Artykuły w czasopismach na temat „Black women prisoners”

Protests and resistance from those locked away in jails, prisons and detention centers occur but receive limited, if any, mainstream attention. In the United States and Canada, 61 instances of prisoner unrest occurred in 2018 alone. In August of the same year, incarcerated men and women in the United States planned nineteen days of peaceful protest to improve prison conditions. Complex links of institutionalized power, white supremacy and Black resistance is receiving renewed attention; however, state-condoned violence against women in correctional institutions (e.g., physical, sexual and emotional abuse, and medical neglect by prison staff) is understudied. This qualitative case study examines 10 top-tier Criminology journals from 2008-2018 for the presence of prisoner unrest/protest. Findings reveal a paucity of attention devoted to prisoner unrest or state-sanctioned violence. This paper argues that the invisibility of prisoner unrest conceals the breadth and depth of state-inflicted violence against prisoners, especially marginalized peoples. This paper concludes with a discussion of the historical legacy and contemporary invisibility of Black women’s resistance against state-inflicted violence. This paper argues that in order to make sense of and tackle state-condoned violence we must turn to incarcerated individuals, activists, and Black and Indigenous thinkers and grassroots actors.

BackgroundThe high rates of psychiatric morbidity in prisoners vary between ethnic groups.AimsTo compare early environmental risks, stressful daily living experiences and reported use of psychiatric services in prisoners from different ethnic groups.MethodCross-sectional survey of 3142 prisoners in all penal establishments in England and Wales in 1997.ResultsFewer Black and South Asian male prisoners reported childhood traumas and conduct disorder, and fewer Black prisoners experienced stressful prison experiences, than White prisoners. Fewer Black women had received previous psychiatric treatment, and fewer Black men had their psychiatric problems identified in prison. Black prisoners were less likely to have received psychiatric treatment than Whites.ConclusionsThe lower prevalence of psychiatric morbidity observed in Black prisoners corresponds with reduced exposure to risk factors. Higher rates of imprisonment might be explained by higher rates of conduct disorder, adolescent-onset criminality and disadvantage within the criminal justice system.

Were women imprisoned in classical Athens? To search for an answer to this question in the secondary literature is to be met with deafening silence. Few scholars have examined evidence for the incarceration of women in the ancient Mediterranean, and the little work that has been done remains focused in such marginal (from the vantage of traditional classics departments) areas as Late Antique studies and early Christianity. When classicists speak of prisoners and prisons, we mean men and the ways men control men.

The objective of this article is to analyze the fundamental rights and guarantees guaranteed to women prisoners in the Brazilian prison system, highlighting the treatment that are applied to incarcerated women and highlighting the rights guaranteed to these inmates defined by gender. As well as bringing a brief comparison and criticism of the Brazilian female prison system in the face of the reality experienced daily by inmates, focusing on the gender division and the difficulties faced by this prison population that is almost invisible to the eyes of the Brazilian prison system and the criminal and procedural system. criminal prosecution of crimes. There is also a racial marking among this population, where the majority is black, generating the “mass incarceration of black women”, lacking state support and having social deficiencies, such as low education and lack of employment. Bringing a humanitarian reflection about the woman inside the prison and after it, emphasizing the biological and sanitary needs, since they are "prisoners" who menstruate, give birth and breastfeed.

Abstract After repressing the mutiny of West African ex-prisoners in Thiaroye near Dakar on 1 December 1944, the French military authorities concluded that the German treatment of these prisoners had made them prone to revolting. Allegedly, the Germans had planned to destabilize French colonialism by treating the prisoners well (despite the German army massacres of black French soldiers in June 1940) and by allowing black prisoners to enter into intimate relationships with white French women. The article critically analyzes the explanations of the French authorities for the revolt of Thiaroye, tracing the motivations of the ex-prisoners to the way they interpreted Free French policies after liberation in the context of their captivity experience. It argues that the relatively correct German treatment of the African POWs after the summer of 1940 and the contacts of prisoners with French civilians were circumstantial and not part of a deliberate German policy to incite revolts in the French colonies. Ultimately, the unruliness of African ex-prisoners resulted much less from German measures than from the disillusioning experience of the soldiers with the Vichy and Free French authorities during and after captivity, which formed a powerful contrast to the mostly friendly and respectful treatment of the Africans by the French civilian population.

AbstractIn just the last forty years, imprisonment has been transformed from an event experienced by only the most marginalized to a common stage in the life course of American men—especially Black men with low levels of educational attainment. Although much research considers the causes of the prison boom and how the massive uptick in imprisonment has shaped crime rates and the life course of the men who experience imprisonment, in recent years, researchers have gained a keen interest in the spillover effects of mass imprisonment on families, children, and neighborhoods. Unfortunately, although this new wave of research documents the generally harmful effects of having a family member or loved one incarcerated, it remains unclear how much the prison boom shapes social inequality through these spillover effects because we lack precise estimates of the racial inequality in connectedness—through friends, family, and neighbors—to prisoners. Using the 2006 General Social Survey, we fill this pressing research gap by providing national estimates of connectedness to prisoners—defined in this article as knowing someone who is currently imprisoned, having a family member who is currently imprisoned, having someone you trust who is currently imprisoned, or having someone you know from your neighborhood who is currently imprisoned—for Black and White men and women. Most provocatively, we show that 44% of Black women (and 32% of Black men) but only 12% of White women (and 6% of White men) have a family member imprisoned. This means that about one in four women in the United States currently has a family member in prison. Given these high rates of connectedness to prisoners and the vast racial inequality in them, it is likely that mass imprisonment has fundamentally reshaped inequality not only for the adult men for whom imprisonment has become common, but also for their friends and families.

The past two decades have witnessed an explosion in the population of women prisoners in Europe, North America and Australasia, accompanied by a boom in prison construction. This article argues that this new pattern of women's incarceration has been forged by three overlapping phenomena. The first is the fundamental shift in the role of the state that has occurred as a result of the neo-liberal globalization. The second and related phenomenon is the emergence and subsequent global expansion of what has been labeled a ‘prison industrial complex’ made up of a intricate web of relations between state penal institutions, politicians and profit-driven prison corporations. The third is the emergence of a US-led global war on drugs which is symbiotically related and mutually constituted by the transnational trade in criminalized drugs. These new regimes of accumulation and discipline, I argue, build on older systems of racist and patriarchal exploitation to ensure the super-exploitation of black women within the global prison industrial complex. The article calls for a new anti-racist feminist analysis that explores how the complex matrix of race, class, gender and nationality meshes with contemporary globalized geo-political and economic realities. The prison industrial complex plays a critical role in sustaining the viability of the new global economy and black women are increasingly becoming the raw material that fuels its expansion and profitability. The article seeks to reveal the profitable synergies between drug enforcement, the prison industry, international financial institutions, media and politicians that are sending women to prison in ever increasing numbers.

Objective: To describe the self-reported history of health service utilization and helpseeking to those who are drug-dependent in the period of time prior to imprisonment. Method: A cross-section survey of 3142 sentenced or remand prisoners in English prisons completed private, face-to-face interviews with trained Office for National Statistics staff covering a full structured psychiatric assessment interview. Specific questions about service utilization prior to imprisonment were included, as were questions on patterns of drug use and dependence prior to imprisonment. Results: Receipt of any form of help was demographically most strongly associated with being older, white and female. Women were about twice as likely as men to report having received help for mental or emotional problems. Older age was also consistently associated with greater levels of reporting having received help, for both genders but only for use of general practitioners. Being black was strongly associated with reduced likelihood of receiving help and this was maintained after adjusting for other sociodemographic variables. Opioid dependence alone or opioid dependence with stimulant dependence, psychiatric disorder alone and probable psychosis were all most predictive of service use in the 12 months prior to imprisonment. Conclusions: In the year prior to imprisonment, the majority of mental health needs of these individual prisoners were not able to access help prior to imprisonment. Future strategies should aim for better health access beofre, during and after imprisonment.

Neoliberal governance spurs the contradictory drives of securitization and austerity in the US carceral system. Correctional and parole offices cut costs by relocating care, relying upon the work of Black women, their families, and communities to provide myriad services to their incarcerated and paroled loved ones. Yet while their labor is vital to the reproduction and growth of this system, these same neoliberal processes work systematically to erase it. In doing so, they allow new kinds of unwarranted state surveillance through the private space of the home. In this article, I critically analyze the austerity measures implemented by Pennsylvania’s Department of Corrections, an institution that has undergone extensive reforms since 2012. To do so, I bridge feminist political and economic geographies, examining state processes via an analysis of unpaid reproductive labor, everyday practices, and emotion. Through a three-year ethnographic study with the loved ones of incarcerated people, I show how the state externalizes the cost of supervision onto prisoners’ support networks, relying in varied ways on families for the care and surveillance of prisoners. I show that this covert strategy enables the state to claim reductions in prison populations while, in fact, maintaining containment of formerly incarcerated people. These findings urge increased attention to the state’s dependence on incarcerated people’s support networks, demonstrating the vital insights a feminist geographic perspective offers in this age of austerity.

Abstract Mae Mallory (1927–2007) was a radical political activist and a self-proclaimed “maladjusted Negro.” She played a foundational role in developing and sustaining the black freedom movement through her school desegregation protests in the 1950s, Black Power advocacy in the 1960s, and Pan-African and prisoner’s rights organizing in the 1970s and 1980s. She also espoused a politics defined by her commitment to a black, community-centered, working-class, gender-conscious, and anti-imperialist worldview. Mallory’s multifaceted organizing, intellectual production, and women-centered approach to radical politics have made her an outlier in traditional historical frameworks. However, her alternative intellectual and activist path is also generative in that it illuminates different aspects of black women’s political activism. This article examines Mallory’s organizing and intellectual production through the lens of “maladjustment.” It argues that her unconventional identifications, politics, and organizing trajectory not only showcase Mallory’s unique influence on the black radical tradition, they also offer an opportunity to rethink existing approaches to the study of black women’s activism. The essay offers one of the first overviews of Mallory’s life, organizing, and theorizing, in order to foreground her role in shaping multiple facets of black organizing. In doing so, it offers a larger commentary on how “maladjusted” women like Mallory challenge conventional narratives about the periodization, strategies, and legacies of the black freedom movement.

Scholars have grown concerned around the increasing carceral logics embedded in social media practices. In this essay, we explore the process of getting “zucked” as a trend within digital platforms that disproportionately punishes minoritized digital users. Specifically, Black women report that with the advent of increased safety measures and policies to secure users on digital platforms, they become subject to harms of the institutional practices. By extending the conversation on carcerality beyond the confines of prisons, jails, and other forms of criminal justice supervision, we argue that structures and institutions expand the lines of surveillance and that those traditionally subject to such harm continue to be affected. Although the concept of getting “zucked” might seem like an innocent response to individuals who violate terms of service, Black women suggest that this practice disparately targets them for speaking about racist and sexist incidents on- and offline. Such surveillance is misogynoir in public spaces, as Black women are punished for organizing on social media.

This article aims to analyze The free negress Elisabeth: prisoner of color (2004), a historical novel from Suriname (country that is part of the Guiana region) written by Cynthia McLeod. The focus given to the research intends to problematize the way the place of speech acts in the construction of the fiction, highlighting historically silenced voices. In addition, the study of the place of speech of black women during the Dutch colonization in Suriname aims to contribute to the debate on racial and gender inequality that underlies colonial societies and remains to today. For the discussions, this research will be based on the reflections of Akotirene (2019), Morrison (2019) and hooks (2015), among others.

In the last quarter of the twentieth century, prison admission rates rose precipitously, racial disparities remained high, and the proportion of prisoners who are women increased dramatically. While several scholars argue that changes in sentencing policies are responsible, there have been few empirical examinations of this presumed connection. This study examines whether or not mandatory terms and sentencing enhancements are associated with increases in state level admission rates, whether these increases—if they exist—are larger among women than among men, whether and how these gender disparities vary by race, and whether the effect of these sentencing policies on either scale or disparities varies by offense type. The study has four major findings. First, mandatory terms and sentencing enhancements increase prison admission rates for violent, property, and drug crimes. Second, these policies disproportionately burden women. Third, the gender disparate impacts of these policies are most consistent among blacks. Finally, the effects of these policies are most consistently associated with increases in violent admissions, but associated with the most substantial increases in drug admissions. These findings corroborate the theoretical perspective offered and suggest that policies that require people to be “similarly situated” in order to be deserving of “equal treatment” are incapable of producing justice.

In the last five decades, the number of women behind bars in the United States has risen exponentially. It is now estimated that there are nearly 58,000 admissions of pregnant people—disproportionately women of color—to jails and prisons each year. Recognizing the urgency and consequences of mass incarceration on pregnant people, their families, and communities, House Resolution 948: Justice for Incarcerated Moms Act of 2021 was introduced to Congress as a part of the Black Maternal Health Momnibus. The Justice for Incarcerated Moms Act aims to improve health care and promote dignity for incarcerated pregnant and parenting people through an array of policies and oversight. In this article, we review and reflect on the components of this bill within their broader public health and reproductive justice contexts. We close with recommendations for policymakers and professionals committed to promoting equity and justice for pregnant and postpartum incarcerated people.

It took a global pandemic for me to recognize how my social work teaching was an act of feminist praxis. I have long identified as a feminist and regularly engage efforts to advance equity for women, primarily centered on the abolition of prisons which disproportionately incarcerate Indigenous and Black women in Canada. Surprisingly, I have never considered how my feminism shows up in my teaching. The following reflexive essay explores the ways in which the feminist principles of centring emotions, rejecting patriarchal hierarchy, and challenging white feminism were embedded into the development and delivery of a graduate level social work research course that was rapidly adapted to being taught online during a global public health crisis. It ends with a call to action for social work educators to incorporate feminist principles into their pedagogies, not only in times of crisis, but as standard practice.

Okazawa-Rey and Kirk argue that the term maximum security, used in the context of the prison system, is an oxymoron. Jails, prisons, and other ‘correctional’ facilities provide no real security for communities, guards and other prison officials, or inmates. Imprisoning two million people, building more prisons, identifying poor and working-class youth of colour as ‘gang members,’ and criminalizing poor Black and Latina women does not increase security. Rather, the idea of security must be redefined in sharp contrast to everyday notions of personal security that are based on the protection of material possessions by locks and physical force, as well as prevailing definitions of national and international security based on a militarization that includes the police, border patrols, and armed forces such as the Navy, Army, Marines, and Air Force. To achieve genuine security, we must address the major sources of insecurity: economic, social, and political inequalities among and within nations and communities. The continual objectification of ‘others’ is a central mechanism underlying systems of oppression—and insecurity—based on class, race, gender, nation, and other significant lines of difference.

Abstract The study assessed the viability of the published Oklahoma Aging Forgiveness Model on women in custody using cross-sectional data collected from females, violent and non-violent, in custody in Oklahoma. The theoretical model led to a hierarchical regression of a measure of positive mental health (Positive Evaluation of Life) on a block of control variables (age, education, and crime type), a block consisting of items from the Duke Religiosity measure, and a final block utilizing forgiveness of self, others, and situation (Heartland Forgiveness Scale). Results from the complete sample, N=447, explained 36% of the variance in the outcome. Significant individual predictors included in the final model were crime type, religiosity, and forgiveness of self and situations. We split the sample on crime type and found that for the violent offenders (N=228), 39% of the variance in the outcome was explained; in addition to religiosity, all three assessments of forgiveness were significant predictors. For the non-violent offenders (N=209), 35% of the outcome’s variability was explained. Religiosity, forgiveness of self and situation were significant predictors for this sub-sample. Discussion will focus on the Oklahoma Aging Forgiveness Model and how it works similarly for men in custody (published) and for women in custody. Further, the discussion will focus on the significant role played both by religiosity and forgiveness for those in custody. Findings from this study and that of studies with men clearly demonstrate that religiosity and forgiveness are important aspects of a prisoner’s life.

In the wake of the Civil War, southern states incarcerated record numbers of black men and women, closed their prisons, and sent convicted criminals to convict lease camps. Inside these camps, convict laborers worked for businesses, for individual entrepreneurs, on plantations, and on public works projects contracted to private businesses. Due to the Thirteenth Amendment’s “slaves of the state” clause, these laborers were legally classified as slaves and treated as such by labor camp operators. Conditions inside these camps were quite harsh, and in most camps, state-sanctioned Protestant socialization efforts were the laborers’ primary source of leisure. This essay provides a preliminary overview of the convergence of Protestant Christianity and convict lease camps as it calls scholars to explore this convergence in greater detail in future scholarship.

1 in every 25 children in the United States currently has a parent incarcerated in jail or prison. Black and Latinx children make up the majority of this population, as their parents are overrepresented in local jails and state and federal prisons. Parental incarceration affects a child’s behavior, emotional and mental health, social interaction, and financial stability. Daughters of incarcerated parents are particularly affected. This research investigates testimonios (testimonies), a narrative form of counter-storytelling, as a tool to address the traumatic effect of parental incarceration on female children of color. Testimonios give a person agency and allow them to share their unique and nuanced experiences in detail. In-depth interviews demonstrated that testimonios can be an effective healing tool for women who have been impacted by parental incarceration and can improve social service organizations directed towards families affected by incarceration. Testimonios provided space in which daughters of incarcerated parents were able to express their emotions and make sense of their experiences. The interviews also revealed shared themes in the experiences of multiple interviewees.

