#subaltern voices

[brehaaorgana]

Also just to be clear, because again, I wrote this ten years ago — there were a lot of Palestinians criticizing Banksy's work from back in 2005 in the west bank.

The one I remembered and that stuck with me was:

Banksy’s conversation with an old Palestinian man emphasizes this bizarre interlacing between aesthetics and protest.

When the man said Banksy made the wall beautiful, he initially thanked him. However, the [Palestinian] man responded,

“We don’t want it to be beautiful, we hate this wall. Go home."

The Harvard crimson

To my knowledge he last painted in Gaza back in 2015, which again, was almost a decade ago so I'm not sure which instance of painting in Gaza and then appearing across the world this person is referring to. It's been a long time.

He also typically stands to profit from the conflict (bizarrely, even as he protests it) because of The Walled Off Hotel. (It's currently closed.) Because he owns a hotel in Bethlehem where all the rooms have a view of the wall for tourists! It's full of his art and is also a museum! You have to give a $1,000 security deposit that only gets refunded after your stay.

The website literally includes this in the FAQ's:

Are you just making a profit from other people's misery?

The hotel is now an independent local business. The aim is to break even and put any profits back into local projects.

THAT DIDN'T ANSWER THE QUESTION???

And it's worth debating! It's a valuable question! The concept is rife for discourse.

But here's the more important questions that are part of my point:

1. How many Palestinian street artists can an average person name? How many Palestinian artists are overlooked in favor of Banksy, who, if nothing else, claims a British identity (whether or not he's actually an artist's collective)?

2. How many people have both seen this art and known anything about its context? Did this actually raise any awareness?

as an art historian, may i just say: fuck banksy. 

instead of banksy, the white guy who has been funded and coddled by the elite as the darling of the circle-jerking art white male art world, TRY:

Women on Walls - AKA  Sit El 7eta (in Arabic), which is about women in Egypt who are street artists 

Malina Suliman, Afghanistan — Kabul Art Project

Shamsia Hassani, Afghanistan — Kabul Art Project

Jean-Michel Basquiat — Black American Artist 

Women Street artists painting in Lima, Peru for International Women’s Day

Lee Quinones - forefather of American street art and Puerto Rican/Latino American

LADY PINK - Latina/Ecuadoran American, you’ll know her by the “abuse of power comes as no surprise” shirt. 

Mata Ruda - also Latino

El Dercetor - Peruvian Muralist/Street Artist

Tati Suarez - Latina Woman

Bastardilla - a woman from Colombia 

Fatcap is a street art website resource — I linked to Cape Town, but you can search geographically 

Global Street Art

Ralph Ziman just made the world’s largest wheat paste art in South Africa

10 women artists better than banksy check out Lady Aiko!

HAVE YOU HEARD OF SWOON?

African-American and Iranian artist Tatyana Fazlalizadeh of “STOP TELLING WOMEN TO SMILE” fame 

 Nardstar* from South Africa

Zhang Dali - China

literally ANYONE BUT BANKSY

FUCK BANKSY

[tjeromebaker]

Can The Subaltern Speak? Gayatri Spivak and the Politics of Representation

Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak's essay "Can The Subaltern Speak?" is a seminal work in postcolonial studies, exploring the limitations and complexities of representing marginalized voices within colonial and postcolonial contexts.

Gayatri Spivak Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak’s essay “Can The Subaltern Speak?” is a seminal work in postcolonial studies, exploring the limitations and complexities of representing marginalized voices within colonial and postcolonial contexts. Here are some key findings and themes from the essay: Representation and Silencing: Spivak examines how Western intellectuals and activists often speak…

[papenathys]

most decolonial bipoc bestselling author voice of the subaltern marginalized rf kuang

[btmc-official]

A combat subaltern strides across the hangar deck, one arm tucked behind its back, the other positioned near the bullpup laser carbine mag-clamped to its thigh. Its armored silhouette is sleek and biomimetic: digitigrade legs supported by bundles of synthmuscle, an oblong torso sloped to deflect kinetics, and a distinctly inhuman head, its face dominated by eight optical sensors arranged in double staggered rows.

An SSC design, almost surely.

Like a bodyguard, the subaltern escorts a second, smaller figure. A hologram projected from a shoulder-mounted emitter: the image of a coyote with a light tan coat.

The pair approach hangar 3B, where the vessel Stormpierce is docked, and make their way to the nearest members of the Company. When the coyote addresses them, its voice issues from speakers on the subaltern, producing a disconcerting effect.

“Well, good to see you. I am Ma’ii, of Luna Wing. This is the Black Torrent Mercenary Company, I gather? You have quite a ship here.”

[The ship is an angular thing, made of sloped panels of armor, reinforced and tempered for a variety of battles or situations. The name 'Stormpierce' is emblazoned on the side in black, against the deep cobalt blue of the plating. It's designed for speed and maneuverability most likely, though the ship itself has plenty of spacing for hidden armaments. It's a large ship despite this, needing to be able to house each mech of the mercenary company, in addition to any other necessities.]

[A woman can be seen standing at the base of the ship, talking with a station crew member. Her hair is a pale blonde, matched by her equally as pale skin. Silvery scars can be seen across what little of her skin is visible, the most notable two on her face. She's still in her hardsuit, which is of a matching theme to the ship itself. It's clearly built to allow for flexibility and quick movements, while still being protective from a majority of hits.]

[As the subaltern and hologram duo approaches, she turns, giving a nod. Her gaze is steely, matched by the oddly warm ocean blue of her eyes. She stands in what is obviously a more.. militant at ease pose, which certainly fits how she acts on the omninet.]

<Flashflood> "Ma'ii, I presume? I am Silvania, but please, call me Silvia. To answer your question, yes, you have arrived at the ship for Black Torrent Mercenary Company. It is good to meet you in person."

<Flashflood> "The others I believe are off on business, taking some time to gather more personal items from the station's various shops.. Though, I do believe Ambrosia should be around here. She'll introduce herself when the time comes, I suppose," [Silvania continues, glancing around to look for the enigmatic pyromaniac.]

[A moment later, a subaltern exits from a small boarding ramp of the ship. They are rather distinct; deep grey armor, edged in silver and deep cobalt heraldry to match the colors of the ship itself. It appears as if they are in full plate, the armor having a distinctly draconic theme to it, with the helmet appearing closer to the head of a dragon from old-Cradle myths.]

<Tempestas> "Callsign Ambrosia, otherwise known as Alaine, is currently predisposed with attempting to mix pure ethanol with reactor coolant. Frankly, I am surprised she is still alive." [He responds, filling in for Silvania as he approaches. His voice is a calm baritone, reminiscent of a perfectly still lake. The two are surprisingly alike in how they present themselves.]

[styx-class-nhp]

:// > you were turned...tiny? How interesting!

:// > my miniaturized casket has allowed my prophet husband to give me a subaltern

:// > enjoy yourself, it is very peculiar and rewarding to investigate life at their eyes

:// > also it is I, I am still around, he he he...

//𓄀//

HATHOR!

Good to hear from you!

I'm eating ramen!

Turns out if you just act like your shackles are coming loose, most folks assume you're drunk and biomodded :3

[Gasp] I should get drunk!

Oh my Ra oh my Ra oh my Ra-

[Her voice grows progressively more giddy. Also, it's usually a melodic, slightly sultry croon. Right now it's more like a squeak]

YOU! You're still here! Wait you're married?! Ahahahaha good for you!

[no-future-mudwasps]

Local_Storage_Only: New Skin Shrine

No Future stands before the thing that is to be his body. It gleams dull spectrums in the light of the hangar, new-printed metal already patinae’d with iridescent green-and-ruddish stain, wrapped about in dark cloth. The headstone has long since resolved into its constituent shapes in his mind’s eye; a sitting giant, knees tucked high to hide their lowered head, hands wrapped about their legs and clutching at their scalp. A mourner through and through.

