Journal articles on the topic 'Japanese anarchists'

This essay discusses the experience of anarchism among young Chinese intellectuals based in Japan between 1907-1908. The rise of an anarchist ideal among Chinese intellectuals was firstly related to their acquaintance with Japanese radicals. In 1907 division among the Tongmenghui leadership and the conversion of Japanese intellectuals to anarchism made Chinese students and intellectuals based in Tokyo more susceptible to radical political doctrines. Anarchism emerged as a new trend out of this political turmoil. Liu Shipei, He Zhen and Zhang Ji were the central figures of the Tokyo Group and the main supporters of the anarchist propaganda in Japan. Through the acquaintance with the Kinyōkai 金矅会 (Friday Group), the radical socialist faction led by Kōtoku Shūsui, they were able to bring together the Chinese overseas communities in Japan, who were dissatisfied with the principle of Tongmenghui and its leadership. The close relations with Kōtoku and Japanese socialists, the affiliation with the Tongmenghui and the quarrels within the same Alliance concerning Sun’s leadership, the establishment of societies among Chinese students in Japan and the publication of a journal, all consent to define the contours of anarchist activities in Japan between the years 1907-1908. My goal in the following pages is to highlight the Japanese route of Chinese anarchism outlining anarchist thinking and propaganda as delineated in the pages of their official organ, the Tianyi bao (Journal of Natural Justice). Overall, I will try to answer these three questions. First, how did Chinese traditional thought become a means to sustain utopian egalitarianism? Second, how did Kōtoku Shūsui and Japanese anarchists influence the rise of an anarchist ideal among Chinese intellectuals based in Japan? And third, how did the Tianyi bao promote a racial, social and political revolution in order to create an ideal society?

This translation introduces the life trajectory of Huang Wenshan—a first-generation Chinese anthropologist who received education from Columbia University in the 1920s—and his reflections on the anarchist wing within Chiang Kai-shek’s Kuomingtang. Drawing on Huang’s semibiographical writing, published in 1983, about this anarchist network, the translated text centers on the event of the death of Wu Zhihui—another famed anarchist intellectual—which had evoked much discussion and correspondence among intellectuals in the circle. The text particularly shows Huang and his fellow anarchists’ struggle to redeem a sense of cosmopolitanism while their lives are engulfed by the turmoil of international and civil wars. Against the backdrop of war, the translation further contextualizes Huang’s historical shift from anarchist politics to his focus on developing a unique theory of “culturology” since the outbreak of the Mukden Incident in 1931. This theory considers “culture” as central to constructing a new kind of cosmopolitanism, with which a commensurability can be achieved for all nations. Given the invaluable personal letters exchanged among the anarchists, annotated by Huang, this translated text provides insights into the “culture turn” among many Chinese anarchists in the wake of the Sino-Japanese Wars.

AbstractThis essay explores the political origins and implications of Beat Zen anarchism, a cultural phenomenon located in the intersection between American anarchist traditions and Zen Buddhism in the San Francisco Poetry Renaissance. Focusing on the writings of D. T. Suzuki, Alan Watts, Gary Snyder, and Philip Whalen, it shows how Beat Zen emerged not primarily from an Orientalist appropriation of “the East” but rather from an Occidentalist, Japanese-centered criticism of American materialism that followed from the complex legacy of the World’s Parliament of Religions at the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition. In staking their claims to Zen, in other words, Philip Whalen and Gary Snyder—the Beat poets on whom this essay focuses—along with Alan Watts expressed the views not of cultural imperialists, as one might suppose, but of converts to what they regarded as a superior way of life.The Beat adoption of Zen intersected with a broadly libertarian and specifically anarchist social milieu in San Francisco that congregated around Kenneth Roxroth's Libertarian Club and Anarchist Circle. The individualist, anti-statist, and anarchist political outlooks of Beat Zen anarchists were directly confirmed by the writings of D. T. Suzuki, who presented Zen as a practice of personal liberation from cultural conditioning. Suzuki's rhetorical approach—which treated Japanese Zen as both a pinnacle of Asian civilization and a key to the liberation of Western humanity from its stifling and destructive rationalism—was informed by Meiji-era Japanese nationalism and exceptionalism and by the universalism that Buddhist missionaries brought to their explanations of Zen to Westerners. Arguing that Beat Zen poets, in adopting Buddhism as it was presented to them, were foremost Occidentalist rather than Orientalist in outlook, this essay concludes that the Beat Zen anarchist cultural formation suggests a libertarian alternative to Orientalism and also reconfigures common conceptions of American radical literary history as primarily Marxistinflected.

This article discusses the various shapes, inner structures and roles given to transformative and liberative practices in the work of US Buddhist anarchist authors (1960-2010). Unlike their Chinese and Japanese predecessors, who focused more on discursive parallelisms between Buddhism and anarchism or on historical instances of antiauthoritarianism within the Buddhist tradition(s), US Buddhist anarchists seem to favour practice and experience. This emphasis, characteristic of the way Buddhism has been introduced to the West,sometimes masks the way meditative techniques were used in traditional Buddhist contexts as oppressive technologies of the self. Whereas the emphasis on the inherently revolutionary nature of Buddhist practice represents a radical departure from the way those practices have been conceptualised throughout Buddhist history, it also involves the danger of considering Buddhist practice as an ahistorical sine qua non for social transformation. This is due to the fact that most early Buddhist anarchist writers based their ideas on a highly idealised, Orientalist imagination of Zen Buddhism(s). However, recent contributions based on other traditions have offered a more nuanced, albeit still developing picture. By assessing a number of instances from different US Buddhist anarchist writers, the article traces the brief history of the idea that meditation is revolutionary praxis, while also deconstructing and complicating it through historical and textual analysis.

