Tag Archives: STS Live

#Metoo & feminist activism in India

When the #metoo campaign spread globally, women in India also used social media to make visible that they had been harassed, sexually and otherwise. The campaign made evident what everyone knew but had not quite witnessed the scale of. Moreover, the #metoo campaign sent verberations through India’s feminist movements in unprecedented and dramatic ways, questioning key ideas of the movement, and means of mobilisation. Solidarity and sense of unity were at stake.

India’s feminist movements have a long and vibrant history, and violence against women has been a key theme in mobilisation, at least since the earliest colonial upper-class women’s movements that politicised sati, widow-burning, in the 17th century, as part of a colonial move to socially legitimise British imperialism of regions covered by the then East India Company. While ‘the woman question’ was also at the heart of the struggle for independence, Hindu nationalist movements adopted oppressive casteist and patriarchal notions regarding gender and sexuality, continuing to subject women to excessive control in the name of honour and protection. Sexual harassment, ‘eve-teasing’ as well as using extreme violence to reinstate male power over and possession of women remain common in households, public spaces, and politics still today, as the ‘Delhi Rape’ in 2012 attests to. Contemporary topics around which feminist, queer, and women’s movements have mobilised include e.g. right to sexuality, caste discrimination, environment and deforestation, sex selective abortion, and women’s health to mention a few.

Access to social media and politicised used of twitter and facebook have led Sonora Jha and Alka Kurian to claim that feminist movements in India were leading ‘a new kind of social media-based ‘fourth wave’ feminism, well before the recent feminist resurgence in the US’. Such movements include e.g. the #pinjratod. and #whyloiter that questioned restrictions on women’s mobility, and violence in public spaces.

To the extent that these movements made explicit important dynamics about sexuality, vulnerability and desire, we propose that it does not make sense to conceptualise #metoo as a ‘global movement’. What we have are various – quite different – articulations that seem to be singular because of the hashtag function. #Metoo appears as though it is a singularity and generates the affect of collective action, when these are actually manifestations of quite different political moments in quite distinct conditions.

Two things come to mind. Moira Donegan argues in The Guardian that #metoo articulates what she calls a ‘social feminism’, and that the feminist detractors of the hashtag articulate an ‘individualist feminism’. Whether this actually makes sense in the context of the UK, the US and parts of Europe is unclear, but such a claim might make sense in deeply individuated societies where neoliberalism is the organising principle. In the Indian context, to make such an argument would be absurd. The #metoo campaign, based on Mehroonisa’s ethnographic fieldwork on student politics in India before, during and after the #metoo moment, supported by Salla’s discourse analysis on the social media content, is precisely the push to alienation, to individuation, to the return to individual injury as the origin of political action. This has undermined collective action and the intimacies that animate and hold women’s collectives together.

The second thing that comes to mind is how the #metoo campaign in India relates to the articulation of female sexual agency and desire as political, as central to a feminist understanding of the structures of patriarchy. Let us do this by reference to another older campaign that claimed the position of ‘global’ – the Slut Walk. In its articulation in Canada, and then in other parts of the west, the primary disassociation being made was between female sexual desire and sexual assault – it was a movement against ‘slut shaming’ and an articulation of the right to be sexual itself. When the same campaign articulated in the streets of cities in India, this crucial element was inverted – it was as though about the demand to be seen as asexual, rather than about the demand to be seen as sexual. It became a ‘I should be able to dress as I want without being sexualised’, and sexualness itself articulated as violence. The same form then articulated almost oppositional ideologies – one the affirmation of female sexual agency, the other, its radical erasure. These dynamics are activated by the central role that social media has in the campaigns on violence against women which had profound implications on feminist activism at large.

Online platforms as controversial spaces of resistance

In October 2017, a California-based lawyer with South Asian roots started a post on her facebook page with names of academic men who had sexually approached or harassed students. She invited victims of abuse, and third party witnesses to contribute to the list and her blog states that this was done to warn students about academic men who might be their teachers and professors and to prevent further harassment. Currently the list runs to 70 names of highly positioned men across colleges and universities in India, as well as in Europe and America. Names are provided in full with affiliations. The description on the page states that all cases have been discussed with the victims as testimonies of the experiences.

