a collective singularity, where this notion is intended to provide a provisional platform for the support of ‘women’s real and multiple struggles’ (Braidotti, 1991:132). However, when we examine her argument and consider what she founds her collective singularity on we find the connexions with MacKinnon’s argument quite evident. For example, at one point, she says: ‘It is on the basis of their shared experience as bio-culturally female beings that women have started to speak in their own voice, distancing it from masculine experience’ (Braidotti, 1991:139). Bodies. It all has something to with bodies. Is it really the case that our similarities are grounded in our bodies? This is an example of a moment when the personal comes into lived relation with the theoretical. I find that my antipathy even to simply posing this question is so great that I have to remind myself not to grind my teeth. And yet, I know that the recent return to the body in feminist theory and the efforts on the part of many researchers to reclaim the female body and the feminine—partly as a protest against the disembodied nature of the social constructionist discourse on the body— seems to many to offer real hope and potential. This return to the body is not, however, a straightforward one because some researchers want to distinguish between different types of female body. Some do not want to reduce the female body to its sexual and reproductive functions, and, as such they want to be able to

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mark a female body which is not the maternal body. For others, the primary connexion is between mothers and daughters, or mothers and children, and they would like to be able to celebrate the maternal in the female body.8 French feminists associated with the school of l'écriture feminine have been accused of biological essentialism; although their work has recently been re-evaluated on this point.9 Rosi Braidotti, in particular, argues that this charge of essentialism is false and that the feminine libidinal economy discussed in this work has taken on board the fundamental epistemological insight of poststructuralism and psychoanalysis which is that the body is a ‘cultural artifact’ (Braidotti, 1991:219; 243). Braidotti suggests that what is hopeful about a return to the female body is that it signals a recognition of the embodied nature of subjectivity. However, there is a distinction to be made here between her argument and a straightforward neo-Foucauldian or social constructionist one, because she eschews any attempt to sever the body from the biological and claim that it is just a social construction or a social field, nothing other than an effect of discourse (Braidotti, 1991:131; 243). This point is worth making because it is the case that a radical social constructionist position, such as that espoused by Judith Butler (1990) in her recent book, does risk positing the body as a blank surface on which the social becomes inscribed, thus suggesting in some sense that the body is pre-social.10 Braidotti argues that what is truly revolutionary about a return to the female body is the notion of speaking from the body, with all that this implies both about the specificity of positionality and the embodied, material nature of one’s relation with the world. Much of her inspiration seems to come here from a reading of Adrienne Rich against the writings of the l’écriture feminine school, and it is from the former that she derives her term ‘feminine corpor(e)ality. Rich writes: In order to live a fully human life we require not only control of our bodies…; we must touch the unity and resonance of our physicality, our bond with the natural order, the corporeal ground of our intelligence (Rich, 1976:39–40) Rich takes the woman-to-woman bond as the grounds for subjectivity and for social relations. Braidotti tries to take the argument about feminine corpor(e)ality a stage further, and she stresses a notion of the body as an interface, a threshold between the material and the symbolic. The body is, therefore, not an essence nor indeed a form of anatomical destiny, but rather it is ‘one’s primary location in the world, one’s primary situation in reality’ (Braidotti, 1991:219). Thus speaking from the body would be a way of acknowledging women’s position in the world, their difference from men, their particularity. It would also be a way of stressing simultaneously women’s material and symbolic relation to their world. Such a view of the body could in principle, although Braidotti does not elaborate on this point, deal both with the politics of reproduction and sexual violence and with the symbolic construction of sexual difference, including the discursive overdetermination of the category ‘woman’. Braidotti is sensitive to the charges of exclusion and unwarranted universalism that could be levelled at this theory, but by stressing the materiality and specificity of the body as a location for subjectivity, she hopes to take account of the differences between women, while allowing for what MacKinnon would term their universal particularity. There are some interesting parallels here with more recent work in biology. The radical separation of biology and culture is something many biologists would no longer hold to. A more contemporary view of human biology would stress that biology enables culture, while culture brings about biological change. In what now sound like rather old-fashioned terms, we could say that biology and culture are in a dialectical relationship. In this version of biology, the body is indeed an interface, a threshold, a mediator. Perhaps we are arriving at a situation where the metaphors of the biological and the social sciences are going to come into some kind of conjunction or relation with each other. Overall, we might argue that the view of the body espoused by Rosi Braidotti has considerable potential. In particular, its welding of French and North American feminist theory allows it to occupy a rather creative discursive space. However, this notion of the body does still provide difficulties and these arise predominantly, I suggest, because of the influence of psychoanalytic thought on the scholars on whom Braidotti draws. The crux of the issue is, what is the ontological status of the body, and beyond that what is the ontological status of sexual difference? In order to proceed much further with this discussion, we have to recognize the degree to which we as feminists have a tendency to talk past each other once we begin to speak of sex, gender and sexual difference. One starting point is to note that sexual difference for French feminist scholars is not sex and not gender. It is, I think, a rather intermediate term. This is because much of their work draws on psychoanalytic thought and starts with the premise that one must acquire a sexed identity. But however one might theorize the stages involved in that acquisition, it is not the same thing, of course, as anatomical sex nor is it the same thing as acquiring a gender. Braidotti (1991:264) refuses to confront this issue, and effectively claims that gender and sexual difference are the same thing and/or that the difference between them is not significant. Braidotti’s return to the female body reinscribes binary sexual difference, and makes the inevitability of a mutually exclusive categorization the basis for women’s engagement with the world. In this sense, it does not matter that she can deal with the charge of universalism by providing the space for an embodied subjectivity that can be historically and culturally specific, because what she cannot do is to abandon the originary nature of the sexual difference which grounds her theory of

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the body. The question is, does this matter? Perhaps there is a case for asserting the primacy of sexual difference if we want to describe women in their particularity, and especially if we want to treat issues of domination and power. However, as many others have pointed out, there are very serious difficulties with asserting a primary, ontological status for sexual difference: principally, the exclusion of other forms of difference, notably race and class; and the reinscription of the binary categorization of sexual difference which makes the feminine the male ‘other’ and institutes a relation of hierarchy. Theories which posit the primacy of sexual difference are in fact vulnerable to criticism because in order for the assertion of primacy to be convincing they have to be abstract and decontextualized. At the first moment that the question is asked ‘whose sexed identity?’, it becomes apparent that the reality of such a lived identity is that it cannot be experienced in a pure form. When has gender ever been pure, untainted by other forms of difference, other relations of inequality? Lives are shaped by a multiplicity of differences; differences which may be perceived categorically, but are lived relationally. The concepts of sexual difference and gender difference collide at this moment and cannot usefully be separated again, although they never become and cannot become identical. And, as for gender discourse, there is no discourse on gender outside the discourses of race and class and ethnicity and sexuality and so on. The point then is that although, in theory, we could all live the categorizations of our bodies and our identities in different ways—as Braidotti implies—we would still have to acknowledge that, in terms of the theory as posited, our bodies would be primarily differentiated in relation to a binary sexual economy which would be prior to all other forms of difference. Perhaps the problem is not really one about bodies at all, but about identities, or rather about how we conceive of the relationship between the two. This is, of course, a problem which has been formulated for, at least, some of us in a very specific way by psychoanalysis. Psychoanalytic theory is, as has been remarked, an historically and culturally specific theory, just like any other. However, the processes of identity acquisition which it proposes are intended to have universal application, and the relationships between anatomy, sexuality and identity which it validates are presented as marking the path of nonpathological development. The rigidity of the sexed categories that psychoanalysis provides is open to question. Jacqueline Rose for one has argued that psychoanalytic theory does not work with a notion of fixed and immutable identities, and that it has been one of the few places in Western culture where it has been possible to realize that women ‘do not slip painlessly into their roles as women, if indeed they do at all’ (Rose, 1983:9). However, in spite of these more liberal interpretations, which argue that psychoanalysis takes sexual difference as something to be explained rather than assumed, it is still the case that psychoanalytic theory insists that in order to become a member of a social order we must make an identification with either the category ‘woman’ or the category ‘man’. This is the nub of the matter. What does psychoanalytic theory intend when it says that we must identify with one or other of these categories? Is it really proposed that we should take these categories to be discursively produced and therefore variable across space and time? There is, of course, much talk about how it should be possible to imagine a signifying economy which does not take the phallus as the primary signifier, but this is seen as a potentiality rather than an actuality. From the point of view of cross-cultural analysis, it can be argued that Lacan’s law of the father is ethnocentric, and that, since it is an abstract and decontextualized theory of signification and takes no account of any form of difference except that of sex, it is exclusionary in a number of ways. Lacan has always been credited with cleansing Freud of biologisms, and some of his own ideas about the body and its relation to subjectivity are suggestive. Lacan moves away from Freud’s idea of sexual drives as given in biological development to an analysis of such drives through the functioning of language and linguistic processes. For Lacan, drives are not biologically determined, but rather are constituted in processes of signification. Lacan treats the body in an analogous fashion, suggesting that the body as it is experienced and perceived by the child is fragmentary, a body-in-bits-and-pieces. Out of this biological chaos of sensation and physiological activity will be constructed a lived anatomy, a psychic map of the body which is given not by biology, but by significations and fantasies (both personal and collective) of the body (Grosz, 1990:43–4). Elizabeth Grosz describes ‘this body’ in the following way: Bound up within parental fantasies long before the child is ever born, the child’s body is divided along lines of special meaning or significance, independent of biology. The body is lived in accordance with an individual’s and a culture’s concepts of biology. (Grosz, 1990:44) This sounds a little like Foucault with the psychic and the cultural added. However, Lacan’s lived anatomy is an imaginary one, a unity created out of the internalizations of self-other relations. This body-image is an effect of the highly particular meanings that the body has been endowed with by individuals, by cultures, and—according to Lacan —by the nuclear family. One cannot accept this proposition about the nuclear family uncritically, but what seems to be implied here is that the bodyimage or corporeal schema is the result of the internalization of the body-image of others, particularly the primary carer. Overall, however, what is significant about this body-image is that it is neither natural nor cultural, neither individual nor social; rather it is a threshold term occupying both positions (Grosz, 1990:46). There are some resonances here with Braidotti’s ‘feminine corpor(e)ality’, although in order to provide a workable theory of embodied subjectivity we would need to combine Braidotti’s emphasis on materiality with Lacan’s insistence on the symbolic. This might prove extremely difficult,

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not to say risky, since there is nothing that links Braidotti’s female body to Lacan’s feminine, except some residual and unresolved problem about anatomy. The problem is that the female and the feminine are not the same thing. Here the concepts of sex, gender and sexual difference all collide together. The meanings of these terms begin to escape us, and they do so largely because they are decontextualized. It is only in the context of racial discrimination, religious intolerance, neo-imperial politics, and other concrete socio-economic determinations that we know what distinguishes sex from gender, that we understand the economy of sexual difference, that we come to grips with the material referents of the symbolic. The potential for developing a feminist theory of embodied subjectivity which could and would take account of race, class, sexuality and other forms of difference certainly exists. However, it is likely to remain permanently out of reach while we insist that sex, gender and sexual difference are foundational in some sense, either as categories or as sets of relations. In so far as the theories of the body I have been discussing rest on poststructuralist assumptions, they are clearly anti-foundationalist; although my point is that they are not really so because they work on the assumption that bodies are already divided into two mutually exclusive categories. Binary biological sex provides the basis for the cultural categories ‘male’ and ‘female’. The shifting and unstable nature of the sexed identity proposed by Lacan is always mapped on to and mapped out in terms of a preexisting categorization of sex. This may not matter, of course, if what we really want to do is to work out some kind of critical practice, that is a space for critical reflection on and political action around these issues, rather than a new metatheory. However, as an anthropologist, it is the pre-existing categorization of sex—that somehow, in the hands of theorists, transmutes itself first into sexual difference and thence into gender—which is the stumbling block. Much new work on the gendering of body parts, bodily substances and social acts makes it clear that there is no one-to-one correspondence between sex, gender and sexual difference understood in the terms of Western discourse. As I suggested earlier, individual persons while having recognizable biological features, might not have discrete and singular genders in the sense that feminist discourse has conventionally understood that term. Anna Meigs has argued on the basis of her research with the Hua people of the Eastern Highlands of Papua New Guinea, that individuals are classified by external anatomical features, but that they are also classified according to the amount of certain male and female substances they have in their bodies. These substances are thought to be transferable between the genital classes through eating, heterosexual sex and everyday casual contact (Meigs, 1990:108–9). The binary categories ‘female’ and ‘male’ are thus not discrete ones and nor are they premised on the discrete binary categorization of biological sex differences evidenced by external genitalia. The Hua insist that the gender of a person changes over their lifetime as their body takes on more of the substances and fluids transferred by the other sex. On the basis of what Meigs says, the Hua would appear to have a pre-existing categorization of sex, since they classify substances as sexed according to the kinds of bodies they originate in. Semen, for example, is a male substance. However, the question is how well are their theories of sex, gender and sexual difference represented by theoretical models premised on European and North American folk models? Perhaps it does not matter that in order to make alternative gender models intelligible to our students, colleagues and readers, we have to rework them in terms which thoroughly misrepresent them. Thereby, I may add, making them appear even more exotic. But, there is an additional point because one of the things revealed by alternative models for thinking and living the connexions of sex, gender, and sexual difference is that European and North American models are probably not well served by the prevailing theories either. Many people find that their theories of sexual difference and their experience of gendered identities do not correspond well to discrete binary categories. There has been some recognition of this in recent theoretical work on gender where writers have begun to emphasize the performative aspects of gender identity and the possibilities that exist for the subversion of categorical identities.11 This emphasis on performance is welcome, but it does not seem very revolutionary from an anthropological point of view. This is because ethnographic material suggests that gender categorizations are often based on roles—that is, on what women and men do—rather than on anatomy. The North American berdache is now a rather well-known example of a third gender categorization which counters the one-to-one equivalence of the binary categories of sex and gender; and a man most usually becomes a berdache by assuming the tasks and roles of a woman.12 There is considerable emphasis in the anthropological literature on gender as performed and its relation to the symbolic construction of gender. More recent work stresses that these different aspects of gender are perhaps best seen as mutually co-existent, but sometimes conflicting, models of or discourses on gender. Where discourses exist that focus on the absolute and irreducible nature of sexual difference, there is no particular reason necessarily to privilege them over other discourses or to accord them some kind of foundational status. What is essential is to examine those contexts in which certain discourses become appropriate and powerful. Marriage ceremonies, for example, are sometimes situations in which sexual difference is stressed. Philosophical discussion may produce a very different account, under-playing the role of women and men in biological reproduction, and emphasizing their essential similarities, especially as through the course of biographical time. Ethnographic accounts often give a very vivid sense of people’s perceptions of their ‘lived anatomies’ and of how understandings of bodies, gender identities and sexual difference are given substance through involvement in repetitive daily tasks and through the concrete nature of social relationships. From this perspective, it is hardly surprising that age, class, race, sexuality and religion completely alter the experience of a ‘lived

