Auteur: bestuursplijtstof@gmail.com

  • What You See, When You Close Your Eyes

    Book Review of The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry


    I would have liked to begin this story in the manner of a fairy tale.

    I would have liked to write:

    ‘Once upon a time there was a little prince

    who lived on a planet scarcely bigger than himself,

    and who was in need of a friend…’

    To those who understand life,

    that would have a much greater air of truth.

    (De Saint-Exupéry 1995, 18)

    Come on, come on, hurry, or we might miss it! Take bigger steps than you ever thought possible, push back against the wind slowing you down, and set your lungs on fire! Let us run barefoot through tall grass and over warm sand until every inch of our body aches, feel the pain and laugh out loud, because you know, we know, we will not be late. There is no time to catch your breath. This is important and we cannot miss it: the sunset. We are here! The sun paints the sky in the most magnificent oranges, yellows, blues and pinks. Rays of light write words in the clouds that read like poetry, grass tickles our toes and the sun kisses, caresses our skin. Let your eyes drink in the sight, as the day draws its last breath. The day has to die to make space for a new one to be born. During such a moment, you can either mourn the day that was, wish it to come back, or you can find joy and excitement in the day that will soon arrive. Can you even imagine that there is a planet where the sun sets forty-three times a day? Where you do not have to make haste as we just did? Where you only have to move your chair a little to see the next one? Believe it or not, it exists.

    Now that the sun has gone to sleep, we might be able to catch a glimpse of this planet. Light makes space for darkness waking up the moon. The stars wipe the sleep from their eyes to show their faces. If you lay down on your back you can see them better. The world disappears from view, all you see is the sky showing off its glittering treasures. There it is, the planet I was talking about. It’s a tiny planet, not much bigger than a house. If you squint your eyes you can spot it. The little prince lives there, with his rose, his three volcanoes, and the baobab trees. ‘‘Asteroid B 612’’ (15) is what the planet is called, or at least it is what grown-ups call it, since they just love numbering, systemising and explaining beautiful things that have no number, do not fit in a system and are inexplicable. The little prince did not always stay on his asteroid. He left it for a while to travel to other planets, one of these was our home planet: Earth. That is where he met Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, who was a pilot stranded in the Sahara desert after his plane had crashed during a record flight. While he was trying to fix it, he heard a little voice saying: ‘‘If you please draw me a sheep!’’ (5). This is how he met the little prince. Six years later, in 1942, De Saint-Exupéry wrote a book about his experience, named after the little prince himself.

    De Saint-Exupéry writes about what the little prince tells him about his life on Asteroid B 612, about the rose he has to protect, about the volcanoes he has to clean to stop them from erupting, about the baobabs he has to uproot to make sure they do not destroy the planet, and about the countless sunsets he can watch by just moving his chair a little. He also talks about how he has travelled to other planets. On the first planet he visited, he met a king with no subjects, then he continued to a planet inhabited by a conceited man without any admirers, his journey took him further to a planet where a drunk was drinking to forget how ashamed he was for his drinking. Again on different planets, he met a businessman, who fancied himself the owner of the stars, a lamplighter, who could never rest, and a geographer, who has never travelled. After visiting these planets, he came to the planet Earth, inhabited by ‘‘one-hundred-and-eleven kings […], seven thousand geographers, nine hundred thousand businessmen, seven-and-a-half million drunks, three-hundred-and-eleven million conceited men… In other words, approximately two billion grown-ups’’ (77). During his visit he met several animals and people, who showed him what life on earth is like. The first animal he met was a snake, a small animal, who wields greater power than any king. The snake explained this power to the little prince: ‘‘Whomever I touch […] I return them to the earth from whence they came’’ (82). Moreover, the little prince met two people, first he crossed paths with a railway pointsman, who told him about the people in the trains, rushing from one place to the next, never satisfied with where they are, never knowing where they are going, always on the go. ‘‘Only the children are flattening their noses against the window panes. […] They’re the lucky ones’’ (104). After this encounter, he met a fox who taught the little prince how to tame him. A process which transforms something, or someone from being ordinary to being unique and one of a kind. Now, in the Sahara desert, after all his travels, the little prince longs to go back home, to his planet, to his rose, to his sunsets. He remembers what the snake told him and asks the animal to bring him back home. He will go back, leaving behind the old shell that is his heavy body. The pilot is sad to see the little prince go, therefore he ends his narration with a request for anybody who meets a boy with golden curls, a boy that never answers any of your questions, to alert him that the little prince has returned.

    This story about the little prince fits well among classics like Aesop’s and Jean de la Fontaine’s fables, Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales, George Orwell’s Animal Farm, and more recent works like Carlie Mackery’s The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse, James Norbury’s Big Panda and Tiny Dragon and Toon Tellegen’s fables. I can only describe it as a poetic modern fairy tale with an incredible philosophical depth to it. The story warms my heart, time and again. I certainly recommend reading and rereading it, not only because it is a short book that does not take too long to read, but especially because it provokes its reader’s thoughts and pushes them to reflect on it. The Little Prince wants to be shared and discussed. I myself have read it several times now, and every time I read it I discover something new: a new quote I had not really noticed before, a new meaning hiding just behind the words, a new thought I had not yet stumbled upon.

    Once you have read The Little Prince, it will take hold of you and never let you go. Time and again, I realise just how strong the hold of this story on one’s heart is. When I worked in a bookshop, customers, many a time, bought a copy of the book and told me with proud smiles on their faces that they collected copies from the different languages of the places they had visited. They showed me pictures of their The Little Prince bookshelves, which were way more than just a display of different copies of the book in different languages. These shelves, told stories of the journeys these proud owners had been on, what they had seen, the people they had met along the way. There is so much more beneath the surface, for those who are willing to look further than a picture, further than a children’s story about a little prince, for those who actually see that this book is trying to teach us a certain way of life.

    This way of life is important for all grown-ups. De Saint-Exupéry dedicated this book to children and to the grown-ups that can still remember they once were children, even though he thinks few of them do. The Little Prince teaches us to tap into our inner child, the child that has been silenced over the years, but that is still alive in each of us. The child that can forget all the systems, numbers, figures, and binaries we have forced our world into. The child that keeps asking questions without giving up, without preformulating the answers, without prejudice, without reasoning from an existing paradigm. The child that does not simply put labels on the people, animals, nature and other entities in this world, but actually looks at them with wonder, curiosity, and imagination. It sees everything as if for the very first time since it can still be in awe of the world. On page 101, De Saint-Exupéry (1995) lets us in on a secret: ‘‘very simply: you can only see things clearly with your heart. What is essential, is invisible to the eye’’ (101). There is so much more than our eyes can see, there is more behind the numbers, definitions, systems, divisions and binaries. The world is more complicated and more beautiful. Let us close our grown-up eyes that have been shaped by paradigms, prejudices, and labels in order to enable our children’s eyes to be opened. Those are the eyes of our hearts that look at the world with wonder and without judgement. Let us take the time to fill the pockets in our heads and in our hearts with the sights these eyes give us.

    The stars shine bright tonight. The skies are clear and Asteroid B 612 is visible. If one day, in the future, you look up at the night sky and you cannot see it, that is fine. Now you know it exists, you will see it everywhere, even when it’s invisible. If you listen closely you will hear the little prince’s voice: ‘‘At night, you will look up at the stars. Mine is too small to point out to you. It is better that way. For you, my star will be just one of many stars. That way, you will love watching all of them’’ (122).


    Bibliography

    De Saint-Exupéry, Antoine. 1995. The Little Prince. Translated by T.V.F. Cuffe. London: Puffin Books.

  • Philosopher on the Job: An Interview with Lisa Doeland on Careers in Academic Philosophy

    It is that time of year again when many students are graduating and thinking about their next steps into the world of employment, taxes, and other aspects of life after university. By now, I ought to be used to the jokes I hear about philosophers struggling to find their place in the world after their bachelor’s or master’s degrees. To many philosophy students, continuing their research may seem like an obvious and straightforward path. If an academic career is something you are considering, I strongly recommend talking to your lecturers and professors about their experiences.

    As a philosophy student interested in political ecology and climate ethics, I reached out to a number of lecturers and researchers in relevant fields. I wanted to hear about the paths they had taken to work on these topics in the realm of academic philosophy. This project started as part of a course I followed during my bachelor’s degree, titled Philosophy in Practice. Throughout this course, I investigated some potential careers, hoping to be swayed towards following one path or another.

    However, as I neared the end of that degree, I quickly realised that there is no fixed path for everyone in navigating a particular career, academic or otherwise. A particular conversation that sticks with me is one I had with Radboud University lecturer and PhD candidate, Lisa Doeland.

    I open our discussion with some questions I had been pondering for a while: “How did you decide to pursue a career in academia? Did you always know that this was the right career path for you?”

    “No, I didn’t always know,” Lisa admits, smiling as she joins me at the table in her office. “I began with my bachelor’s degree in Literary Studies, but I became interested in philosophy before I completed it. During my first year, I followed a course on the Philosophy of Culture, and I really liked it.” Soon after, Lisa enrolled as a philosophy student, too. After seven years, she had completed two bachelor’s degrees and her master’s degree in philosophy.

    Upon learning this, I wondered whether Lisa had moved from her master’s degree to a PhD position in relatively short succession. Throughout the final year of my bachelor’s degree, I questioned whether I wanted to spend the next several years in academia. A big part of me wanted to explore other interests and see what would await me in the near future outside the university.

    While I am still undecided on what path I will follow after my master’s degree, Lisa shows me that it is alright to take the time to focus on other aspects of life and figure out what comes next.

    “I had my first child when I finished my bachelor’s thesis in Literary Studies,” she comments. “It wasn’t long after that until I wrote my master’s thesis, too. It worked out well because I had good focus, especially when my daughter was young. I would think, ‘alright, now you’re sleeping, I can write’. Within four or five months, I finished the thesis. I was amazed by that, but it happened.”

    Shortly after completing her master’s degree, Lisa started working at the university as a programmer of lectures and debates. She already knew that she would like to do a PhD but was not sure about the topic yet. “I really like doing philosophy – theorising – but I wanted to make sure that there was some societal relevance to my research. I hadn’t found my niche yet,” Lisa resumes. “I was about 30 by then. I had worked as a programmer for around three years when I finally found a topic that was both societally relevant and interesting from my philosophical perspective: waste.”

    The natural follow-up question is how she entered her PhD position in the Department of Philosophical Ethics and Political Philosophy. As Lisa has been researching the topic she found most intriguing, I was curious to hear how she got there.

    “I didn’t apply for a PhD position. It all started with Angela Roothaan, whom I met through a Filosofisch Café in Amsterdam,” she explains. “I did an interview with her, and afterwards, we got talking. She asked, especially because I’m a woman, ‘Why are you not doing a PhD?’ – I was asked this question many times over the years, mainly from women in academia. With Angela, I wrote the first draft of my research proposal. However, I knew I still needed a full professor as a supervisor. I thought, ‘alright, who would share my fascination with waste?’ This is where I was happy to have René ten Bos as my guide. Finally, I asked Cees Leijenhorst too, for day-to-day supervision.”

