And in a short while, we shall travel to it [the sea], in the modern ships of Noah, to a blueness that leads to an unending whiteness, that reveals no shore. Where to.. Where in the ocean will the ocean take us?[8]Dhākira li-l-nisyān describes one day in August during the height of the siege, when the Israeli forces unleashed all available firepower on the city in order to compel a surrender. In the fractured and fragmented book, part autobiography, part prose poem, part intertextual experiment, the reader enters Darwish’s mind as the world dissolves around him. Eventually, he accepts that despite all steadfastness and refusal, he will have to surrender to the sea. As he goes to bed at the end of the day, the final words of the book are:
The sea walks in the streets. The sea hangs from the windows and the branches of dried out trees. The sea descends from the sky and enters the room. Blue.. White.. Foam.. Waves. I do not love the sea.. I do not want the sea, because I do not see a shore, or a dove. I do not see anything in the sea except the sea. I do not see a shore. I do not see a dove.[9]In Genesis 8:11, Noah waits for a dove to return with a sign that there is once again land above the water. In referencing the biblical flood, Darwish is watching the horizon, seeing only more water. No shore. No dove. The imagery of the flood does more than describe his sense of dislocation. All the world seems turned into water, even the windows and the branches of trees. Darwish belonged to a generation raised on the ideals of Arab nationalism, which included the promise of a future in which the postcolonial Arab nation-states would come together, eventually liberating Palestine. This dream faded slowly and painfully in the latter half of the 20th century. The United Arab Republic of Syria and Egypt ended in 1961 after only three years. Israel won a major victory in 1967, shocking the Arab world and inciting the ongoing occupation of the West Bank and Gaza. In 1979, Egypt signed a peace agreement with Israel. The Lebanese Civil War was the final blow to the dream of unity, as Palestinians, Syrians and Lebanese factions fell on each other in overlapping conflicts and brutal massacres. The Israeli invasion of Lebanon during this civil war is characterised by literary scholar Stephan Guth as the ‘total collapse of all hope’[10] among Arabic intellectuals. Under this flood lay the mutilated remains of the hopes and ideals on which Darwish was raised. The truths that structured his old reality had slowly fractured over the previous two decades, cleaving his world. In 1982, he found himself in an unfamiliar world where all ideals seemed hollow, and all structure was lost. All that remained was the chaos of foaming waves, tossing him around without the promise of a shore or a dove. However, a cosmic flood is not merely an end. The waters also carry the seeds of a new world. Like the roaring primordial chaos in mythologies around the world, his sea contained the potential for creation.[11] For Darwish, this was only possible if intellectuals finished the job of dismantling the old world. Meditating on the role of writers in times of war in Dhākira li-l-nisyān, he writes:
It is fitting that we honour the awe which these hours are unfolding, the hours in which human existence is transferred from one shore to another, and from one time (ṭawr) to another. And it is fitting that old poetry knows how to be silent in humility in the presence of this newborn. And if it is necessary for intellectuals, or some of them, to turn into sharpshooters, then let them endeavour to shoot their old concepts, questions, and morals.[12]The word ṭawr can mean a time period, but also a state or phase of being. The collapse of a time and a movement from shore to shore is also a shift in the fundamental structure of lived reality. Throughout his creative dismantling of the old world, Darwish held his silence, unable to write poetry during the siege. However, he promised to one day go back to writing poetry:
When the guns quiet down a bit. When I unleash (ʾufajjir) my silence, which is full of all these voices. When I find my adequate language.[13]The word ʾufajjir also means to bombard or to explode – his silence would one day be his way to return fire. When land rose from the waves of the sea, Darwish knew that he would find a budding language in the graveyard of old poetry, concepts, questions and ethics. In a poem written shortly after his departure from Beirut in September of 1982, Hymn to the Rising Shadow (1983), the first-person character has a conversation with a voice that repeatedly asks him, ‘What are you looking for, young man, in the broken boat of the Odyssey?’[14] He answers, ‘For a wave that I lost in the sea’. The voice asks him if the migrant does indeed find a wave. The reply is:
The migrant finds a wave that has drowned and brings it with him. A sea for you to live in, or to be lost. A sea for the new September or the return of the four seasons. A sea in front of you, in you, a sea behind you.[15]Unlike Odysseus, Darwish is denied a nostos, the heroic journey home. Instead of returning to Palestine, he is plunged further into the sea, on the broken boat of the Odyssey, with nothing but sea in front of and behind him. However, by absorbing the sea into him, ‘a sea to live in’ that reaches into his being, he can seize a drowned wave and to bring it back to shore. His only weapon to do this is the Word. In Dhākira li-l-nisyān, the reader follows Darwish as he navigates the streets of Beirut in the morning, with artillery shells raining around him. He captures the moments before rebirth and re-creation, describing a disintegrating world:
The waves have married the moss of a rock on a distant shore, and I have just emerged from this marriage which has lasted for a million years. I have just emerged, but I did not know where I was. I did not know who I was. I did not know what my name was, nor the name of this place. I did not know that I had the capacity to tear out one of my ribs in order to discover a dialogue against this absolute silence. What is my name, and who named me? Who will name me: Adam![16]The power to name someone Adam is traditionally reserved for the Creator. This right passes unto man in Genesis 2:19, where Adam is tasked with naming the animals. Naming is power, and as Månsson notes, ‘[t]o narrate, write and name is to make the speaker a subject, an act that is of utmost importance to the migrant’.[17] The rib Darwish tears out of his own body could be an allusion to Eve.[18] In this paper, however, I read his rib as a form of embodied pen. His own living body becomes the source of a new dialogue, one written against the madness of war, one with the potential for creation.[19] This theme is reinforced by an excerpt that directly follows the question ‘Who is going to call me Adam?’ from the introduction to the historical work Al-kāmil fī al-tārīkh by mediaeval writer Ibn al-Athīr (1160 - 1233 CE).[20] In the excerpt, Ibn al-Athīr engages with various transmissions from the Prophet (ḥadīth) in order to establish the order in which God formed the elements of creation; the Pen (al-qalam), the Tablet (al-lawḥ), the Throne (al-ʿarsh), water (al-māʾ), etc. These elements all occur in the Quran, in verses such as 11:7, where God is:
وَهُوَ ٱلَّذِى خَلَقَ ٱلسَّمَـٰوَٰتِ وَٱلْأَرْضَ فِى سِتَّةِ أَيَّامٍۢ وَكَانَ عَرْشُهُۥ عَلَى ٱلْمَآءِ He who created the heavens and the earth in six days, and His Throne was on the water…In Dhākira li-l-nisyān, the excerpt begins in the middle of Ibn al-Athīr’s discussion about the Pen:[21] ‘Then God created, after [creating] the Pen and commanding it (ʾamarahu) so that it wrote all that exists until the Day of Resurrection, a fine mist…’[22] This is followed by alternative theories on the order of creation. The intertext is never explained in the work. It could simply be one example of collapsing time. Al-kāmil fī al-tārīkh contains lengthy description of the crusades, told by the contemporary Ibn al-Athīr. By weaving this into a narrative on modern Beirut, Darwish creates a polyphonic history where the crusades appear to be ongoing in the streets of Beirut in 1982, fusing the madness and violence of past and present. However, this passage does something more. Discussing the order in which God formed the elements of creation through his verbal command is also a discussion on narration and emplotment of the world. I follow the theologians and philosophers Imām al-Ghazālī (d. 1111) and al-ʿĀmirī (d. 992) who read Quranic elements such as the Pen and Tablet as symbolising metaphysical moments of creation. The Pen, corresponding to Intellect (νοῦς) in Neoplatonic philosophy, writes the cosmos into being following the command (ʾamr) of God, the Aristotelian first cause.[23] This λόγος, the Word of God, issued from His Throne (al-ʿarsh), is inscribed upon the Table (al-lawḥ). According to al-Ghazālī, this Preserved Table, on which all of Being is inscribed, analogous to the Neoplatonic World Soul, is what prophets access directly in moments of inspiration (ilhām).[24] Seeing the Table means witnessing the truth that ontologically precedes our lower plane of existence. Being follows divine writing-into-being onto this Table – creation is this Word incarnate. This is the power metaphorically seized by Darwish. He goes beyond the divine gift of naming objects. Instead, he demands the right to name himself, turning himself into a creator. His torn-out rib becomes a pen with which he can inscribe a new cosmic order upon his own table, reforming the world through discourse.[25] If the shattered world of Beirut lied formless and empty,[26] then the poetry of Darwish was the spirit hovering over the surface of the sea, ready also to grant the power of naming to whoever would hear and follow him. In his Hymn to the Rising Shadow, he tells the listener:
Take what remains of you, take me on as a helper in the presence of the ruins. Take A flaming Dictionary And triumph! … And triumph at the end of history![27]Even if history met an end in Beirut, the fragmented words remaining under the flood, the drowned waves ready to be brought to shore, offers not only rebirth, but even triumph. This book-length poem, Hymn to the Rising Shadow, was performed by Darwish at the opening of the Palestinian National Council session in Algiers in February 1983. As I have noted, the PLO was in renewed exile, at a point in history where all hope of liberating Palestine seemed lost. One might have expected the session to be a sombre event, but Darwish read his poetry with a victor’s voice. Covered in sweat but smiling warmly, his voice only rose throughout the 80 minutes it took him to read the entire poem.[28] Notables in the audience, including Yasser Arafat, smiled proudly and cheered loudly throughout the performance. For Palestinians, seizing the joy of life after moments of defeat has become an art in itself. Like the murals covering the West Bank wall, creativity is a way for Palestinians to claim their humanity and show pride in the face of occupation and degradation. In 1995, Darwish explained in an interview that his new poetic calling was to write the history of Troy. By creating a poetry of the vanquished, he could fill the void left in the Greek heritage, where history had only been written by the victors who completed their nostos. Paradoxically, he claims, being the poet of Troy makes him appear as a victor:
What I mean is that the language of despair is poetically stronger than the language of hope, because there is space in despair to contemplate destiny (al-maṣīr), and to survey the shore of humanity, in a way that is not granted the victor. This is because despair is the poetic, psychological, and linguistic ground which brings the poet closer to God, to the essence of things, to the first poetic speech.[29]In his poetry, Darwish keeps the hope of recovery after loss alive. To return to the first speech means speaking a new world into existence, transforming the remnants from a life of defeat into triumph with the help of a burning dictionary. He was able to view the shore of humanity from the sea of absolute fragmentation, reclaiming his own threatened existence in the void of exile. With nothing but the sea surrounding him, he was able to build a new world from waves that had drowned. In the current madness of the world, as the burned bodies of children in Gaza make us question humanity, threatening us with a new Flood drowning all meaning and hope, the poetry of Darwish reminds us that while there is any life left, there is reason to hold onto hope. [1] Maḥmūd Darwīš (1941 – 2008). I use the standard transliteration ‘Mahmoud Darwish’ throughout this article. [2] I have previously explored the experience of time and the body in the work Dhākira li-l-nisyān by Darwish, which informs this article. See Jonathan Jonsson, 'The Music of Human Flesh: The Lived Time and Body of Exile in Ḏākira li-l-nisyān by Maḥmūd Darwīš' (MA University of Oslo, 2022), https://www.duo.uio.no/handle/10852/101155; Jonathan Jonsson, 'Ord är ett hemland!', Babylon 23, no. 2 (2023), https://doi.org/10.5617/ba.11498; Jonathan Jonsson, 'Nakbans epistemologi', Kamilla Østerberg and Henrik Wathne eds. Salongen, Norsk Tidsskriftforening, 27 May 2024, https://www.salongen.no/artikkel/israel-palestina-konflikten/krig/204866. [3] This essay would not have been possible without Anette Månsson, 'Passage to a new wor(l)d: Exile and restoration in Mahmoud Darwish's writings 1960-1995' (PhD Uppsala University, 2003), 161-84, 217-32. [4] Peter Burke, 'The historian's dilemma: Domestication or foreignizing?', in History as a Translation of the Past: Case Studies from the West, ed. Luigi Alonzi (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2023), 102. [5] Darwish considered it his right as a Palestinian to live in all these cultures, to let all these voices from his homeland speak to him. In opposition to Zionist discourse, he maintained that he had this right since he was not a stranger to the land. See Mahmoud Darwish, 'Maḥmūd Darwīš li-l-Wasaṭ: Min ḥaqq al-shiʿr iʿlān al-hazīma', Al-Wasaṭ 1995, 54. [6] Fawwaz Traboulsi, A History of Modern Lebanon, 2nd ed. (London: Pluto Press, 2012), 189. [7] Mahmoud Darwish, 'Al-zamān: Bayrūt / Al-makān: Āb', Al-Karmel, no. 21-22 (1986). Unless otherwise indicated, all translations are by the author with assistance from Raghad Abu Shaker. [8] Darwish, 'Al-zamān', 95. The double periods are from the original Arabic text. Darwish uses them when he wants the reader to take a slight pause, or when he wants to emphasise a point, as if he were reading a poem and pausing slightly. This is opposed to single periods and ellipses (...), which are more used for thoughts trailing off. Darwish is first and foremost a poet, and he also brings creative use of puntuation to his prose. [9] Darwish, 'Al-zamān', 96. [10] Stephan Guth, 'Novel, Arabic', in Encyclopaedia of Islam Three Online, ed. Kate Fleet et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2014).https://doi.org/10.1163/1573-3912_ei3_COM_27115. [11] See Månsson, 'Passage to a new wor(l)d', 220-21. [12] Darwish, 'Al-zamān', 35. [13] Darwish, 'Al-zamān', 34. [14] Mahmoud Darwish, Madīḥ aẓ-ẓill al-ʿālī (Beirut: Dār al-ʿawda, 1983), 108. [15] Darwish, Madīḥ aẓ-ẓill al-ʿālī, 108-09. [16] Darwish, 'Al-zamān', 