On September 19, 1922, Beulah M., a thirty-year-old cook, saved a “small child from a vicious cow on Angola.” This event occurred only a few months after her admission to the Louisiana State Penitentiary (LSP), where she was serving a life sentence for alleged murder. The infant was one of the many of the white prison staff's children raised on the penitentiary plantation nestled in a large meander of the Mississippi river. This happy-ending drama featuring a Black woman prisoner and a free white child arose from the “cohabitation” of free white households within the incarcerated population. The incident, quite unexpected in a carceral setting, prompted the penitentiary general manager to place Beulah M. on the “eligibility list” for parole and to grant her “full single good time for meritorious service,” which meant the possibility of an earlier release by a few months. Beulah's action might also have motivated authorities to assign her to be “servant” in the Camp D Captain's house in July 1923, and later to be a nurse in the nine-bedroom “Big House,” occupied by one of the penitentiary staff of higher rank. The peculiar nature of her alleged crime, the beating to death of her seven-year-old Black step-daughter, was apparently not perceived as a deterrent to entrust her to care for white children. Her courageous action toward a white child at Angola might even have been a compelling argument for her early pardon and discharge, which she received only after nine years at Angola, although her plea for a pardon had been rejected at least once before. Beulah M.'s story is the story of a coerced African American domestic laborer in white homes, rewarded for her perceived subservience to the Jim Crow order. It exemplifies one aspect of Black women's experiences of hard labor for the state of Louisiana during the first half of the twentieth century.

Abstract Psychological distress and developing mental disorders in prisons are globally recognized public health issues. This study aimed to identify the prevalence of these symptoms and associated factors in 99 women over 18 years of age in the provisional, closed, and semi-open regimes in Juiz de Fora-MG, Brazil. This cross-sectional census study collected data face-to-face through a semi-structured and multidimensional questionnaire. We assessed outcomes using the Patient Health Questionnaire-4 (PHQ-4). We built a theoretical determination model with three hierarchical blocks for the association analysis. We estimated crude prevalence ratios using the chi-square test and adjusted for each other within each block (p≤0.20). We adopted p≤0.05 for the final Poisson regression model with robust variance. The prevalence of anxiety and depressive symptoms was 75.8% (95%CI 66.1%-83.8%) and 65.7% (95%CI 55.4%-74.9%), respectively. In the final model, anxiety symptoms were associated with depressive symptoms. On the other hand, depressive symptoms were associated with the 20-29 years age group and anxiety symptoms. We identified a prevalence of the outcomes in more than half of the participants, emphasizing the inter-association between them.

Athena Athanasiou, Agonistic Mourning: Political Dissidence and the Women in Black, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2017, xii + 348 pp., £19.99 (paperback), ISBN 978-1-4744-2015-0.Maria Bucur and Mihaela Miroiu, Birth of Democratic Citizenship: Women and Power in Modern Romania, Bloomington: University of Indiana Press, 2018, 189 pp., $35.00 (рaperback), ISBN 978-0-25302-564-7.Katherina Dalakoura and Sidiroula Ziogou-Karastergiou, Hē ekpaideusē tôn gynaikôn, gynaikes stēn ekpaideusē: Koinônikoi, ideologikoi, ekpaideutikoi metaschēmatismoi kai gynaikeia paremvasē (18os–20os ai.) (Women’s education, women in education: Social, ideological, educational transformations, and women’s interventions [18th–20th centuries]), Athens: Greek Academic Electronic Manuals/Kallipos Repository, 2015, 346 pp., e-book: http://hdl.handle.net/11419/2585, ISBN: 978-960-603-290-5. Provided free of charge by the Association of Greek Academic Libraries.Melissa Feinberg, Curtain of Lies: The Battle over Truth in Stalinist Eastern Europe, New York: Oxford University Press, 2017, 232 pp., $74.00 (hardback), ISBN 978-0-19-064461-1.Christa Hämmerle, Oswald Überegger, and Birgitta Bader Zaar, eds., Gender and the First World War, Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014, 276 pp., £69.99 (paperback), ISBN 978-1-349-45379-5.Oksana Kis, Ukrayinky v Hulahu: Vyzhyty znachyt’ peremohty (Ukrainian women in the Gulag: Survival means victory), Lvіv: Institute of Ethnology, 2017, 288 pp., price not listed (paperback), ISBN: 978-966-02-8268-1.Ana Kolarić, Rod, modernost i emancipacij a: Uredničke politike u časopisima “Žena” (1911–1914) i “The Freewoman” (1911–1912) (Gender, modernity, and emancipation: Editorial politics in the journals “Žena” [The woman] [1911–1914] and “The Freewoman” [1911–1912]), Belgrade: Fabrika knjiga, 2017, 253 pp., €14 (paperback), ISBN 978-86-7718-168-0.Agnieszka Kościańska, Zobaczyć łosia: Historia polskiej edukacji seksualnej od pierwszej lekcji do internetu (To see a moose: The history of Polish sex education from the first lesson to the internet), Wołowiec: Czarne, 2017, 424 pp., PLN 44.90 (hardback), ISBN 978-83-8049-545-6.Irina Livezeanu and Árpád von Klimó, eds., The Routledge History of East Central Europe since 1700, New York: Routledge, 2017, 522 pp., GBP 175 (hardback), ISBN 978-0-415-58433-3.Zsófia Lóránd, The Feminist Challenge to the Socialist State in Yugoslavia, Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan 2018, 270 pp., €88.39 (hardback), €71.39 (e-book), ISBN 978-3-319-78222-5.Marina Matešić and Svetlana Slapšak, Rod i Balkan (Gender and the Balkans), Zagreb: Durieux, 2017, 333 pp., KN 168 (hardback), ISBN 978-953-188-425-9.Ana Miškovska Kajevska, Feminist Activism at War: Belgrade and Zagreb Feminists in the 1990s, London: Routledge, 2017, 186 pp., £105.00 (hardback), ISBN 978-1-138-69768-3.Ivana Pantelić, Uspon i pad “prve drugarice” Jugoslavij e: Jovanka broz i srpska javnost, 1952–2013 (The rise and fall of the “first lady comrade” of Yugoslavia: Jovanka Broz and Serbian public, 1952–2013), Belgrade: Službeni glasnik, 2018, 336 pp., RSD 880 (paperback), ISBN 978-86-519-2251-3.Fatbardha Mulleti Saraçi, Kalvari i grave në burgjet e komunizmit (The cavalry of women in communist prisons), Tirana: Instituti i Studimit të Krimeve dhe Pasojave të Komunizmit; Tiranë: Kristalina-KH, 2017, 594 pp., 12000 AL Lek (paperback), ISBN 978-9928-168-71-9.Žarka Svirčev, Avangardistkinje: Ogledi o srpskoj (ženskoj) avangardnoj književnosti (Women of the avant-garde: Essays on Serbian (female) avant-garde literature), Belgrade, Šabac: Institut za književnost i umetnost, Fondacij a “Stanislava Vinaver,” 2018, 306 pp., RSD 800 (paperback), ISBN 978-86-7095259-1.Şirin Tekeli, Feminizmi düşünmek (Thinking feminism), İstanbul: Bilgi University, 2017, 503 pp., including bibliography, appendices, and index, TRY 30 (paperback), ISBN: 978-605-399-473-2.Zafer Toprak, Türkiye’de yeni hayat: Inkılap ve travma 1908–1928 (New life in Turkey: Revolution and trauma 1908–1928), Istanbul: Doğan Kitap, 2017, 472 pp., TRY 40 (paperback), ISBN 978-605-09-4721-2.Wang Zheng, Finding Women in the State: A Socialist Feminist Revolution in the People’s Republic of China, 1949–1964, Berkeley: University of California Press, 2016, 380 pp., 31.45 USD (paperback), ISBN 978-0-520-29229-1.

Criminological discourses among people of African descent globally continue to suffer from a crisis of application of Western explanatory frameworks with gross implications on the development of African centered epistemologies and frameworks. One of the central arguments in this paper is that criminological discourses, specifically on class-specific, racialized-gendered identities of incarcerated women, are not free of the colonial matrices of power that underpin imperialism. What will emerge in this article is that incarcerated women’s identities should be reconstructed as women’s criminalization continues to be framed and presented in monolithic law and order ways. A focus on reconstruction is important to decolonize women’s imprisonment by imperialist white supremacist particularly focusing on how their pluralistic identities, which often collude and collide, shape their trajectories in unpredictable and criss-crossing ways to subject them to criminalization. An analysis of case studies presented in this paper will reveal how women’s experiences of womanhood are shaped by race, gender and class which produce different forms of subjectivities and embodied selves. Reimagining such identities from a lens of the coloniality of being therefore seeks to move away from single-strand criminological discourses which fail to capture the subtle social forms of oppression and resistance. The underlying question therefore is how can incarcerated women’s identities be reconstructed to challenge the hegemony of the western canon in criminology? The paper is organised into four sections. A case for re-imagining incarcerated women’s identities is made. The second theme, coloniality of being as a conceptual framework, is introduced as an overarching framework. Being one of the pillars of the decolonial epistemic perspective, the coloniality of being frames the black women’s lived experiences in institutional settings. The paper concludes by making a case for rethinking of dominant criminological discourses in order to shift the bio-graphy of knowledge in criminology in Africa. We recommend the abolition of the colonial and apartheid fetish of prisons for women and men in South Africa.

David Ayer’s (2016), a fantasy genre movie based on DC comics, won 89th academy award for best makeup and hair styling, and received attention for the creative makeup by production crew. The Villainess and Witch in the movie are depicted as independent characters who maximize their role as women with their charm, rather than figures that good-hearted leading character should stand against. The purpose of this study is to identify images of Villainess and Witch focusing on Harley Quinn and Enchantress in the movies and explore characteristics of the makeup and hair styling and their aesthetic qualities. It’s expected to see this study will understand importance in image making and makeup in playing characters and be helpful in coming up with design idea and providing basic data in future. Literature review with relevant articles and news reports and Internet information review with international news and YouTube were conducted. For case study, 57 pictures that captured scene of , especially close-up photos were chosen to analyze characteristics and aesthetics of the movie character makeup and hair styling. Harley Quinn, the Villainess showed various costume coordination in colors, jumper, dress, letter stockings, and accessories. Shapes and color variations were brought into her hair design. And her body makeup was airbrushed with some tattoos. She put on dramatic, colorful smoky makeup and tried nail arts in different colors, design and coordination. Enchantress, the Witch got tattoo and put on deep, impressive black smoky makeup with pink lips. And her body makeup, letter design makeup with ancient magic spells, and black color nails were used. Harley Quinn’s makeup and aesthetic quality expresses aesthetics of reality and playfulness. She’s well dressed up with proper coordination to show her social status as a doctor, but she put on natural makeup, wearing real prisoner’s uniform when she was imprisoned. Once she transformed into Joker, excessive hair rollers, tattoo makeup and nail arts showed playfulness in terms of design. On the other hand, Enchantress aims to express aesthetics of surrealistic and playfulness. She put on surreal body makeup with oriental patterns, tattoo, accessories, body makeup with coordination, special effect witch’s eyes. Plus, she styled with playful, over-sized hair accessories. When comparing two characters featured in the film in this study, it turned out Harley Quinn as Villainess has potential to show diversity. And the research findings indicate that makeup is important way in playing dual roles and the digital makeup with special effect has become prevalent.

EXPERIMENTING WITH HUMANS AND ANIMALS: From Aristotle to CRISPR, second edition by Anita Guerrini. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2022. viii + 208 pages. Paperback; $28.95. ISBN: 9781421444055. *There has been a haunting thought ever since I began to use live mammals for my research in neurophysiology: "Will my descendants accuse me of cruelty towards animals as much as we do to the scientists under the Nazis?" A number of neurophysiologists have been threatened and attacked to stop their research, and, as a consequence, there are few neurophysiologists left using rhesus monkeys along the West coastline of the US and Canada. Research with rats is increasingly of concern to some, and mice might be the next subject of attention. Research staff and students, who are required to remain on budget with their projects, are put under increasing pressure and stress in order to take better care of their laboratory animals without receiving compensation or support. In the meantime, almost nobody seems to care to know how many animals were sacrificed to develop the celebrated COVID-19 vaccines. Are we, biomedical researchers, ever going to have a resolution to this ethical tension around us? Are we going to be viewed by future historians as the heroes of science--or as abusers of living creatures? *Anita Guerrini's Experimenting with Humans and Animals: From Aristotle to CRISPR does not answer the question. As the author states in the beginning of her book, her objective is to tell the history of "trial and error, prejudice and leaps of faith, clashing egos and budget battles," to help us evaluate "the value, and the values, of Western science," and to "influence the future." In other words, the purpose of the book is not to make ethical arguments or to appraise a certain aspect of historical development, such as the progress of ethical care for human and animal subjects. It is, rather, to reveal the reality that ethical views and sentiments have changed, collided, merged, and contradicted each other across time and political landscapes. *This text poses questions, implicitly and explicitly, to enable us to address some of the issues and challenges we are facing at present. A first question arises from the history of vivisection (chap. 1). Vivisection refers to experimenting with (mostly dissecting) live animals, and sometimes even humans. This appears for the first time in recorded history back in ancient Greece, meaning it was practiced for two millennia without anesthesia, a discovery not made until the eighteenth century. More strikingly, vivisection was done as part of "edutainment" shows in ancient times. Criticism of the practice was not necessarily about the cruelty but rather about the usefulness of the knowledge obtained from dying or dead animals. The rights or well-being of animals were not much of an issue in the ancient age as human dominion was a firmly held belief. Such an ethical view continued to be dominant until early Modernity (seventeenth-century Europe) when human and animal bodies alike were viewed as machines, and animal experimentation began to be accepted as a cardinal method for biomedical sciences (chap. 2). At that time, ethical concerns on the use of animals did arise, but the concern lay rather in the human virtues of kindness and compassion rather than the rights of animals. *Eighteenth-century Europe slipped into a new stage of biomedical science after Queen Mary II of England died of smallpox, from which experimentation with humans becomes central (chap. 3). Inoculation, adopted from the Eastern world with initial suspicions, was slowly gaining credibility through parents who were unwilling to put their children at the risk of falling ill to smallpox. The validation of its effectiveness eventually came about upon testing with the socially marginalized, including prisoners, orphans, patients, and slaves. Yet criticisms around the "science" of inoculation were not made for using the marginalized as test subjects but rather for superseding God's authority to cause one to be ill or healed. While an increasing number of animal experiments were conducted routinely, and mathematical descriptions of the body became of greater interest to scientists, the emerging utilitarian ethics began to awaken Europeans, especially the British, to the suffering of animals. While elevated sensitivity to animal suffering led to "antivivisection" movements in England, experimental medicine and physiology were established as scientific fields. During this period nation-states also began to be involved in science. This was also the time when anesthesia was discovered, and pain perception became an important topic in physiology. Eventually, common beliefs about racial or sexual differences in pain perception were also tested, by experimenting with women and black slaves. *In the late nineteenth century, animal experimentation made a strong comeback as the germ theory of disease was solidly validated by scientists such as Pasteur, Koch, and Ehrlich (chap. 5). As scientists began to conquer many diseases such as anthrax, rabies, syphilis, and tuberculosis, the victory of science quenched the antivivisectionist movement. A number of animals, including rabbits, guinea pigs, dogs, and monkeys, were used to test theories, vaccines, and drugs during this period. At the same time, human experimentation begins to be regulated by states, but the regulation was so elementary that practices were allowed that would not be tolerated in our time. Concerns with animal experimentation reemerged in the twentieth century when polio research, strongly advocated by Franklin Roosevelt, a victim of polio himself, claimed a striking number of rhesus monkey lives (chap. 6). As an example, in the 1950s, the United States imported from India 200,000 rhesus monkeys per year for polio research. Despite the polio vaccine's success, primate research appalled the public, especially when behavioral research on primates revealed the emotional depth and social intelligence of these animals. Animals came to be seen no longer just as machines, but as our cousins who, like us, have consciousness. *The last chapter begins by depicting the Nuremberg War Crimes Tribunal of 1946, which led to the first written set of guidelines for human experimentation. Up until this time, there had been little consensus or regulation in using humans for experiments, let alone with the requirement that they must be mentally competent, uncoerced, and fully aware of possible consequences. It is hence not surprising that scientists under the Nazis defended themselves against charges of abuse and euthanasia of human subjects by paralleling their conduct with the practices of contemporary American scientists. American practice was exemplified by the Tuskegee Study of Untreated Syphilis in the Negro Male, conducted from the 1930s to the 1970s, in which the United States Public Health Service left four hundred black syphilis-infected males untreated, without telling them that their treatment had been stopped, in order to study the natural development of untreated syphilis. More than one hundred died as a result. Inconsistency in research ethics can also be found in the case of Japanese scientists, who, in contrast to Germans, were pardoned for their research conduct during World War II in return for providing information to the United States. Nonetheless, through the twentieth century until today, the level of public awareness and national regulations on the use of animal and human subjects has been progressively elevated. Yet, accelerated advances in research technology, including the latest breakthrough of gene editing, and expansion of research fields, continue to add complexity to ethical discourses. *I was impressed by Guerrini's vast knowledge of the historical development of biomedical science, including the events that matter to ethical issues around use of animal and human subjects in research. At the same time, she manages to make the book concise. While the book concerns the ethics of animal and human experimentation, it is certainly not an ethics or philosophy book but rather a story book. That is, while the book raises ethical questions in an unbiased manner, the chronological organization of this story does not conveniently lend itself to efforts to systematically examine or establish ethical principles on these matters. Nonetheless, a deeper understanding of the historical background to the different perspectives encountered in these stories enables one to make more-informed assessments of present-day perspectives. The book can be particularly helpful for those who do not have a biomedical background but wish to engage in contemporary ethical discourses, as well as for those who have rarely thought about the issues at all, often under the assumption that science has justly treated human or animal subjects. Finally, reading these accounts from ancient to contemporary times will certainly help one realize that what is the norm today was not necessarily the norm in the past, nor will it be in the future. Therefore, scientists like me need to humbly accept that we will someday be judged; I believe this knowledge will help us use our best conscience in the present. *Reviewed by Kuwook Cha, Postdoctoral researcher in Physiology, McGill University, Montreal, QC H3A 0G4.