    “What does your day-to-day supervision entail?” I wonder, curious about the difference between thesis supervision at the bachelor’s or master’s level and PhD research.

    “Cees has been very important throughout my research process. This is not because he’s particularly interested in the topic of waste, but because he’s a good and critical reader. He would keep asking questions.”

    “What kinds of questions?” I wonder, especially since the ontology of waste is not Cees’ specific area of expertise.

    “‘Why are you making an argument in this way and not in that way? Where are the summaries? Where are the introductions? – I had become accustomed to writing for a more general audience, less so for academic audiences. Cees Leijenhorst has been a very helpful supervisor,” Lisa shares, appreciative of the advice she receives.

    I was particularly intrigued by the idea of formulating a research plan and proposing it to a potential supervisor. Lisa continues, “I needed some time to digest everything and complete my proposal, leading to my official enrolment as an external candidate. That was in 2018, so I am now five years into my PhD.”

    Curious to learn more, I ask, “what is it like being an external candidate at the university?” I wonder whether Lisa’s PhD experiences vary from those of an internal candidate.

    “I’m enrolled in the Graduate School for the Humanities. It is not just Philosophy, Theology and Religious Studies – other humanities studies are a part of it too. The Graduate School hosts many events, but I don’t often attend them. Perhaps I would attend if I was younger. I think I’m quite old compared to other PhD students. Though, I want to emphasise that even if you’re an external candidate, the university finds ways to include you. There are also reading groups at the university. Finding and becoming a part of a community can be important as an external candidate. Otherwise, it might be a lonely project if it’s just you, your laptop, and your supervisors. I don’t think that would be healthy.”

    “How did you go about finding your sense of community?” I question, pondering Lisa’s earlier remarks on often not attending the Graduate School events.

    “For me, it’s been helpful to be a part of the philosophical cafe in Amsterdam. That’s a community in itself. It’s not an option, then, to limit yourself to your own research or interests because there are always other people’s lectures. You quickly find yourself reading, doing an interview, and then researching a philosopher that you hadn’t heard of before. It broadens your scope because you spend a lot of time developing and connecting philosophy to other themes – societal issues. Reading groups and philosophical cafes like that have helped me out a lot. Though, of course, you can also find this sense of community at the university. If you’re part of a PhD project, you will be inspired by other researchers that you’re working with.” Lisa sheds light on her experiences, and we continue to discuss the importance of building a network of people working as academic philosophers.

    Reflecting on her network before entering her PhD position, I ask, “how did you find the shift from lecture programming to working as an academic in the university?”

    “I already knew many professors and researchers at the university through my work as a programmer. They didn’t know me as an academic yet, but they knew I read their books and engaged with their work. As a result, the academics I have been working with already knew what they could expect from me and knew that I was capable.”

    “Was anything different than you expected?” I wonder, thinking about how her place of work remained the same while Lisa’s new position was quite different.

    “I always knew it was going to be hard work – especially teaching. Perhaps I could say, ‘I only have one or two hours to prepare, and that’s all’. But that’s not how I roll. For example, I lead a course called Classical Texts, where I read philosophical literature together with students. Last week, I thought I had a good understanding of a text until a student asked some interesting questions about it. When there are many students asking questions, I can’t always answer them all. I try to be upfront about it – ‘I’m sorry I haven’t got a proper answer for you right now’. Next week, I want to be able to explain it to them. This means reading up on Kant for a day and a half – it is important. It helps me out in my own research, and I feel obliged to guide the students properly. Some extra work needs to be done, but I create a healthy work-life balance for myself anyway. I try to make sure that I have enough time for everything, especially for my family, though I’m also intrinsically motivated to put in the work. I don’t mind reading up on Kant and putting in the extra hours.”

    This time, I meander to the topic of starting a family and being a woman in academia. Many higher-function academic positions are still male-dominated today. “Do you feel like women are still underrepresented in your field of philosophical research?”

    We take a moment to reflect, and Lisa shares her thoughts. “I think there are a lot of women in interesting positions today. When I think about the research and the literature that I draw on, I made a conscious decision to engage with certain authors. At one point, when I was 3 or 4 years into my PhD, I felt like I was working in a male-dominated field. From that moment onwards, I focused on reading published research from women, but now I don’t really have to think about it anymore. These women are still on my radar, but I feel like things have changed. It is also really changing at this faculty, and I’m very happy about that. It’s important to make sure that everyone is included and that there’s a good balance of different identities.”

    Lisa continues, “I think things are getting better for women in academia. Yet, for everyone, it’s harder to find academic positions abroad since you could find yourself filling precarious positions for a long time before landing a permanent position. Meanwhile, it’s not always possible to move to other cities for new positions when you have children and a partner.”

    I may not have decided whether to pursue an academic career yet, and I may sway to one path before jumping back to another many more times. Nonetheless, this conversation has been incredibly useful in understanding the many elements that need to be considered if I were to pursue a PhD position later. With this thought in mind, I ask one final question: “What advice would you give to a current student considering a career in academic philosophy?”

    Lisa takes a short moment to ponder my question before answering with a smile. “Do not simply focus on wanting to do a PhD and finding a position. Make sure that you engage with subject matter that lights your fire. You need to be intrinsically motivated, engaged, and feel like your research is important. There must be something at stake, and your heart needs to be in it, so to speak. The right way to go about this could be to do a PhD as an external candidate, but if you find a good position in a good research group, I imagine that’s amazing, too. You can flourish when you find passion for your field and discover your sense of community.”

    We exchange a few last words and wish each other luck in our future endeavours. Although I do not know what awaits me in the near future, I find a sense of comfort in knowing that there is no singular, fixed path to a career in academia or another field. The conversations I had with Lisa and other academics have been extremely valuable. If you find yourself questioning your potential place in academic philosophy, find a moment to enjoy a cup of tea with some of your lecturers.


    Shortly after our interview, Lisa published her book, Apocalypsofie, and is now working on the completion of her PhD. More information about this publication can be found following the link below:

    https://www.uitgeverijtenhave.nl/boek/apocalypsofie/.

  • Het applaus en de schilder

    Geïnspireerd op de filosofie van het applaus van Cornelis Verhoeven.


    Welk dier is de mens toch, dat het zijn voorste poten tegen elkaar slaat, wanneer het iets mooi vindt? (Verhoeven 1969, 139-154)

    Wat achterblijft als het applaus uitblijft is leegte. Stukgeslagen verlossing. Een aangapende ruimte die aarzelt. De stilte moeten verduren. Het slot als open vraag. Uitdovende extases. Een uitstel van volmaaktheid. Het is verschrikkelijk. Verschrikkelijk als het slot niet sluit, niets besluit. De speler op het toneel zit zonder applaus gevangen. Onvoltooid en onvolmaakt staart zij roerloos het publiek aan. Het slot mooi gemaakt, beladen met de betekenis van een mogelijk geheel. Maar zonder applaus geen geheel. Het hele stuk kleeft aan de speler, benauwd haar. Kleine stapjes voorwaarts, laat het stuk niet meer van mij zijn.

    • Publiek, roept de speler.
    • Verlos mij.

    “Men beziet zijn handen en denkt: waartoe dit ritueel?” (154) 

    Eerst is er het begin. Dan het slot. En dat wat ertussenin ligt, de grote eenheid van het stuk. Aan weerskanten het applaus. Eerst om de aanvang in te luiden. Uiteindelijk om het geheel af te sluiten. Om begin en einde bij elkaar te kunnen voegen. Om massa aan dat wat er tussenin ligt te geven. Een vergeten massa, want wie schoonheid in de slotzin brengt, laat achter wat ervoor kwam. Een wegvloeiend einde? Een harde breuk? Een abrupte onderbreking en dan met geweld het einde inzetten. Nog een kleine vlucht terug, samenvattend. Wij spelers staan klaar, ontvangen uw daverende voltooiing. Zonder jullie zijn wij niets. Zonder de vlakke hand geen dankgebaar.

    • Publiek, roepen wij.
    • Applaudisseer toch.

    Troostend is het applaus voor de gewone mens. Het harde kabaal overstemt de naaktheid van haar menselijkheid. Haar diepe goddeloosheid, haar aardse onvolmaaktheid. Naast het podium is alles miezerig en vuil. Klappen is instemming geven, de grootsheid bevestigen. Het is klaar. Er hoeft niet meer bekritiseerd of verwonderd te worden. Het applaus is de collectieve aanvaarding van wat de schamele niet-creatieve mens niet kan. Scheppen, tot leven brengen, van niets naar voltooiing. Applaus is danken voor de grootsheid. Een liefdevol gebaar voor het gebroken hart.

    • Dank u, roept het publiek.
    • Wij zijn getroost.

    Die eenzame kunstenaar die schildert. Mijmerend in tevredenheid verkeerd. Voor haar geen slot dat leegte achterlaat. Er was immers nooit sprake van chronologie, van tijd. Bij aanvang voor het doek brak zij de tijd en bracht zo nooit einde aan de ervaring. Zij hief de horizon op, dwong haar verder te zien. In volle vreugd trok zij de tijd uiteen en bracht haar terug in een enkele veeg over het doek.  De continuïteit tussen schilder en publiek is van fragiele aard, losjes zwiert zij over onmetelijke afstand. Afgebrokkeld. Zij wordt niet verlost door het collectief, afgesneden van de ritus van het applaus. De schilder besluit haar eigen einde, zij geeft de wereld het werk terug.

    • Wereld, fluistert zij.
    • Alsjeblieft.

    Stelt u eens voor. Klappend voor het geschilderde doek. De virtuositeit van de schilder bedankend. Perfectie, niets anders dan perfectie! Eenmanspubliek, gesloten in de individuele ervaring. Juichend, joelend, bravo! Maar de schilder is al vroegtijdig gevlucht, nog voor de aanvang van een individu. Nog voordat iemand het werk kon aanschouwen. Het applaus huldigt het werk, groeit uit tot een ovatie. Schepper van schoonheid! Het individu kan de stilte van het doek niet langer aan, daarom klapt zij, daarom ziet zij niets! Het kabaal overstemt het zicht. Begrijpt u toch, daarom kijkt zij niet langer dan een paar seconden naar het doek en waggelt zonder aandacht van het ene naar het andere.

    • Individu, smeekt het doek.
    • Blijf toch staan nu.

    Klappend voor het geschilderde doek, dat zou toch wat zijn! Het kijkende individu stelt dat zij dat ook had gekund, dat schilderen. En dat is omdat zij het doek niet rond krijgt, niet gegeven krijgt. Wat moet ze er mee? De schilder werpt het doek slechts in de wereld en alleen zij met een ontvankelijk oog voor ritme zal haar eenvoud en schoonheid zien. Het schilderij biedt geen troost. Het schilderij brengt voort waar het individu niets mee kan. Applaus is de bevestiging van ontvangst. Maar het schilderij geeft niets. Er valt niets te ontvangen. Er is niets geruststellends aan. Dat is wat troostend is, stevigheid, massa, densiteit van het voltooide werk, dat ik, als individu, heb mogen voltooien. Daarom klap ik!

    • Maar ik vraag, redt de schilder.
    • Ik vraag…

    Het podium bevrijdt speler en publiek. Brengt samen, bevriest mogelijkheden, laat voor even, gedurende de klappende klanken, het kunstwerk van iedereen zijn.