The List quickly became the subject of extensive comments on blogposts and social media debates. It was welcomed by many, claiming to break silences around sexual and other harassments through public naming rather than institutional reprimands. The List was also target of criticism by well-known feminists in the country. A response was published on Kafila blogspace signed by fourteen feminist women stating their concerns of naming perpetrators without explication of what happened. They worried that “anybody can be named anonymously, with lack of answerability”. The signatory feminists stated that they remained committed to strengthening formal procedures and principles of justice. When there “are genuine complaints, there are institutions and procedures, which we should utilize”, they stated.

The debate polarised quickly, and anyone asking critical questions or disagreeing was deemed to be a rape apologist. While we do not suggest that violations did not occur, the subsequent discussions, and the conceptual coupling of sexuality and violence, left no space for the possibility of female sexual agency, or even impulse in consenting adult relationship, across professional hierarchies. The debate hovered around a notion of consent, and the erasure of its very possibility in conditions where parties to the transaction are located in structurally unequal positions vis-a-vis each other. Nivedita Menon’s otherwise well-thought through piece  also fails to recognise the problem with this. In relation to the question of relationships between students and teachers, and the attempts to formulate codes vis-a-vis these, for instance, she says: ‘…We are in effect taking the position that in such a situation, the consent of the adult woman to intimacy of whatever kind with a man of her choice, is somehow tainted, that her consent is not to be taken seriously.’ The question of appropriate behaviour is now reduced to whether the woman gave her consent and nowhere is it possible to imagine a woman capable – not of consent, but of sexual desire and sexual agency. This resonates with a longer term move towards a deep conservativism, a discomfort with the sexual per se and a failure of maintaining the possibility of right to pleasure, to desire, and to sexualness in political terms without coupling it with violence. Now, it is as though to speak of the sexual is only possible to speak of violence. Or rather violence is the only idiom remaining for speaking of the sexual in political terms. The point here is that while #metoo in other contexts might not be ‘sex negative’, in the Indian context this is precisely the effect – the reduction of the sexual to violence, the erasure of the possibility of negotiation with power.

Digital landscapes of feminist activism – note for STS

While the case would provide a lot more for the analysis of gender, sexuality, caste, and hetero- and cis-normativity, in this commentary we want to focus on three most crucial points of inquiry vis-a-vis STS. The first should be clear by now: that there is a need to recognise the shift in the role of the digital for feminist activism. From a point where the digital formed one increasingly important part of the political landscape, of the materiality of political action, and political subjectivity, in the aftermath of the #metoo movement, we see what might be considered the mechanism of enclosure – whereby rather than being one part of the landscape, the digital becomes the landscape itself. Here we have a situation where politics is contained within the digital, and the only political subject that remains legible is the digital subject. The affect and intimacy of embodied collective action is not simply diminished in its significance – it is evicted from the newly sequestered realm of the political itself. With this comes the fact that the conditions of political subjectivity in the digital is overdetermined by the logics of the digital – of which there are many elements.

Second, the logic of the digital is that of binary opposition: one is either ‘with us or against us’. There is no space between or beyond these positions and all articulations must be fixed in one or the other position. Those that fail to perform are nevertheless pulled in and fixed through the twin logics of ‘silence is complicity’ (and therefore evidence of being a rape apologist), or ‘silence is the evidence of oppression’. Perhaps never before has this logic been more clearly articulated than around the #metoo campaigns.

Third, stemming from this logic of binary opposition is the reduction of politics to condemnation and/or outrage. This is best thought of in relation to Katariina Kyrölä’s contemplations on the politics of affect, where she argues that today the only way to feel good is to ‘feel bad’. It is almost nostalgic to now think of feminism as a space for dissensus, for thinking together and contestation, for the coming together of a range of different experiences and positionalities so as to act on the varying manifestations of patriarchy. That space has been closed – at least on the digital, it seems. This has unfortunate implications for movements that are committed to reimagining politics in the form of horizontal, deliberative democracy, which recognises that a politics of consensus is necessarily one of hierarchy and which develops a politics of dissensus, of diversity and debate. A politics of condemnation is in this sense antithetical to horizontal, deliberative democracy. And, so, we find the condemnation of those feminist groups that espouse this form. Having ‘failed’ to make statements in support of The List, and condemning the feminists who questioned it, – for a statement of condemnation is not possible when there are multiple perspectives arising from multiple locations and experiences – these groups are themselves immediately condemned as being elitist, upper caste etc., as being assimilationist, for failing to be ‘radical’.