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anatomy’, of what it is that sex, gender and sexual difference signify. What performance is all about, of course, is gender relations. ‘Gender relations’ is not, however, a term widely used by theorists who derive their inspiration from poststructuralism and/ or from the writings of Lacan. Conversely, we should note that anthropologists rarely use the term ‘sexual difference’ unless they mean biological sex, and they never use the phrase ‘sexual relations’ unless they mean sexual intercourse. We can see once again how easy it is for us all to talk past one another. This is particularly the case when we think about performance and gender relations, and the connexion of both to a notion of embodied subjectivity. Lacan explicitly states that the subject divided in language is a subject constituted in language, but by language he does not mean social discourse, he means instead a system of signification, a system of signs. More problematic yet, is the fact that the Lacanian subject should not be confused either with the person or with the self. The assumption of a sexed subject position is a prerequisite for agency and for self-identity, and as such subjectivity is an attribute of the self, but subjects are not individuals. It is for this reason that Lacanian ideas about the constitution of subjectivity—in spite of the liberating release they provide from Cartesian views of the subject and its role in the production of knowledges—are likely to give us very little insight into the experience of being a gendered individual. To do that, we would need to link Lacanian ideas about the constitution of subjectivity to social discourses and discursive practices. This is precisely what a number of feminists have tried to do, most notably perhaps Teresa De Lauretis (1986). The issue here, of course, is that the sexed subject and the gendered individual are not one and the same. There is a gap and it is this gap which the notions of embodied subjectivity and corpor(e)al femininity are designed to fill. De Lauretis tries to bridge the same gap by stressing notions of intersubjectivity and relationality. She makes use of the insights of Lacanian theory, but her concern is with an ‘I’ understood as a complicated field of competing subjectivities and competing identities. This ‘I’ is most certainly a concrete individual and one who is engaged in relations with others. This view of subjectivity does not privilege gender over all other forms of difference, but because of its stress on intersubjectivity and on social relations, it is perfectly compatible with a notion of embodied subjectivity, as well as with ideas about performance. De Lauretis argues convincingly that differences between women may be better understood as differences within women. In other words, that the differences of race, class, sexuality and so on are constitutive of gender identity. As De Lauretis says: The female subject is a site of differences; differences that are not only sexual or only racial, economic, or (sub)cultural, but all of these together and often enough at odds with one another…once it is understood… that these differences not only constitute each woman’s consciousness and subjective limits but all together define the female subject of feminism in its very specificity…these differences…cannot be again collapsed into a fixed identity, a sameness of all women as Woman, or a representation of Feminism as a coherent and available image. (1986:14–15) Difference is, of course, a relational concept, and it is always experienced relationally in terms of political discrimination, inequalities of power and forms of domination. There is, therefore, nothing useful to be said about gender outside of the concrete specificity of gender relations. This very specificity guarantees that gender itself does not exist outside of its material and symbolic intersections with other forms of difference. In fact, I would suggest for the time being that we might be better offworking back towards sex, gender, sexual difference and the body, rather than taking them as a set of starting points. If our universal particularity is to be significant, and if we are to achieve anything as a collective singularity, then we might best strive towards an understanding of embodied subjectivity which does not privilege gender and sexual difference unduly just because we are so uncertain about what else it is, if anything, that we share. Notes Henrietta Moore teaches at the London School of Economics. Her publications include Feminism and Anthropology, Polity Press, Cambridge, 1988. 1 This paper was originally presented at a conference on feminist theory at the University of Essex in February 1993. My inspiration for publishing the piece in this form comes from my reading of Nancy Miller’s attempt to explicate the politics and contingencies of identity and location (1991). I am also grateful for Marianna Torgovnick’s discussion of the use of the pronoun ‘we’ (1990:4). 2 See Moore (1988:13–30), MacCormack and Strathern (1980), Strathern (1984), Rosaldo (1980). 3 One such concept was the family; Amos and Parmar (1984), Bhavnani and Coulson (1986), Collins (1989; 1990). 4 The literature is very extensive, but see Epstein and Straub (1991), Williams (1986), Garber (1992) for examples from literature, anthropology and history. 5 Levi-Strauss (1969) first identified the flesh/bone complex. See, for example, Diemberger (1993) and for further discussion Moore (1993).

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6 Again, the literature is large, but see Sanday and Goodenough (1990), and Atkinson and Errington (1990) for examples. 7 See, for example, Harding (1987). 8 Most notable in this regard is the work of French feminists, particularly Kristeva (1980) and Cixous (1980; 1986). Anglo-American scholars are also involved in this move, but they proceed from different premises, and criticisms of the French school abound. See, for example, Suleiman (1986), Gallop (1988), Burke (1980), Rich (1976), Conley (1984), Stanton (1986), Spivak (1992), Silverman (1988), Delphy (1975), Grosz (1989). 9 Brennan (1989), Schor (1989). 10 Butler (1990: chap 3) argues that Foucault’s position provides for a critique of Lacanian and neo-Lacanian theories. On this basis, she criticizes Kristeva’s view of the maternal body as pre-symbolic, but without apparently recognizing the perils of her own neoFoucauldian position. 11 See, for example, Butler (1990) and Garber (1992). 12 Williams (1986); Whitehead (1981); Roscoe (1988).

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SANDAY, Peggy Reeves and GOODENOUGH, Ruth (1990) editors, Beyond the Second Sex: New Directions in the Anthropology of Gender Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. SCHOR, Naomi (1989) ‘This essentialism which is not one: coming to grips with Irigaray’ Differences Vol. 1, No. 2:38–58. SILVERMAN, Kaja (1988) The Acoustic Mirror Bloomington: Indiana University Press. SPIVAK, Gayatri Chakravorty (1992) ‘French feminism revisited: ethics and politics’ in Butler, J. and Scott, J. editors, Feminists Theorise the Political London: Routledge. STANTON, Donna (1986) ‘Difference on trial: a critique of the maternal metaphor in Kristeva and Irigaray’ in Miller, N. editor, The Poetics of Gender New York: Columbia University Press. STRATHERN, Marilyn (1984) ‘Domesticity and the denigration of women’ in O’Brien, D. and Tiffany, S. editors, Rethinking Women’s Roles: Perspectives from the Pacific: 13–31, Berkeley: University of California Press. SULEIMAN, Susan (1986) The Female Body in Western Culture Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press. TORGOVNICK, Marianna (1990) Gone Primitive: Savage Intellects, Modern Lives Chicago: University of Chicago Press. WHITEHEAD, Harriet (1981) ‘The bow and the burden strap: a new look at institutionalised homosexuality in Native North America’ in Ortner, S. and Whitehead, H. editors, Sexual Meanings Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. WILLIAMS, W. (1986) The Spirit and the Flesh: Sexual Diversity in American Indian Culture Boston: Beacon Press. YANAGISAKO, Sylvia and COLLIER, Jane (1987) ‘Toward a unified analysis of gender and kinship’ in Collier, J. and Yanagisako, S. editors, Gender and Kinship Stanford: Stanford University Press.

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Decolonizing Feminisms: Race, Gender, and Empire-Building Laura E.Donaldson Routledge, London 1993, ISBN 0 415 09218 3, £9.99 Pbk, ISBN 0415 09217 5, £35.00 Hbk Decolonizing Feminisms is a plea for an ‘allegorical feminism’ (p. 134). It’s easy to stumble over this conjunction of words, since ‘allegorical’, in my book anyway, implies a certain kind of indirection, an oblique form of speech which, as my dictionary puts it, presents a ‘narrative description of a subject under guise of another suggestively similar’. At first glance this doesn’t look much like feminism which, at its most powerful, is surely about speaking out, about abandoning disguise and evasion. As Donaldson argues it, however, allegory also allows feminists (or anyone) to talk about more than one thing at once, and to explore ‘the relational nature of feminist identity’. Allegory is appropriate as well because the relation between the surface narrative, and the real story, is arbitrary, helpfully discouraging us from taking anything for granted. Not taking things for granted is the keynote of this book, and Donaldson unpicks with unerring precision the allegorical meanings of terms that we might recklessly have thought we understood: ‘feminism’, ‘post-colonialism’, ‘sexism’ and so on. She also provides close readings of a series of texts, both literary and cinematic (The Tempest, Jane Eyre, The King and I, Moses, Man of the Mountain and others), and builds up a series of arguments which ‘both affirms the insertion of multiple perspectives into the viewing/reading experience and preserves the material particularity of each interpreter’ (p. 59). This is a process called ‘graf(ph)ting’, and Derrida invented it, in 1981, presumably because he’d had to do some gardening, and, like Nature, abhorred a wasted effort. The problem with graf(ph)ting (and, probably, with allegorical feminism) is that while they may be words that make us shiver with delight, we’re still not much the wiser at the end of it all (it is rather like reading an allegory, in fact). The curious effect of Donaldson’s admirable precision, her attention to ‘differences’ and ‘relational effects’, is not to preserve her own ‘particularity’ as a graf(ph)ter, but rather to erase the excitement, the distinctive voice, which characterizes a criticism that is sure of its roots. Toni Morrison has written of the need for a sense of place, of ‘rootedness’, in the writing of novels, and surely criticism is much the same. Donaldson’s lack of an instinctive awareness of place (evidenced in the curious and apparently random selection of texts under discussion in the book) leads to a strangely homogenizing project, in which a number of very disparate texts all end up demonstrating the same thing: ‘the continuing power of colonialism to deform any liberatory politics’ (p. 7). This is one of the wearying effects of too much theory, graf(ph)ting and all, in that it’s often so anxious to generate new ‘discursive formations’, to coin new words, that the specificity of the old words, the old places, is simply forgotten. Donaldson’s insight, about the pervasiveness of colonial ideologies in so-called ‘progressive’ thinking, is so crucially important that it needs a whole wealth of evidence to back it up, not a tentative sampling of texts as historically and generically unrelated to one another as The Tempest and Peter Pan. It’s like imagining that the flora of the world is adequately represented by a few cut flowers. Of course this could be part of the point. There is something sinister and absolutely shaming about realizing that Peter Pan, that book so many children lisped their way to bed with, is part of the same paradigm that empowered the British Empire (p. 79). It is true that in a world as horribly unequal, as full of exploitation, as our own, all dominant discourses do, on one level, say the same thing. Donaldson’s point is that even discourses which set themselves up as oppositional, are actually still spoken and enacted within a dominant paradigm, so that the antisexism of We of the Never-Never, a 1982 Australian film, only acts to ‘displace questions of colonialism, racism, and their concomitant violence’ (p. 62). She does argue with Gayatri C.Spivak, though, in her contention that both Jane Eyre and Bertha Rochester speak for feminism (although there is

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something terribly wrong when, as Donaldson claims, leaping to your death from some flaming battlements can be construed as an act of defiance). As though weary herself of the colonialist claustrophobia she has uncovered, Donaldson turns eagerly near the end towards a new kind of analysis, a hybridized form of feminism that won’t make the old mistakes again. Zora Neale Hurston has shown us the way, forcing us ‘to read against both the patriarchal Western tradition and the will to organic identity in some feminist theories’ (p. 114). But when Zora Neale Hurston did it it was an act of daring, of vision, of regeneration, not an anxious and bland bringing together of ideas we are becoming used to toying with. Perhaps the truth is that academics, like gardeners, can only graf(ph)t what is already there: it takes a wilder kind of coupling, and one towards which Decolonizing Feminisms can only gesture, to produce new life. Suzanne Raitt Women and Citizenship in Europe—Borders, Rights and Duties Edited by Anna Ward, Jeanne Gregory and Nira Yuval-Davis Trentham Books and EFSF: Stoke-onTrent 1993, ISBN 0 948080 817, £11.95 This book contains the proceedings of the 1991 annual conference of the European Forum of Socialist Feminists, held in Norwich, UK. Proceedings include short papers, country reports, some useful introductions to themes which emerged, and one or two special contributions commissioned later. This is not a heavy read. The contributions are short, varied and very much ‘of the moment’. The country reports, for example, represent individual snapshots, one woman’s view of what seemed important in her country at that point in time. Surprisingly, since all of this is two years old, these ‘of the moment’ contributions have worn well. The thoughts of this mixed group of women were prescient and picked up on trends which have subsequently grown in importance. So Scandinavian suspicions of the European Community come through clearly, as do confusions in Western Europe about the relationship between nation, state and race. There are also perceptive analyses of the ‘maleness’ of the new power structures emerging in Eastern Europe and of the implications of this. The other main theme is sexual politics, a constant subtext in current political developments. Although differences are expressed and some criticisms made by one group or another, a commonality of approach does emerge in the book, based on an apparently shared ability to live experience and begin its analysis at one and the same time. Especially useful in this sense are Nora Rathzel’s discussion of racism, Pragna Patel’s description of how race and gender concerns intersect in a precise context, and Jacqueline Heinen’s analysis of religious fundamentalism in Poland. The European Forum of Socialist Feminists was, and is, a loose, unstructured organization based on individual members and a minimum of hierarchy. It comes together in annual conferences and via an occasional newsletter. Its members are those who wish to join and can identify with the name (more on this later). The organization has extended its membership in recent years into Southern and Eastern Europe. It is interesting that an organization of this kind is better able to accommodate new members and new concerns (though this is never easy) than organizations with more formal structures and procedures. This collection suggests, for example, that quite strong links have been made through the EFSF with women in Eastern Europe; the kind of links that more formal organizations are finding hard to replicate. However, by the time this book was written the name of the Forum had become a problem. One theme running through the book concerns the definition of the term socialist feminist and its meaning and relevance in the nineties. This centres on two questions: first, is there still a need to identify a part of feminism in this particular way, and is there enough common ground to do so? And second, is it appropriate for the Forum as an organization to keep this title, since for many Southern and Eastern European women it seems to tie feminism to unacceptable forms of political power? The evidence from this book suggests that the members of the Forum do by and large share common concerns and approaches if not necessarily strategies. Expressing these openly seems particularly important at a time when much of feminism is becoming ‘mainstreamed’. Some counterweight to this inevitable (and necessary) development is badly needed. Such a project might well be labelled socialist feminist. But not if it inhibits women with particular experiences from joining in. This issue was not resolved at the Norwich meeting, but at the next EFSF conference (held in Ostend in October 1992) the decision was taken to rename the organization the European Forum of Left Feminists. The change was necessary and generous though many regretted contributing to the current trend of rendering socialism invisible. This book suggests, however, that socialism in its true sense is still present in the organization whatever the name. It also makes clear the practical difficulties involved in giving any real content to this at a transnational level. Catherine Hoskyns