    Die stilstaande doeken, die geverfde objecten. Zo ver weg. Zo ver weg. Men is er stil van.

  • Philosopher Abroad: Philosophies of Life

    In Luang Prabang, Laos, I first learned that the word philosophy does not have a universal meaning. I was in Luang Prabang for an internship for about five weeks in 2019. During this time I regularly visited a center where travelers, expats and English-speakers went to speak with young locals. The purpose of the center was for these young people to practice their English free of charge and at the same time for everyone to engage in a cultural exchange through conversations. Every time I went to this center I discovered new things – both about the people I was speaking with, the culture I was immersing myself in and about myself.

    During the first few visits I learned about the different possible interpretations of the word philosophy. When asked what I studied, I always answered Philosophy and Cultural Anthropology (I was doing a double bachelor’s at Radboud University at the time). Most people that I spoke with immediately passed me the question ‘What is your philosophy of life?’ Every time I would stare at them blankly. I sort of grasped what they were asking, but I did not understand it completely. I asked them several times, but it was only through hearing other people’s philosophy of life that I came to understand – over time – what it entailed. These people referred to philosophy as a way of living, as a practice or process that is constantly in development.

    Since I studied Philosophy and Cultural Anthropology, this was exactly what I was interested in learning: how philosophies of life differed or were similar from person to person, and from culture to culture. Throughout my studies I tried to follow as many intercultural and non-western philosophy related courses as possible – at Radboud that included Intercultural Philosophy; outside of university I joined a Zen Buddhism meditation center. When I was choosing the university for my minor I wanted to follow subjects on Ubuntu and other ‘African philosophies’. I looked at the courses taught in several universities in Southern Africa and spoke with the study advisors. As I expected, what I was looking for did not really exist: philosophy is not a self-evident field of study outside of western academia. Perhaps university, which teaches in a mind-based way, was not even the place to learn about philosophies as a practice. For me to learn about philosophies of life across people and cultures I had to learn through conversation and experience.

    I ended up doing my minor on Oʿau, Hawaiʿi (yes!!) and did follow subjects on Philosophies of Hawaiʿi and the Pacific, and Hawaiian Language and Histories. However, where I learned most about Hawaiian philosophies was on a weekly spiritual event called Soulday. Soulday brought together people from various religious backgrounds and spiritualities. During the activities we made sure we took care of the aīna – which is usually translated as ‘land’ but implies a reciprocal relationship with the land. In other words, we take care of the land and the land takes care of us. Through conversation, practice, experience, and example I learned about such untranslatable Hawaiian concepts that for me formed puzzle pieces of Hawaiian philosophies.

    I learned that language is an important tool through which we learn to understand our worlds, but it is also limiting. I think that everyone who speaks more than one language knows that some words are simply not translatable – in Dutch the most known example is ‘gezellig’. In Hawaiian language I encountered words, such as aīna and aloha, that were not only untranslatable but also influenced my understanding of the world. What if a word like land was not a thing, but a relationship? How does that change our worldview and how does that change our ‘philosophy of life’?

    Several months ago I encountered the same questions when doing anthropological fieldwork in Udaipur, India to finish my Cultural Anthropology bachelor. Whereas my research topic was initially on ‘human-nature’ relationships, I soon found out that there is no translation to Hindi for the English ‘nature’. I had somewhat anticipated on this by asking Paul van der Velde how many translations or variations exist in Hindi for the English ‘nature’. There was only concept one that came close, which was prakriti. However, prakriti also meant ‘manifestation of the whole cosmos’. In Udaipur, I explored the understanding and interpretation of this concept further. Through various methods, including conversations, interviews, participant observation, participant sensing, and arts-methods, I learned that the philosophies of my Hindu research participants did not include strict categorizations of nature, people, and spirit as separate entities. Instead, the ‘categories’ that my research participants would make or experience seemed to be fluid and interdependent. This meant that my Hindu research participants had an entirely different relationship to their environment and each other: their philosophy of life was shaped by language, and their language shaped their philosophy of life.

    These various experiences abroad and encounters with different cultures, languages, and spiritualities have sparked an infinite curiosity for learning about philosophies of life. While western academia offers a structured approach to doing so, it is also limiting. Western academia has confined the dynamic and embodied character of philosophy as a practice of life to a structured discipline that focuses on the mind and is separated from other disciplines. This means that until the discipline of philosophy changes I will keep learning about philosophies of life mostly outside of academia. A question that lingers within me, however, is whether western academia is fluid enough to open up for learning through practice, experience and embodiment. To answer that question, perhaps it is necessary to first pose another one. What is the philosophy of western academia?

  • Telling Non-Human Stories

    Writing and reading narratives show us what other possible ways of encountering the world are possible, thereby potentially transfiguring our own ways of engaging with the world around us. Implicated in narrative, therefore, we find a transformative potential.

    Few problems faced by humanity require such a drastic change in engaging with the world as climate change. As a true multitude of authors from all sorts of disciplines now assert, climate change is only resolvable when we venture out of the confines of the purely human, into the breadth of an ecology that both encompasses and transcends us (Chakrabarty 2018, 6; Ghosh 2016, 82; John 2018; Kohn 2013; Morton 2012; Trexler 2015, 13-14; Ustler 2009, 173). Perhaps we can capitalise on the transformative potential of narrative to change the way we deal with climate change as well? Can we use narrative to escape our all-too human way of interacting with the world? To answer this question, we first need to have a clear conception of what narrative can do and how it works as a transformative instrument.

    In his Time and Narrative, Paul Ricoeur (1913-2005) offers precisely such an analysis. To understand the transformative aspect of narrative, he introduces the term ‘mimetic circle’. This philosophical tool describes the way in which the reading of a novel – for simplicity’s sake I use the example of written narrative in this text, but Ricoeur’s theory is applicable to various other ways of experiencing narratives – presents a narrative world to the reader, which then potentially influences the reader’s own world, thereby transforming the way the reader encounters the world around them.

    So, does that mean we can simply take Ricoeur’s mimetic circle and start creating narratives that effectuate more climate friendly behaviour? Sadly, no. For all its philosophical depth, the mimetic circle always centres on human actions and narratives – it is quite literally anthropo-(human)-centric. This is a problem, because these narratives were supposed to help us overcome the anthropocentrism that led to climate change in the first place. We therefore need narratives that capture not only human, but also non-human, material forms of action, communication, and temporality. Only then can we expect of narratives the transformative potential to help us change our behaviour as drastically as is needed now.

    Hence, if we want to use Ricoeur’s mimetic circle to help combat climate change, his philosophy needs to be ‘stretched out’ to also encompass the non-human.  In this paper, I attempt such a broadening by consulting various concepts proposed in Levi Bryant’s Onto-Cartography (2014). More precisely, the primary question this paper poses is whether Bryant’s concept of non-human action can be used to widen the scope of Ricoeur’s narrative theory. I tackle this question in the following way: first, I examine Ricoeur’s theory of narrative by discussing his mimetic circle. Second, I introduce Bryant’s alien phenomenology as a conceptual framework for conceiving non-human action. Third, I incorporate Bryant’s non-human action into Ricoeur’s mimetic circle, thereby establishing a framework for the transformative potential of a non-anthropocentric narrative.

    Narrative Time and Anthropocentrism

    Ricoeur’s theory of narrative and the way it influences human consciousness is, for a large part, carried by his idea of mimesis. To understand what form this influence takes, and how it displays Ricoeur’s anthropocentrism, the mimetic circle itself needs to be elucidated. Afterwards, its anthropocentric elements can be distinguished.

    Mimetic Circling

    The mimetic circle is constituted by a “single continuous process” that is the rotation of mimesis. It is made up of three parts: mimesis1, mimesis2, and mimesis3. A rotation through these three sections describes three respective situations: a person before reading a book, the process of the person actually reading the book, and then the person changed by this reading. To understand the expanse but also the limitations of Ricoeur’s argument, the three steps are discussed separately. 

    Mimesis1 refers to the fact that we are always already capable of understanding actions. We have a so-called ‘preunderstanding’ of action. This preunderstanding becomes more well-defined in its three different elements: structure, symbol, and temporality. Structurally, mimesis1 means that we can differentiate between action and mere physical movement (Ricoeur 1984, 55). We do this using a certain “conceptual network of action” that is given to us through a combination of factors hailing from both the nature and the nurture register (56). Symbolically, mimesis1 refers to the fact that actions have an inherent readability, that is given through action always being “symbolically mediated” (57). This means that action is never done outside a sphere of “signs, rules, and norms” (57) – an action always already means something. Temporally, mimesis1 is largely defined by the Heideggerian idea of within-time-ness (62). Within-time-ness is a kind of preoccupied experience of time; time as the ‘thing’ in which our goals and plans are formulated (63). Mimesis1 is, then, “first to preunderstand what human acting is, in its semantics, its symbolic system, its temporality” (64).

    Upon this preunderstanding of action, Ricoeur says, a narrative is constructed by means of emplotment. The process of emplotment – to which mimesis2 refers – is the organisation of the as of yet unorganised events distinguished in mimesis1 (64). Emplotment mediates between the preunderstanding of action of mimesis1 and the ‘postunderstanding’ of mimesis3 (65). This mediation occurs in three ways: first, as already discussed, it mediates between the individual “incidents and a story taken as a whole” (65). Second, it mediates between the discordance of a heterogeneous set of elements of “agents, goals, means, interactions, circumstances, [and] unexpected results” (65), and the concordance of the plot (66). This mediation operates, third, on a temporal plane: a temporally ordered configuration is extracted from a temporally meaningless succession (66).

    This threefold mediation of mimesis2 allows for the creation of a narrative from the preunderstanding of action registered in mimesis1. This creation of plot, however, does not come forth solely from the individual human being’s preunderstanding. It also bases itself on a certain tradition, on the one hand characterised by novelistic paradigms that have sedimented into the tradition (68), on the other hand made up of the innovative potential of each and every unique narrative work (69). Mimesis2, therefore, is the fact of the production of a story by the mediation between incident and story, discordance and concordance, and succession and temporal order, using the input and rules inherited by a tradition.

    The narrative created in mimesis2 does not exist in a vacuum, of course; it is read. The encounter between reader and the work Ricoeur calls mimesis3 (Dowling 2011, 14). This confrontation is a conflict of the actual, practical world of the reader, and the formal, fictive world of the text. The interaction between these worlds is constituted by the fact that both worlds are, by genesis, built on the same preunderstanding of action Ricoeur argues is mimesis1 (15). A preunderstanding of action is needed to construct our own world of experiences but also to construct any narrative in general.

    With mimesis3 the world of the reader collides with that of the narrative, the latter exhibiting its different possible ways of experiencing the world to the former. What then occurs in the reader – if she is influenced by the text, of course – is a change of consciousness (16). This process thus refigures the prefigured consciousness of the reader through the mediation of a configured narrative work.