This, in turn, affects the dynamics in these groups themselves as the status of their members comes to be somehow tainted by this ‘failure’ – thereby erasing the work done in terms of embodied, on ground collectivisation, the painful and tiring processes of working through conflict and crisis on the ground, the passion for direct action – of behaving as though the world we demand is already here.

We-too? Sexism, feminism and STS

At the moment, here in the UK at least, it sometimes feels like we’re living in a time warp. Suddenly, the gender pay gap is front page news again. My undergraduate students are getting agitated about the gendered division of domestic labour and presenting papers about how their mothers (born in the 1970s) have had to sacrifice their chances for careers to look after their children. Like their mothers before them, these students are struggling to see their way forward, knowing that they should be able to ‘balance’ work life with having a family, but having little idea how to do this. At the same time, thousands and thousands of women, and some men, are testifying to their experiences of endemic sexual harassment at work and in public spaces online. Everyday sexism has been documented in minute detail and survivors – both well-known and not – have come forward to accuse perpetrators at the highest levels of society of unacceptable and violent behaviour.

Feminism, to put it bluntly, despite having been so powerful, sometimes seems to have achieved so little. Like my students, I regularly find myself caught in a ‘Groundhog Day’ horror at the ubiquity of entrenched global sexism. There is so much complex work left to do.

So, what might STS do to contribute? I’d like to make three suggestions.

1. Fit our own masks before helping others

Let’s first try to sort out our own institutions by openly and clearly addressing issues of inequality and diversity. How are we doing on these matters at EASST Council and in our Departments and Research Centres? Here at Lancaster University, we have worked hard on achieving diversity amongst the keynote speakers for the 2018 EASST conference, but we have not audited sessions: does it matter if we have single-gender panels (see #allmalepanel)? What does the spread of age and academic levels look like, and are we making space for scholars and ideas from the global South? Will ethnic, sexual and other minorities feel safe at the conference? How might the way we all behave at the conference make some people feel less than welcome? Should we adjust our practices to help those who identify as neurodiverse, for example? What assumptions do our ways of working make about bodies and minds that might make academic life disproportionately difficult for some and/or affirm and entrench wider patterns of discrimination and inequality?

We also need to think about the journals we edit and review for. Whose work are we publishing and whose gets rejected (in relation to feminist publishing, see Connell 2015; Roberts and Connell, 2017)? What kind of work are we willing to review and when and why do we say, ‘No, sorry, I can’t.’ For our own writing, similarly, who do we read and cite? And, hugely importantly, what texts and case studies or examples do we teach (see the ‘Why is My Curriculum White?’ campaign: www.dtmh.ucl.ac.uk/videos/curriculum-white/)? Thinking critically about how our practices of selection and citation become naturalised can be hard work, but it’s usually rewarding and can open up rich avenues of learning and inspiration.

2. Contribute our skills and knowledge to academic and public debates on sexual violence

Feminist technoscience studies (FTS) has a long and rich history of exploring sexism in science, medicine and technology design and use. We have, in my view, a huge amount of expertise, empirical, conceptual and methodological, to contribute to academic and political efforts to address sexism wherever it occurs. Most significantly perhaps, FTS has clarified the ways in which non-human actors are enrolled in the networks of practices that materialise discrimination in all its forms. More specifically, there is huge scope for more FTS projects on the rise of social media politics (both feminist and anti-feminist); and on the multiple ways in which sexism remains entrenched in both public and private forms of work. More broadly, STS has expertise to offer in the analysis of social media networks and internet materialities that are of great relevance to analysing #Metoo and other hashtag and online campaigns.