AbstractIn the autumn of 1913, Japanese radical journalist Ishikawa Sanshirō (1876–1956) fled Japan for Europe on a self-imposed exile that would last more than seven years. While there, he mingled with English social philosopher Edward Carpenter (1844–1929) and his circle of friends, and resided for several years with the family of French anarchist Paul Reclus (1858–1941), nephew and professional heir of famed nineteenth-century geographer Elisée Reclus (1830–1905). Ishikawa’s travels contributed to the development of an intricate web of non-state, non-institutional links, fuelling an exchange of knowledge that spanned four decades. His personal trajectory highlights the significance of individual-based activism to the early twentieth-century global spread of anarchism. The experience of exile is also a valuable opportunity to explore how chance encounters, emotional ties, and subjective politics shape ideas of social change in tension with ideological consistency.

Takamure Itsue has many faces following different phases of her life: poet, activist-writer, anarchist, ethnologist and historian. Throughout these transformations, Takamure maintained her feminist position. This article concentrates on her politics of love, sex and marriage, formulated and presented in the pre-war period during the time of Japanese colonial empire. A specific focus is placed on her positionality in the act of writing within the discursive field of women whose nation was colonizing others, notably Koreans. The combination of positivistic craving for ‘scientific’ history to substantiate the uxorilocal tradition of Japanese matrimony and uncritical acceptance of ‘motherhood’ as a superior virtue led her to consequently embrace Japan's colonialism.

This is a paper on the transformation of campus activism in Japan since the 1990’s. Japan’s so-called freeter movements (movements of young men and women lacking regular employment) are often said to have emerged as young people shifted their base of activism from campuses to the “street”. However, campuses have continued to play a role in activism. Although the radical student organisations of the New Left have waned, new movements are forming among students and precarious university employees in response to neoliberalization trends in society and the precarization of their conditions. This transformation has gone hand in hand with a shift of action repertoire towards forms of direct action such as squatting, sitins, hunger strikes, and opening “cafés”. In this paper I focus on the development of campus protest in Kyoto from the mid-1990s until today to shed light on the following questions: How have campus-based activists responded to the neoliberalization of Japanese universities? What motivates them to use art or art-like forms of direct action and how are these activities related to space? I investigate the notions of space towards which activists have been oriented since the 1990’s, focusing on three notions: official public space, counter-space and no-man’s-land. These conceptions of space, I argue, are needed to account for the various forms campus protest has taken since the 1990s.

AbstractThis paper offers a fresh anarchist history of modern rural experience at the heart of Japan's modernization project in Hokkaido. The rationalization of agricultural methods and the establishment of big farms in Hokkaido worked by tenant farmers served the dual purpose of both colonizing and modernizing Japan's northern frontier. Against the idea of progress imbued in that colonial project, the anarchist and celebrity writer, Arishima Takeo, liberated his tenant farmers by dissolving his tenant farm in Niseko in 1922. The farmers were made the new cooperative owners. Members of the farm, made famous during widespread tenant-farmer disputes, believed they stood at the heart of progress. ‘Sōgo fujō’ (mutual aid) was viewed as an ethic for social transformation, democracy and elimination of hierarchy that linked the farmers with the wider world. It was the farmers’ consciousness of working in a new era, better than ever before, that made them modern. Their community offers us a case study of the imagination and experience of modern temporality amongst the most unlikely subjects of the modern, ordinary agricultural laborers in rural Asia in the early twentieth century. This anarchist history challenges the conceptual framework that has categorized rural Japan as the seat of conservative politics, nativism and traditionalism, and the antithesis of modernity.

Owing to Zhu Zhixin’s introduction and Liu Wendian’s translation, Japanese anarchist Kotoku Shusui’s On the Obliteration of Christ came to have a great impact on China’s Anti-Christian Movement following the May Fourth Movement. What these three texts oppose is not only Christian authority, but also political power. In a continuous line, these writings lay the basic framework for Chinese anti-Christian speech in the 1920s, as the combination of scientism and nationalism began to shape people’s perception of Christianity.

AbstractThe interwar period has recently been described as a highly internationalist one in South Asia, as a series of distinct internationalisms—communist, anarchist, social scientific, socialist, literary, and aesthetic1—took shape. At the same time, it has been argued that the Second Sino-Japanese War of 1937 drew to a close various opportunities for international association (at least, temporarily). Taking into account both these contradistinctive developments, this article deals with another—and thus far largely overlooked—South Asian internationalism in the form of wartime Indian humanitarianism. In 1938, the Indian National Congress helped organize an Indian medical mission to China to bring relief to Chinese victims of the Second Sino-Japanese War. By focusing on this initiative, this article traces the ideas, the practices, and the motives of Indian political humanitarianism. It argues that such initiatives, as they became part of much wider global networks of humanitarianism in the late 1930s and early 1940s, created new openings for Indian nationalists to establish international alliances. This article also examines the way in which political humanitarianism enabled these same nationalists to perform as independent leaders on an international stage, and argues that humanitarianism served as a tool of anti-colonial emancipation.