    Non-Human Action

    Now that Ricoeur’s mimetic circle has been expanded upon, we are ready to understand in what ways the non-human does not fit into the constraints set on narratives by Ricoeur. The problem of anthropocentrism discussed in the introduction resurfaces here: it is hard to conceive of a climate-friendly refiguration – an eco-refiguration, if you will – while only considering the human perspective (Ghosh 2016, 82; Trexler 2015, 13-14; Ustler 2009, 173).

    The threat of anthropocentrism is carried most urgently by the first stage of mimesis. This is because mimesis1 dictates which events in general are (pre)understood as an action. When the non-human is allowed into this category, it can be taken up in the process of emplotment that is mimesis2 and subsequently influence the reader’s world by letting it collide with the world of the narrative.

    The categorisation of non-human ‘happenings’ or “mere physical movement” (Ricoeur 1984, 55), as action is no self-evident manoeuvre for Ricoeur. His way of conceptualising action is implicitly and explicitly anthropocentric: structurally, he distinguishes between human action and its “goals … motives … [and] agents” and ‘mere’ physical movement (55); symbolically, actions are always mediated by an implicitly human plane of expression that includes “signs, rules and norms” (57); and finally, mimesis1 literally refers to a preunderstanding of “what human acting is” (64, my italics). Ricoeur clearly is not interested in non-human action.

    At the same time, I share Utsler’s (2009) optimism for a Ricoeurian eco-philosophy – provided it succeeds in shedding its anthropocentric limitations. To make eco-refiguration possible, the reader needs to be confronted with a configured narrative world that is composed of non-human agents and the accompanying non-human action. To incorporate these elements in mimesis1, I now turn to Bryant’s Onto-Cartography.

    Machines All the Way Down

    In Onto-Cartography, Bryant puts forward a world view in which all entities – whether they be bureaucracies, volcanoes, human beings, symphonies, or forests – are seen as machines. To differentiate between all these machines, Bryant introduces two theoretical tools: the dual face of machines, and alien phenomenology. In the following, I discuss both tools and explain their role in imagining non-human agency and action.

    Dimensions of the Machine

    In contrast to traditional philosophy, machinic philosophy is hardly interested in the qualities an entity has. It is mostly focused on what the machine does. Fundamentally, “[a] machine is a system of operations that perform transformations on inputs thereby producing outputs” (Bryant 2014, 38). Every entity that exists, therefore, has a certain set of transformations it operates on (flows of input), and a set of outputs constituted by these operations.

    This structure sets up a dichotomy between a machine’s operations and its outputs (40). The capacity a machine has for its specific array of operations is called a ‘power’ (a leaf’s power to photosynthesise, for instance). The outputs created by the machine’s actual operations are called ‘manifestations’ (42). These manifestations do all sorts of things for the machine: they can be the machine’s qualitative appearance (the leaf’s greenness, for example); they can transform the behaviour of the machine itself (its shrinking when there’s little water); and they can be a material output flow (the oxygen produced by photosynthesis) (44-45). The powers a machine has dictate which operations it undertakes, which subsequently generates the entity’s observable facts.

    Machines are not open to all inputs, neither do they possess an endless array of powers. To illustrate this, Bryant talks of how machines are respectively ‘structurally open,’ and ‘operationally closed’ (55). The leaf acts as an example again: in terms of the inputs it is receptive to, it is structurally open to the specific part of the electromagnetic spectrum leaves use for photosynthesis (Heliospectra 2012). A machine’s operational closure refers to the finite selection of powers a machine has (Bryant 2014, 56). It also comprises the fact that an input flow is never encountered by a machine ‘as it is’, it is always encountered “in terms of how its operations transform it” (57). According to Bryant, the input flow ‘as it is’, that enters the leaf is a photon with a certain vibration length. By contrast, the leaf encounters it as fuel for internal energy production.

    By combining the abovementioned facts – machines have a ‘power-face’ and a ‘manifestation-face,’ and are open to a selection of flows and work on these flows in specific ways – Bryant argues it is possible to infer how a machine encounters and experiences its world (62). His method for this procedure is discussed below.

    Alien Phenomenology and Action

    The inference of such an encountered world first entails questioning to which flows a machine is structurally open and how the machine structures these flows; second, how the machine operates on these flows and what functions the transformed flow has in the machine; and finally, how the machine encounters the world around it (62).

    Bryant’s aspirations must remind readers familiar with phenomenology or philosophy of mind of Thomas Nagel’s seminal essay ‘What is it like to be a Bat?’ (1974). In this paper, Nagel argues that we cannot reduce the “subjective character of experience” to simple physical terms – something Bryant definitely seems to be doing when he wants to describe the phenomenology of all machines (Nagel 1974, 436-37). To speak with Nagel: ‘we cannot possible know what it is like to be a leaf!’ Bryant readily accepts this critique; indeed, his kind of “second-order phenomenology” does not enjoy the same level of epistemic reliability that traditional ‘first-order’ phenomenology does – the fact that we cannot ‘move’ into the point of view of other machines makes all statements about the content of these other points of view merely inferential. But, Bryant argues, “[o]ur alien phenomenologies will always be imperfect, but as we will see, as imperfect as they are, they are nonetheless preferable to the epistemic closure of humanism that approaches all of being in terms of what it is for us” (64). Put more simply: it is better to have an imperfect understanding of the world of plants, couches, and bureaucracies, than to have none at all.

    The Nagelian critique can perhaps be further suspended with a short example of the alien phenomenology of one unassuming protagonist: a patch of grass. When a gardener mows down half of this patch, the mown down grass produces a plant stress hormone called GLV (Green Leaf Volatiles) (Dombrowksi et al. 2019). These GLV-molecules enter the rest of the grass patch machine. The GLV-flow is canalised into the receptor kinase of the grass leaf cells (Dombrowski et al. 2020). There, the transformed GLV-flow primes certain “wound stress pathways” in the cell – putting the plant in a sort of ‘defence mode’ (Dombrowski et al. 2020, 780). Put in Bryantian terms: the grass patch is selectively open to GLV-flows, through the receptors in the grass’ cell membranes the flow is structured into the right cellular mechanisms. The grass cells have a multitude of powers for operating on this flow – together constituting the operational closure – that are far too complex to be discussed here, the eventual result of which is that the grass ‘readies itself’ for being wounded – the GLV-flow has become a warning signal to the grass. Finally, we may now carefully conclude that the patch of grass encounters a world populated by all sorts of plant hormones, one of which is GLV, to which it can react defensively.

    How does this conclusion imply non-human, plant-action? The answer is quite simple with Bryant: the grass patch machine, like every other machine, operates in accordance with a combination of environmental input flows it takes in, and the specific powers it has – thereby producing a multitude of manifestations. The production of a manifestation by the exercise of powers on flows of input – that is action in both a human and non-human sense.

    Non-Human Mimesis

    The problem this text has come to is the following: is the description Ricoeur gives of action in mimesis1 compatible with – stretchable to – Bryant’s machine-action? If it is, non-human actions can be emplotted into narratives, these narratives eventually eco-refiguring the minds of their readers. This final section discusses this problem.

    As became clear in the section on Ricoeur, mimesis1 grasps those events as actions that have structural “goals … motives … [and] agents” (Ricoeur, 1984, 55) and that are symbolically mediated by a plane of meaningful communication of “signs, rules and norms” (57). The problematic bifurcates, consequently, into a problem of non-human ‘goals’ and ‘motives,’ and a separate problem of ‘meaningful communication.’[1]

    To start off with the second problem, the idea that only humans are capable of meaningful communication is wholly alien to Bryant. He claims that “it is likely that planes of expression [fields of meaningful communication] are to be found throughout the animal kingdom” (133). Bryant can say this because a machine never encounters an input flow ‘as it is,’ but always “in terms of how its operations transform it” (57). Especially in highly complex machines like organisms and groups of organisms, input flows can – by repeated reinterpretation by the machine – become meaningful signs. A signal that is utterly meaningless to other machines can thereby become full of meaning for other machines configured to operate on it – for grass plants, the GLVs are a sign of danger, for humans, they just smell good (Ford 2022). Examples of non-human, meaningful communication are virtually endless, moreover: “Acacias alert other acacias to prowling giraffes. Willows, poplars, alders: all are caught warning each other of insect invasion across the open air” (Powers 2018, 176-77).

    Bryant’ plant-action thus fulfils the symbolic exigency of action in mimesis1. This redirects us to the first problem: the structural requirement for goals and motives behind an action. Alien phenomenology shows that any given machine can be seen as a whole that encounters the world in a certain way. This tremendous broadening of ‘subjecthood’ is accompanied by Bryant’s insistence that organic machines do have goals: ranging from the goal to “preserve their organization” to the complexity of being “intentionally goal-directed” (Bryant 2014, 30).

    These new, strange subjects have their own goals and motives: according to Bryant we may intelligibly speak of the goal of the patch of grass to mitigate the damage done by the grass mower; we may intelligibly think that the plants in our home have the goal to capture as much light as is internally useful to the plant. Hence, it is very possible to imagine complex motives behind non-human action. The only problem that remains, and seems insurmountable, is the fact that we may never know about these motives with the same certainty as we know about our own and other humans’ motives – that is the upshot of Nagel’s barrier. Whether we are convinced of Bryant’s insistence that accepting this limitation and prolonging our efforts to imagine these non-human worlds is better than closing ourselves off to them, in the end, seems a question of intuition, more than one of philosophical argumentation.

    Conclusion

    Lastly, to return to the problem that spawned this text, is it possible to perform a non-anthropocentric Ricoeurian mimetic circle – to create non-anthropocentric narrative worlds that influence people into changing their stance towards climate change? I started this investigation by discussing Ricoeur’s mimetic circle. The ontological understory of mimesis consisted of first localising the anthropocentrism in the prefigurative part of mimesis. This mimesis1 excluded non-human action on both structural and symbolic grounds. Bryant’s concept of non-human action was a structurally open and operationally closed production of manifestations by the exercise of powers on flows of input. With this, the symbolic grounds for dismissing non-human action could be rejected. The structural grounds proved harder to counter for Bryant – plant-machines can indeed be thought to have motives and goals, but due to the epistemic uncertainty of alien phenomenology we may never know these for sure.

    Overcoming this problem can perhaps only be done by making it practical – something we as philosophers have a tendency to refrain from. What are the practical implications of refusing to believe that non-human machines may have goals and motivations – or put more technically: to go along with Bryant’s epistemic uncertainty regarding non-human phenomenology? Most importantly for this paper, they are that non-human ‘actions’ cannot be categorised as real actions because of Ricoeur’s structural requirements. This would, furthermore, mean non-humans cannot be taken up in the mimetic circle, meaning non-anthropocentric narratives that influence human ways of engaging with their world cannot be conceptualised in any serious way. Finally, our own anthropocentrism is therefore made inescapable, we cannot flee from it through telling stories and creating narratives – climate change becomes insurmountable.

    So perhaps, indeed, we must remain epistemologically pure and reject non-human actions; with such dire practical consequences, however, this epistemological purity comes at a very serious ethical cost: the evaporation of our ability to create real change in real people. It may come as no surprise that I myself look forward to new, inventive non-human narratives.


    Bibliography

    Bryant, Levi R. 2014. Onto-Cartography: An Ontology of Machines and Media. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press Ltd.