3. Engage with feminist debates on sexuality and subjectivity

Current debates on sexual harassment bring up challenging questions about responsibility, aggression, sexuality, guilt and shame. There are strong debates in online and other media about the best ways to document and address experiences of violence, sexual abuse and harassment and about whether the #Metoo movement ameliorates or exacerbates harm for individuals and for society more broadly. Individual testimonies clearly help us know and demonstrate the multiplicity of harassment forms. Many commentators argue that the accumulation of such reports creates much-needed understanding of the patterning of abuse and harassment; that through collecting stories, we can come to know better who is more likely to suffer abuse within particular institutions such as universities and other work places. But publically naming individuals – victims/survivors and perpetrators – is a fraught business, both legally and socially. Online spaces facilitate rapid reactions and counter-reactions and can fuel aggressive backlash, in both individual and more organised forms. The intensity of hatred voiced online raises real concerns about people’s psychological and physical safety.

To understand the enduring nature of sexism we need viable theories of how sex/gender and sexuality are enacted in and through us as humans. STS has made serious contributions to knowledge in its focus on human-non-human relations, but typically this has been at the (deliberate) expense of paying attention to processes of subjectification and desire. Institutions, practices, materialities, policies, discourses are all hugely important in the production of sexism, but so are subjectivities and relations between people. To gain traction on sexual violence, harassment and discrimination we also need to address the (inter)subjective dimensions of gender, sex and sexuality. There are extensive and wonderful feminist literatures on sexuality, pleasure, shame and violence (see for example Cvetkovich, 2003; Probyn, 2005; Nash, 2014; Berlant and Edelman, 2014) that might really take some STS scholars out of their comfort zones, but which may, in conjunction with more materialist accounts (see for example, Terry, 2017; Race, 2017), provide real traction in thinking about current problems of sexual violence and harassment, enabling us to loosen sexisms’ seemingly locked-on grasp on all our lives.

Not a Very Slippery Slope: A Reply to Fuller

Steve Fuller (2017) argues that STS has set the stage for a post-truth world, but has then stepped back, distancing itself from everything post-truth. I’m his primary target, having explicitly argued for the distance (Sismondo 2017a).

Fuller sets out four “tropes”, for which he credits STS, and labels them “common post-truth tropes”. I’ll make a distinction among them, but I argue that none of them are common post-truth tropes, and the ones for which STS should take credit sit at some considerable distance from the post-truth.

The first of Fuller’s tropes is:

  1. Science is what results once a scientific paper is published, not what made it possible for the paper to be published, since the actual conduct of research is always open to multiple countervailing interpretations.
    In this, Fuller presents us with a version of the old distinction between the context of discovery and the context of justification, adding an interpretive twist. This one doesn’t belong to or in today’s STS, a field that has invested enormous amounts of time to studying the actual conduct of research. While we might join Fuller in rejecting any ideas of a scientific method, that is hardly the same thing as rejecting as relevant to science everything that occurs before publication. Where would he leave STS’s many detailed studies of the practices of scientific research? Where would he leave STS’s many detailed studies of the materiality of scientific research? Our field integrates materials, tools, practices, infrastructures, rhetorics, epistemes, institutions and more, but Fuller’s purposes are served by restricting his attention dramatically. Science, for Fuller, appears to be a discursive activity.
    Thus the first trope sets the stage for a specific reading of his others. On these, I’m happy to agree about the central ideas behind them, and to agree that these are distinctively STSish ideas. Let me rewrite them, though, without Fuller’s extravagant flourishes and suggestive asides:
  2. Accepted scientific truths are contingent.
  3. Consensus is contingent, the result of effort.
  4. Normative epistemic categories are contingent.