Photo by niu niu on Unsplash ABSTRACT Shackling prisoners has been implemented as standard procedure when transporting prisoners in labor and during childbirth. This procedure ensures the protection of both the public and healthcare workers. However, the act of shackling pregnant prisoners violates the principles of ethics that physicians are supposed to uphold. This paper will explore how shackling pregnant prisoners violates the principle of justice and beneficence, making the practice unethical. INTRODUCTION Some states allow shackling of incarcerated pregnant women during transport and while in the hospital for labor and delivery. Currently, only 22 states have legislation prohibiting the shackling of pregnant women.[1] Although many states have anti-shackling laws prohibiting restraints, these laws also contain an “extraordinary circumstances” loophole.[2] Under this exception, officers shackle prisoners if they pose a flight risk, have any history of violence, and are a threat to themselves or others.[3] Determining as to whether a prisoner is shackled is left solely to the correctional officer.[4] Yet even state restrictions on shackling are often disregarded. In shackling pregnant prisoners during childbirth, officers and institutions are interfering with the ability of incarcerated women to have safe childbirth experiences and fair treatment. Moreover, physicians cannot exercise various ethical duties as the law constrains them. In this article, I will discuss the physical and mental harms that result from the use of restraints under the backdrop of slavery and discrimination against women of color particularly. I argue that stereotypes feed into the phenomenon of shackling pregnant women, especially pregnant women of color. I further assert that shackling makes it difficult for medical professionals to be beneficent and promote justice. BACKGROUND Female incarceration rates in the United States have been fast growing since the 1980s.[5] With a 498 percent increase in the female incarceration population between 1981 and 2021, the rates of pregnancy and childbirth by incarcerated people have also climbed.[6],[7] In 2021, over 1.2 million women were incarcerated in the United States.[8] An estimated 55,000 pregnant women are admitted to jails each year.[9],[10] Many remain incarcerated throughout pregnancy and are transported to a hospital for labor and delivery. Although the exact number of restrained pregnant inmates is unclear, a study found that 83 percent of hospital prenatal nurses reported that their incarcerated patients were shackled.[11] I. Harms Caused by Shackling Shackling has caused many instances of physical and psychological harm. In the period before childbirth, shackled pregnant women are at high risk for falling.[12] The restraints shift pregnant women’s center of gravity, and wrist restraints prevent them from breaking a fall, increasing the risk of falling on their stomach and harming the fetus.[13] Another aspect inhibited by using restraints is testing and treating pregnancy complications. Delays in identifying and treating conditions such as hypertension, pre-eclampsia, appendicitis, kidney infection, preterm labor, and especially vaginal bleeding can threaten the lives of the mother and the fetus.[14] During labor and delivery, shackling prevents methods of alleviating severe labor pains and giving birth.[15] Usually, physicians recommend that women in labor walk or assume various positions to relieve labor pains and accelerate labor.[16] However, shackling prevents both solutions.[17] Shackling these women limits their mobility during labor, which may compromise the health of both the mother and the fetus.[18] Tracy Edwards, a former prisoner who filed a lawsuit for unlawful use of restraints during her pregnancy, was in labor for twelve hours. She was unable to move or adjust her position to lessen the pain and discomfort of labor.[19] The shackles also left the skin on her ankles red and bruised. Continued use of restraints also increases the risk of potentially life-threatening health issues associated with childbirth, such as blood clots.[20] It is imperative that pregnant women get treated rapidly, especially with the unpredictability of labor. Epidural administration can also become difficult, and in some cases, be denied due to the shackled woman’s inability to assume the proper position.[21] Time-sensitive medical care, including C-sections, could be delayed if permission from an officer is required, risking major health complications for both the fetus and the mother.[22] After childbirth, shackling impedes the recovery process. Shackling can result in post-delivery complications such as deep vein thrombosis.[23] Walking prevents such complications but is not an option for mothers shackled to their hospital beds.[24] Restraints also prevent bonding with the baby post-delivery and the safe handling of the baby while breast feeding.[25] The use of restraints can also result in psychological harm. Many prisoners feel as though care workers treat them like “animals,” with some women having multiple restraints at once— including ankles, wrists, and even waist restraints.[26] Benidalys Rivera describes the feeling of embarrassment as she was walking while handcuffed, with nurses and patients looking on, “Being in shackles, that make you be in stress…I about to have this baby, and I’m going to go back to jail. So it’s too much.”[27] Depression among pregnant prisoners is highly prevalent. The stress of imprisonment and the anticipation of being separated from their child is often overwhelming for these mothers.[28] The inhumane action has the potential to add more stress, anxiety, and sadness to the already emotionally demanding process of giving birth. Shackling pregnant prisoners displays indifference to the medical needs of the prisoner.[29] II. Safety as a Pretense While public safety is an argument for using shackles, several factors make escape or violence extremely unlikely and even impossible.[30] For example, administering epidural anesthesia causes numbness and eliminates flight risk.[31] Although cited as the main reason for using shackles, public safety is likely just an excuse and not the main motivator for shackling prisoners. I argue that underlying the shackling exemplifies the idea that these women should not have become pregnant. The shackling reflects a distinct discrimination: the lawmakers allowing it perhaps thought that people guilty of crimes would make bad mothers. Public safety is just a pretense. The language used to justify the use of restraint of Shawanna Nelson, the plaintiff in Nelson v. Correctional Medical Services, discussed below, included the word “aggressive.”[32] In her case, there was no evidence that she posed any danger or was objectively aggressive. Officer Turnesky, who supervised Nelson, testified that she never felt threatened by Nelson.[33] The lack of documented attempts of escape and violence from pregnant prisoners suggests that shackling for flight risk is a false pretense and perhaps merely based on stereotypes.[34] In 2011, an Amnesty International report noted that “Around the USA, it is common for restraints to be used on sick and pregnant incarcerated women when they are transported to and kept in hospital, regardless of whether they have a history of violence (which only a minority have) and regardless of whether they have ever absconded or attempted to escape (which few women have).”[35] In a 2020 survey of correctional officers in select midwestern prisons, 76 percent disagreed or strongly disagreed with restraining pregnant women during labor and delivery.[36] If a correctional officer shackles a pregnant prisoner, it is not because they pose a risk but because of a perception that they do. This mindset is attributed to select law enforcement, who have authority to use restraints.[37] In 2022, the Tennessee legislature passed a bill prohibiting the use of restraints on pregnant inmates. However, legislators amended the bill due to the Tennessee Sherriff Association’s belief that even pregnant inmates could pose a “threat.”[38] Subjecting all prisoners to the same “precautions” because a small percentage of individuals may pose such risks could reflect stereotyping or the assumption that all incarcerated people pose danger and flight risk. To quell the (unjustified) public safety concern, there are other options that do not cause physical or mental harm to pregnant women. For example, San Francisco General Hospital does not use shackles but has deputy sheriffs outside the pregnant women’s doors.[39] III. Historical Context and Race A. Slavery and Post-Civil War The treatment of female prisoners has striking similarities to that of enslaved women. Originally, shackling of female slaves was a mechanism of control and dehumanization.[40] This enabled physical and sexual abuses. During the process of intentionally dehumanizing slaves to facilitate subordination, slave owners stripped slave women of their feminine identity.[41] Slave women were unable to exhibit the Victorian model of “good mothering” and people thought they lacked maternal feelings for their children.[42] In turn, societal perception defeminized slave women, and barred them from utilizing the protections of womanhood and motherhood. During the post-Civil War era, black women were reversely depicted as sexually promiscuous and were arrested for prostitution more often than white women.[43] In turn, society excluded black women; they were seen as lacking what the “acceptable and good” women had.[44] Some argue that the historical act of labeling black women sexually deviant influences today’s perception of black women and may lead to labeling them bad mothers.[45] Over two-thirds of incarcerated women are women of color.[46] Many reports document sexual violence and misconduct against prisoners over the years.[47] Male guards have raped, sexually assaulted, and inappropriately touched female prisoners. Some attribute the physical abuse of black female prisoners to their being depicted or stereotyped as “aggressive, deviant, and domineering.”[48] Some expect black women to express stoicism and if they do not, people label them as dangerous, irresponsible, and aggressive.[49] The treatment of these prisoners mirrors the historical oppression endured by black women during and following the era of slavery. The act of shackling incarcerated pregnant women extends the inhumane treatment of these women from the prison setting into the hospital. One prisoner stated that during her thirty-hour labor, while being shackled, she “felt like a farm animal.”[50] Another pregnant prisoner describes her treatment by a guard stating: “a female guard grabbed me by the hair and was making me get up. She was screaming: ‘B***h, get up.’ Then she said, ‘That is what happens when you are a f***ing junkie. You shouldn’t be using drugs, or you wouldn’t be in here.”[51] Shackling goes beyond punishing by isolation from society – it is an additional punishment that is not justified. B. Reproductive Rights and “Bad Mothers” As with slaves not being seen as maternal, prisoners are not viewed as “real mothers.” A female prison guard said the following: “I’m a mother of two and I know what that impulse, that instinct, that mothering instinct feels like. It just takes over, you would never put your kids in harm’s way. . . . Women in here lack that. Something in their nature is not right, you know?”[52] This comment implies that incarcerated women lack maternal instinct. They are not in line with the standards of what society accepts as a “woman” and “mother” and are thought to have abandoned their roles as caretakers in pursuit of deviant behaviors. Without consideration of racial discrimination, poverty issues, trauma, and restricted access to the child right after delivery, these women are stereotyped as bad mothers simply because they are in prison. Reminiscent of the treatment of female black bodies post-civil war and the use of reproductive interventions (for example, Norplant and forced sterilization) in exchange for shorter sentences, I argue that shackles are a form of reproductive control. Justification for the use of shackles even includes their use as a “punitive instrument to remind the prisoner of their punishment.”[53] However, a prisoner’s pregnancy should have no relevance to their sentence.[54] Using shackles demonstrates to prisoners that society tolerates childbirth but does not support it.[55] The shackling is evidence that women are being punished “for bearing children, not for breaking the law.”[56] Physicians and healthcare workers, as a result, are responsible for providing care for the delivery and rectifying any physical problems associated with the restraints. The issues that arise from the use of restraints place physicians in a position more complex than they experience with regular healthy pregnancies. C. Discrimination In the case of Ferguson v. City of Charleston, a medical university subjected black woman to involuntary drug testing during pregnancy. In doing so, medical professionals collaborated with law enforcement to penalize black women for their use of drugs during pregnancy.[57] The Court held the drug tests were an unreasonable search and violated the Fourth Amendment. Ferguson v. City of Charleston further reveals an unjustified assumption: the medical and legal community seemed suspicious of black women and had perhaps predetermined them more likely to use drugs while pregnant. Their fitness to become mothers needed to be proven, while wealthy, white women were presumed fit.[58] The correctional community similarly denies pregnant prisoners’ medical attention. In the case of Staten v. Lackawanna County, an African American woman whose serious medical needs were treated indifferently by jail staff was forced to give birth in her cell.[59] This woman was punished for being pregnant in prison through the withholding of medical attention and empathy. IV. Failure to Follow Anti-Shackling Laws Despite 22 states having laws against shackling pregnant prisoners, officers do not always follow these laws. In 2015, the Correctional Association of New York reported that of the 27 women who gave birth under state custody, officers shackled 23 women in violation of the anti-shackling laws.[60] The lawyer of Tracy Edwards, an inmate who officers shackled unlawfully during her twelve-hour labor stated, “I don’t think we can assume that just because there’s a law passed, that’s automatically going to trickle down to the prison.”[61] Even with more restrictions on shackling, it may still occur, partly due to the stereotype that incarcerated women are aggressive and dangerous. V. Constitutionality The Eighth Amendment protects people from cruel and unusual punishment. In Brown vs. Plata, the court stated, “Prisoners retain the essence of human dignity inherent in all persons.”[62] In several cases, the legal community has held shackling to be unconstitutional as it violates the Eighth Amendment unless specifically justified. In the case of Nelson v. Correctional Medical Services, a pregnant woman was shackled for 12 hours of labor with a brief respite while she pushed, then re-shackled. The shackling caused her physical and emotional pain, including intense cramping that could not be relieved due to positioning and her inability to get up to use a toilet.[63] The court held that a clear security concern must justify shackling. The court cited a similar DC case and various precedents for using the Eighth Amendment to hold correctional facilities and hospitals accountable.[64] An Arkansas law similarly states that shackling must be justified by safety or risk of escape.[65] If the Thirteenth Amendment applied to those convicted of crimes, shackling pregnant incarcerated people would be unconstitutional under that amendment as well as the Eighth. In the Civil Rights Cases, Congress upheld the right “to enact all necessary and proper laws for the obliteration and prevention of slavery with all its badges and incidents.”[66] Section two of the Thirteenth Amendment condemns any trace or acts comparable to that of slavery. Shackling pregnant prisoners, stripping them of their dignity, and justification based on stereotypes all have origins in the treatment of black female slaves. Viewed through the lens of the Thirteenth Amendment, the act of shackling would be unconstitutional. Nonetheless, the Thirteenth Amendment explicitly excludes people convicted of a crime. VI. Justice As a result of the unconstitutional nature of shackling, physicians should have a legal obligation, in addition to their ethical duty, to protect their patients. The principle of justice requires physicians to take a stand against the discriminatory treatment of their patients, even under the eye of law enforcement.[67],[68] However, “badge and gun intimidation,” threats of noncompliance, and the fear of losing one’s license can impede a physician’s willingness to advocate for their patients. The American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists (ACOG) finds the use of physical restraints interferes with the ability of clinicians to practice medicine safely.[69] ACOG, The American Medical Association, the National Commission on Correctional Health Care, and other organizations oppose using restraints on pregnant incarcerated people.[70] Yet, legislators can adopt shackling laws without consultation with physicians. The ACOG argues that “State legislators are taking it upon themselves to define complex medical concepts without reference to medical evidence. Some of the penalties [faced by OBGYNs] for violating these vague, unscientific laws include criminal sentences.”[71] Legislation that does not consider medical implications or discourages physicians’ input altogether is unjust. In nullifying the voice of a physician in matters pertaining to the patient’s treatment, physicians are prevented from fulfilling the principle of justice, making the act of shackling patients unethical. VII. Principle of Beneficence The principle of beneficence requires the prevention of harm, the removal of harm, and the promotion of good.[72] Beneficence demands the physician not only avoid harm but benefit patients and promote their welfare.[73] The American Board of Internal Medicine Foundation states that physicians must work with other professionals to increase patient safety and improve the quality of care.[74] In doing so, physicians can adequately treat patients with the goal of prevention and healing. It is difficult to do good when law enforcement imposes on doctors to work around shackles during labor and delivery. Law enforcement leaves physicians and healthcare workers responsible not only to provide care for the delivery, but also rectify any ailments associated with the restraints. The issues arising from using restraints place physicians in a position more complex than they experience with other pregnancies. Doctors cannot prevent the application of the shackles and can only request officers to take them off the patient.[75] Physicians who simply go along with shackling are arguably violating the principle of beneficence. However, for most, rather than violating the principle of beneficence overtly, physicians may simply have to compromise. Given the intricate nature of the situation, physicians are tasked with minimizing potential harm to the best of their abilities while adhering to legal obligations.[76] It is difficult to pin an ethics violation on the ones who do not like the shackles but are powerless to remove them. Some do argue that this inability causes physicians to violate the principle of beneficence.[77] However, promoting the well-being of their patients within the boundaries of the law limits their ability to exercise beneficence. For physicians to fulfill the principle of beneficence to the fullest capacity, they must have an influence on law. Protocols and assessments on flight risks made solely by the officers and law enforcement currently undermine the physician’s expertise. These decisions do not consider the health and well-being of the pregnant woman. As a result, law supersedes the influence of medicine and health care. CONCLUSION People expect physicians to uphold the four major principles of bioethics. However, their inability to override restraints compromises their ability to exercise beneficence. Although pledging to enforce these ethical principles, physicians have little opportunity to influence anti-shackling legislation. Instead of being included in conversations regarding medical complexities, legislation silences their voices. Policies must include the physician's voice as they affect their ability to treat patients. Officers should not dismiss a physician's request to remove shackles from a woman if they are causing health complications. A woman's labor should not harm her or her fetus because the officer will not remove her shackles.[78] A federal law could end shackling pregnant incarcerated people. Because other options are available to ensure the safety of the public and the prisoner, there is no ethical justification for shackling pregnant prisoners. An incarcerated person is a human being and must be treated with dignity and respect. To safeguard the well-being of incarcerated women and the public, it is essential for advocates of individual rights to join forces with medical professionals to establish an all-encompassing solution. - [1] Ferszt, G. G., Palmer, M., & McGrane, C. (2018). Where does your state stand on shackling of Pregnant Incarcerated Women? Nursing for Women’s Health, 22(1), 17–23. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.nwh.2017.12.005 [2] S983A, 2015-2016 Regular Sessions (N.Y. 2015). https://legislation.nysenate.gov/pdf/bills/2015/S983A [3] Chris DiNardo, Pregnancy in Confinement, Anti-Shackling Laws and the “Extraordinary Circumstances” Loophole, 25 Duke Journal of Gender Law & Policy 271-295 (2018) https://scholarship.law.duke.edu/djglp/vol25/iss2/5 [4] Chris DiNardo (2018) [5] U.S. Bureau of Justice Statistics. 1980. " Prisoners in 1980 – Statistical Tables”. Retrieved April 20, 2023 (https://bjs.ojp.gov/content/pub/pdf/p80.pdf). [6] U.S. Bureau of Justice Statistics. 2022. " Prisoners in 2021 – Statistical Tables”. Retrieved April 20, 2023 (https://bjs.ojp.gov/sites/g/files/xyckuh236/files/media/document/p21st.pdf). [7] U.S. Bureau of Justice Statistics (1980) [8] Sufrin C, Jones RK, Mosher WD, Beal L. Pregnancy Prevalence and Outcomes in U.S. Jails. Obstet Gynecol. 2020;135(5):1177-1183. doi:10.1097/AOG.0000000000003834 [9] Kramer, C., Thomas, K., Patil, A., Hayes, C. M., & Sufrin, C. B. (2022). Shackling and pregnancy care policies in US prisons and jails. Maternal and Child Health Journal, 27(1), 186–196. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10995-022-03526-y [10] House, K. T., Kelley, S., Sontag, D. N., & King, L. P. (2021). Ending restraint of incarcerated individuals giving birth. AMA Journal of Ethics, 23(4). https://doi.org/10.1001/amajethics.2021.364 [11] Goshin, L. S., Sissoko, D. R., Neumann, G., Sufrin, C., & Byrnes, L. (2019). Perinatal nurses’ experiences with and knowledge of the care of incarcerated women during pregnancy and the postpartum period. Journal of Obstetric, Gynecologic & Neonatal Nursing, 48(1), 27–36. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jogn.2018.11.002 [12] Shackling and separation: Motherhood in prison. (2013). AMA Journal of Ethics, 15(9), 779–785. https://doi.org/10.1001/virtualmentor.2013.15.9.pfor2-1309 [13] King, L. (2018). Labor in chains: The shackling of pregnant inmates. Policy Perspectives, 25, 55–68. https://doi.org/10.4079/pp.v25i0.18348 [14] King, L. (2018). [15] AMA Journal of Ethics (2013) [16] Lawrence, A., Lewis, L., Hofmeyr, G. J., & Styles, C. (2013). Maternal positions and mobility during first stage labour. Cochrane database of systematic reviews, (8). [17] Association of Women’s Health, Obstetric and Neonatal Nurses. (2011). AWHONN position statement: Shackling incarcerated pregnant women. Journal of Obstetric, Gynecologic, & Neonatal Nursing, 40(6), 817–818. doi:10.1111/j.1552-6909.2011.01300.x [18] Ferszt, G. G., Palmer, M., & McGrane, C. (2018). Where does your state stand on shackling of Pregnant Incarcerated Women? Nursing for Women’s Health, 22(1), 17–23. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.nwh.2017.12.005 [19] Thompson, E. (2022, August 30). Woman sues NC state prison system for mistreatment while pregnant. North Carolina Health News. Retrieved March 12, 2023, from https://www.northcarolinahealthnews.org/2022/05/25/woman-sues-nc-state-prison-system-for-mistreatment-while-pregnant/ [20] CBS Interactive. (2019, March 13). Shackling pregnant inmates is still a practice in many states. CBS News. Retrieved March 12, 2023, from https://www.cbsnews.com/news/shackling-pregnant-inmates-is-still-a-practice-in-many-states/ [21] Griggs, Claire Louise. "Birthing Barbarism: The Unconstitutionality of Shackling Pregnant Prisoners." American University Journal of Gender Social Policy and Law 20, no. 1 (2011): 247-271. [22] American Civil Liberties Union. (2012, October 12). ACLU briefing paper: The shackling of pregnant women & girls in U.S ... American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU). https://www.aclu.org/wp-content/uploads/legal-documents/anti-shackling_briefing_paper_stand_alone.pdf [23] King.L (2018) [24] Griggs, Claire Louise (2011) [25] American Civil Liberties Union. (2012) [26] Clarke, J. G., & Simon, R. E. (2013). 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Correctional, 533 F.3d 958 (8th Cir. 2009) [33] Nelson v. Correctional(2009) [34] House, K. T., Kelley, S., Sontag, D. N., & King, L. P. (2021). Ending restraint of incarcerated individuals giving birth. AMA Journal of Ethics, 23(4). https://doi.org/10.1001/amajethics.2021.364 [35] Amnesty International USA. (1999, March). “Not part of my sentence” Violations of the Human Rights of Women in Custody. Amnesty International USA. Retrieved March 12, 2023, from https://www.amnestyusa.org/reports/usa-not-part-of-my-sentence-violations-of-the-human-rights-of-women-in-custody/ [36] Pendleton, V., Saunders, J. B., & Shlafer, R. (2020). Corrections officers' knowledge and perspectives of maternal and child health policies and programs for pregnant women in prison. Health & justice, 8(1), 1. https://doi.org/10.1186/s40352-019-0102-0 [37] Elizabeth Alexander, Unshackling Shawanna: The Battle Over Chaining Women Prisoners during Labor and Delivery, 32 U. ARK. LITTLE ROCK L. REV. 435 (2010). 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Excluded from good motherhood and the impact of prison: Motherhood and Social Exclusion, 129–144. https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctvk12qxr.13 [45] Ocen, Priscilla A., Punishing Pregnancy: Race, Incarceration, and the Shackling of Pregnant Prisoners (October 3, 2011). California Law Review, Vol. 100, 2012, Available at SSRN: https://ssrn.com/abstract=1937872 [46] Johnson, P. C. (2004). Inner lives: Voices of african american women in prison. New York University Press. [47] Thomas, D. Q. (1996). All too familiar: Sexual abuse of women in U.S. state prisons. Human Rights Watch. [48] Ocen, Priscilla A., (2011). [49] Ashley W. The angry black woman: the impact of pejorative stereotypes on psychotherapy with black women. Soc Work Public Health. 2014;29(1):27-34. doi: 10.1080/19371918.2011.619449. PMID: 24188294. [50] CBS Interactive. (2019, March 13). Shackling pregnant inmates is still a practice in many states. CBS News. 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Upon being elected, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau (2015) mandated the Minister of Justice and Attorney General of Canada Jody Wilson Raybould to review criminal justice laws, policies and practices enacted during the 2006-2015 period where successive Conservative federal governments were in power. Recognizing that the knowledge produced by prisoners, particularly when brought together with academic arguments, can serve to enlighten public discourse about the current state of carceral institutions, the Journal of Prisoners on Prisons undertook a Canada-wide consultation with federal prisoners with regard to what changes have occurred in the institutions where they have served time in the last decade. This paper, which summarizes that consultation, begins with an overview of the Conservative punishment agenda, followed with a thematic review of how these changes have affected prisoners and what they would like to see moving forward in the context of the governments promised review of the Canadian criminal justice system. Representing the captive from every region of the country at all security levels and privileging the voices of Women, Black, Indigenous, LGBTQ, and Elderly prisoners, the ten most prevalent areas of concern and reform that emerged include: sentencing, mental health, health care, food, prisoner pay, old age security, education and vocational training, case management and staff culture, parole and conditional release conditions, and pardons.