    Chakrabarty, Dipesh. 2018. “Anthropocene Time.” History and Theory 57, 1: 5-32. https://doi.org/10.1111/hith.12044.

    Dauenhauer, Bernard P. 2013. “Ricoeur and agent causation.” Philosophy and Social Criticism 39, 6: 523-537. https://doi.org/10.1177/0191453713485720.

    Dombrowski, J.E., Kronmiller, B.A., Hollenbeck, V.G. et al. 2019. “Transcriptome analysis of the model grass Lolium temulentum exposed to green leaf volatiles.” BMC Plant Biology 19, 222. https://doi.org/10.1186/s12870-019-1799-6.

    Dombrowski, James E., Brent A. Kronmiller, Vicky Hollenbeck, and Ruth C. Martin. 2020. “Transcriptome Analysis of Wounding in the Model Grass Lolium temulentum” Plants 9, 6: 780. https://doi.org/10.3390/plants9060780.

    Dowling, William C. 2011. Ricoeur on time and narrative: an introduction to Temps et récit. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press.

    Ford, Jez. 2022. “The Smell of Fresh-Cut Grass is an Attack Warning.” Science Illustrated. Retrieved on the 10th of June 2023. https://scienceillustrated.com.au/blog/ask-us/the-smell-of-fresh-cut-grass-is-an-attack-warning/.

    Ghosh, Amitav. 2016 The Great Derangement: Climate Change and the Unthinkable. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press.

    Heliospectra. 2012. Which regions of the electromagnetic spectrum do plants use to drive photosynthesis? Retrieved from heliospectra.com on 5th of June 2023. http://www.esalq.usp.br/lepse/imgs/conteudo_thumb/Which-regions-of-the-electromagnetic-spectrum-do-plants-use-to-drive-photosynthesis.pdf.

    Kohn, Eduardo. 2013. How Forests Think: Toward an Anthropology beyond the Human. California: University of California Press.

    Morton, Timothy. 2012. The Ecological Thought. Harvard: Harvard University Press.

    Nagel, Thomas. 1974. “What is it like to be a Bat?” The Philosophical Review 83, 4: 435-50. https://doi.org/10.2307/2183914.

    Potter, Henry D. & Kevin J. Mitchell. 2022. “Naturalising Agent Causation.” Entropy 24, 472: 1-18. https://doi.org/10.3390/e24040472.

    Powers, Richard. The Overstory. Dublin: Vintage Classics.

    Ricoeur, Paul. 1984. Time and Narrative: Volume 1. Translated by Kathleen MclLaughlin & David Pellauer. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

    Trexler, Adam. 2015. Anthropocene Fictions: The Novel in a Time of Climate Change. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press.

    Utsler, David. 2009. “Paul Ricoeur’s Hermeneutics as a Model for Environmental Philosophy.” Philosophy Today 53, no. 2: 173-78.


    [1] The question of agency is a separate and incredibly complex problem that can and should be discussed in a more spacious text than this one. The problem is, however, not at all insurmountable: as we can read in Dauenhauer (2013, 523), Ricoeur in principle uses ‘agent causation’ instead of the ‘distributive agency’ of Bryant (2014, 180). Although these two positions, when taken to their extreme forms, do most definitely contradict one another – extreme agent causation places the source of action fully inside the entity, while extreme distributive agency places next to no source of action inside the entity – I believe they can be synthesized quite elegantly. This should be done in two steps: first Bryant’s insistence on the unity of a machine (while at the same time being a part of a world of other machines, and being made up of endless machines itself) and his subsequent alien phenomenology proofs the distribution of agency implied by his theory is not boundless – the source of a machine’s actions is always also internal. Second, Ricoeur’s agent causation is not boundless either: the source of a person’s actions is never fully internal (as is clear from the effect sedimented tradition has on the types of novels people can and do write). Moreover, as is clear from Potter & Mitchell (2022, 3) for agent causation to be naturalised, it needs, among other things, to take account of both endogenous, and exogenous activity of the organism. A synthesis, hence, is possible, but we naturally need more space to develop this point in its entirety. For now, a discussion of non-human action will have to suffice.

  • The Privatization of the Future and Human Essence

    Introduction

    In his work Neuromancer (1984, 17), William Gibson explains that the economy of the future is experienced as “a constant subliminal hum, and death the accepted punishment for laziness, carelessness, lack of grace, the failure to heed the demands of an intricate protocol.” This approach to capitalism seems to be a staple when it comes to the Cyberpunk genre, a sub-genre of science fiction that explores the integration of technology into different aspects of life in an urban, dystopian setting, often elucidated through the motto “High tech, low life.” (Abreu 2022). The incorporation of technology can be observed through characters often sporting technologically advanced prosthetic limbs, eyes and even organs. While physical alterations in merely, say, phalanges may seem a big step, Cyberpunk also introduces hypothetical technology with the ability to plunge us straight into a realm known as Cyberspace. Cyberspace or The Net is “a vast telecommunications network that joins all of the computers and telephones on earth. It is formed by radio, telephone, and cellular phone links, with microwave transmitters beaming information into orbit and beyond” (Pondsmith 1990, 127). The Cyberpunk 2020 manual goes on to state that in the early 20th century, Cyberspace was only accessible through a specific device, but in 2020, it could be entered through merely the brain (ibid.). Clearly, a contemporary phenomenon pointing toward the manifestation of a Cyberpunk-esque future is exemplified through the development of virtual reality and the Metaverse.

    While the most famous breakthrough of the genre stems from Ridley Scott’s 1982 film Blade Runner, Cyberpunk has delivered eerily accurate prophecies concerning the current state of the world since the New Wave science fiction movement of the 1960s and 70s (Duran 2020).

    This shift from using technology as a tool to the complete integration of it in both society and the body itself will be explored through a case study of the dystopian sci-fi work of Mike Pondsmith. The works analyzed are Pondsmith’s Cyberpunk 2020, and the work it was based on, Neuromancer, by William Gibson. These works, along with works such as Blade Runner (1982) and Ghost in the Shell (1995), show us the possibility of our projected future. Through an exploration of postmodernity through Mark Fisher’s work, Capitalist Realism (2009), a modification on Hannah Arendt’s conceptualization of the human condition, and various science fiction authors, this case study will analyze how the Cyberpunk genre succeeded in projecting our future. Through further exploration of how the neoliberal revolution has affected our use and dependence on technology, this essay will, finally, aim to answer the question: is capitalism becoming part of the human essence?

    Part 0.5: Welcome to Night City

    An important aspect to roughly grasp the feel of the genre is the commonly used setting. Both Pondsmith’s Cyberpunk 2020 and Neuromancer are set in Night City, also referred to as “the Ninsei,” specifically in Neuromancer. Night City, in Pondsmith’s work, was founded in 1994 by a land developer called Richard Night. Initially the city was a mere clustered section of suburbia on the American west coast, so a harbor city, which later encompassed San Francisco and Los Angeles. Night City was planned as a clean city, free of crime, and “by offering lucrative tax packages to several major corporations, he was able to establish a strong economic base as well as an instant population of corporate employees.” (Pondsmith 1990, 216). This plan was interrupted, however, as Night used his own resources, thereby excluding major unions and construction firms all controlled by organized crime syndicates, which, in turn, assassinated Night and took over. In the period that followed, the city turned into a sprawling war zone, run rampant with drugs, prostitution, and crime. In 2009, the corporations on which backs’ the city was built decided they had had enough of this; they “eliminated most of the gang leaders and established a corporation-controlled City Council.” (Ibid.). This city council secured its status as an autonomous Free State; while considered part of the United States, it had the option to declare its own federal laws (Ibid.). In the ‘present’, Night City is a rapidly growing metropolis teeming with both crime and economic growth, which is almost impossible to leave: “Nobody ever leaves Night City. Except in a body bag.” (Ibid., 217). While this fantastical city is rich with lore, the most crucial aspect is that it was originally meant as a so-called “everycity,” or a city that could be found anywhere in projected futuristic America, exemplifying the neoliberal revolution the genre expected.

    Part 1: Capitalist Futures and Hyper Commodification

    Such “everycities” are merely a projection of how the genre recognizes late-stage capitalism to be changing the current state of society. In the Cyberpunk genre, this state of being is magnified to the point of societal integrity, including ‘non-partisan actors’, and even governments are privatized, formulating a hyperbolic neoliberal framework. Philosophers Fredric Jameson and Mark Fisher explore the, albeit, less dramatic, realistic conception of this societal stage.  

    Fisher draws heavily on American literary critic and fellow philosopher Jameson, who speaks on the conception of the postmodernist movement in his 1991 work Postmodernism, or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism. The beginning of this movement finds its roots in globalization, and the commodification capitalism spurs on in international finance, mass communication and multinational corporations (Jameson 1991). Nevertheless, postmodernism remains a contested phenomenon in terms of definition, and the term in of itself implies that modernism “possessed revolutionary potentials by virtue of its formal innovations alone”. What Jameson saw happening instead was the incorporation of modernist motifs into popular culture (suddenly, for example, Surrealist techniques would appear in advertising)” (Fisher 2009, 8).

    While Fisher prefers, for these reasons, the term capitalist realism, he also states that “what we are dealing with now, however, is a deeper, far more pervasive, sense of exhaustion, of cultural and political sterility” (Ibid, 7). Fisher’s interpretation of the term capitalist realism is defined as capitalism being so ingrained that we can see no economic or political alternative, referring to Margaret Thatcher’s infamously pro-market slogan “There is no alternative” (Krämer 2013). Our current stage of being is seen by Fisher, as an ontology rooted in business. In this ontology, we cannot exist in separation from capital, including mental states such as the feeling of nostalgia and depression, which is why the Cyberpunk genre may prove yet again to be a realistic and inevitable scenario.

    The capitalization of nostalgia and culture is a theme found throughout Fisher’s later work Ghosts of my life, in the form of the Derridean concept of ‘hauntology’. In Fisher’s work, this term refers to a “melancholic refusal to give up on the days of popular modernism where everything seemed possible, and a refusal to yield to capitalist realism and postmodern finitude” (Diaz 2021). In layman’s terms, Fisher’s definition of hauntology can be explained as the gripping-onto of past cultural phenomenon and reproducing them to monetize nostalgia, leading to a complete Avant-guardian halt. Through hauntology, what Fisher calls ‘the slow cancellation of the future’ is introduced. He notes that this phenomenon is best observed through the transformation of musical trends throughout the last century:

    Rather than the old recoiling from the ‘new’ in fear and incomprehension, those whose expectations were formed in an earlier era are more likely to be startled by the sheer persistence of recognisable forms. Nowhere is this clearer than in popular music culture. It was through the mutations of popular music that many of those of us who grew up in the 1960s, 70s and 80s learned to measure the passage of cultural time. But faced with 21st-century music, it is the very sense of future shock which has disappeared. (Fisher 2014, 7)

    Fisher argues that at the point where everything becomes retro, “we lose our grasp on history – and, without a sense of why the past happened the way it did, our anything.” (Hsu 2018). Capitalism keeps us in constant cultural stagnation as the feverish hunt for nostalgia is turned to a motive for profit. This hunt forces humanity to turn art, music, and anything we produce as an expression of ourselves into a hypercommodified sphere; keeping in mind that the price paid for sentimentalism is exuberant.