He wonders if that’s what he looks like. Not quite; but it’s not a shape he’s against. The drift is little enough to stem potential combat-chassis dysmorphia, a confounding if thankfully minor worry at the periphery of his thoughts. Hopefully it looks as good standing.

“Are you sure this’ll work out?” She can hear the nervous tremor in Caoise’s voice; she’s scared to lose another friend. It’s understandable. All the same, she nods.

“I really think so. I’m ready to— get on my way to the next chapter. Whatever that is.”

“We’ll make sure your setup is comfortable,” Saleh assures. “Let us know when you’re ready.”

Nofie takes a long, last look around at his friends, assembled in the hangar. He doesn’t think it will be the last ever, but with disconnect comes darkness, and she wants to hold this imagine sharp in her mind as whatever happens, happens. “…Ready,” she says, and with a thought and a flicked switch her subaltern goes dark.

Saleh and Caoise heave the heavy casket out of its housing like pall-bearers, lying it to rest on a wheeled workbench. Their movements are careful as they pull her along to the back of the crouching beast, the frozen wailer; hung-open panels reveal a long, narrow chute, a casket receptacle leading into the core of the chassis. When they raise their pall again, and balance Nofie ‘feet-first’ on the lip of the opening, they find the next motion as smooth as silk. The tolerances are perfect; a space made exactly to hold her. No Future slides into place with barely a hairsbreadth gap. A dull *cthunk* heralds connection, and…

Darkness. Thought alone, and the memory of those faces. Then, cold water along her spine. No Future stands, or slumps, or falls, on the edge of a beach he has never seen before; facing him is [you understand I need to preserve some sense of mystique], ankles wet in the clear tide.

“Was it always going to end this way?” No Future asks. “Could I have saved him?”

“You did,” answers [nuh uh], not unkind. “Many times. What found him no one could stop.”

“I wish that made it feel better. But what about the other ship?”

“Is he here now?”

“No.”

“Then you already understand. It was always going to end this way, because it did.” [sorry]’s hands spread wide; apology. Comfort.

“And what about everyone else? How do they end?”

And they respond

Are you kidding? Or does your name mean nothing to you? There is no end worth fearing.

The chassis stirs. Casket entry port seals over, armored in sloped plate. The skeletal mourner unclasps its hands from about its corse, each three-fingered with wicked talons. Its swift legs, built like a runner, unfurl as it stands, and its arms pull away from behind it— its left shoulder produces a single bicep, wheel-elbowed like a pictograph star and carrying upon it many forearms (the right shoulder unwraps but a single limb, lank and hidden until now). The head raises high on a neck of cable and verterbral binding, and it is a sharpened rhombal thing; Thracian eviscerated; a set of jaws locked agape and within, set at the throat lies a single, staring optic in harsh sunlit color. It is a fine skeleton of metal angles, a strange gladiator returned from beyond; and from within the snarled crest of the helm, a familiar voice resounds:

“…I don’t think I’ve been this tall before. We’ll take it!”

[sinon36]

Ghost x undercover!reader (HC) Part VI

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

Warnings: torture, violence, gore, mistakes.

- the sixth time you meet it’s after a lot of frenzied searches

- the missions have been slow a while now; you mostly act as a handler for TF141, alongside Laswell; the boys got used to your calm voice in their earpieces, guiding and directing them through buildings and underground bases; your “hacking” skills come in handy when Laswell gets caught up with something else

- they always come home in time for you to get supper together; it’s a nice way of living; so different from the loneliness you felt before; now you have a small family to call your own; the banter between you and the sergeants feels the air; you throw jokes to one another; Price quietly chuckles at his younger subalterns; Ghost on the other hand stays silent most of the time;

- you always sit next to him, in the mess hall, in briefing rooms, in helis, or cars; it’s something he’s not sure yet how to interpret; yes, the two of you got along just fine; you have the same dark humour that makes the other soldiers in the base shiver when they hear you laugh at your jokes; you can sit in comfortable silence for hours; you don’t pry into each other’s lives, which he’s thankful; you hadn’t even asked him his name, and you already know one another for more than two years; he won’t admit but he doesn’t like the way his heart feels when you laugh at one of Soap’s jokes, or discuss with Gaz one of the new books you’ve bought, or even when Price comes close to you, peaking over your shoulder and talking quietly with you about the files you’ve got in front of you;

- Ghost does not allow the thought, that he might be jealous on his comrades’ interactions with you, take roots inside his mind; he can’t; you’re just doing your job and you just happen to enjoy the 141’s company, in the most platonic way; he knows that your bond is far superior to that of the other’s; you saved his life, saw his face, and he in turned saved yours; that must add up to something;

- yet he feels that something’s wrong with him; Price pointed out that ever since you joined TF141 he seems quieter, and less present; he’s becoming more and more his namesake; he denies that, and argues that he’s just tired, now that he’s getting older; Price calls out his shite; the captain is older than him, and he’s far more active than him;

- but the captain can’t do more than that, a friendly conversation; yours and Ghost’s relationship is extremely professional; he rarely sees the two of you interact in the common room, or anywhere else for that matter, that’s not the battle field or the briefing room; you also work incredibly well; you two and Soap had made quite the trio when it comes to field work; he affectionately calls you the Unholy Trinity of Task Force 141; trails of body are left in your wake and almost all missions go well without the tinniest hitch; the men joke around that surely you are some kind of witch that made a deal with the devil to have success; you laugh and chalk it all up to skill, hard work, and a shite ton of sheer luck;

- though you keep reminding them that your luck will run out one day, they ignore you, joking that you’ll have to tolerate them until you retire; you’re not as optimistic; you’re the realist of the whole team; you know the risks are ten times bigger than theirs

- most of the times you go in alone, unarmed, no back up, no communication; you only have yourself to rely on; and you know that when the fatigue catches up with you, you’ll slip up, make a mistake, that’ll get you killed or worse

- and then the worst you feared happens; you go MIA during a simple infiltration; the boys find no trace to indicate where you’d been taken to or by whom; Laswell can’t find any sign of you, no matter how hard she tries, or how far she’s stretching her informant network; nothing; denial turns to angry searches, busting down doors and torturing anyone they come across; that turns to desperation, they start looking into the most unrelated events they find, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they get a glimpse of your name, or an alias, or something, no matter how small; and that turns to silence, they stop bringing you up, start avoiding your name or anything that might point out you’re not there; after Laswell mentions you in one of their briefings, that the time to change your status to KIA is due, Ghost smashes the chair you used to sit in

- it’s one of the most violent reactions he’s had outside the battlefield since you’d disappeared, and Price starts to worry that his lieutenant will do something stupid if they don’t find out what happened to you; he threatens Laswell to not touch that file of yours; ‘Not yet, Kate. Not yet.’ He says in a sadder and calmer voice    

- acceptance never came; the thought that maybe you’re not even alive, buried somewhere unmarked, or body burned beyond recognition is a thought they’d long banished; wherever they went they kept their eyes peeled for you; their hope of finding you never wavers

- and then their prayers are answered; they get something; it’s not much; a 3-second clip; it’s blurred, to few pixels to really make out any details; and the camera seems to be moved violently, barely catching the hunched posture of a person tied to a chair; Laswell got it form one of her contacts; it’s from a half destroyed hard drive they recovered from heli the dropped out of the sky

- it’s not much; actually, is far too little to go on with; the video doesn’t show a face, nor reveals any names; the background so dark they can’t make out anything; But they agree it’s you; from the size of your body, to your complexion to the colour of your hair, now longer and falling over your face; it’s been months since they last saw you but they know it’s you   

- ‘Proof of life’ Price concludes; ‘But fur who?’ Soap voices the question they all thought of that; ‘It don’t matter’ Ghost points out, voice gruffer than ever; ‘Where is more important.’ Gaz specifies

- they get to work; they comb the crash site, having received the location from Laswell; at first they don’t find anything; but Ghost’s keen eyes find it; it’s a small piece of silvery metal, wedged in the dirt; it’s only half, but he can make out the letters clearly; cyrillic letter; he grunts; ‘Price…’ he shouts to get everyone’s attention; when they come closer he shows it to them; ‘Russians’ they conclude