The way that STS has tended to develop them, this family of important and valuable themes doesn’t amount to an endorsement of or support for a post-truth era. The diverse inputs into stable technoscientific orders to which STS pays attention, those materials, tools, practices, infrastructures … and more, mean that scientific contingency is not at all like the apparent contingency of current popular political beliefs. For example, in the current issue of Social Studies of Science, there are studies of the practices of handling blood donations (Berner and Björkman 2017), valuing life (Hood 2017), and monitoring deforestation (Monteiro and Rajão 2017), all of which highlight alternatives. Like most other empirical studies in today’s STS, even where these examples focus on interpretation – which they do – they attend to skills, tools and infrastructures, as well as established practices, rhetorical moves and professional pressures. The creation of stable technoscientific orders is complex.

Meanwhile, as I claimed in the editorial to which Fuller takes exception (Sismondo 2017a), and somewhat more fully argue in another response to critics (Sismondo 2017b), the most exemplary episodes of post-truth behaviour involve a narrow range of resources – almost entirely discursive – to establish widespread beliefs. They involve rumours with emotional appeal, spread via alt-right websites, Twitter campaigns, and commentaries on quasi-mainstream media. Although they can have durability and lasting effects, it’s interesting that these rumours can collapse as quickly as they arise. The pizzagate conspiracy theory (about a Hillary Clinton-led sex trafficking ring headquartered in a Washington pizzeria) mostly died when a would-be fan tried to investigate it with a high-powered rifle, finding no evidence and nearly injuring some of the pizzeria’s patrons. The birther conspiracy theory (that Barack Obama had been born in Kenya) became sidelined as soon as President Obama ceased to have real power.

In a survey of what commentators are writing about post-truth, my research assistant Heather Poechman and I identified five themes, based on our readings of the 60 most prominent distinct sites on Google on which commentators characterized the “post-truth” or the “post-truth era” (Sismondo 2017b). These, I submit, have a better claim to being “common post-truth tropes” than the ones Fuller listed:

  1. The emotional resonances and feelings generated by statements are coming to matter more than their factual basis.
  2. Opinions, especially if they match what people already want to believe, are coming to matter more than facts.
  3. Public figures can make statements disconnected from facts, without fear that rebuttals will have any consequences. Significant segments of the public display an inability to distinguish fact and fiction.
  4. Bullshit, casual dishonesty and demagoguery are increasingly accepted parts of political and public life; this should not, however, be confused with ordinary lying, which is nothing new.
  5. There has been a loss of power and trust in traditional media, leading to more fake news, news bubbles and do-it-yourself investigations.

I am hard-pressed to see why we should connect STS’s emphasis on and careful studies of contingency with any of these themes. From the constructedness of science to the bullshit of post-truth politics, the slope is long and slight, and, with a good pair of walking shoes, not particularly slippery.

What came before Post-Truth?

To call the political moment “post-Truth” implies a recent past governed primarily by something called “Truth.” This should immediately conjure some scepticism, but perhaps it isn’t that far-fetched. At the very least, the decades following the end of the Cold War brought us a series of premises about governance based on empirical knowledge. Three keywords in particular, Transparency, Information and Knowledge, ruled 1990s development discourse. Transparency emerged from the collapse of the Soviet Union, and the argument that tyranny was best prevented by making the workings of the state visible to citizens. Information harnessed the promise of new technology, particularly the Internet, in generating new economic and political rationality. And Knowledge was about the decline of the manufacturing economy in Europe and North America, and the increasing economic importance of what many hopefully called the “knowledge economy.” Later we would get “evidenced-based” governing, and the many promises of Big Data. These terms came from different places, but they are the sorts of concepts that, if one squints a bit, all relate to our expanding ability to know the world accurately. In the anxious floundering of the post-Truth era, I think this is what many have retroactively come to think of as “Truth.”

In order to take a bit of distance from this proposition about the relationship between knowledge and government, we might call it “truth politics.” The rider reminds us that this attitude, while it presents the relationship between truth and freedom as universal, responds to a certain constituency, situated in time and space, and requiring adversaries. As Graham Harman1 has pointed out, both the left and right have their brands of truth politics, which deny their own particularity and claim to transcend mere agonism. But in the decades following the Cold War, liberals have become the undisputed masters of forgetting their own particularity. Although I am primarily referring in this post to the North American experience, where the collapse of effective alternatives made it possible for many liberals to genuinely believe that politics had ended, a version of it also operates in continental Europe, where the opening of borders and unification of currency (among other standards) were seen as flowing naturally from the fall of the Berlin wall. So hegemonic had this conception of politics become in the 1990s and 2000s that it rarely described itself with direct reference to the “truth.” And this is what makes the declaration of post-truth so revealing: it retroactively reveals the epistemological stakes of a politics that had forgotten it was political.