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Women and Literacy Prepared by Marcela Ballara Zed Books: London and New Jersey 1992, ISBN 1 85649 981 7, £9.95 Pbk, ISBN 1 85649 980 9, £29.95 Hbk Women, and particularly rural women, are a substantial majority among the world’s illiterates, though inconsistencies of definition and measurement make it impossible to say by how much. There are, in addition, either demonstrable or probable correlations between women’s illiteracy, their poverty, their absence from waged work and their exclusion from formal decision-making structures. Women and Literacy delineates a cause: is it the same cause in all circumstances, in North and South? Who intervenes to educate women, why, and what are the results? I regret that this book disappoints as an exploration of these questions, and since I respond to the exhortatory passion with which Marcela Ballara writes, I want to say respectfully why. At the root of the matter is that she has accepted an impossible brief. The book arises out of a collaboration between Zed Books and UNESCO, as part of a series on women and development. It is only 90 pages long, including annexes, bibliography (very useful) and index. Its stated aims number eight, any one of them probably a book-length agenda. The collaboration with UNESCO makes it difficult to evaluate the contribution of that key player in the global bureaucracy of literacy—indeed there is little said about agencies and promoters of literacy and how their projects may differ. There is a risk of further overload in that the book addresses women’s literacy in both North and South. I understand the wish not to reduce illiteracy to a problem of ‘underdevelopment’, given that industrialized countries have identified a core of people whose literacy is not equal to the demands of a range of social practices. ‘Functional literacy’ is an elastic and relative term: but this should not gloss over the differences between relative illiteracy in societies with extended compulsory education and a universal assumption of some literate performance, and relative illiteracy in societies where initial education is not universal or not very long, and where difficulty in learning may be associated with the lack of events and situations in which to use a tentative literacy. If women are disproportionate among ‘illiterates’ at both extremes and between them, and in the variety of relationships to work, family, religion, citizenship and power that such a span might cover, we need explanations. What Ballara risks producing instead is conflations across difference. She does acknowledge at various points that women’s situations need disaggregating and treating specifically, but this does not become an informing principle of the writing. Instead: ‘Some religious traditions may restrict women’s activities to domestic tasks, stressing their role as mothers, which limits their access to education. Lack of self-confidence, timidity, submissiveness to male authority, as well as isolation and age differences between participants, are also limiting factors for women’s participation in education.’ This cries out for development, contexting and making distinctions: they don’t come fully enough. Clearly there was no room for substantial case studies, but something closer to that is needed. It is regrettable that her own expertise, arising from work in Turkey and Cape Verde in UNESCO-and UNICEF-funded projects, is modestly allowed only equal weight to material she is using at second hand. I found myself listening to different voices: where Ballara summarizes, she does so almost too faithfully, and without critical distance: she cites a study of the effects of education on productivity in agriculture ‘in a number of developing countries. This study concluded that four years of primary education …increased productivity by 7.4 per cent, with additional benefits in the form of increased modernization of agriculture. Production incentives, marketing facilities, distribution of seeds and fertilizers and rural extension programmes are also important.’ How uniform were the results in different countries? What changes in agricultural practice were available to be made? What were men and women doing (before and after) and learning? Over what span of measurement was that precise 7.4 per cent arrived at? Given the other factors listed, how did the study isolate the effect of education? A danger arising from the passion for literacy is to cast it not only as a tool for change but as a necessity prior to other change: the learning skill without which there can be no other learning. The outcomes of learning are more plural than that: motivation, attitude change, the capacity to organize, new practical skills, don’t correspond to steps on a literacy staircase. Another difficulty for this reader comes with the concentration on women’s situation almost to the exclusion of men: recognizing women’s actual and potential contribution to social organization, agriculture, the environment, supporting their children’s education, should not slide into saddling them with the whole responsibility. Marcela Ballara ends the book with some notes for discussion and self-education for groups striving for good practice. They point to some of the basic difficulties about cause and effect, and open up space for critical thinking the rest of the book has not found room for: The decrease in job opportunities for women and girls in the formal sector, and increased labour in the informal sector, stem from various factors. Can you list and discuss them? Explain the effects of the economic crisis.’ Can we start again there, please—and also with other questions about context and rationale which this section offers. We certainly need to work on literacy and labour markets in the industrialized countries, where functional literacy has been put firmly on the post-Fordist training agenda, while, in the case of the UK, we have set up a neat split between ‘Basic skills at the workplace’ and ‘Family literacy’.

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Sue Gardener When Our Ship Comes In— Black Women Talk Chapeltown Black Women Writers’ Group Yorkshire Art Circus: West Yorkshire 1992, ISBN 0 947780 831, £6.50 Pbk Chapeltown Black Womens’ group (in Leeds, Northern England) was formed in November 1991 to provide a meeting point for AfricanCaribbean women to talk and write together. The group meets at Roseville, an adult education centre and this is their first project, which aims to ‘honour and acknowledge the presence, resistance and survival of the older Caribbean woman’. (Introduction: 5) Nine West Indian women(Joyce Bernard, Carol and Fay Comrie, Elaine Davis, Agnes Hinds,Katie Stewart, Odessa Stoute, Georgina Webbe, and Jean White) havewritten of their experience of the lastthirty years in Leeds, sharing theirthoughts, feelings and opinions intheir own distinctive styles. This small but generous book goes some way to painting a picture of the everyday and common-sense understanding this first generation of migrants makes of their lives in England. In seven sections the group provides mainly personal accounts and poetry on a variety of topics. Also included are photographs which not only offer a contrast of these Black-women then and now, but also underline the importance of family, friends, community and church in their lives. The collection begins with the group acknowledging their own direct ancestry, allowing us to affirm the strength and tactical solutions of past generations. Reminding us also that these mothers are daughters and wives in their own right. There are so many memories locked up in my mind of where I have come from of where I have been This is the real me, part of who I am Part of a whole yet still one of a kind (Carol Comrie: 63) Seven sections loosely tie together the writing. In ‘The Virtuous Woman’ the contributors discuss parenting, their own childhoods, and the importance of role models. In ‘Doing the Digging’ some of the Blackwomen share their thoughts on arriving and settling in Leeds and the places they left behind. They explore their sources of strength, and the inspirations which allowed them to make their voices heard in their chosen homes in ‘Moving Out in Faith’ and ‘Muscling In’. Moving behind the myth of the strong, stoical Black mother, ‘Why All this Suffering and Pain?’ mirrors some of the pain, tears and loneliness these Blackwomen have to contend with; suppressed pains from years back, seeping through careless words and shorthand expressions. The Joy of Finding’ is a loose collection of poems and testimonies to their further ambitions and creative talents. This collection will be useful for students of African-Caribbean culture and history in Britain. More careful arrangement of the contributions could have strengthened this resource. The connexion between the selections presented under the headings is not always very clear. But overall this publication conveys nine older African-Caribbean women’s belief in the strength of the human spirit. And in the role that community, family, church and friendship has played in their living fuller lives. Dorothea Smartt Antibody Politic: AIDS and Society Tamsin Wilton New Clarion Press: Cheltenham 1992, ISBN 1 873797 04 4, £8.95 Pbk, ISBN 1 873797 05 2, £22.50 Hbk Positively Women: Living with AIDS Edited by Sue O’Sullivan and Kate Thomson Sheba Feminist Press: London 1992,

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ISBN 0 907179 47 9, £9.99 Pbk Working with Women and AIDS Edited by Judy Bury, Val Morrison and Sheena McLachlan Tavistock/Routledge: London 1992, ISBN 0 414 07659 5, £10.99, Pbk, ISBN 0 415 07658 7, £35.00 Hbk Women and HIV/AIDS: an International Resource Book Marge Berer with Sunanda Ray Pandora: London 1993, ISBN 0 04 440 876 5, £14.99 Pbk It has taken almost ten years for the needs of women, in the area of HIV and AIDS, to be recognized. The four books reviewed here represent the range of issues which affect women: as people living with HIV, as carers, as counsellors, medics, friends and lovers. Anyone wanting an overview of the complex socio-political arguments about HIV and AIDS could do no better than read Tamsin Wilton’s Antibody Politic. Subtitled ‘AIDS and Society’, the book outlines the complicated scientific and medical issues but in a way guaranteed to demystify and help understanding. Tamsin Wilton examines HIV from a number of social perspectives; particularly looking at racism, sexism and homophobia. Much criticism has been levelled at how safer sex messages have been targeted to lesbians, seen to be at least risk of contracting HIV. Wilton clearly shows how women identifying as lesbian may be at risk in a number of ways. Many work as prostitutes, may be married, inject drugs, occasionally have sex with men or have sex with women who have been exposed to the virus. As with gay men, the message is clear; it’s not who you are, or how you define your sexuality that matters, it’s what you choose to do sexually which is the issue. Men and women, straight and gay, have a repertoire of sexual behaviour, so using terms like gay sex, lesbian sex, straight sex become meaningless when straight men and women have anal intercourse, men enjoy cunnilingus and lesbians fuck. HIV is passed between people irrespective of gender or orientation. It’s what you do that matters. Working with Women and AIDS also examines social issues in a series of short papers and case studies which look particularly at prostitution, contraception and pregnancy, education and counselling. Background issues covering medical facts and figures together with a review of the impact of HIV on women in New York are included. Two papers sit less comfortably here: written by women who are HIV + and in a section called ‘Feelings and Needs’. Perhaps the intention when including these was to remind the reader that, above all, HIV is a devastating personal issue and not just a medical condition. The chapter by Kate Thomson reminds us of this by describing the reality of her life as a person living with HIV infection. It is non-sentimental, straightforward and has more resonance than all the rest of the book put together. Kate Thomson appears again, having co-edited, with Sue O’Sullivan, Positively Women, a hopeful and brave book which chronicles the stories of twelve women and their involvement with Positively Women,1 a self-help group for women with HIV. The stories vary widely, as biographies do, and are thoroughly engaging, even exciting, to read. These women are honest, open, resilient and above all, pragmatic about their situation. The book is also a resource for women wanting to learn more about HIV, particularly for those who have the virus. Housing needs, legal issues, pregnancy, sex and allopathic medical treatments are outlined as are other healing techniques such as naturopathy and Chinese medicine. Women and HIV/AIDS: an International Resource Book takes a truly global perspective, with contributions from women (and a few men) across the world. It is a state-of-the-art source book which provides practical examples of good health promotion activities, ideas for running workshops on many aspects of sexuality and HIV, as well as clear discussions of medical and social issues. It also provides an excellent and comprehensive overview of women, sexuality and HIV across the globe. The contributions are written in an open and friendly way, giving useful tips and hints on a wide variety of issues from getting funding to assertive techniques in condom use. This resource book should be on the bookshelf of every person interested in women, in sexuality and relation-ships and in international and development issues. The book is published in association with AHRTAG, an international health information agency which aims to provide affordable and appropriate resources, so the book will be available, cheaply, across the world. It is, quite simply, brilliant. Hazel Slavin

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Note 1 Positively Women can be contacted at: 5 Sebastian Street, London EC1V 0HE. Tel: 071 490 5515 (client services), 071 490 5501 (admin). Branches in Edinburgh and Glasgow can be contacted through Scottish Aids Monitor; 031 557 3885 (Edinburgh) or 041 353 3133 (Glasgow).

Lesbians Talk (Safer) Sex Sue O’Sullivan and Pratibha Parmar Scarlet Press: London 1992, ISBN 1 85727020 7, £4.50 Not just about latex; Lesbians Talk (Safer) Sex is a comprehensive overview of a range of issues concerning lesbians in relation to HIV and AIDS. Sue O’Sullivan and Pratibha Parmar’s well-researched book is the latest in the Scarlet Press ‘Lesbians Talk’ series, and is the first British publication to tackle exclusively the question of lesbians’ place in the struggle against AIDS. There have been attempts in the past to exclude lesbians from involvement in the struggle against the virus. Some gay men have dismissed lesbians’ calls for adequate safe-sex advice, citing ‘virus envy’ as an ulterior motive, and lesbians themselves have pointed out the danger of diverting energy from other health issues of more direct concern to lesbians, such as breast and cervical cancer. The authors argue that different groups fighting among themselves can only dilute the power of collective action: ‘We can only meet the needs of specific groups if we admit everyone affected by HIV and AIDS to the arena’ (p. 49) and they emphasize the economic dimension of the devastating effect of the virus among the poor in the US, Asia and Africa. O’Sullivan and Parmar present their book as ‘a challenge to complacency and indifference’ (p. 10) and controversial issues such as the perceived ‘low risk’ status of lesbians and the realities of lesbian sexual behaviour are tackled in a refreshingly non-judgemental way. Ultimately, the message is unequivocal; it is our personal responsibility to make informed choices, and to press for more resources and research. In selecting sometimes conflicting quotes from various AIDS workers, the authors present the true complexity of lesbians’ position, without feeling any compulsion to simplify and, by emphasizing lesbians’ political responsibilities, the authors succeed in linking lesbians’ response to AIDS to those of other groups. In recent years the safer-sex message for lesbians has been muddled by contradictory advice issued by respected agencies. For instance, it was not lost on lesbians that dental dams were not advised for heterosexuals—raising the ludicrous question of a difference in the male tongue. The book clears away much of this confusion by not prescribing a rigid set of safer-sex practices. Instead, casting rumour aside, the authors present current medical findings on HIV and its likely routes of transmission. The choice of whether or not to use gloves and/or dental dams is left to the individual. When considering lesbian safer-sex practices, the authors assert that it is lesbians themselves who are best placed to develop their own health strategy. Government agencies have shown themselves unable, or unwilling, to target safer-sex education effectively, and many health authorities have been reluctant to address gay men directly at all. The relative invisibility of lesbians in society has meant an even less adequate appraisal of our own vulnerability. Gay men have taken on responsibility within the community for safer-sex education, using language that relates directly to them-selves. In order to construct a comparable sexual language for lesbians it is necessary to acknowledge two problems; the titillation value of lesbianism in the straight world, as evinced by its mock presence in heterosexual pornography, and the divide within the community itself over the SM debate. In an attempt to overcome these outside influences and establish what the term ‘lesbian sex’ means to lesbians themselves the chapter ‘Talking sex, talking dirty’ presents a wealth of words and phrases to describe the undescribable: ‘fingers dancing on clits, beside clits, on arseholes, across nipples, on lips, on palms, across backs’ (p. 35). In ‘The agnostic position’ Parmar and O’Sullivan set out their vision of how lesbians could respond to the AIDS crisis: ‘In celebration of our perversity, we should be revelling in the wealth and breadth of the sexual choices we can make in the time of AIDS and joining with others to end the epidemic’ (p. 47). They encourage lesbians to practice safer-sex to whatever level makes their partners and themselves feel safe, and, as a precursor to this, stress the importance of overcoming entrenched attitudes towards other lesbians’ sexual behaviour. One neglected area is the emotional strain many lesbians experience due to bereavement, or as a result of caring for a friend or relative with AIDS. For the next few years at least it seems likely that lesbians in Britain will continue to experience AIDS and HIV principally as affecting their gay male friends and brothers. Lesbians who care for people with AIDS, or who have HIVpositive friends, have to cope with their own stress, some-times without much support. In omitting to address this subject the authors may be choosing to reach as wide a range of lesbian readers as possible, but it is an area that is largely missing in current AIDS literature. Every lesbian owes it to herself to be informed and Lesbians Talk (Safer) Sex contains vital information for any lesbian living during the AIDS crisis, whether sexually active or not. The last chapter contains a comprehensive list of AIDS