    Aside from this analysis of the relation between consciousness and capitalism, cyberpunk, also lays huge emphasis on how capitalism physically affects humanity. A pillar of Cyberpunk as a genre, alongside the nearing rabid thirst for profit, is cybernetic augmentation and the theme of the body invaded by technology. Such bodily ‘invasions’ as prosthetic limbs, cosmetic surgery, and ways to ‘jack in’ to cyberspace are most common. Not only does technology become an extension of the body, but also of the mind, through said cyberspace. Through the gradual bodily takeover by such innovations, it becomes less and less a vessel for experiences such as sensations and thoughts, considering this is now no longer human. As such, the parts of the body that have died off in favor of using technology are now revived, resulting in “futureshocked zombies.” For science-fiction author Bruce Sterling, this branch of Cyberpunk is post-humanist, spurring on “technological destruction of the human condition [that] leads not to future-shocked zombies but to hopeful monsters.” (Sterling 1987, 4-5). This quote, as used by post-humanists, refers to the type of change technology brings to human nature.

    In both Sterling and Gibson’s works, characters are regularly subjected to a scenario likened to a futuristic ship of Theseus. The thought experiment centers around a ship of which every plank is slowly being replaced one-by-one. The question resulting from this is: once every component of the ship is replaced, can it still be considered the same ship it started out as? In this soon to be contemporary version of the well-known thought experiment the subjects are continually reshaping their bodies. Thus, notions of human nature through a purely physical essence lose credibility, and a redefinition of what it means to be human becomes necessary (Hollinger 1990, 8).

    Such a discussion of the ship of Theseus is, however, incomplete. As the classic experiment goes, it merely involves the vessel it discusses, and not the ship’s characteristics and purpose. Considering the application of this investigation on humans, another layer must be added through Hannah Arendt’s work on the human condition.

    In exploring this added layer of how the human condition affects our behavior, the resulting feeling of alienation in the context of the Cyberpunk genre will be further discussed.

    Part 2: The Human Condition and Its Dichotomies

    Hannah Arendt introduces us in her work The Human Condition, first and foremost, to the term vita activa, and distinguishes between three forms of activities: labor, work, and action. Each form “corresponds to one of the basic conditions under which life on earth has been given to man.” (Arendt 1958, 7). ‘Labor’ refers to biological processes concerning the human body; its human condition is life itself. ‘Work’ is the opposite of labor, with a definite beginning and end, representing the creation of a product, such as a work of art. Yet, what makes work different from labor is the desire to create, and not the need for survival as observed in labor. The human condition for work, according to Arendt, is worldliness: the possession of tangible references in the world and the partaking in a political world. What sets both labor and work apart from ‘action’, is that for Arendt it specifically takes place in the web of human relations through both speech and action, and it is what we both use to set ourselves apart from others and to build relationships. Arendt describes this to be the ultimate expression of freedom one can partake in. Action adheres to the human condition of plurality: we are shaped by those around us and our environments, which we shape in turn (ibid., 7-8). To define plurality, in this sense, distinction is a necessity as “if people are not distinct, then a person would only be like everyone else, there will be no need for neither speech nor action to manifest him/herself.” (Bas 2013, 13). Along with distinction, another characteristic of plurality is equality. This condition of equality is not inherited through birth but through speech and action. Employing these methods, humans can create the polis, a public sphere through which distinction and equality can be enabled (ibid.).

    A central thesis in her work is that, opposite to earlier epochs, labor has been glorified, contrasting with its earlier and significantly lower status (Beiner 1990, 360). This glorification is the consequence of John Locke discovering labor to be the source of all property. This claim, followed by Adam Smith’s assertion of labor leading to wealth, found its zenith through Karl Marx’s “system of labor” (Arendt 1958, 101). In said system, labor became the ultimate method of wealth accumulation and expression of humanity (Ibid.). These three thinkers,

    Though Marx with greatest force and consistency, held that labor was considered to be the supreme world-building capacity of man, and since labor actually is the most natural and least worldly of man’s activities, each of them, and again none more than Marx, found himself in the grip of certain genuine contradictions. (Ibid., 101)

    Arendt notes that such contradictions arise from the fact that these authors equated work with labor, bestowing labor with attributes only found in her definition of work. Marx claims labor to be the measure of all human productivity, whereas Arendt finds distinction within labor being unable to produce anything eternal, only able to maintain perishable human life. However, while definitions differ, both philosophers seem to agree on Locke’s dichotomy of “the labor of his body, and the work of his hands,” referring to the body constantly laboring to keep itself alive, and the hands working to create a durable result (Locke 1980).

    Part 3: Alienation and Reconciliation

    While Arendt and Marx consider different definitions of work and labor to be correct, they find agreeance in the concept of alienation resulting from glorifying the accumulation of an end product and wealth. Arendt opens the Human Condition by discussing the launch of Sputnik in 1957, which was met with an immediate reaction of joy that “expressed on the spur of the moment, was relief about the first “step toward escape from men’s imprisonment to the earth.”” (Arendt 1958, 1). This reaction troubles Arendt, forcing her to pose the question as to why humankind has such a strong desire to ‘escape’ its home, in exchange for an unexplored, largely empty, void. She believes that we have made our planet inhospitable, causing an alienation from it. Arendt believes that our world has been lost to modernity, which is emphasized by Arendtian theorist Ring:

    It [the world] contained needs that Arendt believes are universal: the need for permanence and structure that survives beyond the lifetime of a single generation. The creation of permanence, which she refers to as the creation of objectivity, constructs an essentially human activity. (Ring 1989, 433).

    I propose that Arendt’s conceptualization of the human condition can be used as a model to show how technoscientific and economic developments of capitalism have alienated us from both the world and from ourselves. This is achieved through the literal invasion of the human body and mind, as observed in the Cyberpunk genre. In an attempt to cling to the conditions listed and to reconcile ourselves with our home, we try to adapt through the concept of the world. Arendt’s concept of the world is meant not as a reinterpretation of nature but as a product of human work, the products produced are the realization of models or hypothetical blueprints (Arendt 1958, 139-144), “they include institutions as well as material things such as buildings, tables and computers.” (Chapman 2007, 435). While humans inhabit the world, Arendt also argues that the world is lived on, creating a human “artefact”, and created from what we are given by nature (ibid.). The world is meant as a place that humans inhabit, seeking to understand each other. For this, Arendt introduces the metaphor of the table; the table acts as an analogy for worldliness, perpetuating a hypothetical space over which people can relate to one another and a shared cause while remaining individually in their own chairs (Bas 2013, 2). As Arendt writes:

    In acting and speaking, men show who they are, reveal actively their unique personal identities and thus make their appearance in the human world, while their physical identities appear without any activity of their own in the unique shape of the body and sound of the voice. This disclosure of “who” in contradiction to “what” somebody is – his qualities, gifts, talents, and shortcomings, which he may display or hide – is implicit in everything somebody says and does. (Arendt 1958, 179)

    If this table, and so the world, are abstractions for a common political sphere in which humans form each other, it is only natural that current political, and thus economic, ideas become embodiments of their abstractions. In the current iteration of the world, in which everything must be efficient and function as a well-oiled capitalistic machine, the body can no longer compute. This could be interpreted, as for Arendt’s version of alienation, that the overwhelming joy felt once interplanetary escape became an option stems from an extreme technological advancement housed only in the world while the body lags further and further behind. Yet, in an Arendtian framework, the conclusion of technology breeding reconciliation could never be accepted. This is, of course, unless the only option is to remain stagnant in an ever-changing world, where to reconnect, humans must also become more technologically advanced. This rise of technology promises to free humanity of any limitations as upheld by the human condition, and so the Cyberpunk genre would, through cybernetic prosthetics and augmentation of the body, provide both further alienation from our bodies, but an option for reconciliation with a more and more technologically advanced planet as well.

    However, it can be noted that if, for humanity to be reconciled with its home, both the planet and humanity must keep developing technologically, capitalism will forever remain unable to escape. The environment keeps changing, forcing its inhabitants to do so as well, spurring the idea of the human body not being utopian but dystopian. We want to free ourselves from the human condition through progress. Still, we lose everything in doing so: belonging in the world and the ability to fantasize about a reality where we are indeed free from the whims of merely an economic system.

    Conclusion

    While in Cyberpunk, late-stage capitalism and all its consequences are vastly magnified, the works of Mark Fisher and Hannah Arendt allow an interpretation that provides a scope of the future that  runs rampant with everything the science fiction genre has to offer. This specific branch of sci-fi is often elucidated through the motto of “high tech, low life,” exemplified predominantly through its extreme focus on highly advanced technology and the accumulation of wealth. A pillar of the focus on technology lies within the exceedingly easy, even encouraged, installation of cybernetic augmentation and prosthetics. Through this invasion of capitalistic ideals, such as efficiency through the human body, and a study of Arendt’s conceptualization of the human condition, this essay aimed to answer the question: “Is capitalism becoming part of the human essence?”

    From Fisher’s works, Capitalist Realism and Ghosts of My Life could be gathered that we presently find ourselves under ingrained and inescapable conditions induced by capitalism, for which humanity is unable to even ponder an alternative. Even abstract concepts such as nostalgia and depression are wrung out for profit through the regurgitation and remaking of art and culture, obstructing the creation of anything new. As humans apparently yearn for the feeling of a simpler time, the production of avant-garde expressions is just not profitable enough. Human existence has become ensnared deep within the maul of capitalism, forcing humans to abide by an ontology rooted in business. Living by this ontology forces society to turn anything that results from Arendt’s interpretation of action into a monetizable commodity or service.

    Along with Arendt’s conceptualization of the conditions for being human, work, labor, and action, a compelling aspect considering humanity’s future is her iteration of alienation. This is first mentioned in her work, when discussing the launch of Sputnik: “In 1957, an earth-born object made by man was launched into the universe, where for some weeks it circled the earth according to the same laws of gravitation that swing and keep in motion the celestial bodies” (Arendt 1958, 1). For Arendt, alienation is the estrangement of humans as fundamentally “earth-bound creatures” from a world we have made inhospitable. Through her metaphor of the table, a common sphere where humans seek to understand each other through a common cause, it becomes a necessity for abstractions to become part of our lived-upon “human artefact”. As our “artefact” has technologically hyper-progressed, humans have realized that this will soon become a hostile environment for the human body, alienating us from our home. This essay argues that the Cyberpunk genre has seemingly provided humans with a hypothetical opportunity for reconciliation with the world through means of the adaptation found within the abstract bounds of cybernetic augmentation, but in reality has done quite the opposite. In our frivolous  search for adaptation, humanity has entered an unescapable cycle of “progress”, leading to the further breeding of alienation.

    In a state of Fisher’s capitalist realism and through a reinterpretation of Arendt’s human condition, it has, unfortunately, become a realistic possibility that capitalism has become an overwhelmingly prominent aspect of what it means to be human.


    Bibliography

    Abreu, Rafael. 2022. “What is Cyberpunk – Genre Definition, Origins & Examples.” Studiobinder, June 12, 2022. https://www.studiobinder.com/blog/what-is-cyberpunk-definition/.