Post-Truth might then be thought of as a revival of temporarily-suspended Cold War anxieties. In the US, this story even includes the ambivalent re-emergence of Russia as a singularly problematic political adversary. The give-away here is the sudden popularity of Orwell’s 1984, now on US bestseller lists again, and even back on Broadway. 1984 is a curious analog for the present-day America. It’s not really about a Trump-like country, led by a schoolyard bully who disregards facts and science, but about totalitarianism, in which a faceless state destroys both freedom and knowledge by undermining its citizens’ capacity to think rationally. Bill Pietz2 argued in 1988 that this largely fictional view of totalitarianism was the ideological cornerstone of the Cold War because it projected liberalism’s antithesis onto the Soviet Union. But it did so as an extension of earlier fears of the dark colonies.

Despite his own well-known critique of British colonialism, Orwell’s image of totalitarianism was based on orientalist stereotypes, beginning with the notion of a subservient population incapable of rationality. In other works the link between Cold War thought and colonialism is even clearer. American historian and diplomat George F. Kennan argued that “‘totalitarianism’ is nothing other than traditional Oriental despotism plus modern police technology,”3 and Hannah Arendt saw totalitarianism as a breaking-point for civilization, a reversion to “barbarism.”4

Behind the sudden interest in Orwell as a supposedly prescient analyst of the present, lie works like Heart of Darkness, in which liberals encounter some inscrutable other whose very inscrutability they fear might be nascent in themselves. Totalitarians and barbarians join a long list of what historian Uday Singh Mehta5 calls liberalism’s “constitutive exclusions,” the outsider on whom liberalism depends to define its own epistemology. And like all universalist worldviews, liberalism contains a story about the resolution of its own contradictions. The End of History6, declared once at the beginning of the 19th century, and again in 1989, has been the messianic poison pill in liberalism since its beginning.

In light of this history of liberal anxiety, the era of Truth was a period of ideological complacency. Paul Gottfried calls what ensued “managerial liberalism,”7 an ethos that engulfed much of the right and left in western democracies. At the end of history, liberals could content themselves with tweaking their righteousness rather than defending it against existential threats. As Emmett Ressin recently put it, “The most significant development in the past 30 years of liberal self-conception was the replacement of politics understood as an ideological conflict with politics understood as a struggle against idiots unwilling to recognize liberalism’s monopoly on empirical reason.”8

But as in the 19th century, the contradictions of liberalism were perhaps most easily seen in the global south. Once colonies, where liberals like John Stuart Mill advocated promoting enlightenment through conquest, by the 1990s they had become “developing countries” which could now be coaxed with more sophisticated carrots and sticks to enlighten themselves. Truth politics was supposed to have two very different effects in developing countries in the 1990s. First, increased government transparency was supposed to help countries transition out of authoritarianism and into more robust forms of democracy. Following Orwell’s logic, it is the citizen armed with truth who is able to speak to power and wrest their rights from a government bent on controlling them through misinformation. The informed citizen is the enlightened citizen, who grasps truth and wields it against the state.

Second, the increased circulation of information was also supposed to generate growth according to a paradigm known as “information for development,” popularized by Joseph Stiglitz when he ran the World Bank after a stint as Clinton’s economic advisor.9 This was based on the neoliberal argument that economic planning was bad because it was never possible to fully understand the economic variables at play in any given situation. Soviet and Keynesian economics suffered from the same hubris: that it was possible to know the economy and thereby control it. Thus development economists argued that economic growth, and optimal resource distribution, occurs primarily when no-one is in control of information and it is allowed to circulate as freely as possible.