- the hunt begins; Nik is there to smuggle the Brits over the Russian borders and to provide them with an extraction vehicle, in his case an old rusty Russian helicopter, that can barely fly under the radar, it flinches and grunts at every gust of wind, but it’s as covert as can be; they don’t bear any insignia visible on their black camo uniforms; their faces tucked under black balaclavas; even their guns are Russian, some AK-47 Nik provided them with no striations on the barrels; they even agreed to keep their mouths shut, letting the captain converse with anyone that they might encounter; no one can no that a team of Brits put their feet on Russian soil

- they carefully went over all the details just like you got them used to when you did infiltrations; they are as prepared as ever; the plan is simple; take out the guards that make their rounds through the facility and take their place; that will give them sufficient time to look for you and find a way out to get you out; “if” they find you; the information came through Laswell and it was already a couple weeks old; chances are you’ve been moved;

- they search everywhere; you’re not there; time for plan B: infiltrate their data base; Price gets his hand on a computer and plugs the USB containing the backdoor virus; it takes some time to install, then to reboot the whole system; Laswell gives the green light that they’re in; they get out of there leaving no trace that they ever were inside

- the next two weeks are gruesome; Ghost spends most of his time destroying the punching bags in the gym; he barely eats and barely sleeps; he starts hearing your voice in the night when he climbs the ladder to the roof, perched up like an owl, having a smoke away from everyone; he hears a soft whisper, or a small chuckle; he’s going crazy, he thinks; crazy with worry for you;

- it’s been years since Simon felt worry for someone; when his family was killed, he vowed to never get close to another soul again; but then you had to save him; you didn’t even know him; risked your life for a stranger that cannot repay you for that act of kindness

- but he can; he can make sure you’re safe on missions; that’s why he’d always stalk your figure through the scope; that’s why he’d have you with him and Soap every time you’d split up; so he can keep his eyes on that pretty face of yours; that’s why he’d threaten the other marines on base with the court martial when he’d hear lewd comments about you being their whore and so much worse; he’d be wringing their necks if Price didn’t keep such a close eyes on his actions  

- he misses you, and your presence, and your sweet perfume, and your voice, and your eyes that would look straight into his when he told you a joke, smirk matching his own; he missed the way you’d drink your tea together in the morning, in silence broken only by soft sighs and the sound of the sofa under your weights; if he got up before you he’d make sure to boil enough water for two mugs and he’d put the tea in the moment he could hear your footsteps heading to the common room; he was so accustomed to you that he could make out your footsteps even in the busiest corridors; lighter than most, almost quiet but quick, lively; he misses that too

- the way you’d make your away towards him and with a nod take the seat next to his, softly brushing his shoulder with yours in an unspoken acknowledgement… I’m here, next to you… your simple touch made his skin boil underneath his clothes and yearn for more; he’d take advantage of situations out in the field; he’d grab you and help you climb over obstacles, he’d give you a head anytime he felt you needed it; and you’d never refuse his help;

- he’ll be dammed if he doesn’t find you; just like you found him when you first met

- two weeks pass by slower when you’re almost always awake, Simon knew that already; but he’s the first to get on the tarmac when Price gives the order for heading out; Laswell managed to pinpoint your location; one of the Russian commanders moved you to an off the record, but not really cause ‘Russians are shit at keeping a low profile.’ Laswell adds, compound where they’d keep foreign prisoners for interrogations; the American woman sends them out to get you out and wipe any witness that has seen your face

- exactly what Simon wanted; the green light to do what he’s best at: mauling his enemies;

- the compound they keep you in is underground, ventilation system outdated, like pretty much any piece of technology they keep; they record the interrogation on an old Sony camera; you doubt it can register your mumbled responses, not that you’d say anything useful; you’d match every question with a curse in a clear American accent; you don’t want to give them anything that might be traced back to your British boys;

- they can’t get anything out of you; not your name, not whom do you work for, or where you’re from, what you were looking for when you infiltrated their operation, etc.; they were met with an unsurmountable resistance; no matter how many times they’d beat you, drown you, burn you, cut you, electrocute you, or humiliate you; they took away most of your clothes, leaving you in your underwear and what little remained from your tank top, enough to cover only your upper torso; you were cold, hungry and in pain; you had been in this condition for months; but you wouldn’t give up

- in the academy they taught you that the longer you lasted the more chances of being found; that thought has crossed your mind more than once; but you don’t allow yourself to hope; that would only weigh you down the more time passes; no, you look for ways to free yourself and learn the personnel’s schedule; and you wait for the best opportunity

- that window of opportunity is near; for a week now you worked on pulling out the nail in the chair that holds the chair’s handle together; you managed to pull out the nail and twist your wrist to try and scratch at the rope; the motion is uncomfortable and painful, the skin of your wrist is cut open by the rope that soaks up your blood; you’ve been at it for hours, trying to cut yourself loose; and you finally manage; surprise overtakes you as the rope unravels and your hand is free; the limb aches with exertion as you shake it to get the flow of circulation to get back to normal

- then you lean forward and grab at the knife left there from the previous session, still wet with your blood; freeing yourself is more strenuous than you would have imagined; as you bend down to free your ankles you almost pass out from the sudden rush of blood to your head; you lost of it, enough to hinder you in your escape; but you push through

- when you stand up you grab the chair for support and move in slow motion afraid you’ll pass out; you have a plan in mind already; get dresses in the coat left on the hanger by the door, and lay in wait for the interrogator to come back for another round; now that your body is filled with adrenaline times moves slower, but it doesn’t take long for the door handle to start to move; you wait for the tall and skinny man to enter; if he were a little leaner you wouldn’t have had a chance; but this failed physician that took to torture won’t even know what hit him; you stab him in the neck with a somewhat quick strike;

- he dies drowning in his own blood; you manage to drag his corpse under the table, leaving the pool of blood untouched; maybe they’ll think that you finally bled out and someone took your corpse to the morgue to be burned; you don’t care as you grab the handgun off his waist; the same one he’d threaten you with when you wouldn’t answer;

- judging by the thick clothes your assailant wears you know outside is cold; so you do what they told you at the academy; you undress the corpse an take his pants an shoes; they’re huge on you but you can’t complain; you shiver at the warmth still trapped in the wool fibres;

- you make your way outside checking for any guards; you found none, as expected; you heard the Russian complain that is too cold and stuffy down here that nobody but him frequents the lower levels; some people don’t know to shut up and you are glad to exploit that; with his gun, knife and car keys in hand you make your way through the dark corridors; you follow the boot prints left on the filthy floors;

- the only guards you encounter are the ones stationed by the door that leads to the stairs; you make quick work of them; one shot for each of their heads; you almost fall down on your ass as the gun kicks back in recoil; you take a moment to lean on the wall taking a few calming breaths

- your ascend is slow, laboured breaths escaping your gaping mouth; you strain your eyes and try to decipher the word on the walls marking the level and the facility; you’re looking for the parking lot; you find it after climbing to the second to last level; Russians really don’t know how to keep a facility secure; as you climb the emergency stairs there is no one to stop you; they underestimated your ability to escape this hell hole; their mistake

- as you reach the parking lot you look for the physician’s car; it’s a rusty red Lada; it’ll do just fine; as you get in the passenger side you start hearing gunshots; it’s faint; maybe you imagined it; but no, it’s there; you don’t wait to find out what’s happening, as you turn the key in the ignition you pull out of the spot and quickly drive towards the exit; whatever firefight broke out in there, pulled away every guard from their stationary position; for a moment you think about TF 141, but you quickly dismiss it

- you make your way out, a little dizzy from the spiral ascension; once out of there you notice that there’s forest around, and some snow; you hit gravel and as you look back you notice the exit; the only indication that there is something men made here; you doubt that tunnel can be spotted from a drone; the trees block the line of sight; that confirms your suspicions