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organizations, suppliers of safer-sex materials and a useful summary of further reading and, although lesbians are mentioned in other safer-sex publications, this book is the first time lesbians have been addressed exclusively and in such depth. Sophia Chauchard-Stuart and Sheridan Nye Changing Cultures: Feminism, Youth and Consumerism Mica Nava Sage: London 1992, ISBN 08039 8607 6, £11.95 Pbk, ISBN 08039 8608 4, £35.00 Hbk This book provides a journey into the development of feminist thought by bringing together a collection of Mica Nava’s writings (and lectures) from the early 1970s to 1992, providing commentary (sometimes developed, sometimes brief) after each chapter. It begins with the family and tours through youth provision, including the controversial article (from Feminist Review) on a girls’ project and responses to lesbianism; it then addresses responses to sexual abuse and ends with three essays on consumerism. It thus moves from concerns with the state to subjectivity; from generalization to contradiction, ambiguity and inconsistency, showing in passing how theoretical language changes. The book tries to combine two very difficult tasks. Firstly, it contextualizes the collection of essays within the political climates and theoretical landscapes of the time of their writing. The book itself is a product of its time. The opening introductory sentence admits a debt to postmodernist thinking, declaring that the book is part of an acknowledgement that all knowledge and intellectual production is fragmentary and transitory. By contextualizing each piece of work the book charts a path through a number of conflicting feminist debates. This gives the reader a sense of legacy, permanence and change to the current debates. Secondly, it tries to tie in the subjective formation of the author into this wider landscape, by linking and exploring the relationships between history, desire and knowledge. This is achieved by centralizing psychoanalysis. This process of contextualizing can be seen as part of the more recent reflexive concerns with situating the production of knowledge (as discussed in the work of Sandra Harding, Nancy Harstock and Donna Haraway). A brave and honest attempt is made by Mica Nava to view herself as both a product of and producer of the text. She also problematizes the position of the reader by making obvious the reader’s psychic registers. I would recommend the introduction as compulsory reading for any feminist methodology course in which questions such as ‘how do I know?’ and ‘why I thought what I thought’ are raised. It also fronts the ethical and ideological imperatives in the evaluation of intellectual works. The chapter commentaries also refer to the feelings which block or enable us to write. Feeling brave, Mica Nava argues, is a prerequisite for writing against any orthodoxy. Fortunately she has felt brave enough to challenge some important ‘truths’ that were ossified in the name of feminism. For instance, Mica Nava problematizes feminism as a moral code. Every time she searches for the certainty articulated in some feminist positions all she finds is contradictions. She believes, however, that agency and contradiction can co-exist. She is also highly critical of the responses to her work which have used sexual preference as a form of moral high ground for the purposes of moral regulation. The excessive voluntarism that is attached to sexual desire by these moral positions is made apparent. Mica Nava shows that it is far more complex; desire, she argues, is not subject to rational-political choice. It would have been useful to have more on this debate as a great many feminist calls to action assume a rational subject. Yet as work by Valerie Walkerdine suggests, this rational subject may just be another fantasy of the desire for mastery or control. The difficulty of increasing the complexity of theory for understanding actions, meaning and everyday practice, and the increased fragmentation of positions which depend on the agency and unity required by feminist action, present a very real problem for feminism. Complexity may lead to quietism; naive beliefs in unity may ignore differences and inequalities. In this case, thankfully, theoretical sophistication does not stop Mica Nava from trying to put her feminist principles into practice. It is interesting to note in an analysis informed by feminism how gender moves in and out of central focus, often as a result of institutional incorporation and safety. The theoretical landscape presented is specific to feminist cultural studies. And it is clearly a feminist cultural studies which is informed by a political commitment—a socialist one. Two themes are constant throughout the book. The first is of feminism facing outwards, towards heterosexuality and masculinity as something to be dealt with in their complexities rather than being abdicated from. The second theme is the continual concern to understand the nuances and ambiguity of meaning. This proves particularly controversial when dealing with sexual abuse. Rather than reducing arguments to generalizations, by exploring her own experience of rape and of her dealings with a young man’s sexual abuse, Mica Nava explores the complexities of meaning and action. For many people, she argues, the experience of sexual abuse may be less important than is often thought. To centralize it only serves to reproduce sex as the privileged site of all truth. Her long-term feelings about being fraudulent in/as English are experienced as far more traumatic than one bodily invasion.

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No doubt this analysis will raise a few feminist hackles. Had the commentaries been more fully developed, and I dearly wish they had, many of the criticisms could easily be countered. At a time when many challenges to traditional orthodoxies seem to go up their own orifices with tales of fragmentation, ambiguity and inconsistency, it is useful to read something that retains a sense of feminist commitment to action— even while recognizing that this in itself may be contradictory. By increasing the complexity of feminist analysis through the reflexive positioning of ourselves and others in the production of knowledge we may be able to produce suitable political responses which account for complexity, difference, nuance, contradiction and ambiguity. Beverley Skeggs Managing Women Sue Adler, Jenny Laney and Mary Packer Open University Press: Buckingham 1993, ISBN 0 335157807, £10.99 Pbk This book reports a study of women who wield power in educational institutions, that is, female managers. The ‘Managing’ in the title, then, is to be read as an adjective modifying the active ‘Women’ and not a verb acting on a passive object. (It did occur to me to wonder whether the authors were hoping that some male managers, puzzled by the behaviour of their female subordinates or peers, might read and learn from a book they would not have chosen otherwise…) The book was conceived originally as a collective dissertation (including a fourth collaborator) written as part of a Master’s course. Eighty-five women, all senior staff in various sectors of education, were studied by interviews, postal questionnaires and/or correspondence. The authors argue that both the philosophy and practice of management are based on a model of the typical manager being a man. They then allow the women in their study to speak for themselves to show how they face the dilemma engendered by being a female manager in a man’s world: from becoming an ‘honorary male’ to compromise. In a chapter considering the question of teaching as a career, the writers report that most of the women in their study (and in other studies cited) did not plan their careers. (As a management consultant, I can say that the same is true for men: careers are so in retrospect, rarely in prospect.) Unlike men, however, most of the women from whom they collected information felt they had to choose between family and career, which confirms the findings of other research. Not surprisingly, they find that many women have not been mentored during their career, and many do not know the term. Given the importance of mentoring in furthering occupational development in men, the lack of such experiences for women may help to explain some of their difficulties in achieving success. At least one earlier study found that women’s mentors are more likely to be friends or neighbours, whereas men’s mentors are usually met via work. After providing accounts of their own feminist perspectives, which were highly readable and very moving, the authors discuss the issue of women researching women. Working co-operatively has its advantages: sharing ideas, interviewing more women than one could do individually, exploring differences in their own perspectives and experiences, making links that would have been difficult to do without such synergy, but also its disadvantages: the difficulties created for others, the necessity for making firm commitments concerning deadlines, meetings, the difficulties in sharing out tasks. They also recognize that, however hard one tries, the power relationship between the interviewer and respondent is imbalanced. (They have tried to minimize the imbalance, by sharing information with the women, by stating that their participants were not required to answer all questions and by using open-ended questions generally.) I found the chapter both exciting and thoughtprovoking to read. One chapter provides more detailed pictures of five of the women discussing the areas in which the researchers were most interested: power, management, dress codes, education and career, mentors, back-ground, the future, and ideas on feminism. It is followed by their own analysis of power, where they report their finding that the women in their study find it easier to acknowledge their personal power than they do their professional power. Interestingly, the women acknowledge their ability to give power to others—other women, their pupils, members of minority groups. Most of the women experience considerable ambivalence concerning their power. For many of the women, it is important to use collective, collaborative power to initiate changes. The authors’ own view is that women need to confront male power in order to create appropriate conditions for learning to occur in education. Sue Adler and her colleagues conclude, on the basis of their own research and comments of other authors, that women tend to have a different style of managing than do men, one based on open communication, participation, flexibility in approach, caring for others and putting people before paperwork. They claim that the collaborative, co-operative style leads to problems with both bosses and subordinates for some women. Overall, I was disappointed with the book. Although two chapters (on research methods) were stimulating, the book promised more than it delivered. My principal feeling on reading it was one of frustration. Many of their findings are already well known from studies of women in other fields of endeavour; what I was hoping for was a more detailed analysis that went

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beyond what is known. What is lacking is depth. In the chapter on careers, for example, they state that all of the women had to choose between family and career. What we have not been told, however, is the rich detail: What elements were involved in their choices? What influenced the decisions they did take? What agonies and joys did they face? Were their decisions irreversible? What were the consequences of these decisions? How do they feel now about the decisions they took then? Again, the sketches of the five women were tantalizing, but I want to know more about these women; what they report is too cursory. Nor do they draw conclusions from these sketches. The final three chapters, concerned with power and style of managing, also require greater elaboration. How do women cope with their ambivalence about power? How can they confront power in men—how do women do it? What sorts of problems do women have with their bosses and their own subordinates (and peers) when they express a more ‘feminine’ way of managing? How do these women surmount these problems? How do they feel about it? I am impressed by the way in which the authors worked together and appreciate the way they have interwoven their own perspectives and experiences into the findings from their own and others’ research. However, the book could have been very powerful had the authors recounted the underlying complexities of the women’s histories as managers. Sheila Rossan Introducing Women’s Studies: Feminist Theory and Practice Edited by Diane Richardson and Victoria Robinson Macmillan: London 1993, ISBN 0 333 54197 9, £10.99 Pbk Women’s studies has probably had a more progressive impact on education generally than any other field. It is a global movement. America has over 30,000 courses. Korea has had women’s studies since 1978; Japan currently has 280 courses and women’s studies is established throughout Asia and Central and Latin America. For example, India has over 22 centres. Britain has a flourishing national organization— the Women’s Studies Network (UK)1 whose courses guide lists over 66 institutions of higher education alone and whose annual conference generates a book a year (Aaron and Walby, 1991; Hinds, Phoenix and Stacey, 1992; Kennedy, Lubelska and Walsh, 1993). One clear indication of the growing impact of women’s studies in Europe is its inclusion in the European Community’s Third Action Programme for Equal Opportunities. New areas undreamt of before the 1980s abound: postcolonial and Black lesbian criticisms; Chicana and African diaspora theories. Publishing recognition of this growth inevitably centres on course readers and textbooks since these are popular with students. And here the publishers of Introducing Women’s Studies have done a disservice to its agenda. The text is neither an introduction to, nor about, women’s studies (apart from a general introduction) but a very pertinant overview of feminist research of the last decades. Luckily that absence has been filled by course readers (including my own) and major international handbooks (Humm, 1992; Brown et al., 1993). Robinson states that ‘women’s studies started by filling in the gaps …insisted on the notion that women’s experience…was not left outside the classroom’ and that ‘teachers of women’s studies arrive at their intellectual destination from a variety of sources’. This is wellcovered ground. I would have preferred a more historical introduction describing the British journals, debates, campaigns and institutional issues as well as key features of women’s studies such as new pedagogies (see Brown et al., 1993). The construction of the book sensibly follows a clear format with essays on familiar feminist topics: racism, sexuality and the family among others, each of which gives helpful guides to further reading. Some essays adopt both a survey approach and make a special focus on a key issue. Jackie Stacey’s account of feminist theory and patriarchy should be commended for its skilled writing and nuanced argument. Like Stacey’s, the best of these chapters extend the implications of their topic to a broader social and historical critique. Jalna Hanmer’s ‘Women and reproduction’ analyses the relation between the ‘theorization’ of reproduction and activist campaigns around abortion and reproductive technology. Hanmer is one of Britain’s leading activists and writers in this field, both as an editor of The Journal of Reproductive and Genetic Engineering and as a member of FINNRAGE. She describes clearly and succinctly theories of the 1970s and 1980s, new scientific developments, the UK Report on Human Fertilization and Embryology and other legal issues and international feminism ending with a persuasive call for women to refuse the ‘new eugenics’ while building ‘a progressive politics’. Some of the most stimulating chapters cut across disciplines to address key issues. Stevi Jackson’s ‘Women and the family’ charts the change of emphasis in feminist thinking from where disadvantages in the labour market were thought to be shaped by women’s domestic responsibilities to viewing women’s domesticity as a result of gender segregation at work. Jackson attacks the white heterosexual myth of the family by pointing out that 16 per cent of families with children are single-parent; and that there are significant differences between Asian, Black and white families; for example, 10 per cent of Asian households contain more than one family with children, compared to 2 per cent Afro-Caribbean and 1 per cent white. Jackson deftly ranges through cross-cultural and historical perspectives, the economics of domestic labour, personal and legal relationships and the role of the state.

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Despite the generally high quality of the essays there are some glaring omissions. There is no critical analysis of women’s studies pedagogy and no discussion of feminist methodologies and praxis as a separate section. There is no attempt to address the lived reality of studying and teaching women’s studies, for example, the overwhelming issue (for some of us) of power, politics and inequities in educational institutions. Other notable omissions include lesbian studies and Queer theory, Asian and Black studies, Third World studies. The new theories currently transforming the whole realm of visual culture are touched on very sparingly. The theoretical and cultural biases of technology and science are not addressed. Introducing Women’s Studies cannot therefore be an introduction to women’s studies but it is a very useful starting point for an assessment of the current state of some feminist research. Maggie Humm Note 1 Women’s Studies Network (UK), Membership: Penny Holt, School of Cultural Studies, Nene College, Park Campus, Northampton NN2 7AL.

References AARON, Jane and WALBY, Sylvia (1991) Out of the Margins: Women’s Studies in the Nineties London: Falmer Press. BROWN, Loulou, COLLINS, Helen, GREEN, Pat, HUMM, Maggie and LANDELLS, Mel (1993) The International Handbook of Women’s Studies (WISH) Hemel Hempstead: Harvester. HINDS, Hilary, PHOENIX, Ann and STACEY, Jackie (1992) Working Out: New Directions for Women’s Studies London: Falmer Press. HUMM, Maggie (1992) Feminisms: A Reader Hemel Hempstead: Harvester. KENNEDY, Mary, LUBELSKA, Cathy and WALSH, Val (1993) Making Connections London: Falmer Press.