These theories about why information is good for government and national economies are somewhat different. But they both serve the same purpose of policing liberalism’s epistemological fortress. Together, the Truth era’s international development policies explained both tyranny and underdevelopment as being not about the legacy of colonialism or the Cold War’s proxy wars, but about mismanagement of information, about endemic cronyism, corruption and authoritarian culture.

It’s therefore not at all surprising that Donald Trump’s emergence in US politics would immediately inflame fears of some sort of outside influence. Comparisons of Trump to a “tin-pot dictator” make the colonial tenor of this anxiety obvious. The collective insanity drummed up by Russian interference in US institutions is even more telling, where Vladimir Putin represents both the return of both oriental despotism and Soviet information control. But for committed liberals, the real existential crisis comes from within–from the inscrutable Midwest, the working class–who supposedly vote “against their own interests,” can’t distinguish between truth and fiction, and are driven by emotion rather than rationality. In the American context, Post-Truth is really a story about the collapse of a geographic firewall between reason and unreason that liberals have held dear since the beginning of colonialism.

None of this is to say that there isn’t something quite frightening occurring in way Trump, and other resurgent political movements appear to be using new forms of communication in the service of a violent worldview. But I doubt that it is particularly useful to think of this as post-Truth, and certainly not to bemoan STS’s role in undermining the status of certain kinds of knowledge. In an earlier contribution to this Review,10 Estrid Sørensen reminds us of the longstanding distinction in the social study of science, between truth and facts. STS has never had much interest in Truth, per se, except perhaps as a foil for facts. What is frightening about a figure like Trump, she argues, is not that he is post-truth, but rather that he doesn’t seem concerned with facts. But this should have little effect on social science’s commitment to questioning truth politics, even among allies, wherever it occurs. As Harman11 usefully points out, one of the greatest political contributions of STS, and new materialisms more generally, is to offer us ways to respond in the world that don’t fall back on a clear-cut dichotomy between truth politics and power politics (or, by extension, between managerial liberalism and fascism). That contribution, it seems to me, is needed now more than ever.



1 Harman, Graham, 2014. Bruno Latour: Reassembling the Political. London: Pluto Press.

2 Pietz, William, 1988. The “Post-Colonialism” of Cold War Discourse. Social Text 19-20(fall):55-75.

3 Pietz, 1988, page 58.

4 Arendt, Hannah 1951. The origins of totalitarianism. New York: Harcourt Brace.

5 Mehta, Uday Singh. 1999. Liberalism and empire: A study in nineteenth-century British liberal thought. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

6 Fukuyama, Francis. 1992. The end of history and the last man. New York: Free Press.

7 Gottfried, Paul Edward. 2001. After liberalism: Mass democracy in the managerial state: Princeton University Press.

8 https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/the-blathering-superego-at-the-end-of-history/

9 World Bank. 1998. World Development Report 1998/1999: Knowledge for Development. New York: Oxford University Press

10 https://www.easst.net/article/the-social-order-of-facts-vs-truths/

11 Harman 2014.

From a politics of difference to a politics of sameness, and back!

There are conspiracy theories, climate change denials, creationists, or, evangelic and Muslim evolution-denials to be precise, and, there are alternative facts. So why are we interpellated by the latter so fiercely? Why are we intellectually moved and politically mobilized. Or, why am I alarmed by this notion, I kept asking myself?

Alternative facts demand a response from academics and STS scholars in particular. Partially this has to do with the power of words. Their power to structure reality. The power to align disperse and desperate politics and moods under one banner: alternative facts. It is a potent notion that has organized rightwing politics as well as its responses, such as the Marches for Science, or, this special section.

Alternative facts demand a response also because of the particular era that we find ourselves in these days. An era of growing xenophobia, racism, sexism and populism, not in the margins of democratic societies, but at the very heart of mainstream discourse and political debates. An era characterized also, by radical changes in the sociopolical order, both in the ‘peripheries’ of EuroAmerican empires and at home. A move towards the neoliberalisation of everything with the dwindling of fundamental rights as its effects.