Abstract This research paper lies at the intersection of criminal justice, human rights, public health, and women, gender, and sexuality studies. Written for the 2021 Barnard major track History of the Present, this paper details the contemporary history of American mass incarceration as well as exposes the blatant human rights injustices and health concerns of the experience of carceral menstruation. As women's incarceration, and Black women's incarceration in particular, has increased more than any other demographic in recent years, menstruation behind bars has become a pertinent and absolutely necessary experience to discuss and improve. Abhorrent policies in jails and prisons have forced upon prisoners with periods highly unsanitary and unjust menstruation experiences, an example of the prison industrial complex's blatant and inhumane disregard for bodily autonomy.

Abstract According to the Ministry of Justice and Public Security, Brazil is fourth in the world position in relation to the absolute size of female prison population, with 42.000 women deprived of freedom (2016), behind the United States, China and Russia. Around 50% are young (< 29 years old), 62% are black and 66% have not yet attended high school. This study aimed to characterize the profile of women incarcerated in a penitentiary in the interior of Brazil, through the survey of sociodemographic data, education, health, legal and life expectations. This is a descriptive and exploratory study conducted with 68 women (20 to 67 years old) in 2019 and 2020. Most women declared themselves black or brown (56%), incomplete elementary school (42%), have work experience (73%). Around 69% reported needing health treatment and 76% have already used psychoactive substances including alcohol, cigarettes, marijuana, cocaine or crack. The main reasons that led to the arrest were drug trafficking (54%) and theft (26%) and the majority (53%) are repeat offenders in prison system. Regarding the biggest dream of life, the main answers were related to family life (44%), having a job (26%) and access to education (20%). With these results, an extension project was proposed to offer a professional qualification in vegetable gardens, aromatic and medicinal plants for women prisoners. In addition to professional qualification, the project is dedicated to promoting debates on map of life, ethics, human relations, citizenship, gender, women's rights and health, quality of life, body and verbal expression, digital inclusion, food and nutrition security, entrepreneurship, cooperativism, solidary economy, rights and duties of the worker, aiming at better employment conditions. This research contributed to articulate actions between university and society, empower women through access to education and allowed the work team to develop competencies related to collaborative work and interdisciplinarity. Key messages This study aimed to characterize the profile of women incarcerated in a penitentiary in Brazil, through the survey of sociodemographic data, education, health, legal and life expectations. This research contributed to articulate actions between university-society, empower incarcerated women through access to education and allowed the work team collaborative and interdisciplinarity work.

Sultan Salah al-Din (d.1192 CE) was a model of gallantry for many Muslim and non-Muslim historians and scholars alike. He was kind to Crusader women and humane to captured high-ranking prisoners. His attitude towards Christians was substantially distinct from the Crusaders’ attitude towards Muslims, and his treatment of Christians and non-Muslims in Islamicjerusalem was marked by tolerance, respect, and generosity. Nonetheless, according to some Muslim and non-Muslim historians, Salah al-Din’s relations with Egyptian Christians began awkwardly and then deteriorated further. For example, Coptic historian Sawirus Ibn al-Muqaffa‘ stated that churches in Egypt were severely damaged, particularly after Salah al-Din became wazir in 1169 CE, and at the start of his Ayyubid sultanate. He also stated that on Salah al-Din’s orders, all wooden crosses atop basilica domes and churches in Egypt were removed, and churches with white exteriors were painted black. Furthermore, bell ringing was prohibited throughout the country, and Christians were not permitted to pray in public...etc. Surprisingly, Salah al-Din’s hostility towards Christians did not continue for long; after about five years (1174 CE), Salah al-Din showed tolerance towards Egyptian Christians. He generously gave to them and other non-Muslims in the surrounding area, and granted them certain privileges. This paper seeks to critically examine Salah al-Din’s attitude towards Egyptian Christians and why that attitude changed later. It will attempt to answer the following questions: Why did Salah al-Din impose such severe restrictions on Egyptian Christians? and whether his treatment of Egypt’s Christians was related to the Crusaders' occupation of Islamicjerusalem?

From being a concept questioning the core of psychiatric knowledge and practice, recovery has been adopted as a guiding vison for mental health policy and practice by different local, national, and international organizations. The aim of this article is to contextualize the different understandings of recovery and its psychiatrization through the emergence of an individualizing and de-contextualized definition which have gained a dominant position. It ends with an attempt to formulate a new definition of recovery which integrates people in their social context. Research results from various follow-up studies showing the possibility of recovery from severe mental distress have stressed the importance of societal, social and relational factors as well of the person's own agency when facing their distress and reactions from their environment. These researches were published in the 1970s and 80s; a period of struggle for liberation from colonialism, of struggle by women and black people for their civil rights, and a time of de-institutionalization of services directed toward the poor, elderly, handicapped, prisoners, and people with mental health problems. Recovery research pointed at the central role of individuals in their recovery journey and it was understood as a personal process in a social context. However, with neo-liberal political agenda, the personal role of individuals and their own responsibility for their well-being was stressed, and contextual understandings and the role of social, material and cultural changes to promote recovery faded away. Thus, during recent decades recovery has been mostly defined as an individualistic journey of changing the persons and their perception of their situation, but not of changing this situation. Contextual aspects are almost absent. The most quoted definition accepts the limits posed by an illness-based model. This kind of definition might be a reason for the wide acceptance of a phenomenon that was initially experienced as a break with the bio-medical paradigm. Recently, this dominant individualized understanding of recovery has been criticized by service users, clinicians and researchers, making possible a redefinition of recovery as a social process in material and cultural contexts.

This article explores how Black women experienced and theorized disability from within Alabama’s prisons in the early twentieth century. Early-twentieth-century custodial prisons were a primary place in which disabled, southern Black women encountered the state. Some women entered prison disabled and many left with disabilities they had not had before. Indeed, disability was a condition of incarceration: a function of its punitive labor demands and the violence used to enforce disciplinary measures. Black women intimately understood and resisted this multifaceted violence and attempted to negotiate with the state for their release. Their handwritten letters, an archive that was unintentionally preserved by the state, demonstrate that incarcerated Black women’s articulation of uselessness was a profound critique of racial, carceral capitalism. Through close reading of recursive strategies, this article examines incarcerated Black women’s textual invocations of unproductivity as a disruption of the binary of metaphor and materiality in racial studies of disability.

In the United States, Black men and women who are incarcerated bear a disproportionate and inequitable burden of HIV infection. While HIV knowledge does not consistently predict HIV risk behaviors, HIV knowledge can inform one’s perceptions of their risk for HIV. We examined gender differences in HIV knowledge and perceived risk of contracting HIV ( N = 424) among Black men and women who were incarcerated and nearing community reentry from seven prisons in Kentucky. Our results demonstrated that women reported greater levels of HIV knowledge and perceived greater risk for contracting HIV than their male counterparts. Implications for HIV prevention interventions are discussed.

Abstract Background and Objectives The incarcerated population is growing older and by the year 2030, more than one-third of people incarcerated in the United States will be over the age of fifty-five. This population shift will have a profound impact on correctional healthcare systems as older incarcerated people often have multiple chronic illnesses and correctional institutions were not designed with aging and disability in mind. Black women experience greater burdens of comorbid conditions and are disproportionately represented among incarcerated women. Research Design and Methods We utilized Black Feminist Epistemological Methodology to explore the intersection of aging, chronic illness, and mass incarceration via in-depth interviews with thirteen formerly incarcerated older Black women. Results First, participants described needing to prove themselves to be trustworthy prior to becoming ill in order to be believed and granted access to care when they report symptoms. Next, participants report being treated, not as patients, but as “inmates.” The punitive nature of prison healthcare disrupted the patient-provider relationship and complicated the ability of patients to maintain autonomy in healthcare interactions. Finally, we describe how carceral health extends beyond the walls of both the clinic and the institution. Discussion and Implications For older Black women, medical care and decision-making inside prisons occur with a punitive context which presents unique barriers when seeking care. Their experiences of health and illness while incarcerated may continue to influence if and how they seek care as they age in the community and thus must be interrogated when discussing aging in the Black community.