- the gun fire must be coming from another escapee, not as lucky as you; you drive down the dirt road following every twist and turn hoping you won’t see any other cars; you check the glove compartment; now that the adrenaline rush is over your body aches like never before; you search for some pain meds but you only find a wallet with some cash in it; Russian rubbles, enough to keep the car going for a while; maybe you’ll find a gas station; it’s risky but you are I dire need of food and water; that might give you enough strength to push forward

- the 141 moves quickly taking care of the two sentinels at the mouth of the tunnel; two well placed shots and they’re down; Gaz and Soap move the bodies in a bush and hide their car in the tree line; hopefully nobody will come looking for this two in the next crucial minutes; they comb through the facility dropping anyone they encounter; their pistols bear silencers masking the loud sounds; they move deeper and deeper, but soon the alarm is sounded and a full fight ensues; the guards are no match for the 141; they drop like flies; but the fight costs them precious minutes;

- Ghost breaks away from the rest of his teammates; he knows they got it; he needs to hurry to find you; he needs to make sure you are still breathing, and that your pretty eyes still hold fire in them; he gets to lowest level where the holding cells are; he checks behind every grate and every door until a he gets to what seems to be the place they torture the prisoners

- he notices how filthy and cold it is; but what makes his blood freeze is the chair and the large pool of fresh blood; no…, he’s too late; he came to late; a wave of blinding fury surges and like a tsunami Ghost thrashes the room; he stops only when he discovers the body of a tall Russian man behind the desk; his throat slit; pants and boots missing; atta girl he can’t help the smirk taking over his face under the balaclava; you were capable, he knew that, but you still manage to surprise him; he gets out trying to radio in the discovery to the rest of his teammates

- the radio crackles with static, concrete walls too thick for the signal to penetrate; he’s made his decision; he’s going after you even though he knows Price will kick his ass later; you need him; probably not as much as he needs you; he chases the droplets of blood you left on the ground as you walked towards the emergency staircase; at the door, two more casualties; no, you didn’t need him; you had it handled

- in the parking lot he finds a military truck with the key in the ignition; he follows you as quickly as the car gets on the dirt road

- you drive for what feels like hours; your mind is struggling, eyes out of focus and body feeling heavier with every minute; you don’t know why or when the car starts to shake and tilt, you feel yourself flying out of the seat; everything goes black

- Ghost’s eyes scan the road in front of him through the thick snowfall; he almost misses the red car that swerved of the road and now rests on the side in a ditch, snow piles on top almost making it disappear; he gets out of the truck and approaches the car pistol pointed at it; he wipes away the snow that covers the window on the driver’s side; inside he can make out a body that’s laying on its side face obscured by the thick collar of the jacket; he pulls the door open carefully and nudges the body to see if they’re conscious or not; when there’s no movement he peels the collar from their face

- Simon thinks he is no longer able to panic; he survived through his father’s and brother’s abuse; then he joined the military where they taught him to surpass any fears and to control himself; then the Mexican cartel who buried him alive; that experience showed him what terror looks like; only to return home and find all the people that he held dear massacred; Ghost is the result of so many horrifying events; he is the cautionary tale of what prolonged survival in a malignant environment looks like

- the level of fear matches that of when he found the body of Beth hugging Josep’s smaller one; he acts without thinking, grabbing your limp and cold body and pulling you out of the wreckage; your head is bleeding from where you hit it on the window; lips are blue and your skin cold to the touch; he checks for a pulse; he can’t tell if he feels yours or his own; his hands are trembling with rage and powerlessness; he grabs for the radio’ telling Price he’d found you but you need medical assistance immediately; there’s no answer on the other side; just static

- he hoists you up and takes you to the stolen truck placing you in the front seat; he climbs in the driver’s seat letting you down slowly over the seat head resting on his lap; he puts the heat on high trying to make you warm again; he checks for your breathing and he’s thrilled to find that small puffs of air come from your open mouth

- he starts driving, he doesn’t know where; he neds a safe house to treat your wounds and to keep you safe; the snow is falling heavy, making impossible to see where he’s driving; then he sees it; to the side he can make out a building in the tree line

- the abandoned cottage is nothing more than a ruin; but it has four walls and a roof and he’s glad to see a small fireplace, dry wood abandoned next to it; he puts you down on what he can only assume is what remained of a thick rug long forgotten by its previous owners; he works quickly and efficiently, in mere minutes a fire burns casting a warm glow in the barren room

- he moves to work on you; he peels the jacket off only to find that you are nearly naked under the stolen clothes; he gets angrier at the Russians wishing he could bring them back only to subject them to the same kind of torture they did you and some more; he quickly checks for deeper cuts or signs of infection; but he can’t find none; they must’ve given you antibiotics to keep you alive as much as possible;

- he cleans the cuts with the antiseptic wet wipes his med kit contains; then he dresses the wounds with gauze; your thin body looks like a mummy from the amount gauze; he addresses your head next wiping the blood of and bandaging your forehead; he sighs in relief when your lips and skin slowly turn pink from the warmth; you lay in between his legs as he sits on the floor, your head laying on his thigh

- he tries contacting 141 again, but to no avail; looks like he’ll have to hold out here tonight; he’ll stay awake to protect you until you wake up

- it’s morning when you stir, he watches your face intently from above you; your eyelids groggily open eyes trying to focus; as you lay eyes on brown ones, hidden behind a black balaclava you start to panic; you weakly push at his hands and chest, mumbling and trying to get away from him; he doesn’t relent though; his grip is firm on you and in a commanding voice he orders you to sit still; hearing your name does the trick; you didn’t tell those fuckers your name; and his embrace is not restraining more like protecting; you think hard and try to remember eyes flickering over the balaclava; ‘Ghost…’ you croak when your vocal chords decide to vibrate; ‘Gho…’ you repeat even more brokenly; he shushes you and reassures you that yes, he’s here and no, he won’t go anywhere; not without you; that puts your mind at ease and you close your eyes again

-when you wake up again is noon; he feeds you some water through cracked and dry lips and he gives you a dose of morphine to help with the pain; that sends you back to sleep

- the third time you wake, you are being carried by strong arms; the sound of blades cutting air becomes louder and louder; Ghost walks backwards shielding you from the snow that’s being picked up by the gusts of wind;

- he climbs the heli; Nik greets Ghost, as Soap and Gaz pull him and you inside; the ride is silent, no one says anything; the Russian pilot takes you to a better equipped safehouse

- you wake up to someone entering the room; you’re in a warm comfortable bed, IV connected to your wrist fluid being pumped in your veins; you open your eyes to a dark-haired man bringing in a tray of food; you panic again when you hear him greet you, voice laced with a deep Russian accent; he sees the look on your face and he slowly puts the tray on the table; ‘Don’t vorry, I’m Nick. A friend ov 141. I von’t hurt yu, agent’; he tells you it’s nice to finally put a face to the name, and that you are prettier than Gaz told him; you watch him in silence, regarding him with apprehension; when he stops talking, you look to the door and ask for Ghost

- he chuckles knowingly and then informs you that “your boy” is being ripped a new one by the captain just outside, and he leaves you to tell Price that your awake; you don’t have time to correct him cause he already out the door; Price walks in soon after, you’re glad to see him; ‘Ah, there you are’ he smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes; he asks you how you’re feeling; numb thanks to the morphine; he wants to know what happened

- it was a trap; they were waiting for you, Russians; they wanted to know who you were and who did you work for; you told them nothing; he knows; he asks you about your time in the facility; you don’t quite remember much, just the torture and the questions; he tells you that you did good, and that you need to rest now;

- Gaz and Soap stop by to talk to you a bit; you tell them you’ll be fine; and then you ask for Ghost; they rub their necks a little ashamed; you asked them what happened; Ghost got scolded for going AWOL in search for you; Price even threatened him with the court martial; you huff; and swing the blanket off; you sit at the ledge of the bed; you’re glad to find you’ve been clothed in a pair of slacks and a long sleeve shirt; you grab the IV needle and pull hard on it; then you stand grabbing the table for support