Changing Subjects: The Making of Feminist Literary Criticism Edited by Gayle Greene and Coppelia Kahn Routledge: London and New York 1993, ISBN 0 415 08686 8, £11.99 Pbk, ISBN 0 415 08685 X, £37.50 Hbk This collection of essays has a double agenda. Ostensibly it is a history of the rise of academic literary feminism by its instigators who have decided to ‘take responsibility for writing our history, lest others write it for us’ (p. 12). The second agenda is to demonstrate the newest American form of academic feminism by ‘going personal’, seeking to re-tie the personal with the political through the use of autobiography. The book brings together both the history and the her-stories of the institutionalizing of feminism in America. The contributors are conscious of writing now, in an era of conservative backlash, when feminism ‘is the new F-word’ and feminism itself seems to be dissipating. Where they themselves learnt through consciousness-raising, they argue, their own students learn from libraries. What distinguishes the 1970s feminist from the 1990s is feminist scholarship. The essays chart how individual literary academics experienced the shift away from studying canonical male writers, through the critique of male representations, to the championing of neglected women writers and the setting up of women’s studies programmes. These careers are interlinked with the heady days of consciousness-raising groups, when feminists found a voice to proclaim what all women wanted, the challenging of the all-embracing ‘we’ on grounds of class, race and sexual orientation, and then the introduction of that dangerous infiltrator, poststructuralist theory. Indeed theory is clearly the villain here for the majority, it is blamed for the dissipation of feminist passion, for élitism, for irrelevance, for the writers’ alienation, and for seducing us with its aura of (male) intellectual credibility. But how much, I kept wondering, is this a book of the American academy’s mid-life crisis? The complaints of the youthful subversives who have turned into institutional professors and hunger for the fire and certainties of their youth? When the personal testimony is tied to social history, to the bringing of cases of discrimination, the fighting for tenure when women academics were supposed to follow their husbands, and the setting up of teaching collectives, the essays are exciting and engaged. When they focus on charting the respect gained in the Literature department or how choices may have been influenced by their relationship to their mothers, they yield the interests and failings of the confessional autobiography. We are interested in them if we are interested in the narrator. They offer little as a strategy for literary feminism. The contributors are successful professors, but only two acknowledge the status, the power structures, from which they speak. This collection contains the reminiscences of those who have made it into the mainstream. The writers who often transformed

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our ways of discussing texts, here tell how they arrived at those earlier positions: Nancy Miller and Ann Rosalind Jones on feminist poststructuralism; Barbara Christian and Gloria T. Hull on Black writing; Bonnie Zimmerman on lesbian writing. On historical grounds, the essays are important but can such a discourse be open to their students or to the disempowered? ‘Writing about your-self does not liberate you, it just shows how ingrained the ideology of freedom through self-expression is in our thinking’ (p. 139) argues Linda S. Kauffmann. One of the real strengths of this collection is that the editors have not convinced all of the contributors that ‘going personal’ is useful, so what we get is a complex ongoing debate. Arguments passionately for it come from the majority, including Nancy Miller, Gloria T.Hull, Ann Rosalind Jones and Bonnie Zimmerman; arguments against the strategy, from Linda S.Kauffman and (in defence of theory) Jerry Aline Fliege. In between, a whole medley of positions exist. Rachel Blau DuPlessis gives us a thoughtful meditation on the problematics of the strategy while Barbara Christian ignores the debate and simply discusses three books by Afro-American women writers that she found influential. As a collection of essays telling their own history in the institutionalizing of feminist criticism, this book is interesting. As an attempt to shift academic criticism away from theory and back towards empathy and paradigms of success, it is naive and turns its back on all the things that theory has highlighted: suspicion of the constructed unity of the narrative ‘I’, the dangers of relying on authenticity and sincerity as measures of value, the lurking imperialism beneath the stance of empathy and author as exemplar. But then, many of the most damning arguments against going personal come from within its own covers. If life is a swamp, Molly Hite suggests, ‘it doesn’t help all that much to plot routes because…it doesn’t stop being a swamp, you don’t arrive at a culminating region of sure footing’ (p. 128). Merja Makinen Romancing the Postmodern Diane Elam Routledge: London and New York 1992, ISBN 0 415 07987 X, £10.99 Pbk, ISBN 0 415 05732 9, £35.00 Hbk Comedy: The Mastery of Discourse Susan Purdie Harvester Wheatsheaf: Hertfordshire 1993, ISBN 0 7450 0724 4, £9.95 Pbk The Adulteress’s Child: Authorship and Desire in the Nineteenth-Century Novel Naomi Segal Polity Press: Oxford 1992, ISBN 0 7456 0509 5, £39.50 Hbk How many women does it take to change a light bulb? The joke pattern identifies the x after ‘how many?’ as improper performers or inept speakers, which both gives transgressive pleasure, and confirms the teller and the audience, in Susan Purdie’s analysis, in superior competence. The topics of the books under review could be defined as light in other senses: the nineteenthcentury fictional adulteress is ‘a light woman’ whose child fits uneasily into paternal genealogies; definitions of romance, often regarded as light reading, flicker so much that Diane Elam doesn’t come down one way or the other on its being properly a ‘feminine’ form; and while the romance plot as the exchange of women is authoritatively defined as ‘the most usual basis of comedy’, Purdie (who cites Northrop Frye on this) demotes such literary definitions of comedy as a genre, placing it in a broader and more basic linguistic account of joking and funniness, including ordinary social exchange and TV comedy along with classic drama. All of them are thinking seriously and provocatively about feminist theory and possibilities for resistant practice: their titles put the light term first, the heavy second. Well, Diane Elam starts a correspondence between lightweights, romance and the postmodern, but I think this is related to Luce Irigaray’s ‘flirting with the philosophers’, or in this case having a fling with historians, realists, modernists. All offer understandings of genres, plots and patterns, and suggest ways out. Purdie and Segal work out from authoritative structures, Elam evades obvious binaries. Her postmodernism is not a name for contemporary art movements (though she starts her thinking with an excellent discussion of Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, and ends with Jacques Derrida and Kathy Acker). It is linked to transgressing historical periodicity as a way of thinking about history and representation without claiming final understanding, which therefore is trying to think historically, to understand history in a time (not only the present) when there is ‘a loss of credulity in master narratives’. Suggesting that feminism can be other than a modernist movement locating freedom in identity and property, that postmodernism could be ‘the name feminism can give to its escape

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from identity politics’, she tries to match it with the constantly redefined and uncertain genre of romance which, according to Henry James, deals with ‘experience… liberated from the conditions that we usually know to attach to it’. There are anachronistic chapters on Walter Scott, Joseph Conrad and George Eliot, which are not so much new readings of these writers on the borders of historical romance and realism, as ways of seeing how the intersection of gender and genre can make us reconsider what history means, how ‘the cultural voice of the colonized is heard within the tropes of romance’, how ‘the representational framework of political judgement is opened to the play of desires which, emanating as they do from the excluded (women, lost tribes), are a priori irrepresentable’. It’s hard to summarize the arguments of any of these books; summary closes down on their enquiringness. Momentary summaries Elam herself offers are that knowledge will not put an end to desire, nor desire to knowledge; or, ‘[Barbara] Cartland offers women history as an escape from their own lives, Eco offers readers history as an escape from women’. Distinctions are finely made, between nostalgic and postmodern romance (not the past we have lost, but a threat to presently authorized representations), and between ‘ironic temporality’ (the inevitable non-correspondence between the past and our writing of it) and ironic attitudes deliberately adopted. The latter discussion takes the form of one of Scott’s antiquarian footnotes upended into the vertical page-division used by Derrida and Kristéva. Certainly this book made me more intelligently aware of the pun on ‘post’ as both ‘coming after’ and the yearning for impossible correspondence. While Elam’s argument is infolded, implicated, in her way of writing, Purdie’s analysis of the structure of joking and its effects is in some danger of repeating the masterful structures (analysed by the linked hands of Saussure, Lévi-Strauss and Lacan) whose effects she both enjoys and wants to resist; however, we need to explore the layout of the prison if we want to effect an escape. She presents comedy, on Lévi-Strauss’s model of communication, as a discourse in which actions form (as well as perform and replicate) significance, including the identities of individuals and groups as subjective agents. Through basic patterns of exchange jokingly misnegotiated (as in courtship, or, rather more in twentieth-century comedies, postmarital relations) she considers both an arguably universal linguistic or discursive structure, and local problems— changing over time, or contemporaneously different, as when, in English jokes at least, the Irish and women are not interchangeable targets (she says ‘butts’); the Irishman figuring as inept, the woman as the improper subject, who if she speaks shouldn’t. She notes that woman-driver jokes are the exception that prove the rule, in not invoking sexuality or male potency, not overtly. When the butt of a joke is a man who can’t keep a woman in order, male potency is still endorsed. Purdie writes interestingly about comedy as discursive, not metaphysical like tragedy (always more class than comedy, as Angela Carter said in Wise Children), and about distinctions between comedy and farce, irony, satire, carnival, as well as literary accounts of comedy which do turn it metaphysical—for example, comedy as reconciliation between unequals (‘who is it that is reconciled, and to what?’ she asks, knowing how grumpy that can sound), or comedy as celebration of fertility, which is not the same as potency for women, as she rightly says: ‘there is a difference between establishing that comedy ends with celebratory feelings and agreeing that it should be only and unreflectively celebrated.’ She also queries Regina Barreca’s attractive claims about women’s comedic writing (Last Laugh, New York, 1988). Without the boundary between the imaginary and the symbolic there would be no transgression, no jokes (Cixous and Irigaray are implicated here)— though Purdie does consider an oppositional form of comedy, exemplified through Caryl Churchill, which could not be restricted to ‘the feminine’. Her argument (I have focused on its later parts) could be seen as a question about how structural women’s funniness or ‘lack of humour’ is, how far down it goes. One of her minor points it that the clitoris is absent from popular joking (and lesbian sexuality figures only as the absence of masculine penetration). One quibble I would make is that the knowledge called for is sometimes too local, though there is a postscript on ‘Cultural relativity and joking structures’: you would have to be English TV watchers of a certain generation to know that ‘Mainwaring’ refers to Dad’s Army and ‘Margot’s neighbours’ to The Good Life. Bobby Baker figures on the cover and in a footnote, but though her performances and the work of other feminist artists is said to be ‘not always inaccessible’, the scholarly apparatus gives us no way of accessing them. These restrictions are possibly the responsibility of the publisher rather than the writer: it is striking that one of these books is available in hard- and paperback in two countries, the others in Britain, one in hardback only, one in paper-back only (apparently). I see no good reason for these distinctions. All of them negotiate between feminism and the literary or rhetorical which is foregrounded in postmodern and poststructuralist theory. Although Naomi Segal is the closest to traditional literary ‘readings’ in the body of her book (of French ‘récits’, and novels by Stendhal, Flaubert, Maupassant, Tolstoy, Hawthorne and Fontane; her dislike of Flaubert and of The Scarlet Letter, ‘surely one of the most unpleasant books ever written’, is emphatic), she is also the most inclined to make too much of an opposition between empirical feminism and theory, between the reasonable daylight of maternal knowledge and culture’s haunting by male phantasy (like Teresa Brennan’s The Interpretation of the Flesh, Routledge 1992, according to Rachel Bowlby’s response in Women: a Cultural Review, 4, 1 (Spring) 1993:112–17). I was impressed some years ago when I heard her speak of the story of Naomi and Ruth in contrast to that of Sarah and Hagar (strangers bonding with or exiling each other), and how feminists writing about mothers and daughters tended to cast the mother as a daughter to be reeducated; what I’ve waited for is now available in her introduction. (Purdie’s acknowledgement of her son, for ‘jokes lady lecturers might not otherwise encounter’, confirms the tendency to such dedications, which Segal also notes and exemplifies).

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I find Segal’s division between patri- and matrilineal texts suggestive, and her consideration of how the phantasy of authorship places characters and readers in motivated desire: ‘récits’ and realist novels are Oedipal, accounts of the son and the father. We could think also about ‘narrating mothers’, the narrative of the daughter or much more rarely the mother: the impropriety of being a mother and sexually desirous is one of Segal’s concerns, as in E. Anne Kaplan’s Representing Motherhood, though the approach and material are very different. In the texts Segal considers, the adulteress is made to encounter her judgement in the sickness of her son, or having a daughter (Segal briefly expands into twentieth-century plays, films and fiction; Max Ophüls’s 1949 film melodrama Letter From an Unknown Woman, based on a story by Stefan Zweig, with Joan Fontaine as a heroine who had already starred as Rebecca and Jane Eyre, should be added to her genealogy of the sick son story). As she points out, it is now the adulterous father who is more commonly faced with the choice between love and children; his solution is not generally Anna Karenina’s. However, I found the introduction and conclusion more fascinating than the ‘readings’, however careful and subtle. It’s in the conclusion that earlier metaphors of authorship are explained (flying, hovering, leaning down over). Readings have to follow texts, deferring to them even in exposing their misogyny, but at the end Segal commands an eccentric range of material in the service of her enquiry, setting Baudelaire next to sociobiological evidence (exposing the assumptions built into the language), including Ai No Corrida and questionnaires and interviews with mothers about the anticipated gender of their children. What is her inquiry? It’s into the knowledge of mothers, their authority and freedom to choose, and motivated by a passion to remake heterosexual and parental love. I often had to think twice, not always landing where she did. All these books are a provocation to think. Our present, as we make it, is the coming past of our future; not a light thought at all. Elaine Jordan Foucault and Feminism: Power, Gender and the Self Lois McNay Polity Press: Cambridge 1992, ISBN 0 7456 0939 2, £10.95 Pbk, ISBN 0 7456 0938 4, £39.50 Hbk Lois McNay provides here a welcome, innovative and closely argued intervention in the debate on the relationship between feminism, postmodernism and Foucault which helps sharpen the focus of feminist theory by untangling the apparently contradictory impulses in Foucault’s work. McNay’s argument has two major sets of concerns. She is centrally interested in Foucault’s account of the purchase of identity on politics and discusses how this might provide a resource for feminists struggling to reconcile women’s different experiences with a political commitment to the fundamental transformation of sex/gender power relations. This discussion meshes with a careful reinterpretation of Foucault’s work which seeks to distinguish it from postmodern theory. For McNay, it is important that feminists grasp the shift which occurs between Foucault’s earlier and later work in his conception of the individual. Where some writers and critics have seen inconsistencies between Foucault’s deployment of conceptions of autonomy, domination and freedom which would seem only to make sense within an Enlightenment frame of reference, and relativist conceptions of power and truth largely derived from a Nietzschean tradition, McNay sees a developing process of self-critique which results in the production of an important, if problematic, conception of human agency. She argues that while Foucault’s earlier work—most notably Discipline and Punish and The History of Sexuality Volume 1—operates with a notion of the individual as a docile body subject to the disciplinary movement of power, the later work—in particular The Use of Pleasure and The Care of the Self-represents an attempt to reinstate an active form of agency through the conceptions of practices and ethics of the self. Foucault’s non-essentialist conception of the body, supplemented with a notion of the self-determining individual can, McNay argues, provide an important counter to two major problematic tendencies within feminism. It can challenge the image of women as passive victims fixed in a uniform relation to a monolithic patriarchal power structure, because it can recognize the multiple determinations on women’s realities. At another level the theory of the subject which emerges undercuts the essentializing assumptions of some feminist theory, particularly ‘mothering theory’ derived from the theory of object relations, which fails to engage with the historical and cultural determinations on difference and sentimentalizes both mothering and sisterhood. At the same time, McNay is concerned to rescue Foucault from the most intensely nihilistic impulses of postmodern thought and to relocate his project in an Enlightenment vision and its concerns with emancipatory politics. Foucault does not unconditionally celebrate difference, but rather recognizes a need to sever moral concerns from theoretical prescriptions, and to build a moral theory that proceeds from localized realities. If, like the postmodernists, he is suspicious of the normalizing force of meta-narratives, he does not thereby abandon the possibility of morality per se. His belief in the effectivity of critical thought and the coherence of emancipatory activity leads him to develop an ethics of the self which, unlike that of the postmodernists, ‘always takes place in the space of coherent identity’ (p. 135). The Foucauldian conception of the subject is,