For the past hundred years Esperanto has found adepts in China and Japan. Outside Europe and the Americas, nowhere has Esperanto spread as much as it has in East Asia. The Chinese and Japanese were drawn to it through their desire to learn from the west; they hoped to use Esperanto as a bridge between east and west or they found in it a link to anarchism and communism. Often the Esperantists used their language for campaign purposes, for example in the battle against the Japanese invasion of China beginning in the 1930s (“For the liberation of China through Esperanto”) or for the popularization of pacifism in postwar Japan. As in the west, many Esperantists in China and Japan based their connection with Esperanto on the idea of the harmony of all humankind. The movement progressed thanks primarily to those who avoided too much missionary zeal and preferred to recruit on the basis of Esperanto as a neutral device. Given the lack of opportunity to use the language in practical ways, for more than half of the past hundred years the Esperantists of East Asia tended to emphasize Esperanto as an idea; but the economic prosperity of Japan and the opening of China, by allowing greater contact with the outside world, have given Esperanto the opportunity to demonstrate more strongly its usefulness as an easily learned means of communication, also for direct contact between Chinese and Japanese.

Kim Jung-Geon (1889-1933), one of the Korean independence activists during the period of Japanese colonial rule in Korea, developed a social reform theory with his own ideology called “Wonjong (元宗)”. Wonjong was his compilation of philosophical ideologies of all ages and countries, mainly consisting of two thoughts: Geukwon (極元) and Daegonghwa Muguk (大共和無國, anarchic- republicanism) - the former refers to his cosmological worldview, and the latter is a social reform ideology. In particular, the concept of “Muguk (無國, no country)” has a key role in his ideology and is closely related to a conception of the ideal society in Taoism. In this context, we herein reviewed on distinguishable features of his “Muguk-ism (anarchism)” from the Taoism and thus obtained the following conclusions. First, the thought of Kim Jung-Geon took clear inspiration from Zhuangzi. Second, instead of merely accepting or referring to Taoist thought, he sharply criticized inherent fatalistic and passive attitudes in Taoism and built up active and practical ideology by himself. Third, as he developed the social reform ideology to save the people against the Japanese invasion in the late Joseon Dynasty, he rejected Wuwei (無為, inaction), the core concept of Taoism, but accepted Yuwei (有爲, action) to promote social reform in the real world. He did not remain as a hermit or view the world in the ideological context of Taoist philosophy; he defected to Manchuria and lead the resistance movements to achieve his ideal society and to free Korea from the Japanese military and political rule. It is concluded that Kim Jung-Geon is a very rare and creative thinker across East Asia at the time, who critically made a compilation of philosophical ideologies of all ages and countries in critical viewing and applied to the real world to establish a practical methodology. His Taoism-based social reform ideology was not limited to the Japanese rule; it is sufficiently convincing even today in light of views that point out the crisis of civilization and the need for new social reform theory in this highly industrialized modern society. Furthermore, the further studies are also needed on his position in the history of Korean Philosophy as a philosopher at the beginning of the introduction of Western philosophy.

This paper is not a comprehensive survey of the architectural career of Arata Isozaki, one of the most distinguished practicing architects in the world today and the 2019 winner of the Pritzker Prize, but a specific look at his formative years of the 1960s when he began to build his own design methodology. It delineates Isozaki’s encounter with the avant-garde art movement of the 1960s, collectively called “Anti-Art, ” against the backdrop of the “anti-spirit” of Japanese society. Although Isozaki’s artistic side has been overstated at times, previous studies rarely addressed how his intensive interactions with art circles played a role in shaping his design methodology. I would like to examine the convergence of creative individuals and cross-disciplinary connections to understand Isozaki’s architectural thinking.This study examines how Isozaki’s collaborations with his artist contemporaries enabled him to formulate the notion of the “invisible city, ” a radically new design concept characterised by the expansion of the nature of architecture from producing isolated built-forms to all-encompassing natural and manmade environments. However, after drawing on communications and information theory, which prevailed in 60s architectural circles, Isozaki’s destructive and anarchistic connotation of “invisible city” was channeled into a systematic cybernetic model and eventually transformed into a constructive planning method. I will discuss the realisation of a cybernetic environment at the Festival Plaza of Expo’ 70 and trace the legacy of “invisible city” in his later postmodern work.

In recent years scholars of anarchism have examined the movement’s transnational dimensions. This new research succeeded in redefining the periodization and the geography of anarchism. However, the debate has been limited to the Western speech communities. This paper tries to reconstruct the process of introduction and circulation in Japan of Fra contadini, a pamphlet written by the Italian anarchist Errico Malatesta, focusing on the first thirty years of the twentieth century. Through the analysis of different periodicals, both Japanese and Europeans, this article will show how the pamphlet changed the Japanese perception of the Italian revolutionist, considering as well the way in which the text was instrumental in the evolution of the local Anarchist debate. The anomalous introduction of the Italian pamphlet in the Japanese context throws new light upon the transnational connections between European and East Asian anarchism, challenging the widely accepted diffusionist model.