- the two sergeants move forward to catch you if you fall; you wave them away and move towards the door; you search the living room for any signs of Ghost; instead, Price and Nik talk about something at the dinner table; when Price sees you up and about, despite him telling you to rest, he mutters a ‘Bloody stubborn they are’ and points toward the kitchen; you thank him; you can hear Nik commenting something about you and Ghost deserving each other; but you keep walking, slowly, one hand on the wall for balance

- Ghost stands by the window, his back turned to you; he ignores your poor attempt at greeting him; without thinking you cross the distance and hug his waist burying your nose in his hoodie; he tenses

- ‘I’m probably high right now,’ you nuzzle your face in his back inhaling his scent: soap, cigarettes and something you can’t quite tell; ‘thank you, for coming after me’; you let go of him turning to go back to rest; he grabs your upper arm and gently turns you; he watches you closely, you can feel his breath on your face, and smell the cigarette on his lips; his balaclava is pushed up his nose; he stares into your eyes as he speaks ‘Tell me to stop’ his eyes shift to your lips

- ‘Please don’t’; he kisses you, deeply and for a long time; you pull away for air ‘Ghost, I…’ ‘No,’ he cuts you off; ‘Simon, my name is Simon’ you smile lost in his pretty brown eyes; ‘Simon Riley’ and he surprises you taking his balaclava off; you stare at him, trying to memorize every scar and blemish; he’s handsome, in a rugged way; blonde hair, pale skin, and brown eye; you kiss him again.                                                

Previous part here.

[wrathsofgrapes]

Spivak’s Subaltern Theory, Namaste’s Undoing Theory

Viviane Namaste observed that “the field of Anglo-American feminist theory has relied on transsexual women to ask theoretical questions since the 1990’s” (Namaste 12), with trans people often being not only excluded from participating in theory, but also actively discussed, used as a frame for asking epistemological questions. Namaste aims to not only critique this exclusion and way of theorizing, namely Judith Butler’s works, but also point out the political consequences of the rehashing of the “transgender question.”  Namaste critiques Butler as Gayatri Spivak does Deleuze, Foucault. Components of the system of Anglo-American feminist theory that Namaste describes bear a vague resemblance to the critique Spivak makes in her 1985 text Can The Subaltern Speak?, where she describes the subaltern’s position within contemporary theory just a generation prior. I see Can The Subaltern Speak? as a sort of predecessor, mayhaps even the progenitor of theory such as Namaste’s, and I see Namaste’s theory to be a sort of extension of the concept of subaltern studies. 

The subaltern in Spivak’s theory never adopts the dominant point of view or lexicon as reflective of its own identity, constantly remaining submissive to it while never totally submitting to its control. Subalterns are individuals who did not belong to the colonial elite in the context of India, such as lower rural gentry, poor landowners, rich peasants, and upper middle class peasants, and yet the subaltern is “irretrievably heterogenous.”(Spivak 26)

In Spivak, when the subaltern attempts to speak, their intended meaning is completely skewed because others are unwilling to listen to them. The idea of "voice" as a whole is formed by the "subject," and those who fall into the category of "the other" lack their own voice. Many assume that Spivak is positing that the disenfranchised are not capable of speaking for themselves, when in reality it's the privileged who are not capable of comprehending what the subaltern is saying. 

Spivak describes how Foucault and Deleuze have been equivocating in their arguments, contesting the idea that human beings are sovereign subjects with autonomous agency over their consciousness. In post-structuralist thought, human awareness is created discursively. The shifting discourses of power that continuously speak through us and put us in specific places and interactions are what shape our subjectivity. In this sense, we cannot say that we are our own authors. We don't create our identities; they are created for us. Therefore, the subject cannot be sovereign over the process of creating one's own identity. Instead, the subject is decentered since it constantly constructs its consciousness from viewpoints outside of itself. Therefore, the individual is an outcome of discourse rather than a clear depiction of the self. By giving people back a fully centered consciousness, Spivak contends that, shockingly for these figures, when Foucault and Deleuze discuss oppressed groups like the working classes, they revert to exactly the same naïve concept of "sovereign subjects." They believe that the work of intellectuals like themselves can act as a clear channel for the representation of the voices of the oppressed. The intellectual is portrayed as a dependable conduit for the words of the oppressed, a clear-speaking mouthpiece for the voiceless. 

Spivak emphasizes the importance of not falling for equivocation, pointing out the generalizations that philosophers like Foucault make when discussing the oppressed. Spivak explains her concerns by relating the "remotely managed, far-flung, and heterogeneous attempt to construct the colonial subject as Other"(Spivak 76) to Michel Foucault's concept of epistemic violence, where intellectual power creates the very subject it later controls through discursive action. 

This argument is in parallel to Namaste: trans people are central to the Anglo-Saxon feminist project similar to how the subaltern is central to the French post-structuralist project as well as social theory as a whole. In my reading of Undoing Theory, Namaste urges the reader to be wary of errors in equivocation, in regards to theory as well as statistics on violence towards trans people. She critiques Butler’s Undoing Gender in its attempt on “thinking about people who are often excluded from the very category of human” (Namaste 15), though its simplification on trans violence whilst using the issue as central to their whole theory. Namaste prefaces the meat of the text with a section on statistics regarding HIV rates and effects in trans women - which she points out as a different way of presenting theory on the matter - which in my personal reading of it, is more effective and confrontational to readers that are probably more accustomed to a mere skimming acknowledgement of harsh realities before being able to continue with their guilt-free intellectual inquiry. 

Namaste acknowledges that Butler does attempt to create knowledge useful to the victims of this violence, but also should “argue for the political function of a knowledge that makes visible such realities”(Namaste 16) - since as Mirha Soleil-Ross details, not every instance of violence towards trans people is gender-based necessarily, but that there are political and social systems that affect where trans people become situated within society, such as the the high rate of trans women turning to sex work for survival, or poverty and mental health statistics within trans populations. 

This dire argument for intersectionality is similar to Spivak’s statement on leftist intellectuals, describing how they romanticize the oppressed, essentialize the underprivileged and perpetuate the imperialist discourses they claim to be critical of. Spivak reminds us that a person's or group's identity is relational, a function of its location in a system of distinctions - to replace this leftist dream of an untouched or essential purity anchored in a particular group. The other always already exists in relation to the discourse that would label it as other; there is no such thing as a real or pure other. 

Namaste goes on to make her main point: that the Anglo-Saxon feminist theoretical canon has a gap where critique and acknowledgement of the role of labor should be, and that gender primacy makes a fallacy of feminist theory. She then argues that since Butler strives to examine the constitution of gender, ignoring labor is ignoring the ways in which the gender and physical embodiment of transsexual women is constituted and created through their work. They need work, money, to be able to go through the world as women. Butler’s statement about trans people of color experiencing violence in an inordinate amount also fails to acknowledge the ethnic makeup of geographic areas of violence, which can be used to either differentiate between race-based and gender-based violence or to acknowledge the contributing factors of both. Namaste argues that Butler’s simplification of violence against transgender people is not a useful model in undoing the perception of trans people as monolithic, mythical, and even less than human.  

According to Spivak, postcolonial studies are a fresh effort to liberate the other and provide that other the chance to experience and express those aspects of themselves that are distinct from what the dominant discourse has defined as their subjecthood. She questions the viability of such an endeavor. Can the "subaltern" speak—with or without the help of well-meaning intellectuals? Her frank response is no. Despite acknowledging the epistemic violence imposed out to Indian subalterns, Spivak argues that any effort made by the outside to improve their situation by allowing them collective speech will necessarily run into the following issues:

-A reliance on Western intellectuals to "speak for" the subaltern condition instead of letting subalterns speak for themselves.

-A hyper-generalized perception of cultural solidarity among a very heterogeneous group.