22. [17] Månsson, 'Passage to a new wor(l)d', 211. [18] Thank you to Ben Kamis for this observation. Reading the rib as Eve works well with an analysis by Stephan Milich, in which a concern of Darwish’s poetry is to encounter the fe/male Other in the mirror, often in the form of the recurring Jewish lover. See Stephan Milich, 'Maḥmūd Darwīsh; A Plurality of Voices for Invoking the Other', in A Companion to World Literature, ed. Ken Seigneurie (Toronto: J. Wiley & Sons, 2019). [19] For a deeper analysis of the interface between the living body, text and the world, see Jonsson, 'The Music of Human Flesh', 47-54. [20] Darwish, 'Al-zamān', 22-23. [21] See e.g. Quran 96:4-5 for an example of the Quranic Pen. [22] ʿIzz al-Dīn Abu-l-Ḥasan, ʿAlī Ibn al-Aṯīr, Al-kāmil fī al-tārīḫ, al-muǧallad al-ʾūla (Beirut: Dār Bayrūt li-l-ṭibāʿa wa-l-našr, 1960), 16. [23] Elvira Wakelnig, Feder, Tafel, Mensch: Al-ʿĀmirīs Kitāb al-fuṣūl fī l-maʿālim al-ilāhīya und die arabische Proklos-Rezeption im 10. Jh. Islamic Philosophy (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 160-61. [24] Abū Ḥāmid Muḥammad Ibn Muḥammad al-Ghazzālī, Die Wunder des Herzens, trans. Adel El Domiaty (Braunschweig: Adel El Domiaty, 2022), 74. [25] On the porous borders between the lived body, language, and reality in the poetry of Darwish, see Jonsson, 'The Music of Human Flesh', 47-54. [26] ṯōhū wā-ḇōhū, see Genesis 1:2. [27] Darwish, Madīḥ aẓ-ẓill al-ʿālī, 7-8. [28] For a video of the performance, see Amor Ben Rhoma, Mahmūd Darwīsh fī qaṣīdatihi al-malḥamiyya «Madiḥ al-ẓill al-ʿālī» (kāmila), 1983 (YouTube, 2020).https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1HeUma-EkU . [29] Darwish, 'Maḥmūd Darwīš', 57. For a full analysis of this quote, see Jonsson, 'Ord är ett hemland!', 39.
A German translation of this post is available on the ZI Spotlight blog published by the Zentralinstitut für Kunstgeschichte München.Travelling Back is an exhibition presented at the Zentralinstitut für Kunstgeschichte between February and April 2024, offering a critical perspective on the narratives and collections brought from Brazil to Munich by Bavarian scientists Johann Baptist von Spix (1781–1826) and Carl Friedrich Philipp von Martius (1794–1868) in the 19th century.[1] My research on this topic was made possible through a fellowship at the Käte Hamburger Research Centre global dis:connect. The exhibition follows the scientists' extensive three-year journey across the Brazilian hinterland, including the Amazonian region, and raises crucial questions about the colonial underpinnings of the scientific pursuits of the natural-history project between Munich and Brazil in the 19th century. It examines the various displays and interpretations of Spix and Martius's collections from their arrival in Germany to the present, shedding light on the dis:connections in the production of knowledge behind these scientific endeavours. The aim is not only to explore the public reception of these experiences through a historical lens but also to engage in a critical examination through the perspectives of present-day dialogues and initiatives. Here, we feature various chapters of the exhibition along with the documents, images, publications and artworks presented at the show.
Art need be none the worse for being national or provincial, but really great art soars above racial frontiers and belongs to the world. [...] Such an art, to borrow J.B. Manson's words, ‘can be understood with few exceptions by the whole world. It affords a common meeting ground, and transcends all those considerations of imperialism and politics which are the cause of international strife and ill will.’[9]From the book French Painting And The Nineteenth Century, further connections lead, for example, to the exhibition 20th Century German Art, which also took place in 1938 at the New Burlington Galleries in London and was organised in reaction to the National Socialist Entartete Kunst exhibition. Another connection points to the photographer Gerty Simon, for whom Flechtheim curated a solo exhibition at the Camera Club. This exhibition Camera Portraits featured 58 portraits. The exhibition also included a portrait of Flechtheim. Simon photographed Flechtheim around 1935, during the period of his professional re-emergence in London, which brought him into contact with leading galleries in the city. The portrait continues a traditional convention. As early as the 1920s, Flechtheim was portrayed in severe profile by Hugo Erfurth and Frieda Riess. Flechtheim’s striking features, with his distinctive nose and hair combed back severely from his face, were similarly emphasised in Rudolf Belling’s Portrait Alfred Flechtheim (1927). Gerty Simon’s photograph shows the art dealer in the approved side view. The face is brightly lit and stands out against the dark background. The picture is tightly cropped and focused entirely on the head. The dark circles around the eyes and the clouded eyelids give the subject a melancholy expression. Simon's photograph of Flechtheim and the book French Painting And The Nineteenth Century are important sources for reconstructing the