The way Japanese animation has been spread outside Japan not only by entertainment companies but also by fan groups that have worked to produce fan subs—that is, subtitled translations of films and television shows produced without authorization and shared outside established commercial channels—has been one of the most powerful examples of transformative culture to take place in the last three decades or so. Much has already been written about anime and its global impact, but the process of fan sub creation and distribution, and in particular how these groups have been structured, has not yet been examined in depth. A question that is becoming prominent concerns what happens when the fan subbing culture finally clashes with authorized commercial content distributors. This essay explores the way fan sub distribution has changed over the years and draws on the concept of Net war to illustrate the conflict and the potential tools and methods animation distribution companies have used to engage, subvert, and interdict these groups. This has broad implications for understanding and predicting the flow of other emerging conflicts between networked actors, such as hackers, anarchists, and activists, and hierarchically organized traditional corporate entities.

Naomi Klein’s global bestseller No Logo was published in paperback in the USA in December 2000; in the UK in January 2001. Few blockbuster publications can have been more sweetly timed. All around the world, spectacular public protests were occurring at major international forums: at the World Trade Organisation meeting in Seattle in 1999, at Melbourne’s World Economic Forum meeting in September 2000 and later that month at the International Monetary Fund meeting in Prague. In what was dubbed a ‘year of global protest’ in journals from the Providence Phoenix to the Socialist Review, Klein’s book seemed to offer a story that lent coherence to what was otherwise seen as a bewilderingly heterogenous ‘movement’. Though protestors were often described in the media as criticising and opposing ‘globalisation’, the sense of this perennially vague word, and the nature and purpose of oppositional practice, seemed to change depending on who was asked: French farmers, Washington trade unionists, African politicians, feral DJs, or those emblematic ‘anarchists in black ski masks’ with whom reporters everywhereseemed to be so fascinated. Amidst media and public confusion, and concerns that the new movements might simply be incoherent, Klein suggested that the major target of these plural global protests was, and ought to be postmodernity’s hegemon, the trans-national corporation, particularly where it was operating in its newer, brand-driven mode. At a time when we were told that symbolic production was the dominant economic mode in the West, the logo which was the new corporation’s organising principle, its key property and the talisman of its identity was, in Klein’s view, a sensible, even inevitable focus for dissent. The logo, and a corporation’s brand, partly since they were its central commodities, were also its vulnerabilities. Describing the often-horrific consequences of TNCs’ negiligent or nasty labour and environmental practices (on- and offshore), their voracious co-optation of popular culture, and pointing out the contradictions between these tendencies and the companies’ lovingly nurtured brand identities, Klein offered a rationale for those practices which themselves acted on the symbolic level, and turned the logo against its masters. With Klein (and others like Adbusters) describing, validating and promoting new (and not so new) forms of anticorporate activism, methods of creative resistance with lineage stretching back at least as far as dada became nominalised, - or perhaps branded – as “culture-jamming”, “adbusting”, “hacktivism” etc. In academe, scholarly capital was made from taxonomies and histories of such practices produced for an audience anxious to know about radical cultural action that seemed to be premised on a critical semiotics. These practices themselves became popular (or was it just that they were, suddenly, easier to recognise?) Activist appropriations of the logo began to proliferate, dotting the landscape of our visual culture like pimples on the cheeks of McDonald’s staff. The visual-cultural hack had been codified, incorporated, disseminated, not least through the circuits of that paradigm of international capitalism, publishing. Some questions arose almost immediately. Was the work of Klein and the culture-jammers, whose critique parasitised its object, simply doing its merry, viral work within the body of its late-capitalist host? Or was Klein’s packaging of dissent the final, grand co-optation of oppositional practice? Did either question make sense? And, finally, what was the Matrix? More questions have arisen about Klein’s book and what it described as time has passed. Though her publisher, forgivably, drew comparisons with Marx, whereas Lenin required a prison sentence to come to grips with Capital, No Logo requires only a weekend of a moderately speedy reader. Is the book’s easily digestible analysis sufficient to its object – nothing less than global capitalism – and is a sufficient basis for effective critical action? Does the book, and the practices it describes, simply represent a recrudescence of the tendency on the left, related to Puritan iconoclasm, to be suspicious of visual culture, wary of pleasure and alert for what the illusion conceals? Does Klein’s description of the contradictions between brand identity and corporate practice represent a repetition of ideological critique, where brand management is collapsed into the manufacturing of false consciousness? Does it all proceed from an anxiety around the operation of the sign and its circulation? Or is the opposite true, and is this activism as a playful semiotic contest with(in) corporate culture? Does Klein’s (and, she implies, her generation’s) self-confessed