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then, potentially more useful for feminism than the logic of endless dissipation or the apocalyptic vision of the schizophrenic as paradigmatic of the postmodern self. For McNay, Foucault is a theorist not of ‘postmodernity’ but of modernity’s dark side, a Romanticist struggling with the question of how the individual might be self-determining in an era of the atrophy of metanarratives and organized through technologies of power which function through regulating and prescribing the category of the individual itself. Yet in crucial ways McNay finds Foucault’s conception of the self wanting for feminism. His disinterest in gender shows not only his sexism but also an insensitivity to the over-determination of social structure on individuals’ struggles for freedom. His insistence on the positivity of power makes him inattentive to the ambivalences, contradictions and enabling aspects of modernity. His ethics of the self is in the last analysis a form of aesthetics locked into introspection and left unanchored by his reluctance to articulate the normative underpinnings of the Enlightenment conceptions he retains. Foucault, on McNay’s reading, is not implicated in all the false dichotomies which have underpinned postmodernist analysis, but he lacks a developed account of the social embeddedness of the individual and so, at the end of the day, falls into the sterility of opposing the individual to the social in a non-dialectical way. Habermas and Benhabib are discussed in some depth, to point to the necessity for a more dialogic conception of the interrelation of self and other in which the other is conceived, not simply as that which the self confronts, but as a dynamic category built into the very process of self-transformation. This is a book which will appeal primarily to an academic audience and to feminists who find engagement with philosophy clarifying for political vision. McNay’s argument proceeds through detailed discussions of the content of Foucault’s work, his insights into the relationship between Greek and Christian conceptions of the self, and his attempts to develop a conception of power adequate to the complexities of the contemporary world. She provides clear and illuminating discussions of Foucault’s critics as well as some of the most influential impulses within feminism. If McNay concludes that feminism cannot finally dispense with general forms of explanation anchored in a conception of justice, she nevertheless establishes Foucault as an important figure in feminism’s own dynamic interrelation with its own theoretical context. Finally, a note of dissent. McNay comments at one point that Foucault does not attend to ‘the involuntary and biological dimensions to sexuality’ or to ‘the emotional or affective side of sexual relations’ (p. 80). From this point of view, Foucault’s anti-essentialism might be seen as a theoretical problem rather than a resolution to the problems of theorizing the female subject, but this is a point which is glossed through the tendency to equate feminist essentialism with mothering theory. The problem of foundationalism, it would seem, persists. But that is to point to the need for a different debate. Janet Ransom The Body Imaged: the Human Form and Visual Culture since the Renaissance Edited by Kathleen Adler and Marcia Pointon Cambridge University Press: Cambridge, UK 1993, ISBN 0 521 447682, £14.95 Pbk, ISBN 0 521 41536 5, £45.00 Hbk The Female Nude: Art, Obscenity and Sexuality Lynda Nead Routledge: London 1992, ISBN 0 415 02678 4, £10.99 Pbk, ISBN 0 415 02677 6, £35.00 Hbk If one wanted a sibillant subtitle for these two books it could be ‘somatics, semiotics and psychoanalysis’ or, simply, ‘the body in the library’. For it is in the library and the academy that the body has been discovered, laid bare and anatomized in the critical theory of the last few years. It has served as a focus to discuss history, power, representation and identity from a number of perspectives. And for all Terry Eagleton’s assertion that there will soon be more bodies in contemporary criticism than on the fields of Waterloo, there is life in the old body yet. Both these books contribute to a growing corpus of work. In them the representation of the body is analysed as a site of signification which points beyond itself to gender relations, and to cultural ideals and norms about femininity and masculinity. In other words, the body is not just ‘mine’, personal, but cultural, its representations imbued with social meanings. Yet this body, so elaborately coded, is not corporeal, nor even organic. It is a poststructuralist body, far removed from the humanist body of Merleau-Ponty’s Phenomenology of Perception. Rather, it is a regulated, Foucauldian body, an index of historically specific social relations, especially those pertaining to gender, a body without interiority which is produced by and through discourse. It is against this intellectual background that the contributions to The Body Imaged seek to track cultural meanings as they are written on the body in Western art. In The Female Nude Lynda Nead does something similar but she looks more

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specifically at the representation of naked women. The Body Imaged, being a collection of twelve essays by different contributors, ranges further in its enquiries to embrace men, Empire, triviality, fetishism, accessories and dance steps, not to mention Western art. Such diverse artists as Mark Rothko and Thomas Eakins, Frida Kahlo and Rosa Bonheur, are included. The essays range from Sharon Fermor’s materialist analysis of sixteenth-century Italian painting, in which contemporary etiquette about dancing and femininity is brought to bear on an analysis of bodily posture and poses in art, to Amelia G.Jones’s more poststructuralist analysis of male masquerade in relation to Marcel Duchamp as Rrose Sélavy. This is a diverse collection which encompasses the high and the low (art and fashion) in the same breath, with some quirky excursions into wigs and hats (Marcia Pointon on the perruque and Briony Fer on Man Ray’s photography respectively). Only Fats Waller’s pedal extremities are missing. The book is divided into four sections, each with a short and useful introduction written, presumably, by its two editors. The sections refer to the body of the artist, to masculinity and femininity as cultural constructs, and to the body as language. The two central sections on gender are the most straight-forward in their descriptions of nine-teenth-century shifts in the meanings of ‘manhood’ and ‘womanliness’. There is, however, a kind of quirkiness of interpretation in the two essays on the nineteenth-century female body which made me wonder whether femininity itself has historically been a more volatile and fluid sign. Whitney Chadwick, for example, traces a series of equivalences between horses and humans in relation to Rosa Bonheur’s ‘The Horse Fair’ of 1853, in which the image of the horse functions metaphorically to secure ‘cultural control over a nature understood as unrestrained and violent, and including the potentially disruptive sexuality of women’ (p. 90). She argues that these same metaphors for the submission of women are found in contemporary discourses of gynaecology, prostitution and pornography. The first and fourth sections of the book are more complex; they draw not just on cultural constructionist arguments but also on psychoanalysis and semiotics as critical tools. The last section draws on the Lacanian idea that the body, and subjectivity, are constructed in language. These essays, whose topics range across four centuries, explore the instability of sexual boundaries, as much as their ‘fixing’ through the process of representation. Here body studies are used to problematize, to question the relationship of past to present, and to contest meaning. The editors argue that the slight traces left by the body — the way a sixteenth-century Italian kicked up his or her legs in dance, the cut of a 1930s hat, the manner of wearing a wig in eighteenth-century London—give us ‘access to the historical body as an intellectual network of signs’ whose legibility is contested and whose meaning is open to interpretation (p. 128). In Against lnterpretation Susan Sontag quotes Nietzsche: ‘there are no facts, only interpretations’ (p. 5). Most of the essays in The Body Imaged are materialist analyses through the lens of discourse theory, psychoanalysis or semiotics. This is a form of art history which privileges readings rather than research. Where research adds to a body of knowledge, interpretation here adds to a body of theory, theory which in fact requires us to question the very status and validity of art historical knowledge itself. Hence it makes sense to read this book as a series of exercises in reading visually. But if there are no facts, only interpretations, here we have a specific type of interpretation which consists not of ascribing meaning to the work as hermetic object but of inscribing the work itself into an intellectual context. But what does this context give us? A series of meditations on the human subject? A theory of identity as a construct which is, in part, literally figured by artistic representation? Many of the debates around the body and identity are debates about subjectivity. Perhaps interpretation is simply a paradigmatic postmodern activity. In 1964 Sontag described interpretation as a radical strategy for conserving an old text by revamping it. Maybe we don’t have classical educations any more, but we do have intertextual postmodern ones—and how better to put them to use than by poring over ancient texts, endlessly construing them. Possibly all our critical tools, from Althusser and Bourdieu to Kristeva and Lacan amount to no more than an elaborate system of hermeneutics, as elaborate as those put forward by Freud and Marx. Interpretation, says Sontag, is ‘the modern way of understanding something’ (p. 8) and she ends by arguing that ‘in place of a hermeneutics we need an erotics of art’ (p. 14), something which, it could be argued, Roland Barthes provided her with a few years later in his account of ‘reading with the body’ in The Pleasure of the Text. Hermeneutics and erotics are explictly connected by Amelia G. Jones who, in her essay on Duchamp, argues that interpretation is repressed sexuality. Invoking Freud she says ‘the struggle for meaning is necessarily an erotic exchange’ (p. 22). Our desire to know, to interpret, or to fix meaning is provoked by the ambiguity of Duchamp masquerading as a woman. As interpretercritics we put ourselves in the same position of authoritative knowledge as the analyst. ‘Like Duchamp’ she concludes, ‘I am implicated, through my interpretive production, in relations of desire’ (p. 27). Here the ambivalence of Duchamp’s masquerade with gender is critically related to the ambivalence of interpretation, as Jones sets up one meaning and then proceeds to destabilize it with a contradictory one, in what Duchamp himself called ‘a little game between “I” and “me”’ (p. 30). There are no such games in Lynda Nead’s The Female Nude. Her argument is predicated on the fact that women exist (perhaps a selfevident proposition but one which has been questioned in some critical theory), and that they have been and are oppressed in Western culture. She sets out to demonstrate this in relation to the female nude in art and representation generally. She talks of ‘feminist art’ as producing ‘alternative and progressive representations of female identity’ (p. 62), although she then goes on to argue for an anti-essentialist concept of ‘woman’ which recognizes plurality, diversity and

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difference between women. Nevertheless, this is a different model of female identity from that which underpins much of The Body Imaged in which the categories of identity, in particular gender, are analysed as fluid, changing, and sometimes unstable. While Amelia G.Jones cites Judith Butler to argue that gender is a fantasy enacted through bodily styles, Nead’s argument implies that female identity may be a social construct but that it is located in the real. Still, The Female Nude shares many of the same intellectual concerns as The Body Imaged. This is art history seen through the lens of cultural studies: it contains ideas about cultural consumption and production from Bourdieu’s Distinction, about cultural boundaries from the anthropologist Mary Douglas, and about vision, knowledge and sexuality from Foucault. Its theme, writes the author, is frames and framing. It is a shortish book with a tight theoretical framework. Chapter 1 examines the idea of boundaries and containment in relation to the female body. The static, contained female body is a subject for art. The mobile, unconfined body without borders is perceived as obscene and pornographic. Chapter 2 tries to examine in detail some of the ways these boundaries have been drawn, through art education, the life class and art criticism, all in relation to the female nude. This section also discusses the impact of feminism and ‘feminist art’ on ideas about the female body. Here some of the tightness of the original framework is dissipated by the range and variety of topics discussed. Nevertheless there is an interesting and useful discussion of women’s art, particularly performance, of the last twenty years. It doesn’t claim to be comprehensive. Chapter 3 mobilizes Bourdieu to talk again about how boundaries are drawn around different types of representation of the female body: high art, glamour photography, pin-ups, soft and hard-core porn. These are analysed in terms of consumption as well as production, and according to the discourse of English law which draws lines around the ‘pornographic’ and ‘obscene’. Here a Foucauldian take on the regulation of sexuality informs a specific exposition of the history of the relevant legislation. Returning to her anthropological model of boundaries as sources of both anxiety and conflict which can in themselves become a sacred space, Nead discusses the constant policing of the boundaries between art and obscenity, erotica and pornography. At this point the book intersects with the debate on pornography, particularly with Linda Williams’ work on hard-core porn, which is cited. Finally Nead argues that the new media and new visual technologies of the 1990s must not be ignored by feminists. New producers of and audiences for images are emerging. Men are no longer the sole arbiters of images of female desire and pleasure. The important question is who has the power of representation, of definition, and of delineation around the female nude. No one could argue with Lynda Nead’s conclusion that we must ensure that women also decide what is pleasurable and exciting in the new visual technologies. But whether they will provide more space for feminist voices and images, as she asserts, remains to be seen. Caroline Evans References BARTHES, Roland (1976) The Pleasure of the Text trans. R.Miller, London: Jonathan Cape. BOURDIEU, Pierre (1984) Distinction: a Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste trans. Richard Nice, London and New York: Routledge & Kegan Paul. BUTLER, Judith (1990) ‘Gender trouble, feminist theory and psychoanalytic discourse’ in Feminism/Postmodernism L.J.Nicholson (editor), New York and London: Routledge, 324–40. EAGLETON, Terry (1993) ‘Body Work by Peter Brooks’ Times Literary Supplement Vol. 15, No. 10, 27 May. MERLEAU-PONTY, M. (1962) Phenomenology of Perception trans. C.Smith, New York: Humanities Press. SONTAG, Susan (1984) Against Interpretation and Other Essays London: Andre Deutsch. WILLIAMS, Linda (1990) Hard Core: Power, Pleasure and the ‘Frenzy of the Visible’ London: Pandora.