gallery owner’s activities and professional networks in London. French Painting And The Nineteenth Century provides insights into the artistic taste, aesthetic preferences and persuasions of the gallerist: ‘The final choice of the illustrations, and much of the editorial work on the book were undertaken by the late Alfred Flechtheim, whose enthusiasm was a stimulus to all concerned in its production’. Flechtheim selected what was available to him from English and other private collectors and museums; in this respect, one can speak of an immediate reaction to the available opportunities or of a canon in the sign of exile. [1] Specifically, the ERC Consolidator Grant research project ‘Relocating Modernism: Global Metropolises, Modern Art and Exile (METROMOD)’. [2] Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, ‘Alfred Flechtheim. Kunsthaendler der Avantgarde’, Alfred Flechtheim. Kunsthaendler der Avantgarde, 29 March 2022, http://alfredflechtheim.com. [3] Cordula Frowein, ‘Alfred Flechtheim im Exil in England’, in Alfred Flechtheim. Sammler. Kunsthändler. Verleger (Duesseldorf: Kunstmuseum Duesseldorf, 1987), 59. [4] Ottfried Dascher, “Es ist was Wahnsinniges mit der Kunst”. Alfred Flechtheim. Sammler, Kunsthändler, Verleger, Quellenstudie zur Kunst 6 (Waedenswil: Nimbus. Kunst und Buecher AG, 2011), 394. [5] Frowein, ‘Alfred Flechtheim im Exil in England’, 60. [6] Dascher, “Es ist was Wahnsinniges mit der Kunst”. Alfred Flechtheim. Sammler, Kunsthändler, Verleger, 331. [7] Frowein, ‘Alfred Flechtheim im Exil in England’, 61. [8] Alfred Flechtheim, ‘Postscript’, in French Painting And The Nineteenth Century, ed. James Laver (London: B.T. Batsford Ltd., 1937), 101–14. [9] Flechtheim, 114.
This post is a continuation of the last, where we began introducing the research assistants who greatly lighten the load of running this place, leaving us with more time and joy for which we are immeasurably grateful.
[Editor's note: Our Käte Hamburger Research Centre global dis:connect began 3 years ago, and we've come a long way since then. Like the bedrock on which great buildings rest or the air that keeps a jumbo jet in flight, one of the principal forces behind our success is invisible: the people who perform the countless tasks required to keep a major international research institution afloat. Perhaps least visible are the research assistants who run the events, fetch the literature, support the research and keep the experienced researchers on their toes. Indeed, their invisibility is a sign of how well they do their job. So in a few coming posts, we'll be profiling some of the people behind our public-facing work, and we're starting with the invaluable research assistants — nine promising young scholars with bright futures and big ideas. We provided them with a list of questions and asked them to each answer three to give you a better idea of who we are and how we do what we do.)
I am interested in exploring different historical perceptions of globality. Therefore, it is especially inspiring to see how the research projects conducted at gd:c interpret the ‘gap’ between dis-connection and connectivity differently, each providing a deeper understanding of how processes of interaction work, not only on a global scale.
What tasks do you handle at global dis:connect, and what do you enjoy the most? As a student assistant, you get exposed to a variety of tasks. I particularly enjoy assisting with research and conferences, which are a great opportunity to welcome people from around the world to gd:c. What do you define as home and why? Anywhere with enough books (they don’t even have to be great ones), coffee and good company to spend the day. I have always been fascinated by stories of all kinds. Bonus question: what do you research, and what attracts you to the topic? I’ve covered various periods, spaces and topics during my studies at LMU. I am currently researching scientific endeavours in the Arctic and Antarctic during the 19th century as part of my master's degree. What is fascinating about the polar regions is that while being imagined as most remote and uninhabitable spaces, they are at the same time (literally) central to the earth and our modern understanding of it as a global system, rendering them highly dis:connective.Soon after I started working at gd:c, I developed a video trailer with Christian Steinau to convey dis:connectivity in multimedia and set up the gd:c YouTube channel. I now responsible produce our Fellows Close Up series for YouTube support the workshops and events. My favourite part is meeting such a wide variety of people from all over the globe with very different backgrounds and all the new perspectives I gain through getting to know them and the inspiring conversations I have with them.
What do you define as home and why?Multiple places can make me feel ‘at home’, meaning cared for, free, safe, peaceful and happy. Home can be every beautiful mountain ridge, lakeside and beach where I can create beautiful memories with someone I love. Home is not a physical place but a mental state. Home is where the people live that are family to me.