fascination with ‘the shiny surfaces of pop culture’ lead to a fetishism of branding practices and a lack of attention to the operations of what Marxists once called the ‘base’, and do her solutions amount to a strategy of consumer sovereignty-style activism, which leaves the structures of global inequality intact? Does No Logo privilege Western consumer activism as a solution, and does it, through its deployment of the suffering of the Oriental other, simply reconstitute a ‘zone of safety’ around the Western subject? Is it possible, in any case, for any more detailed or nuanced analysis to have a non-specialist circulation? Is it significant that almost all responses to the book are structured by ambivalence? You may be relieved to know that the ‘logo’ edition of m/c, though it needs to be situated in relation to the popular emergence of ‘logo-centric’ critique and practice, doesn’t try to answer too many of these questions directly. Instead, the authors approach the issue theme from the perspective of 2003, where, among other things, a war has intervened and exposed again the strengths and weaknesses of global dissent, and the ambitions of global capital. What this edition of m/c indicates is the variety of possible responses to, and uses of, corporate visual culture. Some of the authors write about or speak to the ‘celebrities’ of anticorporate activism – the new avant-gardes – showing not only that their plurality of political positions, motivations, and means of expression always meant a diverse and surprising range of actions beyond the scope of terms like ‘culture jamming’, but that the character of anticorporate activism has changed since (or always evaded) Klein’s attempt to map them. McKenzie Wark’s feature article is written in the finest tradition of cultural histories of the avant-garde. It tells the story of etoy, the Swiss collective who through fortuity and their own taste for refusal were thrown into a confrontation with one of the brightest rising corporate stars of the e-commerce boom. The importance of this confrontation and its implications increased in direct proportion with its growing absurdity. Danni Zuvela’s chat with the producers of Value-Added Cinema, Susie Khamis’s piece on ®™ark and jOhn pAce’s on the Yes Men show us the interesting and, importantly, very funny methods used by anticorporate activists in challenging the operations of global corporations and the metanational . Some of the authors tell new kinds of stories about brands and their use. Douglas Rushkoff gives us a brief history of the brand and its use in coercion. Lucy Nicholas, in ‘What kind of fucked version of Hello Kitty are you’, ingeniously maps generational and political contest within feminism onto the differing readings, uses and appropriations of that emblem of Japanese-style cuteness, Hello Kitty, based on her research on, and practice of riot grrrl feminism. Andrew Grainger and David L. Andrews, in ‘Postmodern Puma’, tell of how Puma’s commercial recovery in recent years has been premised on ‘nurturing of an ever-expanding array of consumer subjectivities’, and suggest that the very mutability of Puma’s brand identity may ensure its survival in the global style wars. The reader will also find extended theoretical consideration of the mechanisms and functionings of the logo in meaning-making, and of its place in contemporary visual culture. While Helene Frichot carries out a Deleuzean critique of the operations of the logo and its makers, Douglas Kellner thinks about the logo in terms of Situationist ideas about the society of the spectacle, and wonders about the logo as both stimulus to, and object of consumption. In two of the collected pieces, we find scholars turning the lens around on educational institutions, and considering the genesis and uses of the scholarly ‘brand’. Jeremy Hunsinger is concerned with the conversion of the university, and academic reputation, into brand identity. Ned Rossiter worries about the rise of ‘creative industries’ as a scholarly and institutional paradigm in place of the traditional humanities, and and wonders how much it really helps the students in whose name it is instituted. This is related to a paper Rossiter delivered with Danny Butt at the Cultural Studies Association of Australia conference in 2002, which gave rise to lively discussion. While Craig Bellamy echoes and expands on themes in this introduction with a survey of global protest and social movements in the years since No Logo was published, the issue’s cover art – ‘logo’s’ logo – subtly amplifies and complements the themes of the whole issue. In the beginning, we are told, was the word (‘logos’), later we get the word made flesh. Here then is the flesh-made word; the visceral, original meaning of brand presented to us by Melbourne artist busa<>aat. Here is the logo (home)-branded on meat, reminding us of the brand’s genesis as a marker for organic chattels, and parodying and predicting the trajectory of symbolic capital – beyond the adolescent “love-marks” of contemporary branders and into the fusion of flesh and fantasy – real branding, where the good defines the Good. From a present where footballers rename themselves ‘Whiskas’ for a day, busa<>aat sees a future where we can dance together toe to logo, jiggling to a jingle, competing like microscopic Spanish dancers on an Arnott’s Shape. One where we can all get on down at the logo au-go-go. May we have this dance? Works Cited Klein, Naomi. No Logo: Taking Aim at the Brand Bullies. New York: Picador, 2000. Citation reference for this article Substitute your date of access for Dn Month Year etc... MLA Style Pace, John and Wilson, Jason A.. "(No) Logo Au-go-go " M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture< http://www.media-culture.org.au/0306/01-editorial.php>. APA Style Pace, J. & Wilson, J. A. (2003, Jun 19). (No) Logo Au-go-go . M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 6,< http://www.media-culture.org.au/0306/01-editorial.php>