    Arendt, Hannah. 1958. The Human Condition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

    Bas, Melis. 2013. “A reinterpretation of Hannah Arendt as a philosopher of technology.” Master thesis., University of Twente.

    Beiner, Ronald S. 1990. “Hannah Arendt on Capitalism and Socialism.” Government and Opposition 25, no. 3 (Summer): 359-370. https://www.jstor.org/stable/pdf/44482522.pdf.

    Chapman, Anne. 2007. “The Ways That Nature Matters: The World and the Earth in the Thought of Hannah Arendt.” Environmental Values 16, no. 4 (November): 433-445. https://www.jstor.org/stable/pdf/30302380.pdf.

    Diaz, Nicholas. 2021. “Introducing Mark Fisher: Part 3 – Hauntology, Lost Futures, and Politicized Melancholia.” Medium, September 25, 2021. https://medium.com/@nicholasadiaz7/introducing-mark-fisher-part-3-hauntology-lost-futures-and-politicized-melancholia-820e7a207e1e.

    Duran, H.B.. 2020. “Who Created the Cyberpunk Genre?” Steelseries, April 10, 2020. https://steelseries.com/blog/who-created-cyberpunk-sci-fi-224.

    Fisher, Mark. 2009. Capitalist Realism: Is There No Alternative? Hampshire: Zer0 Books.

    Fisher, Mark. 2014. Ghosts of My Life: Writings on Depression, Hauntology and Lost Futures. Hampshire: Zer0 Books.

    Gibson, William. 1984. Neuromancer. New York: Ace.

    Hollinger, Veronica. 1990. “Cybernetic Deconstructions: Cyberpunk and Postmodernism.” Mosaic: An Interdisciplinary Critical Journal 23, no. 2 (Spring): 29-44. http://www.jstor.org/stable/24780626.

    Hsu, Hua. 2018. “Mark Fisher’s “K-Punk” and the futures that have never arrived.” New Yorker, December 11, 2018. https://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/mark-fishers-k-punk-and-the-futures-that-have-never-arrived.

    Jameson, Fredric. 1991. Postmodernism, or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism. Durham: Duke University Press.

    Krämer, Michael. 2013. “There is no alternative!” The Guardian, May 4, 2013. https://www.theguardian.com/science/life-and-physics/2013/may/04/no-alternative-bayes-penalties-philosophy-thatcher-merkel.

    Locke, John. 1980. Second Treatise of Government. Edited by C. B. Macpherson. Cambridge: Hackett Publishing.

    Pondsmith, Mike. 1990. Cyberpunk 2020. Berkely: R. Talsorian Games.

    Ring, Jennifer. 1989. “On Needing Both Marx and Arendt: Alienation and the Flight from Inwardness.” Political Theory 17, no. 3 (Summer): 432-448. https://www.jstor.org/stable/pdf/191225.pdf.

    Sterling, Bruce. 1987. “Letter (Ansible, #50).” N.p.: Ansible Editions.

  • Symposium 2023: Bodies and Embodiment

    27
    September 2023
    Splijtstof Symposium: Bodies and Embodiment
    13:00 – 17:00Erasmusbuilding

    Splijtstof is proud to present the annual philosophical Symposium, which this year will take part on the 27th of September! The theme of this year’s Symposium will be: Bodies and Embodiment.

    Feel welcome and be submerged in an afternoon of philosophical activity, ending with a drink at the CultuurCafé. The speakers which will be attending this year are Ea Utoft, Ilse Meijer, Josias Tembo and Vivienne Matthies-Boon. All of these speakers will shine their light on Embodiment, what it means to them and how we – as dedicated philosophers – must question and interact with certain aspects of embodied life. If you feel like stopping by, which is possible whenever you want during the 27th, you can find the Symposium in room E.15:39/41, from 13:00 until 17:00.

    Schedule for the day:

    13:00 – Gather at E.15:39/41 on the 15th floor of the Erasmus Building

    13:10 – Welcome and start of the day by moderator Max Schmermbeck

    13:30 – (E.15 39/41) Ea Utoft and Ilse Meijer: A Discussion on “Objectivity” and Embodied Research Methods

    14:40 (E.15 39/41) Lecture by Josias Tembo: Towards an Embodied View of Race and Religion

    15:25 – Breaktime in the coffee corner on the 15th floor of the Erasmus building

    15:50 – (E.15 39/41) Lecture by Vivienne Matthies-Boon: A Critical Phenomenological Account of Long Covid

    17:00 – Drinks at Cultuur Café

  • Editor

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  • Off the Record: FTR Coffee Corner’s Bert

    From the moment I enter the 15th floor’s coffee corner, I am welcomed by the ever-warm and comforting smell of coffee. On the table lies a crossword puzzle, glasses and an empty cup. “Can I get you something?” Bert asks, holding a small stick of liquorice in the left corner of his mouth. “Coffee, please,” I answer. He pours us both a fresh cup of hot black coffee and while we settle down at the table next to the bar, the great view of Nijmegen accompanies us. 

    Bert works on Mondays and Thursdays at the coffee corner on the 15th floor of Radboud University’s Erasmus building, which houses the spirit of Philosophy, Theology and Religious studies. Since the thinking mind needs a lot of coffee to process all that has been read and written, it seemed like a good idea to interview Bert who, together with Yolande, takes care of this precious place we all need in our daily lives.

    “So, Bert, can you tell me something about yourself?”

    “Well, I am Bert, originally a carpenter. Previously, I did maintenance for student housing. And my hobbies are birds and working with wood to make things.”

    When I ask Bert what he likes to make, a whole story unfolds in the morning of a regular but quiet day. He has just created a couple of parrot-trees from wood for his volunteering job at an elderly home where he is creating a birdhouse. Apart from doing all kinds of activities with the elderly, he also likes to cook. Right now, he is experimenting with spices from Greek cuisine, a very relevant region to the 15th floor. He is also very interested in antiquities. He tells me he owns a few massive books containing catholic illustrations which he absolutely loves. And that is not all. In his earlier days, he worked at what is now called Orientalis, the former biblical open-air museum, where he created museum pieces based on Roman archaeological excavations. Moreover, he is very skilled in renovating pieces of furniture, and in the past, he restored playgrounds to construct any furniture that his family had ever dreamed of.

    “Need to check if there is still enough coffee.”

    While greeting the incoming personnel, Bert heads off to the bar. When he returns, I ask him how many cups of coffee he drinks during the day, and what his favorite coffee is. He answers: “I think, well, it is a little bit less right now, but on average, 12-14 cups. I used to drink fresh filter coffee, but now we have Senseo at home, the dark Senseo. Nice, with a layer of foam on top.” And when I continue to ask for his favorite pastries on the side, he adds: “Just cookies. Regular plain waffle cookies. The only pastry I really like is schuimgebak.”Freely translated, it is a foam-pastry (again, the foam!). 

    We talk about all sorts of subjects, but a very important part of Bert’s life has not yet been addressed, so I return to the subject of birds. His eyes begin to sparkle when I ask him about his favorite birds.  “Colored canaries. And a putter. Well, actually, it is a goldfinch, but here, we call it a putter[1]. Beautiful bird to look at.” He shows me some pictures and videos of these beautiful, tiny creatures. His favorites are the red colored ones, mosaic-like, and we both listen to the charming, bright whistles of these birds. An amusing fact: because of his elaborated whistle-hearing abilities, Bert discovered that he was a little hard of hearing. “At one time, I entered the shed and I wondered, why don’t I hear the birds? Those sharp tones were just gone.” We both laugh. “Let’s see if there is enough tea left.” Whistling to himself now, he makes sure that everything is always in place and taken care of. 

    Next year, Bert will retire, and because he doesn’t have a yacht to run off to Dubai with, I ask him what he plans to do. He wants to continue his work as a volunteer at the elderly home, touring around on his moped, and specifically, he would like to spend his days fishing. He adds: “Then… I completely relax (…) I personally prefer the ‘old-school’ solid stick, which is far more beautiful to use, because then you have a sort of feeling with it (…) and when I am tired, I will buy some coffee and a meatball for my friend and I, and all of it is just very relaxing.”

    Bert is a morning person, a listening ear, a calm and friendly man. He has found his way at the 15th floor and he stresses the feeling of involvement he experiences during his working days which is created by the people at the coffee corner. When I stop my recording at approximately fifty-five minutes, we continue chattering for another forty-five minutes about movies, his family, and all sorts of things. Serving ourselves a final round of hot coffee, we discuss the missing cups problem while the sun breaks through the clouded, rainy morning. Just another day at the coffee-corner…


    [1] ‘Het puttertje’ is famously known as a painting by Carel Fabritius and the book cover of Donna Tartt’s ‘The Goldfinch’.

  • Philosopher Abroad: Culturicide in the Shadows of the USSR

    Please be aware of a trigger warning for cultural genocide and war.


    The war in Ukraine is entering its 16th month, and the terrifyingly destructive battles show no sign of relenting. With the Russian army launching a slaughter in their ‘fraternal’ nation, other peoples of the former Soviet Union find themselves at odds with each other. I want to describe the differences in how the general public is reacting to the war.

    In order to illustrate my argument, I will draw from my experiences travelling across the former Soviet Union.[1] By giving you an illustration of the contrast between Kazakhstan and Lithuania, I hope to convince you that culture can be turned into a weapon of resistance, and that we must use culture as a weapon of resistance to support Ukraine. My three principal reasons are that it brings hope, it brings truth, and it embodies Ukrainian defiance itself.

    I am going to do this in two steps. Firstly, I will analyse how art and symbolism is valuable in times of war. Secondly, I am going to describe the contrast in art and symbolism in Kazakhstan and Lithuania to illustrate the merits and needs for the weaponisation of art and culture. I will focus on public, grass-roots artistic and cultural activism, as a way to engage in the war. I am talking about individuals and groups making public phenomena in solidarity with Ukraine.

    Throughout this paper, I refer to Russian fascism, or Ruscism. The use of the term fascism is not done lightly, and I justify this having studied Putin’s ideology and the ideology of the invasion. This includes, among other things: irredentism and a cult of violence, hyper-masculinity and authoritarianism, the denial of Ukraine as a national identity and the justification of ethnic cleansing. For Putin, this fascism ultimately justifies war because “we are one people” (Putin 2022).

    Culturicide, or cultural genocide, can be defined as a systematic destruction of a culture. It can take many forms but aims to undermine and root out national and cultural identities and specificities. It is widely seen as a war crime and a crime against humanity. My experiences have found that the way that some groups take a silent position in the face of culturicide is a dangerous precedent. To stay silent in the face of any form of culturicide or oppression is tantamount to complicity. I hope to convince you not be silent in the face of fascism of any form.

    Culture and Symbolism as Resistance

    In order to back up my argument that ordinary people should be showing signs of support for Ukraine, I will first discuss the value of art and culture in times of war. I maintain that art can be weaponised in three ways: it is a form of documentation, it can be weaponised in this war as a form of defiance itself, and because art and culture can bring solidarity and unity.