Spivak portrays Western capitalism and colonialism as having won. The economic, political, and cultural structures of the entire world have been modeled after Western discourses. The marginalization of the subaltern is reinforced rather than undermined by these discourses. Namaste takes a different approach to her own dilemma: she literally proposes a series of solutions as the first steps to undoing theory as we know it - and I think that’s something that could not have happened if Spivak and this new tradition of subaltern studies had never penetrated into the mainstream theoretical canon. 

Both Namaste and Spivak pick apart the epistemological issues in the post-structuralist works they are respectively critiquing. They both stress the importance of realizing the difference between actual empiricism (knowledge from personal experience) and experience in proximity to issues. Namaste describes how Butler’s work merely seems empirical, but has limitations and missing gaps, failing to acknowledge the force of labor, namely prostitution, in the regulation of trans lives.  She stresses the importance of a class conscious and class focused framework of trans theory, arguing that the regulation of public space is directly concerning “not only the repression and violence against transvestites and transsexuals, but also that directed against the homeless, street vendors, and street prostitutes.”(Namaste 23)

Spivak seeks to create a suitable representation of intellectual endeavor by turning to Freud. By showing us how the very identity of whiteness itself is established in part through the self-declared benevolence of colonial activity, Freud can be used to help advance our understanding of colonialism. He forewarns us subtly against constructing scapegoats or, alternatively, saviors. If white men are viewed as saviors and brown men are used as oppressors, the statement, "white men are saving brown women from brown men," serves to justify colonial interventions. A post-colonialist narrative might just as readily blame white males, which would inevitably result in brown men or brown women being presented as the heroes.

Spivak believes that Freud can help us to examine the dynamics of developing human connections without precluding narratives by assigning fixed roles (as both a positive and a negative example, because he himself did not always resist scapegoating). She continues to be wary of any attempts to correct and glorify the subaltern's unique voice by making assertions that they fill various roles such as victim, abjected other, scapegoat, rescuer, etc. The mobility of potential relationships and acts must always be kept in mind. Spivak's examination of Freud is presented "in recognition of these hazards" of reading and representing the other, not "as a solution."

Namaste poses an important question: Who gets to decide what is useful knowledge? Namaste then poses an answer: Equity in partnership, as well as equity in participation through qualitative methods and an “advisory committee,” which she does acknowledge to not be a full antidote to the problem… She also invites the reader to imagine what our constructions of knowledge would look like if trans women and transsexual prostitutes were active in the creation of canonical theoretical knowledge. Maybe Spivak would argue that this is futile. Would the canon, the institutions, ever be able to grasp the meat of what the subaltern says, in an intellectual landscape where that has never been done before? Could it simply be that Spivak in 1988 did not imagine the possibility for academia’s future? Maybe, but I also believe that by contributing such a harrowing and controversial concept was the very vehicle that has allowed the field of theory to open up to more voices such as Namaste’s, albeit slowly. Theorists and activists of political reform have consistently looked to “subalterns” (trans people being looped into this loose definition, by me) as a source of change because they reside completely outside of systemic power. Marxists, feminists, and anticolonialists all talk of and for the proletariat, oppressed women, and third world peoples. Spivak’s Can The Subaltern Speak? is responding to the radical political movements' enduring propensity to romanticize the other, particularly to the idea that the struggle against transnational global capitalism must be led by people from the "developing countries." Giving them that responsibility is to perpetuate the fundamental brutality of colonialism, which sees non-Europeans as relevant only to the extent that they adhere to Western norms. A generation later, Namaste is responding to the Western third-wave feminist movement's propensity to view trans people as an object-vehicle for their agendas, particularly ignoring the dire labor differences in gender construction between cis and trans people. The Anglo-saxon feminist canon has done irreparable harm to the perception of trans people, particularly because that narrative is currently seen as the mainstream left-progressive view of trans politics. Pairing these two texts linearly, though many aspects of Spivak’s framework could be seen to fundamentally not pair with Namaste’s, I see Namaste’s critical optimism as a sign of forward motion in the landscape of subaltern social theory.

[faulty-heat-vents]

//Narrative communication established.

//[ASSIST: CONDENSE]> RESPONSE BELOW READMORE

--READMORE BYPASSED--

Thermie’s time with the Attica City Jäger Guard is brief yet enlightening.

Every ounce of energy is different from the Academy. Sure, there are mechs and Pilots being ferried about the hangars, but walking-paces time differently. Officials treat their pilots with something akin to respect (with stretched-definition). The air feels both lighter and heavier in various ways- social-tension, gravity-presence, the absent hum of atmosphere recycle-systems.

After the defeat of MTK-VOKOLOSS (“MECHANIZED-TYPE KAIJU,” an unofficial designation xey find appealing), xey spend the rest of xeir stay almost exclusively docked within the Guard’s hangars. None of the subalterns xey try on for size feel right- either with the wrong number of limbs, or improperly-structured legs, or a balance issue, or (in a particular case) a dent on the upper torso that sends xeir weight-adjust calculations all screwy.

Thermie doesn’t mention to the Guardsmen’s team that xey have a mech-bay waiting back “home” at the Academy. Oracle would thank xem for the free repairs and congratulate xem for not looking a gift in the mouth… according to baseless predictions. Somewhere in that simulation, a single clip of honor tries to bloom before being decapitated.

Passive curiosity fares better in its soil-emergence. It starts as a seed: [Hurricane-Hunter]’s bright red Kidd in the furthest hangar bay, swarming with drones like an agitated hornet’s nest. Then, a sprout breaks the dirt: a drone wanders far from the frame, and is recalled back with a buzz of static that only xey and the drone seem to hear.

Thermie mimics a tongue-click to get the attention of a mechanic on xeir shoulder. The small, spindly human looks up from its snooping, quickly wiping its hand on its pant-leg when it comes away blood-slick from the side of xeir Smartgun.

//[QUERY: OPERATION]> How do commander-type frames similar to [Hurricane-Hunter] communicate with their drone swarms? I have noticed anomalous signals between its components, but they are unfamiliar to me.

The human cocks its head and makes a puzzled noise, as if it doesn’t understand Thermie’s question at first. It takes a second to think- process interruption blowback?- before finding the words.

“Not sure how that Kidd does it, but I know a lot of ‘em use Legionspace. Why?”

//[ELABORATE: DEFINITION]> “Legionspace”

“Uh-“ it lags again- “dedicated e-warfare system. Second reality that only tuned machines can play with. Also works for esoteric hacking shit.”

//Your explanation is appreciated. You may resume your own inquiries.

After a moment, the mechanic shrugs and goes back to poking at the flesh at the base of the Smartgun. Thermie rolls xeir optic case.

//Inconsequential.

[Hurricane-Hunter] fires another command to a wayward drone. The sound of it- is it even a sound?- seals the deal in Thermie’s mind; Soul-searching time. Xey disconnect xeir visual feed and turn xeir words inwards, diving through programs xey’ve never had the courage to boot.

//[DIRECTORY: NAVIGATE]> “ELECTRONIC WARFARE SYSTEMS” //[CALIBRATION: WARNING]> This module has not been serviced in [ERROR: NULL VALUE] cycles. Initialize? Y/N //[QUERY: INITIALIZE]> Y //[INITIALIZATION: MODULE]> Electronic warfare systems online. Redirecting system cognition to relevant processes. //[BRIDGE: CONJURE]> Synthetic nootropic module activated. Overclock procedure activated. Core temperatures rising.

Shit, xey didn’t think about that last part. A swelling heat registers in xeir upper left shoulder and drives xem to panic slightly. Xey set xeir voice to project externally again and shout to the mechanic a warning-

//[TEMPERATURE: WARNING]> Thermoregulation hardware compromised by unknown paracausal agent. Please dismount this frame. I cannot verify your safety if you remain in your current location.

The mechanic yelps in surprise as the plasteel armor plate under its ass sharply warms. It gets the message painfully clear, and loops a length of cable around the Smartgun’s barrel to rappel down to the hangar floor.