Contemporary Feminist Theatres: to Each her Own Lizbeth Goodman London: Routledge 1993, ISBN 0 415 07306 5, £11.99 Pbk, ISBN 0 415 07305 7, £35.00 Hbk Since Michelene Wandor’s Carry on Understudies was published in 1986, there have been few books which bring together the almost nonexistent coverage of contemporary feminist theatres. From an academic point of view, disparate information about the recent history, theories and practices of feminist theatres has had to be gleaned from a wide range of often ephemeral sources such as articles, chapters, papers and even word-of-mouth, frequently deriving from cultural, literary and film criticism rather than the specifically theatre-related, and although the author has extensively and generously acknowledged the pioneering work done by other writers, there continues to be a constant cry for work which begins to bring some of these concerns together. Equally, there is a need to valorize the experiences of feminist theatre practitioners: writers, directors, performers and designers, whose work and ideas are by their nature marginalized or lost through a lack of authorization. In

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this detailed and meticulous book Lizbeth Goodman sets out to achieve both these tasks, and the eagerness with which her book has been pounced on by women working in theatre and particularly academia is a clear indication of such needs. However, as is generally the case with desires, fulfilment is not always entirely achieved. The book is concerned specifically with political theatre oriented toward change; a history of British ‘feminist’ rather than ‘women’s’ theatre produced since 1968. This strategy means that forms of theatre practice and critical approaches developing from psychoanalytic, post-structuralist or postmodern theories, and particularly those of the French feminists, have been necessarily but sadly omitted, although the book does set out to address cultural contexts and informing performance theories as well as their differences and similarities in theatre and societal practices. The book is extremely well-organized with self-contained chapters and sections which are not developmental, but which frequently cross-reference where necessary (and sometimes, frustratingly, do not). The reasons for the organization of the eight broad chapter headings are clearly set out in the Introduction. The positive aspect of this organizational strategy means that the book is excellent for ‘dipping into’ for particular information, and, indeed I was able immediately to recommend the section on the representation of Black women in contemporary theatres to a student who is working on precisely that topic. However, because the book is so painstakingly researched and brings together a great deal of information rather than innovative concepts or ideas, it is difficult to read it right through, although the extensive Introduction and the thoughtful Conclusion which seeks new definitions for the ‘ambiguous identities’ of feminist theatres provide a strong structural framework. Within that framework however, there are some apparent, and perhaps inevitable, inconsistencies. Although the strategies and parameters are clearly set out and most chapters focus exclusively on the social, historical or contextual, the chapter on lesbian theatres is specifically theoretical, applying some of the ideas from feminist film and literary criticism (based on Laura Mulvey’s theory of the male gaze), to the culturally produced image of ‘the feminine’ and exploring the construction of the lesbian spectator in theatre. This theorizing of the spectator was rather at odds with other explorations of audience in the book which were almost entirely sociological. Lizbeth Goodman laments the lack of any comprehensive gender-and/or ethnicityspecific audience survey but, in the manner which is adopted throughout the book, she collects together a wide range of useful and otherwise disparate information. This need to encompass information and ideas means that there is also a collapsing of theoretical notions of authorship with the concrete problem of whose name should appear on published materials, particularly for plays or performances which have been collectively devised and written. The advantage of such exhaustive coverage, however, is that much of the work done in and by feminist theatre(s) in Britain is recorded and is supported by an excellent bibliography which indicates extensive riches for further reading; the painstaking research done by Lizbeth Goodman offers the reader a history of the struggles and achievements of a wide spectrum of women engaged in the representation(s) of self in feminist theatre since 1968. Lizbeth Goodman also moves towards a ‘new theory’ for feminist theatre(s) which aims to take account of aesthetic and political considerations within the diversity and range of practices described in the book. Although she proposes a more ‘practical’ approach than the ‘new poetics’ suggested by Sue-Ellen Case (Case, 1988:112), they are both arguing for a flexible theory which encompasses a dialectical relationship between theory and practice. This is a hugely useful book, filling in many gaps, and students in particular will find it a rich resource and a sound introduction to further study. Practitioners and academics alike will find in its range of detail an informative account of often unrecorded recent feminist theatre histories. Sue Smith Reference CASE, Sue-Ellen (1988) Feminism and Theatre London: Macmillan.

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Calls for Papers National Women’s Studies Association

Teaching, Theory and Action: Women Working in a Global Perspective. Iowa State University, Ames, Iowa, June 15–19, 1994. Plenary Topics: Human Rights/Women’s Rights

What’s the status of women’s rights in different countries? Does ‘human rights’ include women’s rights? Does including women’s rights in human rights erase women? Is ‘rights’ a Eurocentric concept? Politics of Women’s Work

What are the politics of women’s work in the household, in the workplace, in scientific and technical fields, on the global assembly line, in agriculture and in sex work? How do we study women’s work in a comparative framework? Feminist Theories in a Global Context

How are US feminist theories challenged and/or redefined by the work, thought and experience of women from other cultures? What are the implications for theory of working in a global context? Is it possible or desirable to create a common theoretical discourse? How does theory inform practice or practice inform theory in different contexts? Conceptualizing the Body: Comparative Perspectives

What are the theoretical, social, medical, legal, cultural conceptions of the female body in different cultures? How is the female body represented across cultures? How can we address the violence done to women’s bodies in many cultures? Does ‘the body’ exist as a concept in all cultures? Papers, panels, workshops, performances and presentations of all kinds and on all topics are invited. Send an abstract to: Kris Anderson, NWSA Conference Office, 105, Landscape Architecture, Iowa State University, Ames 1A, 50011, USA. Women’s Studies Network (UK), Annual Conference, 8–10 July, 1994 Women’s Studies in an International Context: Debates and Controversies. Proposals for papers for the above conference to be held at the University of Portsmouth, England, are invited for the following strands: Women’s Studies and Gender Studies; Black Studies and Ethnic Studies; Women’s History; Lesbian Studies; Women and Nationalisms; Women and Cultural Production; Women and Education; Women and Social Policy; Sexuality. Papers by women from diverse ethnic backgrounds, of diverse ability and sexual orientation are most welcome. Please send proposals (up to 200 words) and any queries to either Mary Maynard, Centre for Women’s Studies, University of York, York, YO1 5DD, England or June Purvis, School of Social and Historical Studies, University of Portsmouth, Burnaby Road, Portsmouth, PO1 3AS, England. Modernism, Gender, and Culture

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Papers wanted for already contracted interdisciplinary collection to be published by the Garland Press of New York. Topics should focus on the intersections between gender issues and modernist (1900–1950) culture and can center on the arts, sciences, social sciences, or mass culture. Send 1-page abstracts by July 1, 1994 to Lisa Rado, Department of English, University of Michigan, 7617 Haven Hall, Ann Arbor, MI 48109–1045. Announcements The editors of Legacy: A Journal of American Women Writers wish to reiterate their earlier announcement that the journal welcomes critical articles about and profiles of American women writers of the seventeenth, eighteenth and early twentieth centuries (up to modernism) as well as of the nineteenth. They also seek articles treating multiple authors thematically as well as focusing on single authors and texts, and approaches based in contemporary theory as well as in feminist, historical and formalist ones. As of the Fall 1993 issue, Susan K. Harris will replace Joanne Dobson. Karen Dandurand and Martha Ackmann will continue as co-editors. Prospective authors should send manuscript submissions to Karen Dandurand, Department of English, Indiana U of Pennsylvania, Indiana, PA 15705. Enquiries regarding profiles should be addressed to Martha Ackmann, Women’s Studies Department, Mount Holyoke College, South Hadley, MA 01075. The Iowa Guide: Scholarly Journals in Mass Communication and Related Fields 5th Edition is now available from Iowa Center for Communication Study, University of Iowa, Iowa City, 1A 52242, USA price $12. Change of Address The International Information Centre and Archives for the Women’s Movement has moved to: Gerardus Majellakerk, Obiplein 4, 1094 RH Amsterdam, The Netherlands. Information Services: 31 20 6650820; Administration: 31 20 6651318; Fax: 31 20 6655812.

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BACK ISSUES

1 Women and Revolution in South Yemen, Molyneux. Feminist Art Practice, Davis & Goodall. Equal Pay and Sex Discrimination, Snell. Female Sexuality in Fascist Ideology, Macciocchi. Charlotte Brontë’s Shirley, Taylor. Christine Delphy, Barrett & McIntosh. OUT OF PRINT. 2 Summer Reading, O’Rourke. Disaggregation, Campaign for Legal & Financial Independence and Rights of Women. The Hayward Annual 1978, Pollock. Women and the Cuban Revolution, Murray. Matriarchy Study Group Papers, Lee. Nurseries in the Second World War, Riley. 3 English as a Second Language, Naish. Women as a Reserve Army of Labour, Bruegel. Chantal Akerman’s films, Martin. Femininity in the 1950s, Birmingham Feminist History Group. On Patriarchy, Beechey. Board School Reading Books, Davin. 4 Protective Legislation, Coyle. Legislation in Israel, Yuval-Davis. On ‘Beyond the Fragments’, Wilson. Queen Elizabeth I, Heisch. Abortion Politics: a dossier. Materialist Feminism, Delphy. 5 Feminist Sexual Politics, Campbell. Iranian Women, Tabari. Women and Power, Stacey & Price. Women’s Novels, Coward. Abortion, Himmelweit. Gender and Education, Nava. Sybilla Aleramo, Caesar. On ‘Beyond the Fragments’, Margolis. 6 ‘The Tidy House’, Steedman. Writings on Housework, Kaluzynska. The Family Wage, Land. Sex and Skill, Phillips & Taylor. Fresh Horizons, Lovell. Cartoons, Hay. 7 Protective Legislation, Humphries. Feminists Must Face the Future, Coultas. Abortion in Italy, Caldwell. Women’s Trade Union Conferences, Breitenbach. Women’s Employment in the Third World, Elson & Pearson. 8 Socialist Societies Old and New, Molyneux. Feminism and the Italian Trade Unions, Froggett & Torchi. Feminist Approach to Housing in Britain, Austerberry & Watson. Psychoanalysis, Wilson. Women in the Soviet Union, Buckley. The Struggle within the Struggle, Kimble. 9 Position of Women in Family Law, Brophy & Smart. Slags or Drags, Cowie & Lees. The Ripper and Male Sexuality, Hollway. The Material of Male Power, Cockburn. Freud’s Dora, Moi. Women in an Iranian Village, Afshar. New Office Technology and Women, Morgall. 10 Towards a Wages Strategy for Women, Weir & McIntosh. Irish Suffrage Movement, Ward. A Girls’ Project and Some Responses to Lesbianism, Nava. The Case for Women’s Studies, Evans. Equal Pay and Sex Discrimination, Gregory. Psychoanalysis and Personal Politics, Sayers. 11 SEXUALITY ISSUE Sexual Violence and Sexuality, Coward. Interview with Andrea Dworkin, Wilson. The Dyke, the Feminist and the Devil, Clark. Talking Sex, English, Hollibaugh & Rubin. Jealousy and Sexual Difference, Moi. Ideological Politics 1969–72, O’Sullivan. Womanslaughter in the Criminal Law, Radford. OUT OF PRINT. 12 ANC Women’s Struggles, Kimble & Unterhalter. Women’s Strike in Holland 1981, de Bruijn & Henkes. Politics of Feminist Research, McRobbie. Khomeini’s Teachings on Women, Afshar. Women in the Labour Party 1906–1920, Rowan. Documents from the Indian Women’s Movement, Gothoskar & Patel. 13 Feminist Perspectives on Sport, Graydon. Patriarchal Criticism and Henry James, Kappeler. The Barnard Conference on Sexuality, Wilson. Danger and Pleasure in Nineteenth Century Feminist Sexual Thought, Gordon & Du Bois. AntiPorn: Soft Issue, Hard World, Rich. Feminist Identity and Poetic Tradition, Montefiore. 14 Femininity and its Discontents, Rose. Inside and Outside Marriage, Gittins. The Pro-family Left in the United States, Epstein & Ellis. Women’s Language and Literature, McKluskie The Inevitability of Theory, Fildes. The 150 Hours in Italy, Caldwell. Teaching Film, Clayton. 15 Women’s Employment, Beechey. Women and Trade Unions, Charles. Lesbianism and Women’s Studies, Adamson. Teaching Women’s Studies at Secondary School, Kirton. Gender, Ethnic and Class Divisions, Anthias & Yuval-Davis.

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Women Studying or Studying Women, Kelly & Pearson. Girls, Jobs and Glamour, Sherratt. Contradictions in Teaching Women’s Studies, Phillips & Hurstfield. 16 Romance Fiction, Female Sexuality and Class, Light. The White Brothel, Kappeler. Sadomasochism and Feminism, France. Trade Unions and Socialist Feminism, Cockburn. Women’s Movement and the Labour Party, Interview with Labour Party Feminists. Feminism and The Family’, Caldwell. 17 MANY VOICES, ONE CHANT: BLACK FEMINIST PERSPECTIVES Challenging Imperial Feminism, Amos & Parmar. Black Women, the Economic Crisis and the British State, Mama. Asian Women in the Making of History, Trivedi. Black Lesbian Discussions, Carmen, Gail, Shaila & Pratibha. Poetry. Black women Organizing Autonomously: a collection. 18 CULTURAL POLITICS Writing with Women. A Metaphorical Journey, Lomax. Karen Alexander: Video Worker, Nava. Poetry by Riley, Whiteson and Davies. Women’s Films, Montgomery. ‘Correct Distance’ a photo-text, Tabrizian. Julia Kristeva on Femininity, Jones. Feminism and the Theatre, Wandor. Alexis Hunter, Osborne. Format Photographers, Dear Linda, Kuhn. 19 The Female Nude in the work of Suzanne Valadon, Betterton. Refuges for Battered Women, Pahl. Thin is the Feminist Issue, Diamond. New Portraits for Old, Martin & Spence. 20 Prisonhouses, Steedman. Ethnocentrism and Socialist Feminism, Barrett & McIntosh What Do Women Want? Rowbotham. Women’s Equality and the European Community, Hoskyns. Feminism and the Popular Novel of the 1890s, Clarke. 21 Going Private: The Implications of Privatization for Women’s Work, Coyle. A Girl Needs to Get Street-wise: Magazines for the 1980s, Winship. Family Reform in Socialist States: The Hidden Agenda, Molyneux. Sexual Segregation in the Pottery Industry, Sarsby. 22 Interior Portraits: Women, Physiology and the Male Artist, Pointon. The Control of Women’s Labour: The Case of Homeworking, Allen & Wolkowitz. Homeworking: Time for Change, Cockpit Gallery & Londonwide Homeworking Group. Feminism and Ideology: The Terms of Women’s Stereotypes, Seiter. Feedback: Feminism and Racism, Ramazanoglu, Kazi, Lees, Safia Mirza. 23 SOCIALIST-FEMINISM: OUT OF THE BLUE Feminism and Class Politics: A Round-Table Discussion, Barrett, Campbell, Philips, Weir & Wilson. Upsetting an Applecart: Difference, Desire and Lesbian Sadomasochism, Ardill & O’Sullivan. Armagh and Feminist Strategy, Loughran. Transforming Socialist-Feminism: The Challenge of Racism, Bhavnani & Coulson. Socialist-Feminists and Greenham, Finch & Hackney Greenham Groups. Socialist-Feminism and the Labour Party: Some Experiences from Leeds, Perrigo. Some Political Implications of Women’s Involvement in the Miners’ Strike, 1984–85, Rowbotham & McCrindle. Sisterhood: Political Solidarity Between Women, Hooks. European Forum of Socialist-Feminists, Lees & McIntosh. Report from Nairobi, Hendessi. 24 Women Workers in New Industries in Britain, Glucksmann. The Relationship of Women to Pornography, Bower. The Sex Discrimination Act 1975, Atkins. The Star Persona of Katharine Hepburn, Thumim. 25 Difference: A Special Third World Women Issue, Minh-ha. Melanie Klein, Psychoanalysis and Feminism, Sayers. Rethinking Feminist Attitudes Towards Mothering, Gieve. EEOC v. Sears, Roebuck and Company: A Personal Account, Kessler-Harris. Poems, Wood. Academic Feminism and the Process of De-radicalization, Currie & Kazi. A Lover’s Distance: A Photoessay, Boffin. 26 Resisting Amnesia: Feminism, Painting and Post-Modernism, Lee. The Concept of Difference, Barrett. The Weary Sons of Freud, Clément. Short Story, Cole. Taking the Lid Off: Socialist Feminism in Oxford, Collette. For and Against the European Left: Socialist Feminists Get Organized, Benn. Women and the State: A Conference of Feminist Activists, Weir. 27 WOMEN, FEMINISM AND THE THIRD TERM: Women and Income Maintenance, Lister. Women in the Public Sector, Phillips Can Feminism Survive a Third Term?, Loach. Sex in Schools, Wolpe. Carers and the Careless, Doyal. Interview with Diane Abbott, Segal. The Problem With No Name: Re-reading Friedan, Bowlby. Second Thoughts on the Second Wave, Rosenfelt & Stacey. Nazi Feminists?, Gordon. 28 FAMILY SECRETS: CHILD SEXUAL ABUSE: Introduction to an Issue: Family Secrets as Public Drama, McIntosh. Challenging the Orthodoxy: Towards a Feminist Theory and Practice, MacLeod & Saraga. The Politics of Child Sexual Abuse: Notes from American History, Gordon. What’s in a Name?: Defining Child Sexual Abuse, Kelly. A Case, Anon. Defending Innocence: Ideologies of Childhood, Kitzinger. Feminism and the Seductiveness of the ‘Real Event’, Scott. Cleveland and the Press: Outrage and Anxiety in the Reporting of Child Sexual Abuse, Nava. Child Sexual Abuse and the Law, Woodcraft. Poem, Betcher. Brixton Black Women’s Centre: Organizing on Child Sexual Abuse, Bogle. Bridging the Gap: Glasgow Women’s Support Project, Bell & Macleod. Claiming Our Status as Experts: Community