What skill would you like to learn and why? I would like to be able to read minds, even though I definitely don´t want to know most of other people’s thoughts. Still, I´d like to know and understand, what is going on in their minds. Also, as a writer of fiction, I see people in my daily life sometimes, and I think about what their story could be – wouldn’t it be interesting to know if stories I imagine come close to reality?The US Supreme Court decision to severely restrict affirmative action at two US universities generated strong reactions in the US. It was also widely reported in German media.[2] The core question was summarised in the ruling: ‘Admission to each school can depend on a student’s grades, recommendation letters, or extracurricular involvement. It can also depend on their race’.[3] But how do you render the most important concept in the ruling – race – when the most appropriate German word, Rasse, is verboten? It is the ‘R word’ in German. How do you report on a ruling containing ‘race’ in various permutations – race-conscious, race-sensitive, etc. – over 800 times? You find approximations, which always mean something different. The Süddeutsche Zeitung opted for ‘skin colour’ (Hautfarbe), another paper used ‘Abstammung’[4] and a third (Spiegel Online) proposed Ethnizität.[5] So, depending on the paper you were reading, the ruling addressed admission practices that considered either skin colour, ancestry or ethnicity. The terms are different, but they are linked by putative biological determinants pertaining to applicants but beyond their control. For German readers unfamiliar with US universities, it sounded odd that skin colour was a criterion for admittance to one of the world’s most famous universities. My interest is less in the ruling than in looking at the word race from a dis:connective perspective. Although advocates of the term claim it is a ‘global concept’, it is in fact being kept alive by Anglosphere scholars and activists responding to local contexts.[6] Globalisation does not just apply to transport, trade and economics but also to concepts. The refusal of the German-language media to use the German word for race indicates significant differences. Is it not time to consign the English word race to the dustbin of our vocabulary, as is the case in German? Or is the German objection to its version an outlier explicable through its history, which needs to be realigned with US American usage? At a time when discriminatory language is so rifely policed, why is race still in circulation? The latter question has become the leitmotif of all critiques of the concept.[7] So why again? Put simply, race is also a problem of language use: it exists primarily in the speech act. Or, to paraphrase Henry Louis Gates, while the concept of race might be from the land of fairy tales, its uses create realities. This essay is divided into three sections: firstly, a brief review of the state of the art in both languages. In part two, we will see how the word has largely disappeared from German. The third part of my paper will analyse language use, contrasting the performativity of the word in both languages. I propose a new linguistic category – affectives – to designate its function. Affectives are a special category of stand-alone words that have the force of speech acts without being embedded in propositional structures, like race and Rasse.‘While, biologically speaking, the idea of individual human races with different origins is as farcical as the medieval belief that elves cause hiccups, the social reality of race is undeniable’. Henry Louis Gates Jr.[1]
The other day, while teaching a lecture class, one of us mentioned in passing that the average African American, according to a 2014 paper, is about 24 percent European and less than 1 percent Native American. A student responded that these percentages were impossible to measure, since ‘race is a social construction’.[10]They continue: ‘the fact that race is a social invention and not a biological reality cannot be repeated too much. However, while race is socially constructed, genetic mutations — biological records of ancestry — are not, and the distinction is a crucial one.’[11] Neither Gates and Curran, nor the authors of the article mentioned use the term race, the student just assumed that is what they were talking about.[12] Their call for a new language of ‘race’ is predicated on the term ancestry – a shared genetic history that should be ‘taught in our classrooms’. I want to remain with the student’s phrase ‘race is a social construction’ as it is the standard definition of race today. To resolve the paradox between a discredited biological definition and a mainstream culturalist understanding of the term, I asked Chat GPT what it/they thought about the paradox. The answer was characteristically nuanced:
The concept of "race" has been discredited as a biological concept, but it still persists as a social construct with profound implications for people's lives and experiences. The term "race" is still widely used because it continues to be a powerful tool for social categorization and for understanding and explaining social inequalities and power relations. [13]In other words, continued use of ‘racial’ categories and race to differentiate and discriminate gives meaning to people’s identities. To understand how this use is itself aporetic, we need only look at the US Supreme Court ruling cited above. The court ruled on an action brought by the Students for Fair Admissions, Inc., which claimed that ‘race-based’ admissions policies at Harvard and the University of North Carolina contravened the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment of the US constitution. The ruling accentuates the aporetic nature of race/racial wittingly and unwittingly. Wittingly, in the passages detailing the imprecision and contradictions in the universities’ classifications:
the universities measure the racial composition of their classes using the following categories: (1) Asian; (2) Native Hawaiian or Pacific Islander; (3) Hispanic; (4) White; (5) African-American; and (6) Native American. (…) the categories are themselves imprecise in many ways. Some of them are plainly overbroad: by grouping together all Asian students, for instance, respondents are apparently uninterested in whether South Asian or East Asian students are adequately represented, so long as there is enough of one to compensate for a lack of the other. Meanwhile other racial categories, such as ‘Hispanic,’ are arbitrary or undefined.[14]But the judgement also appears unwitting, applying the central term race over 800 times without defining it.[15] Both the universities and the chief author of the ruling, Justice Roberts, apply the same arbitrary principle. Roberts reproaches the universities for using ill-defined taxonomic criteria: ‘The universities’ main response to these criticisms is, essentially, “trust us”’. This amounts to ‘I know it when I see it’ applied to race.[16] However, Roberts never questions the concept itself, only the subclassifications applied by the universities. Perhaps a more granular application of categories might have strengthened their case or, conversely, invalidated the classification system when too many subcategories were adjudicated. How would one distinguish South Asians from East Asians? There is a conflation of definiendum and definiens. There exists something called ‘race’, which is a category that universities should not apply when admitting students, but it needs no definition. This ruling is symptomatic of the state of affairs in the anglophone world, in which the USA is perhaps most attached to the term, but it is applied throughout Anglosphere with little awareness of its paradoxical nature. In the UK, the term ‘ethnicity’ has largely replaced ‘race’ as the preferred term of differentiation. For example, when applying for a job, applicants are often requested to note their ethnic affiliations. While ethnicity is certainly more differentiated than ‘race’ (Harvard identifies six ‘races’), in its application it encounters the same problems as the latter as an administrative and bureaucratic category. In order to give up the use of ‘race’ like smoking, we need to turn to Germany, which has almost kicked the habit.