    Firstly, art and symbolism for Ukraine demonstrates solidarity. It is a binding agent that can unify peoples. Ukrainian art and culture are not only important motivators for the defence of the nation, but as a unifying factor it is also politically valuable. Like many national anthems, “Ukraine has not yet perished” has a role in binding peoples. This happened at Nijmegen4Ukraine demonstrations in March 2022, as an international crowd began to sing in Ukrainian, highlighting this power to bind people behind a common cause. But the ultimate power of cultural works like this is the use of a simple symbol to designate solidarity with a plight. For Ukrainians home and abroad, this is a powerful and hopeful message, albeit sad for the same reasons. As one Ukrainian told me: “[the symbols] make me smile. Because I know we’re not alone [which is important because] wars aren’t won alone anymore.”

    During a war of information, reality is distorted. Putin’s post-modern truth is a dangerous political technique to rewrite the histories of Ukraine, Russia and the war. Art and culture can depict history and events from either side and do a lot of work to spread the truth. This is the second way that art can serve in war: as an account of history. For this reason, Putin tries to destroy museums and cultural institutions, in order to re-write history, according to the Ruscist vision and the Russian World ideology. But art and culture can undo this disinformation, as it is the “material evidence of the existence of a culture” (The Canvas 2022, 4:34).

    One such attack on Ukrainian cultural institutions came in February 2022, when Russian bombing targeted a museum near Kyiv that housed the works of a celebrated Ukrainian folk artist, Mariia Prymachenko. As the building was engulfed in flames, a local man ran inside to save some of the art and managed to save 10 pieces (The Canvas 2022). Putin and Ruscists tried to destroy Prymachenko’s art because art has the power to embody a culture.

    The ideology behind the war is the denial of Ukrainian national identity. Subsequently through violent methods “all symbols of Ukrainian statehood have been methodically removed [in occupied territories] and a new Russian imperial identity imposed on the civilian population” (Dickinson 2022). Any manifestation of Ukrainian cultural identity is thus a rejection of the Ruscist ideology. Ukrainian art and culture are embodiments of resistance, in that their very existence represents a denial of Putin’s claim that Ukraine as a nation does not exist. This is why that man ran into the museum to save the art. Because the very existence of this artwork is an embodiment of defiance of Ruscist ideology. Mariia Prymachenko’s uniquely Ukrainian art is a testament to the very existence of Ukraine.

    The man who was willing to risk his life to save the art of Mariia Prymachenko did so for the resistance of Ukraine. Because art is more than just oil on canvas; it is culture. And in this fight against cultural cleansing, the disposition of art is itself an act of defiance.

    Lithuania

    The skyline in Lithuania has been transformed since the war; you cannot escape its impact. Lithuanians take the symbolic fight to Putin, and the messages of solidarity make me feel inspired. But I strongly feel Lithuanian artistic activism is something we should emulate.

    Lithuania’s public activism has become a weapon of information, trying to directly combat the narrative pushed by Moscow. Vilnius tries to dispel the falsified Russian propaganda. One striking example of this is the huge billboard on a skyscraper testifying ‘Putin, the Hague is waiting for you.’ Long before any international court sentenced Putin, Lithuanians were making their feelings known about the culturicide in Ukraine.

    Or another example is 1K fund, a private, 100% volunteer-driven activist group. Their mission statement says:

    “Our third field of interest is information warfare. We conduct public relations campaigns that combat Russian misinformation and help us gather donations for the fund.” (1Kfund.org)

    Lithuanians are directly contradicting the disinformation disseminated in Russia. They are providing as much sport as possible for the defence of Ukraine in the name of the defence against fascism. Through cultural and artistic activities in public spaces, Lithuanians are taking the fight on information to the Russians. They do not sit idly by but take a firm anti-fascist narrative.

    A second key feature of Lithuanian pro-Ukraine activism is unwavering solidarity. With the constant presence of activism, Lithuanian public society clearly signals its support and determination to help. This has many positive impacts. For example, it provides space for public grieving and trauma recognition. It increases awareness and boosts dialogue. It can even begin to humanise the conflict. But most of all, it provides hope through solidarity.

    Furthermore, I believe that this solidarity has a positive impact on donation for support through grass-roots fundraisers and public events. Lithuania has one of the highest ratios of GDP to donation to Ukraine ratio in the world (Statista Research Department 2023) and is often linked to cultural and artistic movements like Radarom that provide Ukraine with vital equipment. I have found that the omnipresence of Ukrainian symbolism boosts a sentiment of solidarity, but also seems to be helping with vital contributions.

    A final valuable part of Lithuanian artistic activism is how it is producing Ukrainian culture and expression. Since the war, many Ukrainians have fled to Lithuania, and this is producing a vibrant diaspora. By providing a space for this cultural expression, Lithuania helps Ukrainians abroad live their nationhood, and in a sense, embody resistance against Ruscism.

    These intercultural projects among Ukrainians in Lithuania represent the embodiment of the resistance to the Ruscist ideology. By producing Ukrainian culture, you defy the claim that Ukrainian culture does not exist. It is through the display and the creation of new and old symbols of Ukrainian culture and resistance that art becomes a weapon in this war.

    Kazakhstan and Ukraine

    By contrast, public spaces in Kazakhstan almost never exhibit public symbols of solidarity. During my four months in the cultural capital, I saw one Ukrainian flag. There is an atmosphere of wilful blindness, of solicited ignorance. While there are some interactions with Ukraine on a state level, there is almost a complete lack of ostensive pro-Ukraine artistic culture. This section focuses on this neutrality in the face of culturicide in Ukraine.

    My first point about art in war, concerns documentation. In Kazakhstan, the absence of interaction with the war in Ukraine means that Russian media has increased power among the populace in Kazakhstan. Consequently, the Ruscist narrative on the war has a greater impact on society.

    During my conversations and interactions, I have noticed a disturbing reluctance to even mention the war. When I have mentioned it, I feel like I tripped a mine. Fear of upsetting others, a perception of being unable to understand complex political issues and feeling too uneducated are recurring excuses that seem to stifle public debate surrounding the war and Ukraine. This pervasive tradition of silence, perhaps in part due to the generations of Soviet oppression and the subsequent suppressive effect on political engagement (Zhukov 2018), means that politics seems to occur around people. Kazakh society seems to allow Moscow to control the political narratives.

    Indicatively, people tend to use delicate language to describe the war, such as “circumstances” or “situation.” Even my university professors called it a “military operation.” This kind of delicate language, stemming from a neutral position, tends to avoid explicit claims about the war, because it is essentially silence. But that silence plays into the hands of Russia, because not only does it fail to recognise the culturicide occurring, but because of the continued influence of Russian media in Kazakhstan today. Moscow’s pro-war narrative has a pervasive effect on public opinion, especially among Russian speakers (Kumenov 2022), who constitute around 95% of the population. This evidence suggests that by staying neutral, Kazakhstan is vulnerable to the fascist ideology pushed by Russia. Thus, we can see how the official line of neutrality has dangerous consequences in Kazakhstan. Through this passivity, Astana allows Moscow to put their lens on current affairs, and the silence of their neutrality creates an eerie indifference towards the war crimes in Ukraine.

    Secondly, the general reluctance to anger Russia means that Kazakhstan’s neutrality allows for the Russian war economy to continue to fire, which could endanger Western support. And this has a damaging effect on hope. Kazakh society has an understandable fear of Russian aggression. The relationship between Astana and Moscow is deep and complicated, and the centuries of history mean their peoples are close, with Astana very much at the whim of Putin. This I have found evidence of during my interviews and discussions with Kazakh people here in Almaty. There is an understandable motivation behind this since Kazakhstan is economically dependent on Russia, does not benefit from the security of NATO, and has received threats from their former colonial overlord. This fear promotes a policy of placating their northern neighbour.

    The policy of placating by staying neutral benefits Russia because it allows for the continued mechanisation of the post-soviet integrated economy. This could endanger long-term Western support for Ukraine because the economic cost of such support is growing in the face of an ever-operative Russian war machine. Operative in part thanks to ‘neutral’ states enabling the evasion of sanctions (Burna-Asefi 2022). What this means, then, is that the war will draw on. Ukraine will liberate all of its territories, but the question is when, and at what cost. As long as Kazakhstan and other nations stay silent, they prolong the bloodshed.

    Finally, by ignoring culturicide, Kazakh society has a tendency to legitimise the destruction of national identity in Ukraine. I say this because the indifference towards the destruction of another, while deeply treasuring one’s own culture, implicitly makes a value judgement on these two different cultures. I think Kazakhstan can be described as a fairly nationalistic and patriotic country. There is no shortage of flags here, and people are rightfully proud of their identity. But for Ukraine, there are no flags, no symbols of solidarity, despite the fact that the evidence of the destruction of Ukrainian culture and nationhood is widespread (Dickinson 2022). Yet, many in Kazakhstan refuse to publicly criticise this; according to a poll in November 2022, 95% of respondents claims to be neutral to the war (Dumoulin 2023). This is seen in the lack of symbolism of solidarity for Ukraine through artistic expression in public spaces.

    Kazakhstan’s passionate nationalism and pride of its own culture, while silently witnessing the destruction of another, implies a lack of egality between these cultures. This norm of favouring one culture while ignoring the extermination of another culture creates a dangerous precedent of value judgement toward the ‘cultural other.’ It is by ignoring the culturicide, while propagating your own nationalism, that you normalise the destruction of what could only be, according to this logic, a lesser culture.

    To conclude my findings on Kazakhstan, I have identified that on the superficial level, the society generally forms a neutral perception. I had an interesting conversation with a taxi driver, and in response to my asking why there are no flags of Ukraine here, he stated that the Kazakh people are vehemently against the war. And I believe him. But my point is that the surface paints a different picture. The streets seem silent in the face of culturicide in Ukraine.

    Conclusion

    It is easy during a violent conflict to ignore the value of non-violent resistance, especially when what Ukraine needs most is military and material equipment. But the importance of solidarity should not be forgotten.

    I have tried to illustrate one difference that I have found during my year abroad, and the disturbing effects of the war in Ukraine. Kazakhstan and Lithuania are, of course, wildly different societies, and I would not suggest that Lithuanians are in any way inherently better than Kazakh people. And as I have stated, I am aware that Kazakh people support Ukraine in the conflict. It is true that neutrality and solidarity towards culturicide are not opposites. Meanwhile, the difference between neutrality and solidarity should not be understated. One of the problems of this neutrality is that it enables the continuation of Russian fascism.

    Aimé Césaire, writing about Imperialism and Colonialism in the 20th century, argued that those who passively allow for the bureaucratic machine to continue, are responsible in part for the violence done (Césaire 1972, 54). This is because this system of exploitation and fascism required a hoard of unquestioning and obedient civil servants to keep the wheels turning. While Ruscism and European Colonialism are a far cry from one another, it is through this same mechanism of the obedient or ‘neutral’ performance of functions that the violence continues. As one Ukrainian respondent wrote, there is no such thing as neutrality; you cannot hide in the shadows. And this is necessary for any of the intersections of fascism. Silence is violence.

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    [1] This article has been written with the assistance of students and experts in Lithuania, Ukraine, Kazakhstan, and Russia. Most of them wish to remain anonymous. I am grateful to all of them.