06–782Baumgardner, Robert J. (Texas A&M U, USA; Robert_Baumgardner@tamu-commerce.edu), The appeal of English in Mexican commerce. World Englishes (Blackwell) 25.2 (2006), 251–266.06–783Bunta, Ferenc (Temple U, USA), Ingrid Davidovich & David Ingram, The relationship between the phonological complexity of a bilingual child's words and those of the target languages. International Journal of Bilingualism (Kingston Press), 10.1 (2006), 71–88.06–784Christiansen, Pia Vanting (Roskilde U, Denmark), Language policy in the European Union: European/English/Elite/Equal/Esperanto Union?Language Problems & Language Planning (John Benjamins) 30.1 (2006), 21–44.06–785Cook, Vivian, Benedetta Bassetti, Chise Kasai, Miho Sasaki & Jun Arata Takahashi, Do bilinguals have different concepts? The case of shape and material in Japanese L2 users of English. 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Introduction As the country with the fifth largest population in the world, Indonesia is a massive potential market for mobile technology adoption and development. Despite an annual per capita income of only $1,280 USD (World Bank), there are 63 million mobile phone users in Indonesia (Suhartono, sec. 1.7) and it is predicted to reach 80 million in 2007 (Jakarta Post 1). Mobile phones are not only a symbol of Indonesian modernity (Barendregt 5), but like other communication technology can become a platform through which to explore socio-political issues (Winner 28). In this article we explore the role mobile phone technology in contemporary forms of social, intimate, and sexual relationships in Indonesia. We argue that new forms of expression and relations are facilitated by the particular features of mobile technology. We discuss two cases from contemporary Indonesia: a mobile dating service (BEDD) and mobile phone pornography. For each case study, we first discuss the socio-political background in Indonesia, then describe the technological affordances of the mobile phone which facilitate dating and pornography, and finally give examples of how the mobile phone is effecting change in dating and pornographic practices. This study is placed at a time when social relations, intimacy, and sexuality in Indonesia have become central public issues. Since the end of the New Order whilst many people have embraced the new freedoms of reformasi and democratization, there is also a high degree of social anxiety, tension and uncertainty (Juliastuti 139-40). These social changes and desires have played out in the formations of new and exciting modes of creativity, solidarity, and sociality (Heryanto and Hadiz 262) and equally violence, terror and criminality (Heryanto and Hadiz 256). The diverse and plural nature of Indonesian society is alive with a myriad of people and activities, and it is into this diverse social body that the mobile phone has become a central and prominent feature of interaction. The focus of our study is dating and pornography as mediated by the mobile phone; however, we do not suggest that these are new experiences in Indonesia. Rather over the last decade social, intimate, and sexual relationships have all been undergoing change and their motivations can be traced to a variety of sources including the factors of globalization, democratization and modernization. Throughout Asia “new media have become a crucial site for constituting new Asian sexual identities and communities” (Berry, Martin, and Yue 13) as people are connecting through new communication technologies. In this article we suggest that mobile phone technology opens new possibilities and introduces new channels, dynamics, and intensities of social interaction. Mobile phones are particularly powerful communication tools because of their mobility, accessibility, and convergence (Ling 16-19; Ito 14-15; Katz and Aakhus 303). These characteristics of mobile phones do not in and of themselves bring about any particular changes in dating and pornography, but they may facilitate changes already underway (Barendegt 7-9; Barker 9). Mobile Dating Background The majority of Indonesians in the 1960s and 1970s had arranged marriages (Smith-Hefner 443). Education reform during the 70s and 80s encouraged more women to attain an education which in turn led to the delaying of marriage and the changing of courtship practices (Smith-Hefner 450). “Compared to previous generations, [younger Indonesians] are freer to mix with the opposite sex and to choose their own marriage,” (Utomo 225). Modern courtship in Java is characterized by “self-initiated romance” and dating (Smith-Hefner 451). Mobile technology is beginning to play a role in initiating romance between young Indonesians. Technology One mobile matching or dating service available in Indonesia is called BEDD (www.bedd.com). BEDD is a free software for mobile phones in which users fill out a profile about themselves and can meet BEDD members who are within 20-30 feet using a Bluetooth connection on their mobile devices. BEDD members’ phones automatically exchange profile information so that users can easily meet new people who match their profile requests. BEDD calls itself mobile social networking community; “BEDD is a new Bluetooth enabled mobile social medium that allows people to meet, interact and communicate in a new way by letting their mobile phones do all the work as they go throughout their day.” As part of a larger project on mobile social networking (Humphreys 6), a field study was conducted of BEDD users in Jakarta, Indonesia and Singapore (where BEDD is based) in early 2006. In-depth interviews and open-ended user surveys were conducted with users, BEDD’s CEO and strategic partners in order to understand the social uses and effects BEDD. The majority of BEDD members (which topped 100,000 in January 2006) are in Indonesia thanks to a partnership with Nokia where BEDD came pre-installed on several phone models. In management interviews, both BEDD and Nokia explained that they partnered because both companies want to help “build community”. They felt that Bluetooth technology such as BEDD could be used to help youth meet new people and keep in touch with old friends. Examples One of BEDD’s functions is to help lower barriers to social interaction in public spaces. By sharing profile information and allowing for free text messaging, BEDD can facilitate conversations between BEDD members. According to users, mediating the initial conversation also helps to alleviate social anxiety, which often accompanies meeting new people. While social mingling and hanging out between Jakarta teenagers is a relatively common practice, one user said that BEDD provides a new and fun way to meet and flirt. In a society that must balance between an “idealized morality” and