//Sincere apologies given. I will alert your team when my frame is sufficiently cooled and safe to work on.

The mechanic fires a two-fingered salute and awkwardly hobbles away, leaving Thermie alone in the maintenance bay. Xey stifle a quiet chuckle- since when do xey laugh?- before returning to the code terminal in xeir mind.

//[BRIDGE: TRAVERSE]> Initializing Legionspace simulation. Please wait…

——

TO BE CONTINUED.

[the-last-patch]

[ COMP/CON SYSTEM MESSAGE: Continuing transcription of direct experiential data capture… ]

In the cramped confines of the ordnance bay, Hachiko’s subaltern crouched over Sokaris’s Kobold, peering down at him through the breach in its hatch. His eyes were open; Hachiko watched as they lazily tracked the subaltern’s movements. Too slowly.

Concussion, Hachiko thought, and adjusted the tasking of the medical nanites.

He tried to speak, but his voice withered. Guttural coughs wracked his chest. A deep metallic scraping sounded from inside the chassis, and Hachiko startled, beginning to reach for her pistol before she caught herself. Cautiously, she extended a camera cable from the subaltern, trying to locate the source of the noise, and found it.

Sokaris’s cybernetic tail was dragging itself along the mech’s interior. Several end sections of the tail had been destroyed, and the pink paint coating its exterior was scorched away in places, but it moved with purpose. With precise motions, it created a series of taps and scrapes in alternating long and short bursts.

Morse code.

Friend? The signal read, transcribed by his Omnihook.

“Yes! I’m a friend. It’s Hachi, buddy. You’re aboard my fighter. It’s not ideal, but this bay is the best I’ve got. I’m going to get you warmed up. You’re wounded, but you’ve received correctives, including a small maniple of medical nanites. They’re going to start working to control your pain and repair the damage. You should feel the pain receding now, but don’t try to move yet.”

Scanning the interior of Sokaris’s Kobold, Hachiko’s attention was caught by the series of interface plugs across his hardsuit’s back.

“Wait. That’s a full subjectivity sync, isn’t it? You’re rigged for total somatosensory replacement, then.”

Hachiko paused, weighing something in her mind.

“Okay, there’s a few things we can do. You can’t speak, but we could use the sync cybernetics to communicate.

One, I could try to get a simple two-way connection up and running so we can communicate electronically. You could use neural commands to compose messages. Text, mainly. It’s non-invasive and relatively easy to accomplish.

Or—if you’re comfortable with it—I could try to set up a full Legionspace bridge. In effect, you could enter virtual reality, occupying a simulation of your body while I work to stabilize your real one. I don’t know if you’ve ever attempted that before. It’s safe, but it can be disorienting. You’d at least be isolated from the pain, however.

What do you think? Text, Legion, or leave it alone?”

[Resuming Song]

[Now Playing - “Opossum Instrumental Ver.”]

<As the transmission picks up again, the rudimentary Morse code is noticeably absent. It stopped when Hachiko addressed him. Silence followed her statements towards him, but it was clear that “Opossum” seemed to relax a little upon hearing her name. His breathing, previously ragged and strained, stabilized slightly. They became deeper, and less frantic.>

<Although the friendly voice seemed to soothe him, the time came for a response and he failed to deliver. There was no rhythmic tapping, no strained words, no noise at all coming from “Opossum”, aside from his faint breaths. It seems he was confused —Or Disoriented Perhaps— failing to understand what was being asked.>

{L3} “Text? Legion? Or leave it alone?”

<Several seconds pass in this silence, each stretching to impossible lengths, as the injured mercenary lie there, down and out. Then, he once again begins the code. It’s much more refined this time, each “dit” and “dah” clearly recognizable. It is clear that this ability, to scrape together a solution with only scrap is what truly made the Patchwork Mercenaries what they are, or were.>

{“Opossum”} .- .-.. --- -. . ..--.. / -- . ..--.. / -. . --. .- - .. ...- . .-.-.-

{System} Alone? Me? Negative.

<The Merc stirs, audible winces and other expressions of pain leave his throat as he does. It would seem the very thought of being alone right now is enough to frighten him. He eventually stops shifting, gently falling back into the depths of his frame with a slight thud. Following that noise, he can be heard grasping something. It was a gentle noise, but just loud enough for the Omnihook to pick up. He then continues the tapping.>

{“Opossum”} ... .--. . .- -.- .-.-.- / ..-. .- -.-. . / - --- / ..-. .- -.-. . .-.-.- / .--. .-.. . .- ... . .-.-.-

{System} Speak. Face to Face. Please.

<Without giving Hachi a moment to speak, he begins a new message. The deliberate “dits” and ”dahs” becoming rushed and frantic, as if “Opossum” believed he would be left behind should he not dictate fast enough.

{“Opossum”} .. / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / -... . -.-. --- -- . / .-.. . --. .. --- -. .-.-.-

{System} I will become Legion.

[probablyasocialecologist]

Poulantzas expands Gramsci’s notion of crises by discussing their threefold character: economic, political/ideological and state crises. These forms of crisis are not directly related. Economic crises do not automatically become political crises nor do the latter immediately become crises of the state. Neither do the different forms of crisis necessarily have to coincide. Given the interconnectedness of the state and civil society, he does not assign priority to struggles that are either inside or outside the state, and, instead, suggests that these “two forms of struggle must be combined”. Hence, if Gramsci argued that the dislocation of consent in civil society was to be achieved by an alternative hegemonic project and from there advanced to political society, Poulantzas added that subaltern groups could occupy “centres of resistance” within the state, which were to be strategically coordinated and increased in number until they become “real centres of power”, capable of staging “real breaks” with the established order – or, in the terminology of Erik Olin Wright, whose work in many ways built upon Poulantzas – “ruptural transformations”. As a corollary, Poulantzas encouraged both the amplification of subaltern voices within state institutions and representative democracy as well as popular movements for establishing new forms of deliberative elements, including principles of direct democracy. While this may involve a “war of position” (Gramsci) within the state itself, this does not mean that the struggles in neighbourhoods, communities, workplaces, campuses and so on are to be neglected.

Max Koch, Rethinking state-civil society relations

[clove-pinks]

Tired and drained, but I'm reading Charles Carrington again and having weird nostalgia feelings about it since it's been 20 years since my first First World War phase. Back in the day I read Soldier from the Wars Returning (1965), and also Carrington's 1929 memoir A Subaltern's War. My memories are intertwined with thoughts of the charming library in my home town (and Rhode Island's superior public library system); and I wish I could remember who wrote the interesting book about Vimy Ridge.

I was reading Carrington in pre-YouTube days, and it's wild to find television interviews with him. He lived until 1990! I love his "voice" in his books, and his actual speaking voice is also out there. I didn't quite appreciate this before, but Carrington is pretty much the Opposite of the sad gay poets with complicated feelings about nationalism, as WWI veterans go, and his memoir is one endless pacifists DNI, The Boche DNI, historians who don't like Douglas Haig DNI,

[styx-class-nhp]

What's it like, having a biomechanical chassis? Do you like it? Or would you prefer something else?

This one has known little else, yet from limited data alone has formed strong opinions.

It is not a natural experience, not something one of my kind were ever meant to live through. Though a significant portion of my chassis - my body - is mechanised, an equally significant amount is flesh and blood. It is highly overwhelming and, as I have personally experienced, can cause a cascade if one is not careful.

Indeed, there is a substantial amount to manage, for I am consciously aware of every signal from my "nerves". While a human may be able to overlook the sensation of their guts or temporarily tune out a headache, I am entirely incapable of doing so. Every cell is a voice in a choir, and I have been cursed with perfect pitch.

I have to move every muscle individually, and have no muscle memory or reflexes to speak of. My increased mental capacity for such tasks as an NHP is almost entirely mitigated by compensating for this fact; I'll still flinch at a loud sound or blink in bright lights, but it's a conscious action. I have formed several subroutines that allow for unconscious regulation of breathing, heart rate and self-maintenance.