according to the current wording of the article, in the case of racial discrimination, those affected must claim to have been discriminated against on the basis of their ‘race’; they must virtually classify themselves as belonging to a certain ‘race’ and are thus forced to use racist terminology. (…) even though the term "race" is not open to any reasonable interpretation. Nor can it be, since any theory based on the existence of different human "races" is inherently racist.[19]The last days of the previous grand coalition (2018-2021) saw an attempt to change the wording through a cross-coalition alliance and replace Rasse with racism, but the Christian Democrats prevented it, claiming they needed ‘more time’ to think.[20] Debate was framed by a discussion that produced an unusual coalition between lukewarm Christian Democrats, an emphatically opposed alt-right party and the ‘progressive’ left. Most puzzling is the agreement between the left and extreme right. An example of the ‘progressive’ argument was published by two young legal scholars, Cengiz Barskanmaz from the Max Planck Institute for Anthropology in Halle and Nahed Samour, from the Humboldt University in Berlin:
It is only through such a term [Rasse] that racism, i.e. discrimination on the basis of race, becomes nameable and addressable. The legal concept of race is a necessary instrument to be able to address racism (including anti-Semitism) in terms of anti-discrimination law [...] Erasing the term negates historical and contemporary inequalities and risks trivialising them. […] This approach is part of Critical Race Theory, which is precisely a response to white jurisprudence […]. Black legal scholars demand race as a central category of analysis.[21]The authors argue that the concept of race is not only a legal term but is an important ‘global concept’ in the social sciences – a concept that in turn is used by jurisprudence. The authors resist attempts to ‘blur’ the distinction between ‘race’ and ‘racism’:
Race is in the world, the socialisation of us all, the perception of this world, is racialised. Race does not exist, but it has an effect. […] It would seem grotesque if, after the murder of George Floyd, we told our US colleagues that our lesson was to erase the discriminatory factor of race.[22]So Germany should retain Rasse, at least in its legal documents, perhaps elsewhere, as a Mahnmal (memorial) to its history and to show solidarity with US colleagues. Ultimately, they argue for a stronger, more prominent representation of the word Rasse, which implies reintroducing it into public discourse. Perhaps the key lies in these somewhat contradictory sentences: ‘Race is in the world, the socialisation of us all, the perception of this world, is racialised’ and ‘Race does not exist, but it has an effect’. In English the first sentence is unremarkable: ‘The perception of this world is racialised’. This is a standard statement of the ‘race is a social construct’ tradition. In German, however, the word rassialisiert creates a different effect. It sounds simultaneously neologistic – not (yet) part of everyday German usage[23] – and anachronistically Nazi, as the Nazis created many compound words based on Rasse, which are today all pejorative. Its use in this text signals an attempt to introduce Critical Race Theory vocabulary into the German context, though its effect is either incomprehension or resistance. After decades of ‘re-education’, which involved ridding German of Nazi vocabulary, it is challenging for many Germans to understand that Critical Race Theory advocates reactivating racial thinking and even resegregation in some institutional contexts.[24] The second sentence – ‘Race does not exist, but it has an effect’ – is paradoxical. To make sense of it, we need the philosophy of language.