an increasingly sexualized popular culture (Utomo 226), BEDD provides a modern mode of self-initiated matchmaking. While BEDD was originally intended to aid in the matchmaking process of dating, it has been appropriated into everyday life in Indonesia because of its interpretive flexibility (Pinch & Bjiker 27). Though BEDD is certainly used to meet “beautiful girls” (according to one Indonesian male user), it is also commonly used to text message old friends. One member said he uses BEDD to text his friends in class when the lecture gets boring. BEDD appears to be a helpful modern communication tool when people are physically proximate but cannot easily talk to one another. BEDD can become a covert way to exchange messages with people nearby for free. Another potential explanation for BEDD’s increasing popularity is its ability to allow users to have private conversations in public space. Bennett notes that courtship in private spaces is seen as dangerous because it may lead to sexual impropriety (154). Dating and courtship in public spaces are seen as safer, particularly for conserving the reputation young Indonesian women. Therefore Bluetooth connections via mobile technologies can be a tool to make private social connections between young men and women “safer”. Bluetooth communication via mobile phones has also become prevalent in more conservative Muslim societies (Sullivan, par. 7; Braude, par. 3). There are, however, safety concerns about meeting strangers in public spaces. When asked, “What advice would you give a first time BEDD user?” one respondent answered, “harus bisa mnilai seseorang krn itu sangat penting, kita mnilai seseorang bukan cuma dari luarnya” (translated: be careful in evaluating (new) people, and don’t ever judge the book by its cover”). Nevertheless, only one person participating in this study mentioned this concern. To some degree meeting someone in a public may be safer than meeting someone in an online environment. Not only are there other people around in public spaces to physically observe, but co-location means there may be some accountability for how BEDD members present themselves. The development and adoption of matchmaking services such as BEDD suggests that the role of the mobile phone in Indonesia is not just to communicate with friends and family but to act as a modern social networking tool as well. For young Indonesians BEDD can facilitate the transfer of social information so as to encourage the development of new social ties. That said, there is still debate about exactly whom BEDD is connecting and for what purposes. On one hand, BEDD could help build community in Indonesia. One the other hand, because of its privacy it could become a tool for more promiscuous activities (Bennett 154-5). There are user profiles to suggest that people are using BEDD for both purposes. For example, note what four young women in Jakarta wrote in the BEDD profiles: Personal Description Looking For I am a good prayer, recite the holy book, love saving (money), love cycling… and a bit narcist. Meaning of life Ordinary gurl, good student, single, Owen lover, and the rest is up to you to judge. Phrenz ?! Peace?! Wondeful life! I am talkative, have no patience but so sweet. I am so girly, narcist, shy and love cute guys. Check my fs (Friendster) account if you’re so curious. Well, I am just an ordinary girl tho. Anybody who wants to know me. A boy friend would be welcomed. Play Station addict—can’t live without it! I am a rebel, love rock, love hiphop, naughty, if you want proof dial 081********* phrenz n cute guyz As these profiles suggest, the technology can be used to send different kinds of messages. The mobile phone and the BEDD software merely facilitate the process of social exchange, but what Indonesians use it for is up to them. Thus BEDD and the mobile phone become tools through which Indonesians can explore their identities. BEDD can be used in a variety of social and communicative contexts to allow users to explore their modern, social freedoms. Mobile Pornography Background Mobile phone pornography builds on a long tradition of pornography and sexually explicit material in Indonesia through the use of a new technology for an old art and product. Indonesia has a rich sexual history with a documented and prevalent sex industry (Suryakusuma 115). Lesmana suggests that the country has a tenuous pornographic industry prone to censorship and nationalist politics intent on its destruction. Since the end of the New Order and opening of press freedoms there has been a proliferation in published material including a mushrooming of tabloids, men’s magazines such as FHM, Maxim and Playboy, which are often regarded as pornographic. This is attributed to the decline of the power of the bureaucracy and government and the new role of capital in the formation of culture (Chua 16). There is a parallel pornography industry, however, that is more amateur, local, and homemade (Barker 6). It is into this range of material that mobile phone pornography falls. Amongst the myriad forms of pornography and sexually explicit material available in Indonesia, the mobile phone in recent years has emerged as a new platform for production, distribution, and consumption. This section will not deal with the ethics of representation nor engage with the debate about definitions and the rights and wrongs of pornography. Instead what will be shown is how the mobile phone can be and has been used as an instrument/medium for the production and consumption of pornography within contemporary social relationships. Technology There are several technological features of the mobile phone that make pornography possible. As has already been noted the mobile phone has had a large adoption rate in Indonesia, and increasingly these phones come equipped with cameras and the ability to send data via MMS and Bluetooth. Coupled with the mobility of the phone, the convergence of technology in the mobile phone makes it possible for pornography to be produced and consumed in a different way than what has been possible before. It is only recently that the mobile phone has been marketed as a video camera with the release of the Nokia N90; however, quality and recording time are severely limited. Still, the mobile phone is a convenient and at-hand tool for the production and consumption of individually made, local, and non-professional pieces of porn, sex and sexuality. It is impossible to know how many such films are in circulation. A number of websites that offer these films for downloads host between 50 and 100 clips in .3gp file format, with probably more in actual circulation. At the very least, this is a tenfold increase in number compared to the recent emergence of