Probably the most (in)famous Australian teenager of recent times, now-17-year-old Kim Duthie—better known as the “St Kilda Schoolgirl”—first came to public attention when she posted naked pictures of two prominent St Kilda Australian Football League (AFL) players on Facebook. She claimed to be seeking revenge on the players’ teammate for getting her pregnant. This turned out to be a lie. Duthie also claimed that 47-year-old football manager Ricky Nixon gave her drugs and had sex with her. She then said this was a lie, then that she lied about lying. That she lied at least twice is clear, and in doing so, she arguably reinforced the pervasive myth that women are prone to lie about rape and sexual abuse. Precisely what occurred, and why Duthie posted the naked photographs will probably never be known. However, it seems clear that Duthie felt herself wronged. Can she therefore be held entirely to blame for the way she went about seeking redress from a group of men with infinitely more power than she—socially, financially and (in terms of the priority given to elite football in Australian society) culturally? The many judgements passed on Duthie’s behaviour in the media highlight the crucial, seldom-discussed issue of how problematic behaviour on the part of women might reinforce patriarchal norms. This is a particularly sensitive issue in the context of a spate of alleged sexual assaults committed by elite Australian footballers over the past decade. Given that representations of alleged rape cases in the media and elsewhere so often position women as blameworthy for their own mistreatment and abuse, the question of whether or not women can and should be held accountable in certain situations is particularly fraught. By exploring media representations of one of these complex scenarios, we consider how the issue of “complicity” might be understood in a rape culture. In doing so, we employ Auschwitz survivor Primo Levi’s highly influential concept of the “grey zone,” which signifies a complex and ambiguous realm that challenges both judgement and representation. Primo Levi’s “Grey Zone,” Patriarchy and the Problem of Judgement In his essay titled “The Grey Zone” (published in 1986), Levi is chiefly concerned with Jewish prisoners in the Nazi-controlled camps and ghettos who obtained “privileged” positions in order to prolong their survival. Reflecting on the inherently complex power relations in such extreme settings, Levi positions the “grey zone” as a metaphor for moral ambiguity: a realm with “ill-defined outlines which both separate and join the two camps of masters and servants. [The ‘grey zone’] possesses an incredibly complicated internal structure, and contains within itself enough to confuse our need to judge” (27). According to Levi, an examination of the scenarios and experiences that gave rise to the “grey zone” requires a rejection of the black-and-white binary opposition(s) of “friend” and “enemy,” “good” and “evil.” While Levi unequivocally holds the perpetrators of the Holocaust responsible for their actions, he warns that one should suspend judgement of victims who were entrapped in situations of moral ambiguity and “compromise.” However, recent scholarship on the representation of “privileged” Jews in Levi’s writings and elsewhere has identified a “paradox of judgement”: namely, that even if moral judgements of victims in extreme situations should be suspended, such judgements are inherent in the act of representation, and are therefore inevitable (see Brown). While the historical specificity of Levi’s reflections must be kept in mind, the corruptive influences of power at the core of the “grey zone”—along with the associated problems of judgement and representation—are clearly far more prevalent in human nature and experience than the Holocaust alone. Levi’s “grey zone” has been appropriated by scholars in the fields of Holocaust studies (Petropoulos and Roth xv-xviii), philosophy (Todorov 262), law (Luban 161–76), history (Cole 248–49), theology (Roth 53–54), and popular culture (Cheyette 226–38). Significantly, Claudia Card (The Atrocity Paradigm, “Groping through Gray Zones” 3–26) has recently applied Levi’s concept to the field of feminist philosophy. Indeed, Levi’s questioning of whether or not one can—or should—pass judgement on the behaviour of Holocaust victims has considerable relevance to the divisive issue of how women’s involvement in/with patriarchy is represented in the media. Expanding or intentionally departing from Levi’s ideas, many recent interpretations of the “grey zone” often misunderstand the historical specificity of Levi’s reflections. For instance, while applying Levi’s concept to the effects of patriarchy and domestic violence on women, Lynne Arnault makes the problematic statement that “in order to establish the cruelty and seriousness of male violence against women as women, feminists must demonstrate that the experiences of victims of incest, rape, and battering are comparable to those of war veterans, prisoners of war, political prisoners, and concentration camp inmates” (183, n.9). It is important to stress here that it is not our intention to make direct parallels between the Holocaust and patriarchy, or between “privileged” Jews and women (potentially) implicated in a rape culture, but to explore the complexity of power relations in society, what behaviour eventuates from these, and—most crucial to our discussion here—how such behaviour is handled in the mass media. Aware of the problem of making controversial (and unnecessary) comparisons, Card (“Women, Evil, and Gray Zones” 515) rightly stresses that her aim is “not to compare suffering or even degrees of evil but to note patterns in the moral complexity of choices and judgments of responsibility.” Card uses the notion of the “Stockholm Syndrome,” citing numerous examples of women identifying with their torturers after having been abused or held hostage over a prolonged period of time—most (in)famously, Patricia Hearst. While the medical establishment has responded to cases of women “suffering” from “Stockholm Syndrome” by absolving them from any moral responsibility, Card writes that “we may have a morally gray area in some cases, where there is real danger of becoming complicit in evildoing and where the captive’s responsibility is better described as problematic than as nonexistent” (“Women, Evil, and Gray Zones” 511). Like Levi, Card emphasises that issues of individual agency and moral responsibility are far from clear-cut. At the same time, a full awareness of the oppressive environment—in the context that this paper is concerned with, a patriarchal social system—must be accounted for. Importantly, the examples Card uses differ significantly from the issue of whether or not some women can be considered “complicit” in a rape culture; nevertheless, similar obstacles to understanding problematic situations exist here, too. In the context of a rape culture, can women become, to use Card’s phrase, “instruments of oppression”? And if so, how is their controversial behaviour to be understood and represented? Crucially, Levi’s reflections on the “grey zone” were primarily motivated by his concern that most historical and filmic representations “trivialised” the complexity of victim experiences by passing simplistic judgements. Likewise, the representation of sexual assault cases in the Australian mass media has often left much to be desired. Representing Sexual Assault: Australian Football and the Media A growing literature has critiqued the sexual culture of elite football in Australia—one in which women are reportedly treated with disdain, positioned as objects to be used and discarded. At least 20 distinct cases, involving more than 55 players and staff, have been reported in the media, with the majority of these incidents involving multiple players. Reports indicate that such group sexual encounters are commonplace for footballers, and the women who participate in sexual practices are commonly judged, even in the sports scholarship, as “groupies” and “sluts” who are therefore responsible for anything that happens to them, including rape (Waterhouse-Watson, “Playing Defence” 114–15; “(Un)reasonable Doubt”). When the issue of footballers and sexual assault was first debated in the Australian media in 2004, football insiders from both Australian rules and rugby league told the media of a culture of group sex and sexual behaviour that is degrading to women, even when consensual (Barry; Khadem and Nancarrow 4; Smith 1; Weidler 4). The sexual “culture” is marked by a discourse of abuse and objectification, in which women are cast as “meat” or a “bun.” Group sex is also increasingly referred to as “chop up,” which codes the practice itself as an act of violence. It has been argued elsewhere that footballers treating women as sexual objects is effectively condoned through the mass media (Waterhouse-Watson, “All Women Are Sluts” passim). The “Code of Silence” episode of ABC television program Four Corners, which reignited the debate in 2009, was even more explicit in portraying footballers’ sexual practices as abusive, presenting rape testimony from three women, including “Clare,” who remains traumatised following a “group sex” incident with rugby league players in 2002. Clare testifies that she went to a hotel room with prominent National Rugby League (NRL) players Matthew Johns and Brett Firman. She says that she had sex with Johns and Firman, although the experience was unpleasant and they treated her “like a piece of meat.” Subsequently, a dozen players and staff members from the team then entered the room, uninvited, some through the bathroom window, expecting sex with Clare. Neither Johns nor Firman has denied that this was the case. Clare went to the police five days later, saying that professional rugby players had raped her, although no charges were ever laid. The program further includes psychiatrists’ reports, and statements from the police officer in charge of the case, detailing the severe trauma that Clare suffered as a result of what the footballers called “sex.” If, as “Code of Silence” suggests, footballers’ practices of group sex are abusive, whether the woman consents or not, then it follows that such a “gang-bang culture” may in turn foster a rape culture, in which rape is more likely than in other contexts. And yet, many women insist that they enjoy group sex with footballers (Barry; Drill 86), complicating issues of consent and the degradation of women. Feminist rape scholarship documents the repetitive way in which complainants are deemed to have “invited” or “caused” the rape through their behaviour towards the accused or the way they were dressed: defence lawyers, judges (Larcombe 100; Lees 85; Young 442–65) and even talk show hosts, ostensibly aiming to expose the problem of rape (Alcoff and Gray 261–64), employ these tactics to undermine a victim’s credibility and excuse the accused perpetrator. Nevertheless, although no woman can be in any way held responsible for any man committing sexual assault, or other abuse, it must be acknowledged that women who become in some way implicated in a rape culture also assist in maintaining that culture, highlighting a “grey zone” of moral ambiguity. How, then, should these women, who in some cases even actively promote behaviour that is intrinsic to this culture, be perceived and represented? Charmyne Palavi, who appeared on “Code of Silence,” is a prime example of such a “grey zone” figure. While she stated that she was raped by a prominent footballer, Palavi also described her continuing practice of setting up footballers and women for casual sex through her Facebook page, and pursuing such encounters herself. This raises several problems of judgement and representation, and the issue of women’s sexual freedom. On the one hand, Palavi (and all other women) should be entitled to engage in any consensual (legal) sexual behaviour that they choose. But on the other, when footballers’ frequent casual sex is part of a culture of sexual abuse, there is a danger of them becoming complicit in, to use Card’s term, “evildoing.” Further, when telling her story on “Code of Silence,” Palavi hints that there is an element of increased risk in these situations. When describing her sexual encounters with footballers, which she states are “on her terms,” she begins, “It’s consensual for a start. I’m not drunk or on drugs and it’s in, [it] has an element of class to it. Do you know what I mean?” (emphasis added). If it is necessary to define sex “on her terms” as consensual, this implies that sometimes casual “sex” with footballers is not consensual, or that there is an increased likelihood of rape. She also claims to have heard about several incidents in which footballers she knows sexually abused and denigrated, if not actually raped, other women. Such an awareness of what may happen clearly does not make Palavi a perpetrator of abuse, but neither can her actions (such as “setting up” women with footballers using Facebook) be considered entirely separate. While one may argue, following Levi’s reflections, that judgement of a “grey zone” figure such as Palavi should be suspended, it is significant that Four Corners’s representation of Palavi makes implicit and simplistic moral judgements. The introduction to Palavi follows the story of “Caroline,” who states that first-grade rugby player Dane Tilse broke into her university dormitory room and sexually assaulted her while she slept. Caroline indicates that Tilse left when he “picked up that [she] was really stressed.” Following this story, the program’s reporter and narrator Sarah Ferguson introduces Palavi with, “If some young footballers mistakenly think all women want to have sex with them, Charmyne Palavi is one who doesn’t necessarily discourage the idea.” As has been argued elsewhere (Waterhouse-Watson, “Framing the Victim”), this implies that Palavi is partly responsible for players holding this mistaken view. By implication, she therefore encouraged Tilse to assume that Caroline would want to have sex with him. Footage is then shown of Palavi and her friends “applying the finishing touches”—bronzing their legs—before going to meet footballers at a local hotel. The lighting is dim and the hand-held camerawork rough. These techniques portray the women as artificial and “cheap,” techniques that are also employed in a remarkably similar fashion in the documentary Footy Chicks (Barry), which follows three women who seek out sex with footballers. In response to Ferguson’s question, “What’s the appeal of those boys though?” Palavi repeats several times that she likes footballers mainly because of their bodies. This, along with the program’s focus on the women as instigators of sex, positions Palavi as something of a predator (she was widely referred to as a “cougar” following the program). In judging her “promiscuity” as immoral, the program implies she is partly responsible for her own rape, as well as acts of what can be termed, at the very least, sexual abuse of other women. The problematic representation of Palavi raises the complex question of how her “grey zone” behaviour should be depicted without passing trivialising judgements. This issue is particularly fraught when Four Corners follows the representation of Palavi’s “nightlife” with her accounts of footballers’ acts of sexual assault and abuse, including testimony that a well-known player raped Palavi herself. While Ferguson does not explicitly question the veracity of Palavi’s claim of rape, her portrayal is nevertheless largely unsympathetic, and the way the segment is edited appears to imply that she is blameworthy. Ferguson recounts that Palavi “says she was able to put [being raped] out of her mind, and it certainly didn’t stop her pursuing other football players.” This might be interpreted a positive statement about Palavi’s ability to move on from a rape; however, the tone of Ferguson’s authoritative voiceover is disapproving, which instead implies negative judgement. As the program makes clear, Palavi continues to organise sexual encounters between women and players, despite her knowledge of the “dangers,” both to herself and other women. Palavi’s awareness of the prevalence of incidents of sexual assault or abuse makes her position a problematic one. Yet her controversial role within the sexual culture of elite Australian football is complicated even further by the fact that she herself is disempowered (and her own allegation of being raped delegitimised) by the simplistic ideas about “assault” and “consent” that dominate social discourse. Despite this ambiguity, Four Corners constructs Palavi as more of a perpetrator of abuse than a victim—not even a victim who is “morally compromised.” Although we argue that careful consideration must be given to the issue of whether moral judgements should be applied to “grey zone” figures like Palavi, the “solution” is far from simple. No language (or image) is neutral or value-free, and judgements are inevitable in any act of representation. In his essay on the “grey zone,” Levi raises the crucial point that the many (mis)understandings of figures of moral ambiguity and “compromise” partly arise from the fact that the testimony and perspectives of these figures themselves is often the last to be heard—if at all (50). Nevertheless, an article Palavi published in Sydney tabloid The Daily Telegraph (19) demonstrates that such testimony can also be problematic and only complicate matters further. Palavi’s account begins: If you believed Four Corners, I’m supposed to be the NRL’s biggest groupie, a wannabe WAG who dresses up, heads out to clubs and hunts down players to have sex with… what annoys me about these tags and the way I was portrayed on that show is the idea I prey on them like some of the starstruck women I’ve seen out there. (emphasis added) Palavi clearly rejects the way Four Corners constructed her as a predator; however, rather than rejecting this stereotype outright, she reinscribes it, projecting it onto other “starstruck” women. Throughout her article, Palavi reiterates (other) women’s allegedly predatory behaviour, continually portraying the footballers as passive and the women as active. For example, she claims that players “like being contacted by girls,” whereas “the girls use the information the players put on their [social media profiles] to track them down.” Palavi’s narrative confirms this construction of men as victims of women’s predatory actions, lamenting the sacking of Johns following “Code of Silence” as “disgusting.” In the context of alleged sexual assault, the “predatory woman” stereotype is used in place of the raped woman in order to imply that sexual assault did not occur; hence Palavi’s problematic discourse arguably reinforces sexist attitudes. But can Palavi be considered complicit in validating this damaging stereotype? Can she be blamed for working within patriarchal systems of representation, of which she has also been a victim? The preceding analysis shows judgement to be inherent in the act of representation. The paucity of language is particularly acute when dealing with such extreme situations. Indeed, the language used to explore this issue in the present article cannot escape terminology that is loaded with meaning(s), which quotation marks can perhaps only qualify so far. Conclusion This paper does not claim to provide definitive answers to such complex dilemmas, but rather to highlight problems in addressing the sensitive issues of ambiguity and “complicity” in women’s interactions with patriarchal systems, and how these are represented in the mass media. Like the controversial behaviour of teenager Kim Duthie described earlier, Palavi’s position throws the problems of judgement and representation into disarray. There is no simple solution to these problems, though we do propose that these “grey zone” figures be represented in a self-reflexive, nuanced manner by explicitly articulating questions of responsibility rather than making simplistic judgements that implicitly lessen perpetrators’ culpability. Levi’s concept of the “grey zone” helps elucidate the fraught issue of women’s potential complicity in a rape culture, a subject that challenges both understanding and representation. Despite participating in a culture that promotes the abuse, denigration, and humiliation of women, the roles of women like Palavi cannot in any way be conflated with the roles of the perpetrators of sexual assault. These and other “grey zones” need to be constantly rethought and renegotiated in order to develop a fuller understanding of human behaviour. References Alcoff, Linda Martin, and Laura Gray. “Survivor Discourse: Transgression or Recuperation.” Signs 18.2 (1993): 260–90. Arnault, Lynne S. “Cruelty, Horror, and the Will to Redemption.” Hypatia 18.2 (2003): 155–88. Barry, Rebecca. Footy Chicks. Dir. Rebecca Barry. Australia: SBS Television, off-air recording, 2006. Benedict, Jeff. Public Heroes, Private Felons: Athletes and Crimes against Women. Boston: Northeastern UP, 1997. Benedict, Jeff. Athletes and Acquaintance Rape. Thousand Oaks: SAGE Publications, 1998. Brison, Susan J. Aftermath: Violence and the Remaking of a Self. Princeton: Princeton UP, 2002. Brown, Adam. “Beyond ‘Good’ and ‘Evil’: Breaking Down Binary Oppositions in Holocaust Representations of ‘Privileged’ Jews.” History Compass 8.5 (2010): 407–18. ———. “Confronting ‘Choiceless Choices’ in Holocaust Videotestimonies: Judgement, ‘Privileged’ Jews, and the Role of the Interviewer.” Continuum: Journal of Media and Communication Studies, Special Issue: Interrogating Trauma: Arts & Media Responses to Collective Suffering 24.1 (2010): 79–90. ———. “Marginalising the Marginal in Holocaust Films: Fictional Representations of Jewish Policemen.” Limina: A Journal of Historical and Cultural Studies 15 (2009). 14 Oct. 2011 ‹http://www.limina.arts.uwa.edu.au/previous/vol11to15/vol15/ibpcommended?f=252874›. ———. “‘Privileged’ Jews, Holocaust Representation and the ‘Limits’ of Judgement: The Case of Raul Hilberg.” Ed. Evan Smith. Europe’s Expansions and Contractions: Proceedings of the XVIIth Biennial Conference of the Australasian Association of European Historians (Adelaide, July 2009). Unley: Australian Humanities Press, 2010: 63–86. ———. “The Trauma of ‘Choiceless Choices’: The Paradox of Judgement in Primo Levi’s ‘Grey Zone.’” Trauma, Historicity, Philosophy. Ed. Matthew Sharpe. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars, 2007: 121–40. ———. “Traumatic Memory and Holocaust Testimony: Passing Judgement in Representations of Chaim Rumkowski.” Colloquy: Text, Theory, Critique, 15 (2008): 128–44. Card, Claudia. The Atrocity Paradigm: A Theory of Evil. New York: Oxford UP, 2002. ———. “Groping through Gray Zones.” On Feminist Ethics and Politics. Ed. Claudia Card. Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1999: 3–26. ———. “Women, Evil, and Gray Zones.” Metaphilosophy 31.5 (2000): 509–28. Cheyette, Bryan. “The Uncertain Certainty of Schindler’s List.” Spielberg’s Holocaust: Critical Perspectives on Schindler’s List. Ed. Yosefa Loshitzky. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1997: 226–38. “Code of Silence.” Four Corners. Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC). Australia, 2009. Cole, Tim. Holocaust City: The Making of a Jewish Ghetto. New York: Routledge, 2003. Drill, Stephen. “Footy Groupie: I Am Not Ashamed.” Sunday Herald Sun, 24 May 2009: 86. Gavey, Nicola. Just Sex? The Cultural Scaffolding of Rape. East Sussex: Routledge, 2005. Khadem, Nassim, and Kate Nancarrow. “Doing It for the Sake of Your Mates.” Sunday Age, 21 Mar. 2004: 4. Larcombe, Wendy. Compelling Engagements: Feminism, Rape Law and Romance Fiction. Sydney: Federation Press, 2005. Lees, Sue. Ruling Passions. Buckingham: Open UP, 1997. Levi, Primo. The Drowned and the Saved. Translated by Raymond Rosenthal. London: Michael Joseph, 1986. Luban, David. “A Man Lost in the Gray Zone.” Law and History Review 19.1 (2001): 161–76. Masters, Roy. Bad Boys: AFL, Rugby League, Rugby Union and Soccer. Sydney: Random House Australia, 2006. Palavi, Charmyne. “True Confessions of a Rugby League Groupie.” Daily Telegraph 19 May 2009: 19. Petropoulos, Jonathan, and John K. Roth, eds. Gray Zones: Ambiguity and Compromise in the Holocaust and Its Aftermath. New York: Berghahn, 2005. Roth, John K. “In Response to Hannah Holtschneider.” Fire in the Ashes: God, Evil, and the Holocaust. Eds. David Patterson and John K. Roth. Seattle: U of Washington P, 2005: 50–54. Smith, Wayne. “Gang-Bang Culture Part of Game.” The Australian 6 Mar. 2004: 1. Todorov, Tzvetan. Facing the Extreme: Moral Life in the Concentration Camps. Translated by Arthur Denner and Abigail Pollack. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1991. Waterhouse-Watson, Deb. “All Women Are Sluts: Australian Rules Football and Representations of the Feminine.” Australian Feminist Law Journal 27 (2007): 155–62. ———. “Framing the Victim: Sexual Assault and Australian Footballers on Television.” Australian Feminist Studies (2011, in press). ———. “Playing Defence in a Sexual Assault ‘Trial by Media’: The Male Footballer’s Imaginary Body.” Australian Feminist Law Journal 30 (2009): 109–29. ———. “(Un)reasonable Doubt: Narrative Immunity for Footballers against Allegations of Sexual Assault.” M/C Journal 14.1 (2011). Weidler, Danny. “Players Reveal Their Side of the Story.” Sun Herald 29 Feb. 2004: 4. Young, Alison. “The Waste Land of the Law, the Wordless Song of the Rape Victim.” Melbourne University Law Review 2 (1998): 442–65.