And as you read these words, I can hear you think: So, what’s to be done? Should we hit the street and go safe the world, or at least take it for repair? Yes. But, not all of us and not all the time! But it is vital to see that the very practice of protesting, in whichever version, is a mode of experimenting, testing and innovating the very architecture of democracies (e.g. Mouffe 2000). It is a mode of practicing political subjectivities as well as a mode of imagining and chanting, collectively, worlds and lives otherwise (e.g. Blaser 2014).

While I cannot believe I have put these words to paper, here, in this forum, I mean every word of it. But there is more, much more, and that is why it has been an enormous struggle to produce this intervention on alternative facts.

The talk of alternative facts did not only perform me as a political subject, it also helped to me to appreciate ‘our’ institutions and value them as singular entities. For, alternative facts are first and foremost, a fierce attack on democratic institutions. And as we know, the suspicion placed on institutions is quickly translated onto the people who work there. For example in January this year Pieter Duisenberg, a Dutch Member of Parliament for the conservative liberal party VVD, submitted a resolution in which he requested that the political inclination of Dutch academics be investigated, because he was of the opinion that Dutch academia was too leftist. His resolution received the support of the majority in parliament and the requested study is currently underway. The assumption of this resolution is that the trustworthiness of knowledge is contingent upon the political color of the scholars, – there might be alternative facts – therewith reducing institutions and knowledge to a matter of people and their worldview. It is crucial to see that this reduction makes the sedimented and collective work that goes into building institutions and making them work, invisible, leading to their vulnerability and the risk of them being closed down.

Alternative facts are obviously made somewhere and thrown at us by someone (even if this someone is a robot), but they can only exist as free-floating entities because any institutionalized mode of knowledge production undermines their factuality. While obscuring their provenance they have to circulate at high speed to achieve traction and become real. Alternative facts feed off velocity. Institutions by contrast, are bureaucratic settings that are there to slow down our doings, including our thinking. They slow down our movements, because they are in the business of producing sameness (to which I will return below). Now, there is no need to romanticize them, because institutions can sometimes also stop our possibilities to think altogether. And this not the place either to engage in problems with institutional racism, sexism and classism, to name a few. Rather I want to think briefly with the singularity of institutions.

As said, alternative facts scare me to death, precisely because they are part of a growing “attack on the social order” (Sørensen 2017, previous volume). They project a vision of hollowed out institutions. It is obvious that any institution is a complex configuration and I am here glancing over dazzling multiplicities, when simply speaking of it just like that. Yet, I want to suggest that just like Helen Verran has argued for numbers (2017), also institutions, despite their multiplicity, insist on taking singularity seriously. Their singularity is key, because the bureaucratic machine of institutions, their standards, protocols, and procedures are aimed at producing sameness. To be sure we are not talking identity here, but rather a sameness that is probably best captured as evolving fractal patterns. They are key in producing what we tend to call the common, or with Isabelle Stengers (2015) ‘commoners’, sharing not goods but concerns. The task of democratic institutions is to facilitate sameness of sorts, either in the form of education and the diploma’s that are its results or a juridical system with the eventual ruling of the judge. Again, I am not blind to persisting inequalities, yet I find it key to articulate what it is that we value about our institutions, and how to ‘respect their singularity’ (Verran 2017). Where singularity is by no means the same as totality or wholeness. For, while the aim is to produce sameness, our institutions not only work on differences, they also produce differences. The challenge is what stories we can device to talk about the good of institutions without neglecting the bad.

While in STS we have attended importantly and productively to differences, sameness has largely been overlooked. This contributes to the idea that difference is produced while sameness is given. This attention has also led to a political sensibility for differences (think of race or sex-differences) whereas sameness seems curiously apolitical. But how does sameness come about? What is the stuff of sameness? I contend that raising this question does not simply produce the binary-other of difference, but allow us to attend to other configurations of the social and to foreground other normativities. It allows us, e.g., to weigh and value the different kinds of sameness that institutions help to produce. It seems to me that attending more carefully to sameness might also help to find an answer to versions of populist politics that quintessentially builds on notions of sameness (nationalism, us, or them). If sameness is not simply a baseline of human condition or an original state of social groups, we need to take account of how different versions of sameness come about as well as the series of differences they presupposes.