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Organizing, Norwich Consultants on Sexual Violence. Islington Social Services: Developing a Policy on Child Sexual Abuse, Boushel & Noakes. Developing a Feminist School Policy on Child Sexual Abuse, O’Hara. ‘Putting Ideas into their Heads’: Advising the Young, Mills. Child Sexual Abuse Crisis Lines: Advice for Our British Readers. 29 ABORTION: THE INTERNATIONAL AGENDA: Whatever Happened to ‘A Woman’s Right to Choose’?, Berer. More than ‘A Woman’s Right to Choose’?, Himmelweit. Abortion in the Republic of Ireland, Barry. Across the Water, Irish Women’s Abortion Support Group. Spanish Women and the Alton Bill, Spanish Women’s Abortion Support Group. The Politics of Abortion in Australia: Freedom, Church and State, Coleman. Abortion in Hungary, Szalai. Women and Population Control in China: Issues of Sexuality, Power and Control, Hillier. The Politics of Abortion in Nicaragua: Revolutionary Pragmatism—or Feminism in the realm of necessity?, Molyneux. Who Will Sing for Theresa?, Bernstein. She’s Gotta Have It: The Representation of Black Female Sexuality on Film, Simmonds. Poems, Gallagher. Dyketactics for Difficult Times: A Review of the ‘Homosexuality, Which Homosexuality?’ Conference, Franklin & Stacey. 30 CAPITAL, GENDER AND SKILL: Women Homeworkers in Rural Spain, Lever. Fact and Fiction: George Egerton and Nellie Shaw, Butler. Feminist Political Organization in Iceland: Some Reflections on the Experience of Kwenna Frambothid, Dominelli & Jonsdottir. Under Western Eyes: Feminist Scholarship and Colonial Discourses, Talpade Mohanty. Bedroom Horror: The Fatal Attraction of Intercourse, Merck. AIDS: Lessons from the Gay Community, Patton. Poems, Agbabi. 31 THE PAST BEFORE US: 20 YEARS OF FEMINISM: Slow Change or No Change?: Feminism, Socialism and the Problem of Men, Segal. There’s No Place Like Home: On the Place of Identity in Feminist Politics, Adams. New Alliances: Socialist-Feminism in the Eighties, Harriss. Other Kinds of Dreams, Parmar. Complexity, Activism, Optimism: Interview with Angela Y.Davis. To Be or Not To Be: The Dilemmas of Mothering, Rowbotham. Seizing Time and Making New: Feminist Criticism, Politics and Contemporary Feminist Fiction, Lauret. Lessons from the Women’s Movement in Europe, Haug. Women in Management, Coyle. Sex in the Summer of’88, Ardill & O’Sullivan. Younger Women and Feminism, Hobsbawm & Macpherson. Older Women and Feminism, Stacey; Curtis; Summerskill. 32 ‘Those Who Die for Life Cannot Be Called Dead’: Women and Human Rights Protest in Latin America, Schirmer. Violence Against Black Women: Gender, Race and State Responses, Mama. Sex and Race in the Labour Market, Breugel. The ‘Dark Continent’: Africa as Female Body in Haggard’s Adventure Fiction, Stott. Gender, Class and the Welfare State: The Case of Income Security in Australia, Shaver. Ethnic Feminism: Beyond the Pseudo-Pluralists, Gorelick. 33 Restructuring the Woman Question: Perestroika and Prostitution, Waters. Contemporary Indian Feminism, Kumar. ‘A Bit On the Side’?: Gender Struggles in South Africa, Beall, Hassim and Todes. ‘Young Bess’: Historical Novels and Growing Up, Light. Madeline Pelletier (1874–1939): The Politics of Sexual Oppression, Mitchell. 34 PERVERSE POLITICS: LESBIAN ISSUES Pat Parker: A tribute, Brimstone. International Lesbianism: Letter from São Paulo, Rodrigues; Israel, Pittsburgh, Italy, Fiocchetto. The De-eroticization of Women’s Liberation: Social Purity Movements and the Revolutionary Feminism of Sheila Jeffreys, Hunt. Talking About It: Homophobia in the Black Community, Gomez & Smith. Lesbianism and the Labour Party, Tobin. Skirting the Issue: Lesbian fashion for the 1990s, Blackman & Perry. Butch/ Femme Obsessions, Ardill & O’Sullivan. Archives: The Will to Remember, Nestle; International Archives, Read. Audre Lorde: Vignettes and Mental Conversations, Lewis. Lesbian Tradition, Field. Mapping: Lesbians, AIDS and Sexuality An interview with Cindy Patton, O’Sullivan. Significant Others: Lesbians and Psychoanalytic Theory, Hamer. The Pleasure Threshold: Looking at Lesbian Pornography on Film, Smyth. Cartoon, Charlesworth. Voyages of the Valkyries: Recent Lesbian Pornographic Writing, Dunn. 35 Campaign Against Pornography, Norden. The Mothers’ Manifesto and Disputes over ‘Mutterlichkeit’, Chamberlayne. Multiple Mediations: Feminist Scholarship in the Age of Multi-National Reception, Mani. Cagney and Lacey Revisited, Alcock & Robson. Cutting a Dash: The Dress of Radclyffe Hall and Una Troubridge, Rolley. Deviant Dress, Wilson. The House that Jill Built: Lesbian Feminist Organizing in Toronto, 1976–1980, Ross. Women in Professional Engineering: the Interaction of Gendered Structures and Values, Carter & Kirkup. Identity Politics and the Hierarchy of Oppression, Briskin. Poetry: Bufkin, Zumwalt. 36 The Trouble Is It’s Ahistorical’: The Problem of the Unconscious in Modern Feminist Theory, Minsky. Feminism and Pornography, Ellis, O’Dair Tallmer. Who Watches the Watchwomen? Feminists Against Censorship, Rodgerson & Semple. Pornography and Violence: What the ‘Experts’ Really Say, Segal. The Woman In My Life: Photography of Women, Nava. Splintered Sisterhood: Antiracism in a Young Women’s Project, Connolly. Woman, Native, Other, Parmar interviews Trinh T.Minh-ha. Out But Not Down: Lesbians’ Experience of Housing, Edgerton. Poems: Evans

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Davies, Toth, Weinbaum. Oxford Twenty Years On: Where Are We Now?, Gamman & O’Neill. The Embodiment of Ugliness and the Logic of Love: The Danish Redstockings Movement, Walter. 37 THEME ISSUE: WOMEN, RELIGION AND DISSENT Black Women, Sexism and Racism: Black or Antiracist Feminism?, Tang Nain. Nursing Histories: Reviving Life in Abandoned Selves, McMahon The Quest for National Identity: Women, Islam and the State in Bangladesh, Kabeer. Born Again Moon: Fundamentalism in Christianity and the Feminist Spirituality Movement, McCrickard. Washing our Linen: One Year of Women Against Fundamentalism, Connolly. Siddiqui on Letter to Christendom, Bard on Generations of Memories, Patel on Women Living Under Muslim Laws Dossiers 1–6, Poem, Kay. More Cagney and Lacey, Gamman.. 38 The Modernist Style of Susan Sontag, McRobbie. Tantalizing Glimpses of Stolen Glances: Lesbians Take Photographs, Fraser and Boffin. Reflections on the Women’s Movement in Trinidad, Mohammed Fashion, Representation and Femininity, Evans & Thornton. The European Women’s Lobby, Hoskyns. Hendessi on Law of Desire: Temporary Marriage in Iran, Kaveney on Mercy. 39 SHIFTING TERRITORIES: FEMINISM & EUROPE Between Hope and Helplessness: Women in the GDR, Dolling. Where Have All the Women Gone? Women and the Women’s Movement in East Central Europe, Einhorn. The End of Socialism in Europe—A New Challenge For Socialist Feminism? Haug. The Second ‘No’: Women in Hungary, Kiss. The Citizenship Debate: Women, the State and Ethnic Processes, Yuval-Davis. Fortress Europe and Migrant Women, Morokvasíc. Racial Equality and 1992, Dummett. Questioning Perestroika: A Socialist Feminist Interrogation, Pearson. Postmodernism and its Discontents, Soper. Feminists and Socialism: After the Cold War, Kaldor. Socialism Out of the Common Pots, Mitter. 1989 and All That, Campbell In Listening Mode, Cockburn. Women in Action: Country by Country: The Soviet Union; Yugoslavia; Czechoslovakia; Hungary; Poland. Reports: International Gay and Lesbian Association: Black Women and Europe 1992. 40 Fleurs du Mal or Second-Hand Roses?: Nathalie Barney, Romaine Brooks, and the ‘Originality of the Avant-Garde’, Elliott & Wallace. Poem, Tyler-Bennett. Feminism and Motherhood: An American ‘Reading, Snitow. Qualitative Research, Appropriation of the ‘Other’ and Empowerment, Opie. Disabled Women and the Feminist Agenda, Begum. Postcard From the Edge: Thoughts on the ‘Feminist Theory: An International Debate’ Conference at Glasgow University, July 1991, Radstone. Review Essay, Munt. 41 Editorial. The Selling of HRT: Playing on the Fear Factor, Worcester & Whatley. The Cancer Drawings of Catherine Arthur, Sebastyen. Ten Years of Women’s Health 1982–92, James. AIDS Activism: Women and AIDS Activism in Victoria, Australia, Mitchell. A Woman’s Subject, Friedli. HIV and the Invisibility of Women: Is there a Need to Redefine AIDS?, Scharf & Toole. Lesbians Evolving Health Care: Cancer and AIDS, Winnow. Now is the Time for Feminist Criticism: A Review of Asinimali!, Steinberg. Ibu or the Beast: Gender Interests in Two Indonesian Women’s Organizations, Wieringa. Reports on Motherlands: Symposium on African, Carribean and Asian Women’s Writing, Smart. The European Forum of Socialist Feminists, Bruegel. Review Essay, Gamman. 42 FEMINIST FICTIONS: Editorial. Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber and the Decolonization of Feminine Sexuality, Makinen. Feminist Writing: Working with Women’s Experience, Haug. Three Aspects of Sex in Marge Piercy’s Fly Away Home, Hauser. Are They Reading Us? Feminist Teenage Fiction, Bard. Sexuality in Lesbian Romance Fiction, Hermes. A Psychoanalytic Account for Lesbianism, Castendyk. Mary Wollstonecraft and the Problematic of Slavery, Ferguson. Reviews. 43 ISSUES FOR FEMINISM: Family, Motherhood and Zulu Nationalism: The Politics of the Inkatha Women’s Brigade, Hassim. Postcolonial Feminism and the Veil: Thinking the Difference, Abu Odeh. Feminism, the Menopause and Hormone Replacement Therapy, Lewis. Feminism and Disability, Morris. ‘What is Pornography?’: An Analysis of the Policy Statement of the Campaign Against Pornography and Censorship, Smith. Reviews. 44 NATIONALISMS AND NATIONAL IDENTITIES Women, Nationalism and Islam in Contemporary Political Discourse in Iran, Yeganeh. Feminism, Citizenship and National Identity, Curthoys. Remapping and Renaming: New Cartographies of Identity, Gender and Landscape in Ireland, Nash. Rap Poem: Easter 1991, Medbh. Family Feuds: Gender, Nationalism and the Family, McClintock. Women as Activists; Women as Symbols: A Study of the Indian Nationalist Movement, Thapar. Gender, Nationalisms and National Identities: Bellagio Symposium Report, Hall. Culture or Citizenship? Notes from the Gender and Colonialism Conference, Galway, Ireland, May 1992, Connolly. Reviews. 45 THINKING THROUGH ETHNICITIES Audre Lorde: Reflections. Re-framing Europe: Engendered Racisms, Ethnicities and Nationalisms in Contemporary Western Europe, Brah. Towards a Multicultural Europe? ‘Race’ Nation and Identity in 1992 and Beyond, Bhavnani. Another View: Photo Essay, Pollard. Growing Up White: Feminism, Racism and the Social Geography of Childhood,

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Frankenberg. Poem, Kay. Looking Beyond the Violent Break-up of Yugoslavia, Coulson Personal Reactions of a Bosnian Woman to the War in Bosnia, Harper. Serbian Nationalism: Nationalism of My Own People, Korac. Belgrade Feminists 1992: Separation, Guilt and Identity Crisis, Mladjenovic, Litricin. Report on a Council of Europe Minority Youth Committee Seminar on Sexism and Racism in Western Europe, Walker. Reviews. 46 SEXUALITIES: CHALLENGE AND CHANGE Chips, Coke and Rock-’n-Roll: Children’s Mediation of an Invitation to a First Dance Party, Rossiter. Power and Desire: The Embodiment of Female Sexuality, Holland, Ramazanoglu, Sharpe, Thomson. Two Poems, Janzen. A Girton Girl on the Throne: Queen Christina and Versions of Lesbianism 1906–1933. Changing Interpretations of the Sexuality of Queen Christina of Sweden, Waters. The Pervert’s Progress: An Analysis of ‘The Story of O’ and The Beauty Trilogy, Ziv. Dis-Graceful Images: Della Grace and Lesbian Sadomasochism, Lewis Reviews.

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