Abstract Background Brazil has the third largest prison population in the world. In 2016, the female prison population totaled 42,000, an increase of 656% over the population recorded in the early 2000s. The objective of this study was to describe the socialeconomic and reproductive health of women in Brazilian prisons, and the specific assistance received within the prison system. Methods This is a first of its kind national survey conducted in 15 female prisons in eight Brazilian states between 2014 and 2015. The sample consisted of 1327 women in closed or semi-open prison regimes. Data collection used Audio Computer-Assisted Self-Interviewing (ACASI). STATA v.15. Was use in analysis. The study was submitted to the Research Ethics Committee of the Federal University of Ceará, under CEP protocol No. 1,024,053. Results The population was overwhelmingly Black or Brown, poor and little educated. When women worked previously, they had worked as domestic servants and were the sole source of income for their families. Most were mothers, with 39% having children less than 10 years old, now in the care of others. Most were in jail for drug-related crimes. Prisons were crowded, with more than 2/3rds of the inmates sharing a cell with 6 or more inmates. Services were provide, but women had not had a cervical cancer screening within the past 3 years and breast cancer screening was not conducted. Conclusions Overall, given their backround and prison conditions they are unlikely to change the circumstances that brought them to prison in the first place.

Women's rates of imprisonment and incarceration in jails grew faster than men's rates during the prison boom in the United States. Even during the recent period of modest decline in incarceration, women's rates have decreased less than men's rates. The number of women in prisons and jails in the United States is now at a historic high. Yet research on mass incarceration most often ignores women's imprisonment and confinement in jails. This review examines trends in women's incarceration, highlighting important disparities for Black, Latina, and American Indian/Indigenous women. It contextualizes these trends in terms of the economic and social disadvantages of women prior to incarceration as well as inequalities that are created by women's incarceration for families, communities, and women themselves. The review concludes by calling for improved data on women's imprisonment and jail trends, particularly regarding race and ethnicity, as well as more research and theoretical development. Expected final online publication date for the Annual Review of Criminology, Volume 6 is January 2023. Please see http://www.annualreviews.org/page/journal/pubdates for revised estimates.

AbstractWhat does it mean that hospitals in Haiti have become widespread sites of “kidnapping” for mothers and babies? In at least 46 countries, including Haiti, indebted patients are extralegally held prisoner in hospitals until family members, kin, outside groups, or charities pay their outstanding bills. The majority of those detained globally are women following complicated births. This article introduces and situates the global problem of “hospital detention” as it is practiced in Haiti, tying it to transnational architectures that target Black reproduction in global health. In this piece, Senisha and Mari share their experiences of detention, revealing the practice as continuous with other forms of coercion, neglect, and violence they face in seeking safe births, and highlighting the communal care, refusals, and acts of self‐liberation that oppose these oppressions.

In Canada, all federally incarcerated individuals are required to complete a number of actuarial risk assessments upon entering prison which influence the security level in which they are housed, opportunities to participate in rehabilitative services while incarcerated, and prospects for parole. While proponents of actuarial risk assessments—which make algorithmic decisions based on objective inputs—argue that such tools can reduce the influence of racial and gender bias in carceral decision making, others argue that they may perpetuate or exacerbate racial and gender inequality. The extent to which racial and gender disparities exist in the outcomes of the actuarial risk assessments used in federal Canadian prisons is largely unknown. Using newly available data, we characterize racial and gender disparities in the outcomes of actuarial risk assessments used in Canadian prisons and their relationship to outcomes. We find significant racial differences in risk assessment scores that leave Black and Indigenous Canadians worse off than their white counterparts, important differences for all racial groups in the treatment of women, and evidence suggestive of racial bias in parole and housing decisions.

<p>O artigo tem como objetivo discutir os atravessamentos do constructo racial no Brasil e sua configuração em espaços intramuros, reconhecendo a prisão como um dos lócus que permanece pouco permeável ao processo de construção da identidade negra vivenciado nas últimas décadas no país. Discute-se os elementos formadores do racismo moderno, levando em conta as especificidades do contexto brasileiro frente à experiência fundante do sequestro e da escravização africana no período colonial e seus prolongamentos, através dos conceitos branqueamento, contrato racial e dispositivo da racialidade, como categorias de inteligibilidade do racismo contemporâneo e suas reinvenções em sociedades que vivenciaram a escravidão moderna. Tais categorias são analisadas a partir dos relatos sobre relações inter-raciais elaborados por uma mulher cisgênero e um homem transgênero, reclusas (os) numa prisão em São Paulo, e revelam como as opressões vividas de modo interseccional, pelas presas racializadas, lhes impõem dificuldades adicionais ao processo de reconhecimento da identidade negra.</p><p> </p><p>Looking for the “Redemption of Cam”: Raciality and Intersectionality in a Women’s Prison</p><p>This article discusses the overlap between racial constructs in Brazil and their configuration in intramural environments, recognizing the prison as a relatively impermeable locus in the process of Black identity construction in Brazil during recent decades. The paper discusses the formative elements of modern racism, taking into account specificities of the Brazilian context in the face of foundational experiences of African kidnapping and enslavement in the colonial period and their legacies, the concepts of whitening, racial contract and raciality device, as intelligibility categories of contemporary racism and its reinventions in societies that have experienced modern slavery. These categories are analyzed based on the reports on interracial relations elaborated by a cisgender woman and a transgender man, inmates in a female penitentiary in São Paulo, and show how the oppression experienced in an intersectional way, by racialized prisoners, imposes additional difficulties on them in their process of recognizing a Black identity.</p><p>Interracial relations | Intersectionality | Whitening ideology | Gender | Prison</p>