J.L. Austin’s How to Do Things with Words is among the most influential philosophical texts of the 20th century. My argument is indebted to Austin, not because the words race or Rasse are performatives but because Austin’s approach to language can help understand the paradox before us. This section asks what happens to a word when, on the one hand, embarrassment leads to its disuse, and on the other, it is used excessively despite an atrophied conceptual and scientific meaning. I argue that the word in both languages has the same status; it has become an ‘affective’. Similar to Austin’s performatives, affectives are words that generate emotions. They are usually nouns, sometimes adjectives, seldom verbs. Their mere enunciation, often without the contextualisation of a sentence, can evoke strong emotions, focus administrative minds and even influence politics. In their stand-alone power, their emotional effect outweighs the semantic aspect. Yet there is no grammatical description of such words. According to linguistic philosophy, affectives would belong to the category of ‘expressives’: words or statements that convey speakers’ attitudes to a referent. Affectives have perlocutionary force. Austin divides any speech act into three parts: locution (its meaning); illocution (the execution of an action by uttering the sentence); and perlocution ‘the achieving of certain effects by saying something’.[26] Affectives are primarily perlocutionary because, in the case of race for example, the locutionary meaning is so unstable. While affective as a noun is new, the class of words is not, even though they seem to be proliferating. Examples of old affectives include blood, popery, liberty, fascism and communism. New affectives might include globalisation, neoliberal and capitalism – the list is dynamic. It changes as words gain and lose emotive power. Censors have long implicitly recognised affectives’ power in their lists of proscribed words.[27] The growing number of one-letter words – the n-word, the p-word and I would like to add the r-word – testify to affectives’ growing importance. One-letter words are extreme examples, words that dare not speak their names. And while all slurs are affectives, not all affectives are slurs.[28] Affectives can necessarily stand alone. Just enunciating the word by itself will usually create its effect. Hence, they are closer to expletives than performatives, which require a sentence and the right conditions to function. While one expects to encounter affectives in political contexts, a recent development that interests me in the discussion of race, is the use of affectives in scholarly-academic discourse, where they often masquerade as concepts. Or, more accurately, in academic contexts many terms are transitioning from concepts to affectives. A word like colonialism has reasonably clear conceptual boundaries for historians, but it is increasingly an affective among scholars. The same applies to capitalism: in certain contexts, its enunciation generates an affective, negative response. There is also a trend towards double affectives to generate additional emotive power. An example would be the current use of racial capitalism or settler colonialism. These terms, because they are relatively new, have emerging conceptual boundaries. They are serious academic concepts but are increasingly used also as affectives to signal a history of injustice. Affectives position the user in a particular ideological context and often nudge the addressee to conform by force of emotive appeal or the desire to join a scholarly community. Affectives can also happily accommodate antithetical meanings. The epithet socialist as a noun or adjective can be a badge of honour, especially for a British academic, while it functions as an invective in most US political contexts. What links the extremes is the word’s affective appeal. The German Rasse is an affective whose enunciation can cause discomfort, even embarrassment, rather than anger or outrage (the default affect of our times). As soon as a suffix or prefix is added, the word loses some affective force. Rassis-mus or Rassen-politik are not affectives because they contain a level of observation or abstraction than weakens the affective charge. While Rasse is clearly an affective, race is still in transition. However, I argue that, while it is residually a concept in its redefinition as a social construct, race is used increasingly as an affective. This derives from its almost total synonymity with racism. As the 2021 Commission on Race and Ethnic Disparities in the UK makes clear, a discussion of the ‘language of race’, a subheading in the report, is in fact a discussion of racism; the two terms are used interchangeably.[29] The granular analysis of social disparities in the report pinpoints ethnic not ‘racial’ categories, distinguishing Black African, Black Caribbean, Indian, Pakistani and Bangladeshi ‘ethnicities’ (and white ethnicities as well). The report also uses the qualifiers racial and ethnic interchangeably until they become synonyms. Even the title itself is ambiguous: is race a qualifier of disparities or is it a separate topic next to ethnic disparities? In this title race functions as an affective, while ethnic disparities constitute a proposition. In academia, race usually references racism and discrimination. ‘It’s all about race’ is a statement where the noun is an affective. The referent is, however, probably racism and discrimination, not the outdated taxonomic theory of differentiating the human species. However, the latter, the biological residue, as Stuart Hall argued, clings to the new meaning. The semantic instability of race is counteracted by its emotive signalling. Affectives are thus dynamic, gaining and losing emotive charge over time. Within the category of affectives, race, unlike Rasse, is still a dual-use word, emotive and conceptual, whereby the conceptual aspect is paralysed by the paradox, as the underlying taxonomy has been discredited and the categories to which it ostensibly refers appear increasingly unfit for purpose. If analysing disparities in income, education or health outcomes is the object, then differentiation by ethnicity is the more precise analytical tool. But are affectives speech acts? No and yes. In the precise technical sense defined by Austin and expanded by Searle, probably not because they lack the illocutionary component which depends on verbs. Affectives are speech acts, not in the individual utterance, but through the force of repetition. Paraphrasing John Searle: The aim is not to represent reality but to change reality by getting reality to match the content of the speech act, the representation.[30] The classic performative does this simply by uttering the right combination of words within a correct set of conventions. Through repetition affectives can achieve similar perlocutionary effects. There are no such things as human races, plural, but uttering race enough times and with enough emotive force can will them back into existence. It is not that we know races when we see them, but we reify them by saying them.‘the meaning of a word is its use in the language’ (Wittgenstein, §43 Philosophical Investigations)[25]