non-professional VCD films (Barker 3). This must in part be attributed to the advantages that the mobile phone has over standard video cameras including cost, mobility, convergence, and the absence of intervening data processing and disc production. Examples There are various examples of mobile pornography in Indonesia. These range from the pornographic text message sent between lovers to the mobile phone video of explicit sexual acts (Barendregt 14-5). The mobile phone affords privacy for the production and exchange of pornographic messages and media. Because mobile devices are individually owned, however, pornographic material found on mobile phones can be directly tied to the individual owners. For example, police in Kotabaru inspected the phones of high school students in search of pornographic materials and arrested those individuals on whose phones it was found (Barendregt 18). Mobile phone pornography became a national political issue in 2006 when an explicit one-minute clip of a singer and an Indonesian politician became public. Videoed in 2004, the clip shows Maria Eva, a 27 year-old dangdut singer (see Browne, 25-6) and Yahya Zaini, a married 42 year-old who was head of religious affairs for the Golkar political party. Their three-year affair ended in 2005, but the film did not become public until 2006. It spread like wildfire between phones and across the internet, however, and put an otherwise secret relationship into the limelight. These types of affairs and relationships were common knowledge to people through gossip, exposes such as Jakarta Undercover (Emka 93-108) and stories in tabloids; yet this culture of adultery and prostitution continued and remained anonymous because of bureaucratic control of evidence and information (Suryakusuma 115). In this case, however, the filming of Maria Eva once public proves the identities of those involved and their infidelity. As a result of the scandal it was further revealed that Maria Eva had been forced by Yayha Zaini and his wife to have an abortion, deepening the moral crisis. Yahya Zaini later resigned as his party’s head of Religious Affairs (Asmarani, sec. 1-2), due to what was called the country’s “first real sex scandal” (Naughton, par. 2). As these examples show, there are definite risks and consequences involved in the production of mobile pornography. Even messages/media that are meant to be shared between two consenting individuals can eventually make their way into the public mobile realm and have serious consequences for those involved. Mobile video and photography does, however, represent a potential new check on the Indonesian bureaucratic elite which has not been previously available by other means such as a watchdog media. “The role of the press as a control mechanism is practically nonexistent [in Jakarta], which in effect protects corruption, nepotism, financial manipulation, social injustice, and repression, as well as the murky sexual life of the bureaucratic power elite,” (Suryakusuma 117). Thus while originally a mobile video may have been created for personal pleasure, through its mass dissemination via new media it can become a means of sousveillance (Mann, Nolan and Wellman 332-3) whereby the control of surveillance is flipped to reveal the often hidden abuses of power by officials. Whilst the debates over pornography in Indonesia tend to focus on the moral aspects of it, the broader social impacts of technology on relationships are often ignored. Issues related to power relations or even media as cultural expression are often disregarded as moral judgments cast a heavy shadow over discussions of locally produced Indonesian mobile pornography. It is possible to move beyond the moral critique of pornographic media to explore the social significance of its proliferation as a cultural product. Conclusion In these two case studies we have tried to show how the mobile phone in Indonesia has become a mode of interaction but also a platform through which to explore other current issues and debates related to dating, sexuality and media. Since 1998 and the fall of the New Order, Indonesia has been struggling with blending old and new, a desire of change and nostalgia for past, and popular desire for a “New Indonesia” (Heryanto, sec. Post-1998). Cultural products within Indonesia have played an important role in exploring these issues. The mobile phone in Indonesia is not just a technology, but also a product in and through which these desires are played out. Changes in dating and pornography practices have been occurring in Indonesia for some time. As people use mobile technology to produce, communicate, and consume, the device becomes intricately related to identity struggle and cultural production within Indonesia. It is important to keep in mind, however, that while mobile technology adoption within Indonesia is growing, it is still limited to a particular subset of the population. As has been previously observed (Barendregt 3), it is wealthier, young people in urban areas who are most intensely involved in mobile technology. As handset prices decrease and availability in rural areas increases, however, no longer will mobile technology be so demographically confined in Indonesia. The convergent technology of the mobile phone opens many possibilities for creative adoption and usage. As a communication device it allows for the creation, sharing, and viewing of messages. Therefore, the technology itself facilitates social connections and networking. As demonstrated in the cases of dating and pornography, the mobile phone is both a tool for meeting new people and disseminating sexual messages/media because it is a networked technology. The mobile phone is not fundamentally changing dating and pornography practices, but it is accelerating social and cultural trends already underway in Indonesia by facilitating the exchange and dissemination of messages and media. As these case studies show, what kinds of messages Indonesians choose to create and share are up to them. The same device can be used for relatively innocuous behavior as well as more controversial behavior. With increased adoption in Indonesia, the mobile will continue to be a lens through which to further explore modern socio-political issues. 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"Modernity and the Mobile Phone: Exploring Tensions about Dating and Sex in Indonesia." M/C Journal 10.1 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0703/06-humphreys-barker.php>. APA Style Humphreys, L., and T. Barker. (Mar. 2007) "Modernity and the Mobile Phone: Exploring Tensions about Dating and Sex in Indonesia," M/C Journal, 10(1). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0703/06-humphreys-barker.php>.