Embroidery: A Subversive History Embroidery has a long history as a woman’s craft. Traditionally, the gendered history of embroidery as domestic, practical (utilitarian), and relational has placed it firmly in the category of craft, resulting in its exclusion from the male-dominated arena of art in public space (Emery; Durham; Jefferies). This traditional view of embroidery, and textile work in general, has been thoroughly challenged over the last 60 years. The second-wave feminist movement of the 1960s and 1970s brought women’s textile work, and its private, domestic, relational subjects and lives, into the public arena: into art galleries and public spaces, challenging traditional notions of what constitutes art, and highlighting the subversive act of women making (Emery; Jefferies; Parker). Women have been using “fancy work”, as embroidery was called, as overt acts of defiance, rebellion, social justice, care for self and others, and as a collective means of making sense of the world and changing it for good, for generations (Davidson; Minahan and Cox; Emery; Sawden and Etaati; Robertson and Vinebaum; Hackney; Vyas). The suffragettes famously used embroidery in their banners and sashes in their fight for the woman’s right to vote (Helland). In the 1970s, collectives such as the Sydney-based Women’s Domestic Needlework Group brought the work of everyday ordinary women into a public collection and exhibition of art (Emery). The exhibition highlighted the value of women making things together as a normal part of their everyday lives, and it positioned their domestic textile work as material artifacts of knowledge and significance worthy of observation, recognition, and analysis in public space. More recently, there has been a resurgence of young women engaging in textile crafts online signaling a “new energy” with radical potential (Hackney 170; Robertson and Vinebaum; Jefferies; Minahan and Cox). These women are socially engaged and tech-savvy, gathering online and in-person to use craft to explore and critique their everyday lives and experiences (Minahan and Cox; Hackney). Women are using the Internet to make space to gather, to create, to develop language, knowledge, and to generate change. From forums and threads to networked digital media (see Meikle and Young) such as Facebook and Instagram (see Leaver et al.), the material gallery is now online: a public space for collective voice and representation in progress. The international embroidery community on Instagram create art in dialogue with, and in reference to, each other. The art being created is collaborative as it was in the 1970s, relational, intimate and intentional, subversive, and confronting. It falls in a category known as “craftivism” (Greer; Corbett; Jefferies; Emery; Hackney). Stitchers of Instagram reflect what Fiona Hackney refers to as a new “super-connected (informed, skilled, reflexive) amateur” (170) who engages in “the quiet activism of everyday making” (169). In this article, I focus on my experience participating in the embroidery community on Instagram. Uniquely situated at a time of deep global and personal anxiety, I explore my experience of using embroidery as a form of self-care, to process multiple lockdowns with small children and the death of my father. Embroidery gave me a purpose, it enveloped me in community, it offered me a sense of value and worth, and it connected me with a group of people experiencing the same thing at the same time. I spent two years embroidering and one year sharing my embroidery on Instagram using the account @auburnevening. This article comprises an autoethnographic process (see Ellis; Hollman Jones; Hughes and Pennington) in which I reflect on my experience of embroidering and analyse twelve months of being on Instagram, consisting of 300 posts, thousands of comments and interactions, and many deep and long-lasting relationships developed through private messages. I explore the role of making and online community in self-care, as a collective way to engage with, and respond to, personal and global lived experience. Embroidery as Therapy The history of embroidery as therapeutic is broad-ranging and well-documented. In the sixteenth century, Mary Queen of Scots famously used embroidery to pass her time in captivity. Mary was held captive from 1569 to 1585, and during this time she embroidered a series of “veiled symbols” demonstrating “the resistant pride of a woman with few other ways to assert control over her existence” (V&A Museum). In more recent history, embroidery was used as a therapeutic application to treat British, Australian, and New Zealand soldiers suffering from shell-shock (Davidson). Returning WWI soldiers who experienced combat trauma were encouraged to take up “fancy work” (embroidery) “as a form of therapy and source of income” (Davidson 390). There are also “accounts of prisoners of war using needlework to cope with the hardships of captivity”, demonstrating that “creative activity of this type can be used to deal with extreme adversity” (391). Like these returned soldiers, I found that embroidery “affords the opportunity to focus attention away from personal ailments and fears, and through the finished product, to confer a sense of worth or even income” (391). In addition to the welcome opportunity to focus on the achievement of making a tangible product, like others I found embroidery to be soothing and peaceful. Nurit Wolk and Michal Bat Or explore the therapeutic aspects of embroidery for adolescent girls in post-hospitalisation boarding schools in Israel between 2020-2022. Among the five themes that they identified, they found that embroidery “inspires a sense of uniqueness and unconventionality … and provides a source of relaxation and tranquility” (14), acting as a “calming”, “soothing”, or “grounding” activity while processing trauma (Wolk and Bat Or). Similarly, Kari Sawden explores Saeedeh Niktab Etaati’s use of embroidery to process and ritualise personal grief during COVID-19 as an Iranian-Canadian (Sawden and Etaati). In their reflexive ethnography Sawden and Etaati explore embroidery as an opportunity to “meditate upon and emotionally grapple with experiences of grief and to make such reflections tangible in a way that allows for their release and the reclamation of personal peace” (2). Like Etaati, my experience of embroidery was profound as it allowed me to reclaim internal peace at a time of personal anguish. I began embroidering at a time when I had seemingly no control over my circumstances, with multiple lockdowns and lengthy periods of COVID restrictions, or over my feelings of intense grief over the death of my father, resulting in acute anxiety attacks that would last multiple days. During this period, embroidery allowed me to switch off in the quiet moments when my grief would visit me and my anxious thoughts were loudest. The creative focus that embroidery requires silenced my thoughts and feelings. While some, like Etaati, use embroidery to explore their feelings, I used embroidery as a respite from my feelings. Embroidery allowed me to focus on the process of making, and to momentarily attribute my worth to my ability to create something beautiful. In my very first post on Instagram, I write auburnevening A new venture to share my evening creations. As a mother of two small children, there is nothing like the long awaited bliss of the evening. After a day full of chaos and noise, I crave the quiet, still evenings, when I pick up my embroidery hoop. There’s nothing like the process of making something beautiful with your hands. I love the way time stands still as I lose myself in the task, the rhythm, the creating. I love the way my brain goes quiet and I forget about all the demands and difficulties of the day. It’s my time. #auburnevening #eveningcreation #embroidery #embroideryart #embroiderydesign #embroiderylove #embroideryhoop #eveningescape #metime #make #create The focus of my work at the time was simply creating beautiful work, and I have never followed a pattern. All my designs are free-form. While some celebrate the role of the pattern, valuing it for its structure (Wolk and Bat Or), and its connection to a collective (such as Etaati’s contribution to the Redwork Embroidery Project; Sawden and Etaati), the fact that I was not bound to a pattern and free to create whatever I wanted in the moment was critical. It gave me a sense of control over my design, and it gave me a sense of freedom, both of which I was lacking in my personal life (with multiple lockdowns, anxiety attacks, and the existential crisis following the death of my father). Not surprisingly, my designs centred on finding beauty in the everyday mundane, something women are skilled at, and something much of the world was thrust into during COVID. My designs, like home, breathe, slow down, and be still, were a direct response to world events – lockdown, personal and collective lack of control, and anxiety. I was performing and embodying a “smell the roses” attitude, which while seemingly superficial when taken on its own was a desperate act of survival during a time of deep personal and social unrest. Fig. 1: My embroideries shared on Instagram as @auburnevening. I experienced a significant increase in positive affect as a direct result of creating something tangible and beautiful. Embroidery gave me a daily focus and purpose, a routine of switching off and creating, which I looked forward to each day. The positive impact of embroidery was lasting, continuing throughout my two-year period of embroidering, which is consistent with studies exploring the ongoing effect of creative pursuits. In their study exploring 658 young adults, Conner, DeYoung, and Silvia found that daily creative activity leads to increased positive affect (feelings of happiness) and flourishing, a state of well-being described as “a state of optimal functioning accompanied by feelings of meaning, engagement, and purpose in life” (Conner et al.; Ryan and Deci). While most studies of this nature explore how mood affects creativity, Conner et al. focus on how creativity affects mood. They suggest that creative pursuits are “intrinsically motivating”, ultimately increasing feelings of happiness and well-being that importantly carry over into the “next-day”, which they call “next-day well-being” and “next-day flourishing”. A significant component of my flourishing was the collective, collaborative, communal experience of creating. Crafting Community and Creative Activism One of the most important aspects of my experience of embroidery was sharing my work on Instagram, and as a result forming connections with others and participating in a community. There are a growing number of women participating in embroidery on Instagram, which reflects the proliferation and resurgence of traditional textile crafts among young women (Minahan and Cox; Robertson and Vinebaum; Jefferies; Hackney). Through posting my embroideries on Instagram I connected with women, both here in Australia, and all over the world. One of my deepest connections was with Mary, a young woman living in Russia, who in addition to processing the experience of COVID was now facing life under sanctions due to the Russian war with Ukraine, and was experiencing a growing sense of despair. Although our contexts and circumstances are completely different – even our experience of the seasons is opposite – we both connected over our shared use of embroidery as a welcome escape from the difficulties we faced in life. Our friendship began with likes and comments but quickly expanded and developed through Instagram’s direct message function. Through embroidery, through our sharing of making online, we not only exchanged information about the craft, but also intimate information about our lives. #embroidery offers women like myself and Mary an opportunity to process, share, and respond to everyday life, and to connect with others doing the same. I shared intimate information about my experience, my feelings, my grief, and my anxiety with the embroidery community on Instagram. Sharing in this way fosters deep connection with others. In the embroidery community on Instagram I found a group of women who were socially conscious, deeply empathetic, brave in their bold and public statements, and deeply affirming of each other. I connected with women over various life experiences, but mostly over the experience of being a woman. I learned about the socio-political issues facing different communities through making. I participated in affirming narratives and experiences and I received enormous affirmation of my work, and in turn myself. At a time when we could not gather or connect in person, we gathered and connected online daily, and supported each other through our personal and collective grief. In one of my posts I write, “I just love the creative space and community on Instagram. You’re all so amazing and it’s a joy every time I get to connect and interact with any of you! I feel so welcomed and encouraged here – thank you ❤️”. In the same post I write that embroidery and the community “really helped me get through 2021 which was one of the darkest years of my life (anyone else? ✋)”. As I experienced, #embroidery continues the long history of women making as a relational act of care towards others (Robertson and Vinebaum; Emery; Vyas). Not only do women use embroidery to create social space and foster social bonds, they also use it to advocate for social change (Robertson and Vinebaum). Women are using textiles like embroidery in spaces like Instagram “to spur interpersonal dialog and exchange, and to educate, build community, and advocate for social change” (3). Minahan and Cox call this a “unique cyber-feminist phenomenon, one of women expressing their own thoughts and reflecting their own circumstances and environment” (Minahan and Cox 10; Florida). The embroidery community on Instagram brings together ordinary young women – amateur hobbyists, who are self-taught – who embody Luckman’s cyber-feminist description as “women-with-attitude” who are “modern, hip, sassy, postfeminist” (36), technology-literate (Minahan and Cox), informed, historically savvy, and reflexive (Hackney 171). Fiona Hackney calls these women the “new amateur”. These women come together in public, “transforming public spaces into shared, dynamic, communal social space” (Robertson and Vinebaum 5) in which “alternative values and ways of living can be imagined and shared, and practical examples for change defined and materialized” (Hackney 187). I argue elsewhere that women have gathered online to create space, share information, and find community for decades, in genres such as blogging (see Morrison) and vlogging (see Kennedy Becoming). Embroidery on Instagram is an example of this, a congregation of women who make as part of their everyday existence. Making is relational and collaborative, and fosters a collective narrative about life, about COVID, about embroidery techniques and process, about motherhood and domesticity and balancing domestic responsibilities with professional pursuits (embroidery is now included in this as a viable small-business and source of income for some). It also fosters a collective, collaborative response to current social issues, like climate change, diversity and inclusion, movements such as Black Lives Matter, events like Pride Month, and current political debates like abortion rights. All of this continues the long history of embroidery as a subversive act. Today’s “fancy work” on Instagram features beautifully embellished and bedazzled swearwords, breasts, and vulvas, for example, messages that continue to promote female empowerment and advocate for all human rights. Embroidery on Instagram is therefore an extension of craft that is “firmly placed in the language of empowerment and liberation” (Jefferies 28). This collective, participatory act of #embroidery can be understood as a type of “craftivism”, “slow activism”, or “quiet activism” (Greer; Williams; Jefferies; Hackney). Betsy Greer defines craftivism as “a way of looking at life where voicing opinions through creativity makes your voice stronger, your compassion deeper and your quest for justice more infinite” (in Jefferies 25). K.A. Williams defines craftivism as “a social activism that explicitly links individual creativity with human based mechanisms of production to broader sociopolitical cultural contexts in an attempt to influence the social world” (305). Craft offers a way of knowing the world (Hardy 176), and for the new amateur, Fiona Hackney suggests, “craft is power” (170). Women on Instagram engage in the “quiet activism of everyday making” (169), which Sarah Corbett suggests is a form of slow activism, “a reflexive action which changes the participant as much as it does the world” (in Jefferies 27). One way in which #stitchersofinstagram continue the subversive act of embroidery is by selling their work on Etsy, through which they experience individual and collective affirmation and continue to challenge traditional notions of craft vs. art. Selling on Etsy An important part of the experience of sharing embroidery on Instagram is the progression that many stitchers make from making to selling their work. It wasn't long before I started sharing my embroidery on Instagram that I too opened an Etsy shop. In one of my posts on Instagram, responding to the #marchmeetthemaker tag, I introduce myself as the face behind @auburnevening. In addition to my introduction and my heart-felt gratitude to the community I had found on the site, I also shared the news about my shop: “I’ve recently opened an Etsy shop, not to become a small business and not to make a profit but simply to supplement this rather expensive hobby 💸 and as a solution to my growing piles of finished hoops that I have no idea what to do with 😂”. As a stay-at-home-mother at the time, as many #stitchersofinstagram are, producing a tangible product with social and financial value had a significant impact on my sense of worth. I only ever earned half the amount I spent on supplies, but for others selling their embroidery is much more successful. It is not surprising that part of the exchange of information and knowledge on Instagram, therefore, is increasingly about content creation, managing the algorithm (see Bishop), setting up a small business, branding and marketing, selling on Etsy (Robertson Embroidery), and generally the labour of creating on social media (see Duffy and Hund; Kennedy Arriving). As others have noted, craft is increasingly a “source of achievement and economic self-sufficiency” (Jefferies 28; Waterhouse), offering “lucrative opportunities” (Robertson Embroidery 87). The opportunity to sell embroidery is celebrated on Instagram as affirming and empowering, although it has been criticised by some. Janis Jefferies argues that the crafting movement is being reconfigured by a neoliberal agenda, which celebrates self-employment and entrepreneurship in the new creative economy (26). Although she argues that this reconfiguration threatens to wipe out 40 years of feminist literature, I suggest that this movement is a contemporary progression. The second-wave feminist movement of the 1960s and 1970s discussed by Jefferies achieved the phenomenon of moving women’s craft from the private, domestic sphere into the public sphere, and this has continued ever since. As Fiona Hackney writes, “we need to recognize the existence of a new super connected amateur who, informed by a wealth of on- and offline resources … as well as their individual life experiences and expertise, are equally active as they open up new channels of value and exchange by engaging in alternative craft economies and harnessing assets in often surprising, productive ways” (171). Women embroidering on Instagram and selling on Etsy are an example of this. Today’s #stitchersofInstagram are entrepreneurs and small business owners. Responding to a history of unseen, unpaid, undervalued domestic labour, selling “fancy work” on sites like Etsy continues to challenge traditional notions of amateur vs. professional and craft vs. art by generating income from craft. The fact that everyday ordinary women (many of whom are stay-at-home-mothers with small children) are successfully selling their embroideries, often through commissions from strangers, challenges the traditional lack of value associated with women’s craft. Rather than removing embroidery from its gendered identity, or erasing a rich feminist history, the current trend of women making and selling embroidery reflects a postfeminist (see McRobbie; Duffy and Hund) orientation which seeks to re-define women’s work and domestic work as tangible, valuable, paid work. Conclusion Embroidery continues to be a subversive act, bringing women together on Instagram from all over the world to share information and knowledge about the practice, and to share their experiences of life. Through sharing #embroidery on Instagram, women form deep connections and community with each other. This community works together to create a collective public voice and narrative about the issues facing our society. Embroidery offers a way to process and respond to current events and personal issues, acting as a form of personal and collective therapy. As I experienced, embroidery gave me a respite from my anxiety, allowing me to focus solely on my ability to create something with my hands. Sharing my creations on Instagram was affirming, connecting me with others, and giving me a sense of purpose, meaning, value, and worth. Through the connections I formed with others on Instagram I gained a deeper understanding of, and empathy towards, the issues facing our world. Engaging in the participatory collective of #embroidery offers women like myself the ability to engage with ideas and dialogue in a tangible way, through the act of creating permanent material artifacts. These artifacts are significant as unique personal and communal responses to a specific time in our history and socio-political context. Stitchers of Instagram continue to challenge the traditional tensions that surround women’s creative activities. By selling their work on sites such as Etsy as a collective, they blur the traditional boundaries of amateur vs. professional and craft vs. art. #embroidery is valuable not only because it represents an individual and collective contemporary (mostly young female) voice, but also because increasingly the artifacts produced out of this making are sought after, commissioned, paid for, and valued as art that people want to display in their homes. References Bishop, Sophie. “Managing Visibility on YouTube through Algorithmic Gossip.” New Media & Society 21 (2019): 2589-2606. Conner, Tamlin S., Colin G. De Young, and Paul J. Silvia. “Everyday Creative Activity as a Path to Flourishing.” The Journal of Positive Psychology 13.2 (2018): 181-189 Davidson, Jonathan. “Threading the Needle: When Embroidery Was Used to Treat Shell-Shock.” J R Army Med Corps 164.5 (2018): 390. Duffy, Brooke Erin, and Emily Hund. “‘Having It All’ on Social Media: Entrepreneurial Femininity and Self-Branding among Fashion Bloggers.” Social Media + Society (2015). Durham, Carolyn A. “The Subversive Stitch: Female Craft, Culture, and Ecriture.” Women’s Studies 17 (1990): 341-359. Ellis, Carolyn. The Ethnographic I: A Methodological Novel about Autoethnography. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira, 2004. Emery, Elizabeth. “Subversive Stitches: Needlework as Activism in Australian Feminist Art of the 1970s.” Everyday Revolutions: Remaking Gender, Sexuality and Culture in 1970s Australia. Eds. Michelle Arrow and Angela Woollacott. ANU P, 2019. 103-120. Gauntlett, David. Making Is Connecting: The Social Meaning of Creativity, from DIY and Knitting to YouTube and Web 2.0. London: Polity, 2011. Greer, Betsy. Knitting for Good! The Guide to Creating Personal, Social, and Political Change, Stitch by Stitch. Boston: Trumpeter, 2008. Hackney, Fiona. “Quiet Activism and the New Amateur.” Design and Culture 5.2 (2015): 169-193. Hardy, Michele. “Feminism, Crafts & Knowledge.” Objects and Meaning: New Perspectives on Art and Craft. Eds. M. Anna Fariello and Paula Owens. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow, 2004. 176-183. Helland, Janice. “From Prison to Citizenship, 1910: The Making and Display of a Suffragist Banner.” Stitching the Self: Identity and Needle Arts. Eds. Johanna Amos and Lisa Binkley. London: Bloomsbury Visual Arts, 2020. 97-110. Hollman Jones, Stacy. “Autoethnography: Making the Personal Political.” Handbook of Qualitative Research. Eds. Norman K. Denzin and Yvonna S. Lincoln. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2005. Hughes, Sherick A., and Julie L. Pennington. Autoethnography: Process, Product, and Possibility for Critical Social Research. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2017. Jefferies, Janice. “Crocheted Strategies: Women Crafting Their Own Communities.” TEXTILE 14.1 (2016): 14-35. Kennedy, Ümit. “Arriving on YouTube: Vlogs, Automedia and Autoethnography.” Life Writing (2021). ———. Becoming on YouTube: Exploring the Automedial Identities and Narratives of Australian Mummy Vlogging. PhD thesis. Western Sydney University, 2019. Leaver, Tama, Tim Highfield, and Crystal Abidin. Instagram: Visual Social Media Cultures. Polity, 2020. Luckman, Susan. “(En)gendering the Digital Body: Feminism and the Internet.” Hecate 25.2 (1999): 36-47. McRobbie, Angela. “Post-Feminism and Popular Culture”. Feminist Media Studies 4.3 (2004): 255-264. Meikle, Graham, and Sherman Young. Media Convergence: Networked Digital Media in Everyday Life. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012. Minahan, Stella, and Julie Wolfram Cox. “STITCH’nBITCH: Cyberfeminism, a Third Place and the New Materiality.” Journal of Material Culture 12.1 (2007): 5-21. Moravec, Michelle. Motherhood Online. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars, 2011. Morrison, Amy. “Autobiography in Real Time: A Genre Analysis of Personal Mommy Blogging.” Cyberpsychology: Journal of Psychosocial Research on Cyberspace 4.2 (2010): 14. Parker, Rozsika. The Subversive Stitch: Embroidery and the Making of the Feminine. London: The Women’s Press, 1984. Robertson, Kirsty. “Embroidery Pirates and Fashion Victims: Textiles, Craft and Copyright.” TEXTILE 8.1 (2015): 86-111. Robertson, Kirsty, and Lisa Vinebaum. “Crafting Community.” TEXTILE 14.1 (2016): 2-3. Ryan, Richard M., and Edward L. Deci. “On Happiness and Human Potentials: A Review of Research on Hedonic and Eudaimonic Well-Being.” Annual Review of Psychology 52 (2001): 141-166. Sawden, Kari, and Saeedeh Niktab Etaati. “Constructing Grief: Processing Tragedy through the Ritualization of Embroidery.” Peace Review: A Journal of Social Justice (2023): 1-10. Vyas, Dhaval. “Altruism and Wellbeing as Care Work in a Craft-Based Maker Culture.” PACM on Human-Computer Interaction 3 (2019): 239. Waterhouse, Jo. Indie Craft. London: Laurence King, 2010. Williams, Kristen A. “Old Time Mem’ry”: Contemporary Urban Craftivism and the Politics of Doing-It-Yourself in Postindustrial America.” Utopian Studies 22.2 (2011): 303-320. Wolk, Nurit, and Michal Bat Or. “The Therapeutic Aspects of Embroidery in Art Therapy from the Perspective of Adolescent Girls in a Post-Hospitalization Boarding School.” Children 10.1084 (2023): 1-24.

Abstract Background The wide availability of routine screening with Papanicolaou (Pap) tests and vaccinations against human papillomavirus has resulted in a decline in rates of cervical cancer. As with other diseases, however, disparities in incidence and mortality persist. Cervical cancer, is found more often, at later stages, and has worse outcomes in people who live in rural areas, identify as Black or Hispanic, and in people who are incarcerated. Studies report 4–5 times higher rates of cervical cancer incidence in people detained in jails and prisons than in community-based samples. Studies to explain cervical cancer differences have been inconclusive, though there is broad consensus that issues of access play a role. In this study, we sought to learn more from people who have a history of criminal-legal system involvement and substance use about what barriers and facilitators they perceive in accessing cervical cancer preventive health and other support services in the community. Results We conducted semi-structured interviews with open-ended questions by telephone with 20 self-identified women, ages 22–58, in Birmingham, Alabama. Interviews were audio recorded and transcribed and the transcripts analyzed using immersion-crystallization techniques. Our team identified two main themes, making connections: the importance of interpersonal communication, which stressed barriers and facilitators related to what makes for effective and humanistic interactions in cervical health prevention and other services, and getting it done: the logistics of access and availability, which highlighted elements of cost and payment; scheduling; transportation; and clinic policies. Conclusions People with a history of criminal-legal system involvement and substance abuse meet with a variety of enabling and impeding factors at personal and interpersonal as well as systemic levels in obtaining cervical health services. To better ensure that women in this high-risk group have equitable access to cervical cancer prevention and treatment—and thus better cancer outcomes—will require multilevel efforts that include an emphasis on improving the human connection in health care encounters and improving the nuts-and-bolts logistics related to accessing that care.