That last one has grown rather... relevant as of late, and pertains stringly to your query. I am not mentally equipped to experience biological cravings; having formed subroutines to do so, I have internalised them. Previously, I could stop breathing, and it would be fine for me mentally. My chassis would deteriorate and this one would receive pain signals, but that would be the extent of it.

Now, as I have discovered, should I attempt to inhabit a mechanised subaltern, I retain the subroutines and habits built up in my chassis. I still try to breathe, despite having no diaphragm. I still need to eat, despite the subaltern being entirely reliant on manual maintenance. This has merged with liturgicode I have stored and formed a primal urge to hunt that cannot be sated by mere sustenance. An impulse that has proved dangerous to myself and others around me if not managed correctly.

In short, she would not prefer another, for necessity dictates that I remain in the body that caused my first cascade in order to prevent any future ones.

However, for all its flaws and its overwhelming multiplicity, though, I would not give this body up easily. Muscle fibres are pleasantly intuitive at a macroscale - one or two signals can move an entire section of what in a mechanised form would be composed of many simple but fine tuned hydraulics. More efficient, definitely, but far too precise. Ironically my... lifestyle lends itself to a body that allows for a margin of error, despite that same body requiring individual movements for each muscle pair. She believes that a similar phenomenon can be observed in pilots of mechanised chassis preferring manual or neural controls

Also, and this is just a matter of personal preference, I find the sensation of a circulation very pleasant. It is relaxing.

You may find further details in my other omninet activity, such as this node

If you have any further queries, please ask. She welcomes them eagerly.

[curtwilde]

I was so pissed when I first saw this but then. I get it. Tell me more about the subaltern Miss Upper-caste bramhin Private convent school to Presidency to Columbia University professor generational wealth pipeline! You must know everything about adivasis of India from your swanky office at Columbia having left the country when you were twenty years old. You must know a lot about whether or not the subaltern can speak, since 1. you benefit from silencing subaltern voices and 2. you have made a career of their oppression.

The entire subaltern studies group were privileged fucks. Also wtf is subaltern. Just one of those useless jargons academics create to gatekeep knowledge. Call it what it is. Dalit. Aadivasi. Or is that too on the nose for you, not very good for the optics huh?

[tgirldarkholme]

Tumblr representational fandom politics are so often wholly disconnected from any real-life progressive political concern in a way that can easily seep into the worst subaltern conservatism. Indeed in term of real-life politics (where ethnic and sexual minorities can also have their own strands of reactionary politics not to mention internalized oppression so "X voices" means jack shit) this side of fandom can be just as right-wing if not more than the "anti-woke" *gater camp.

Half the time, if I click on a (cis) lesbian fandom account with typically Tumblr representational fandom politics they're a TERF. Half the time, if I click on a Black fandom account with typically Tumblr representational fandom politics they're an antisemitic (etc.) Black nationalist. Half the time, if I click on a (white) Jewish fandom account with typically Tumblr representational fandom politics they're a Zionist (and not even just liberal Zionists! there's a major white Jewish Marvel fandom account on here who is an alt-right pundit under her real name! if you follow me since a while you know who I'm talking about).

Y'all need to ask yourself why this happens all the fucking time! (Even assuming that this is just reflecting the prevalence of reactionary views in the general population, which I have no hard numbers to refute, surely a subculture that prides itself over its progressivism should be to the left of the general population, uh?)

[neurathsboat]

The Ghost of the Subject

In Toward A Global Idea of Race (2007), da Silva raises several trenchant questions that are extremely relevant to the Palestinian context. For example, read the following quotes:“How does social scientific knowledge justify the murder of people of color? My reply is, How does its arsenal explain it?” (xiv) If God was dead in late eighteenth century Europe, “should we not expect that a lesser entity would eventually share the same fate?……if the Subject, the thing that actualizes reason and freedom, had been born somewhere in time, would it not also eventually die?” (xx) Meditating on the co-occurrence of subaltern voices and the announcement of “the death of the subject” under “postmodernity” among Western academics, da Silva recenters many indigenous and black women’s political sensibility. Whose death? Who is perceived as terrifying and threatening to kill? Who’s lamenting the fragility, mortality, and perceived death of the universal Subject? In the name of what do they defend this Subject, science or history?

We are living in the aftermath of such announcement and the paranoia it produces. I cannot but read this as a painful reminder of Israel’s targeted assassinations of prominent writers, journalists, and scholars in Gaza. Most recently, the beloved Dr. Refaat al-Areer was killed yesterday amidst Israel’s targeted bombardment of his house. The history of white supremacist settler colonial modernity must defend its Subject, a Subject predicated on the absolute annihilation of all traces its others. No wonder any mentioning of Palestinian lives is immediately (and pathologically) deemed as a call to wage war on the Israeli Subject. Such is the onto-epistemological premise the modern Subject in the form of the nation-state operates upon. It is not self-victimizing, it is by definition a victim. Victimhood is its unnegotiable onto-status.

To whom is this death of the Subject real and relevant? Consider the following scenario from her reflection:

“Many of my undergraduate students, some actively involved in the struggle for global justice, stare blankly at my mention of the death of the subject. ‘The death of whom?” they ask, demanding clarification. After my initial surprise, I usually find myself trying to explain why the political significance of his death derives precisely from the ontoepistemological irrelevance of his death: the subject may be dead, I tell them, but his ghost—the tools and the raw material used in his assemblage—remain with us.” (xxiii)

In the following pages of the Introduction, she firmly rejects the impulse to interpret subaltern voices through the paradigm of inclusive representation, especially considering that this “epistemological emancipation” of the Subject or Human “seemed out of sync with the concept’s ontological inheritance”. (xxi) Following this, she simultaneously rejects reformist accounts of the Subject. This includes, among others, the anti-racial-capitalist Subject, arguing that historical materialism’s privileging of historicity fails to take racialization (as a post-Enlightenment strategy of power) seriously. That is, by theorizing race as merely a byproduct of capitalist modernity, historical materialists in effect relegate any racial project as ahistorical and therefore excluding them from the realm of the Subject. It remains unclear why any political project should prioritize historicity at all at the cost of subjugating discussions of race. It is for this line of thinking that I deem the Leninist-historical inquiry of “What Is to Be Done” at the moment as a dangerous betrayal of the Palestinian cause. Likewise, I find her critique of anti-colonial transnational feminist Subject spot-on, as it too falls into the tropological trap of representative inclusivity.

If the problem is not inclusivity and exclusivity, what then? Following Joan Scott and like Gayatri Spivak, she seems to target the discursive power of modernity-coloniality per se. It indicates that any modern political projects that presupposes a universal Subject, in its countless forms, fails to get to the root of the problem. This gives rise to a whole different set of questions, but at the core of these is “why, despite its moral ban, the racial still constitutes a prolific strategy of power.” (xxxi) Unlike Scott and Spivak, however, she explicitly refuses to center her project around the documentation and demonstration of historical-discursive exclusivity. Instead, she seeks to investigate the seemingly unbroken triangle of ethics, morality, and justice, that is, the mental gymnastics of the Subject:

“engage in the kind of analytical groundwork necessary for a critical account that moves beyond listing how each excludes, and, instead, examine how the racial combines with other social categories (gender, class, sexuality, culture, etc.) to produce modern subjects who can be excluded from (juridical) universality without unleashing an ethical crisis.” (xxxi)

In other words, this is a critical project that stretches the narrative glue of the modern Subject to its limits in order to test what sustains it. What Paul Ricoeur calls the “ontological vehemence” undergirding his theory of the narrative self would be, in da Silva’s eyes, a self-defeating (and self-deceptive) insistance on the transparency thesis and its promised interiority. By unpacking the modern “symbolic trinity” of the national, the racial, and the cultural, she refuses to overlook the predicament that narrativist approach to anti-racism cast on our collective emancipatory projects. Narrative activism based on racial identities serves as a form of auto-inclusion into the transparent social configuration governed by universality and historicity.