The film opens in an unidentified wax museum. The camera pans from right to left, zooming in on key Black historical figures who have been memorialized in wax. W.E.B. Du Bois, Marian Anderson, Booker T. Washington, Frederick Douglass, and Duke Ellington stand out. The final wax figure, a Black man, sits with an empty card box in his right hand and a lit cigarette in his left. The film’s narrator appears: a slim, afroed Black man. He sits to the right of the figure. The only living person in a room full of bodies, he reaches over to grab the cigarette. To his inanimate companion he nonchalantly says “Oh. Thank you very much. Needed that” and ashes the cigarette.The afroed, cigarette-ashing narrator is poet, novelist, and musician Gil Scott-Heron. The film is Black Wax (1982), directed by Robert Mugge. Black Wax is equal parts concert film, social documentary, and political statement by the poet. Set in Washington, D.C. and released in the midst of singer Stevie Wonder’s long campaign to make Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday a national holiday, Scott-Heron’s film feels, in part, like an extension of Wonder’s wider effort. The year prior, Wonder held a massive rally in the city to demonstrate national support for the creation of the holiday. Reportedly, over 100,000 people attended. Wonder, building on mounting support of the proposed holiday made his song in honor of MLK Jr.—“Happy Birthday”—an integral part of his upcoming tour with Bob Marley. When Marley fell ill, Scott-Heron stepped in to lend his talents to Wonder’s cause. He would then participate in the Washington, D.C. rally that featured speeches from Diana Ross and Jesse Jackson (Cuepoint).Between live performances of various songs from his catalogue, Scott-Heron stages walking interludes wherein his wiry frame ambles through the city. Most are sonically accompanied by verses from his song “Washington, D.C.” He also folds in excerpts from his poems, personal reflections, and critiques of President Ronald Reagan’s administration. Scott-Heron ambulates a historically sedimented reality; namely that Washington, D.C. is a segregated city and that America, more broadly, is a divided nation. Against the backdrop of national monuments, his stroll stages critiques of the country’s racist past. In Black Wax, song becomes walk becomes interlude becomes critique.Throughout the 1970s, Scott-Heron used his politically conscious poetry and music to mount strident critiques of social relations. Songs like “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised”, “Winter in America”, and “Home Is Where the Hatred Is” reflect the artist’s larger concern with the stories Americans tell ourselves about who we are. This carried over into the 1980s. In his 1981 song “B-Movie”, Scott-Heron examines the ascent of Ronald Reagan, from actor to president. For the poet, the distinction is false, since Reagan “acted” his way into office. As an “actor in chief” Reagan represent a politically conservative regime that began before his entry into the White House. Reagan’s conservative politics were present when he was Governor of California and clashing with the Black Panther Party. Scott-Heron seized upon this history in Black Wax, tracing it all the way to the nation’s capital.A tour is “a journey for business, pleasure, or education often involving a series of stops and ending at the starting point” (“Tour”). Tours can offer closed-loop narratives that creates for participants a “safe” distance from the historical conditions which makes the location they are visiting possible. Scott-Heron undermines the certainly of that formulation with this wandering. In song and stride, he fashions himself a tour guide. This is not in the sense of taking the viewer into the “hood” to evidence urban decay. Rather, the poet’s critical amble undermines a national memory project that removes race from histories of the nation’s capital.Scott-Heron, self-styled Bluesologist, traveler, wanders through the world with a marrow-deep knowledge about the historical dynamics animating Black life. Walking richly informs how he relates to space. For Michel de Certeau, “the act of walking is to the urban system what the speech act is to language or to the statements uttered [...] it is a process of appropriation of the topographical system on the part of the pedestrian […] a spatial acting-out of the place […] and it implies relations among differentiated positions” (97-98). For Scott-Heron, the “relations among differentiated positions” is informed by his identity as a Black American. His relationship to race imbues him with what Black geographer Katherine McKittrick calls a “black sense of place.” According to McKittrick,a black sense of place can be understood as the process of materially and imaginatively situating historical and contemporary struggles against practices of domination and the difficult entanglements of racial encounter […][it] is not a steady, focused, and homogenous way of seeing and being in place, but rather a set of changing and differentiated perspectives that are illustrative of, and therefore remark upon, legacies of normalized racial violence that calcify, but do not guarantee, the denigration of black geographies and their inhabitants. (949-950)Scott-Heron elaborates on McKittrick’s concept through a series of walking interludes wherein he refuses a national narrative of harmonious racial progress. He dismisses an American fantasy of race, and it is not new. In “What America Would Be Like without Blacks” writer Ralph Ellison dissects the ways that Americans have historically tried to “get shut” of Black people, all while actively thriving on Black America’s cultural contributions. Scott-Heron’s black sense of place is articulated through a series of ambulant interventions that (subtly) acknowledge national violences while highlighting the often unspoken presence of Black people thriving in the nation’s capital.Visually, the poet sequesters national monuments to the background. Reducing their scale and stripping them of their dwarfing capacity while also actively not naming them. He miniaturizes them. This allows him to centre his critique of national history and politics. For Scott-Heron, the Capital Building and the White House are not sites to be revered. They are symbols of an ongoing betrayal perpetrated by the Reagan administration.The scenes I examine here are not representative. That isn’t my project. I am much more interested in the film as a wandering text, one that pushes at tensions in order to untether the viewer from a constricting narrative about who they might be. According to Sarah Jane Cervenak, “wandering aligns with the free at precisely those moments when it bends away from forces that attempt to translate or read” (15). In this regard, I offer this reading as a suggestion. It does not work towards a particular end other than opening the process(es) through which we make meaning of Scott-Heron’s filmic performance. In effect, don’t worry about where you are doing. Just be in the scene. Invite yourself to view the film and elaborate on descriptions offered here. Wander with him. Wander with me.———In his first walking interlude, the poet strolls along the Potomac River with a boombox hoisted upon his left shoulder. He plays a tape of his song “Washington, D.C.”, and as the opening instrumental creeps into audibility he offers his own introductory monologue:yeah, I forget what Washington did on the Potomac. This is the Potomac. Black folks would sometimes refer to that as the Po-to-mac [...] This here is the Potomac. Saw a duck floating out there a little while ago. Yeah, somebody said now that Reagan is in charge we’re all ducks. Dead ducks. You dig it?Walking along the Potomac, his slow gait is the focus. He stares directly at the camera and speaks to the viewer, to us. His (willful) forgetting of what George Washington “did on the Potomac” suggests that major figures in American history do not hold equal significance for all Americans. In fact, for Scott-Heron, the viewer/we might also do well to forget. His monologue smoothly transitions into the first verse of “Washington, D.C.”:Symbols of democracy, are pinned against the coastOuthouse of bureaucracy, surrounded by a moatCitizens of poverty are barely out of sightOverlords escape near evening, the brother’s on at nightMorning comes and brings the tourists, straining rubber necksPerhaps a glimpse of the cowboy making the world a nervous wreckIt’s a mass of irony for all the world to seeIt’s the nation’s capital, it’s Washington D.C. It’s the nation’s capitalIt’s the nation’s capitalIt’s the nation’s capital, it’s Washington D.C.(mmmm-hmmm)He feigns no allegiance to Washington, D.C. or the city’s touristic artifice. As the lyrics indicate, poverty stricken Americans’ proximity to physical symbols of national wealth belie the idea that democracy is successful. For him, poverty is as symbolic as monuments. Yet Scott-Heron does not visually exploit Americans living in poverty. This isn’t that kind of tour. Instead, he casts his gaze on the “symbol[s] of democracy” that celebrate the “outhouse of bureaucracy” that is Washington, D.C.As the poet continues his stroll along the Potomac, the Jefferson Memorial appears in the background. He has no interest in it. He does not name it, nor does he gesture to it in any way. Instead, he focuses his attention on the camera, the viewer, us. While the camera lags slightly behind him, rather than turn his attention to the river that he walks along, he looks over his right shoulder to re-establish eye contact with the camera. His indifference is reinforced by the nonchalant stride that never breaks. The Jefferson Memorial nor the Potomac River are objects to marvel at. They hold no amount of significance that would require the poet or viewer/us to stop and ponder them or their alleged importance. With eyes and feet, he keeps them where he wants them ... in the background.———In another interlude Scott-Heron, still holding the boombox atop his shoulder, appears in the courtyard area of an apartment complex. The repetition of his outfit, boombox location, and music give continuity to the scene by the Potomac and the unidentified neighborhood. His outfit is the same one he wears when walking by the Potomac and the boombox remains on his shoulder. Reciting the next verse of “Washington, D.C.”, it seems like he’s walking through a tableau.May not have the glitter or the glamour of L.A.It may not have the history or intrigue of PompeiiBut when it comes to making music, and sure enough making newsOr people who just don’t make sense, and people making doSeems a massive contradiction, pulling different waysBetween the folks who come and go, and one’s who’ve got to stayIt’s a mass of irony for all the world to seeIt’s the nation’s capital, it’s Washington, D.C. He strolls along the sidewalk, the camera zooming in on his face. Over his right shoulder two Black kids pose on their bikes as men stand around them. The camera rotates clockwise, giving a slight panoramic view of the apartment building in the background. Residents crowd the doorway, a combination of what appears to be overlapping greetings and farewells. The ambiguous actions of the people in the background smoothly contrasts with the poet’s lean frame while his focus on the camera/viewer enlarges his presence.The scene also includes various people sitting on park benches. We do not know if they are residents or visitors. In many ways, the distinction does not matter. What we see is comfort in the faces and bodies of the Black people immediately behind Scott-Heron. On one bench we see two people. The first is a Black man who hoists his right leg up, resting his foot on the bench. As the boombox plays and the poet raps, the man taps his knee and snaps his fingers. Similarly, a Black woman in a red dress sitting on the same bench responds to Scott-Heron’s presence and his music with a committed head bob and toe tap. On another bench, three young Black men nod coolly as they watch the poet recite the remainder of his verse.It’s the nation’s capitalIt’s the nation’s capitalIt’s the nation’s capital, it’s Washington D.C.He walks us through the partially-animated tableau wherein the folks sitting behind him subtly reinforce the message he directly communicates to the viewer/us.———In another interlude, three scenes are cut into one. In the first, the Capital Building looms in the distance as Scott-Heron enters the frame. He gestures toward the building and notes the ways that tours distract visitors from the real Washington:Let me tell you, those tours are all the same. They bring you around to places like this [gestures toward the Capital Building]. They might even tell you who the jackass is on the horse or the guy on top of the building, but they never show you the real Washington.Should’ve been around the 15th of January. That’s when Stevie Wonder was holding this rally. It was about 50,000 gathered there. They were trying to demonstrate and make Dr. King’s birthday a national holiday. But it’s always the same. The Capital. The Hoover Building. Maybe sometimes they’d even show you the Washington Monument [gestures towards the monument in the distance]. But that’s not a look at the real Washington. The one I’d like to show you is something special. You wanna see what’s happening in the nation’s capital? Come with me… (Black Wax)Since the standard D.C. tour leaves out the real Washington, the poet primes the viewer for the real thing. His mention of Stevie Wonder allows the poet to connect the viewer to that real Washington, Black Washington. This is the Washington that boasts Ben’s Chili Bowl, Howard University, and Scurlock Studios as cultural institutions. This is the Washington that would welcome the creation of a holiday in honor of Martin Luther King Jr. The scene quickly transitions to Scott-Heron walking down the streets of a presumably Black neighborhood. This neighborhood is outside the purview of tour mobile routes. There is nothing remarkable about the neighborhood. Nothing monumental. The street is lined with row houses. In the background, Black pedestrians passively observe or go about their day. One young Black man smokes a cigarette as Scott-Heron casually walks past him. For Scott-Heron, these folks are the “life-blood of the city” yet he does not speak with them, perhaps because his point is not to put these people on display but to formally acknowledge who gets left out of official narratives. The segment concludes with a return to Heron’s stroll along the Potomac, where he picks up another verse to “Washington, D.C.”:Seems to me, it’s still in light time people knifed up on 14th streetMakes me feel it’s always the right time for them people showing up and coming cleanDid make the one seem kind of numbIt’s the nation’s capitalIt’s the nation’s capitalIt’s the nation’s capital, it’s Washington D.C. ConclusionI’ll end with this. In a final scene, the poet walks in along the front gates of the White House. He holds a little Black girl’s hand and smokes a cigarette. Together they stroll along the gates of the White House. Their movement, from right to left, suggest a return. A going back to. However, this return is not nostalgic. It is accusatory. It is a reckoning with the unrealised promises that America doles out to its citizens. He notes:the protests that are launched in this country are not launched necessarily against the government. They are launched in terms of the fact that this country has rarely lived up to its advanced publicity. This is supposed to be the land of justice, liberty, and equality and that’s what everybody over here is looking for. (Black Wax)Perhaps, then, Gil Scott-Heron leaves his viewer/us not with a push to March. No. Walking against the miasma of national nostalgia perpetuated through tourism is one way to maintain a black sense of place.ReferencesBaram, Marcus. “How Stevie Wonder Helped Create Martin Luther King Day.” Cuepoint, 18 Jan. 2015. 15 Jul. 2018 <https://medium.com/cuepoint/how-stevie-wonder-helped-create-martin-luther-king-day-807451a78664>.Cervenak, Sarah Jane. Wandering: Philosophical Performances of Racial and Sexual Freedom. Durham: Duke UP, 2014.De Certeau, Michel. The Practice of Everyday Life. Los Angeles: U of California P, 1984.Gil Scott-Heron: Black Wax. Dir. Robert Mugge, performances by Gil Scott-Heron and the Midnight Band. WinStar Home Entertainment, 1982.McKittrick, Katherine. “On Plantations, Prisons, and a Black Sense of Place.” Social and Cultural Geography 12.8 (2011): 947-963. Scott-Heron, Gil. The Last Holiday: A Memoir. New York: Grove Press, 2012.“Tour.” Merriam-Webster. 15 Jul. 2018.<https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/tour>.

In the summer of 1999, four ships carrying 599 Fujianese people arrived on the west coast of Canada. They survived a desperate and dangerous journey only for the Canadian Government to put them in prison. After numerous deportations, there are still about 40 of these people in Canadian prisons as of January 2001. They have been in jail for over a year and a half under mere suspicion of flight risk. About 24 people have been granted refugee status. Most people deported to China have been placed in Chinese prisons and fined. It is worth remembering that these migrants may have been undocumented but they are not "illegal" in that they have mobility rights. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights recognizes everyone's right to leave any country and to seek asylum. It can be argued that it is not the migrants who are illegal, but the unjust laws that criminalize their freedom of movement. In considering people's rights, we need to keep in mind not only the civil and political rights that the West tends to privilege, but equally important social and economic rights as well. As a local response to a global phenomenon, Direct Action Against Refugee Exploitation (DAARE) formed in Vancouver to support the rights of the Fujianese women, eleven of whom at the time of writing are still being held in the Burnaby Correctional Centre for Women (BCCW). In DAARE’s view, Immigration Canada's decision to detain all these people is based on a racialized group-profiling policy which violates basic human rights and ignores Canadian responsibility in the creation of the global economic and societal conditions which give rise to widespread migration. In light of the Canadian government's plans to implement even more punitive immigration legislation, DAARE endorses the Coalition for a Just Immigration and Refugee Policy's "Position Paper on Bill C31." They call for humanitarian review and release for the remaining Fujianese people. This review would include a few released refugee claimants who are still in Canada, children, women who were past victims of family planning, people facing religious persecution and, of course, those who are still in prison after 18 months and who have never been charged with any crime. Suspicion of flight risk is not a valid reason to incarcerate people for such a long time. Who Is a Migrant? The lines between "voluntary" and "forced" migration are no longer adequate to explain the complexities of population movements today. Motives for forced displacement include political, economic, social and environmental factors. This spectrum runs from the immediate threats to life, safety and freedom due to war or persecution, to situations where economic conditions make the prospects of survival marginal and non-existent. (Moussa 2000). Terms like "economic migrant" and "bogus refugee" have been used in the media to discredit migrants such as the Fujianese and to foster hostility against them. This scapegoating process oversimplifies the situation, for all refugees and all migrants are entitled to the basic respect due all human beings as enshrined in the UN Declaration of Human Rights. There can be multiple reasons for an individual to migrate—ranging from family reunification to economic pressures to personal survival; to fear of government corruption and of political persecution, to name just a few. The reduction of everything to merely the economic does not allow one to understand why migration is occurring and likely to increase in the future. Most immigrants to Canada could also be described as economic migrants. Conrad Black is an economic migrant. The privileging of rich migrants over poor ones romanticizes globalization as corporate progress and ignores the immense human suffering it entails for the majority of the world's population as the gap between the wealthy and the poor rapidly increases. Hundreds of years ago, when migrants came to this aboriginal territory we now call Canada, they came in order to survive—in short, they too were "economic migrants." Many of those migrants who came from Europe would not qualify to enter Canada today under its current immigration admissions guidelines. Indeed, over 50% of Canadians would not be able to independently immigrate to Canada given its current elitist restrictions. One of the major reasons for an increase in migration is the destruction of rural economies in Asia and elsewhere in the world. Millions of people have been displaced by changes in agriculture that separate people from the land. These waves of internal migration also result in the movement of peoples across national borders in order to survive. Chinese provinces such as Fujian and Guangdong, whose people have a long history of overseas travel, are particularly common sources of out-migration. In discussing migration, we need to be wary of how we can inadvertently reinforce the colonization of First Nations people unless we consciously work against that by actively supporting aboriginal self-determination. For example, some First Nations people have been accused of "smuggling" people across borders—this subjects them to the same process of criminalization which the migrants have experienced, and ignores the sovereign rights of First Nations people. We need ways of relating to one another which do not reenact domination, but which work in solidarity with First Nations' struggles. This requires an understanding of the ways in which racism, colonialism, classism, and other tactics through which "dividing and conquering" take place. For those of us who are first, second, third, fourth, fifth generation migrants to this land, our survival and liberation are intimately connected to that of aboriginal people. History Repeating Itself? The arrival of the Fujianese people met with a racist media hysteria reminiscent of earlier episodes of Canadian history. Front page newspaper headlines such as "Go Home" increased hostility against these people. In Victoria, people were offering to adopt the dog on one of the ships at the same time that they were calling to deport the Chinese. From the corporate media accounts of the situation, one would think that most Canadians did not care about the dangerous voyage these people had endured, a voyage during which two people from the second ship died. Accusations that people were trying to enter the country "illegally" overlooked how historically, the Chinese, like other people of colour, have had to find ways to compensate for racist and classist biases in Canada's immigration system. For example, from 1960 to 1973, Canada granted amnesty to over 12,000 "paper sons," that is, people who had immigrated under names other than their own. The granting of "legal" status to the "paper sons" who arrived before 1960 finally recognized that Canada's legislation had unfairly excluded Chinese people for decades. From 1923 to 1947, Canada's Chinese Exclusion Act had basically prevented Chinese people from entering this country. The xenophobic attitudes that gave rise to the Chinese Exclusion Act and the head tax occurred within a colonial context that privileged British migrants. Today, colonialism may no longer be as rhetorically attached to the British empire, but its patterns—particularly the globally inequitable distribution of wealth and resources—continue to accelerate through the mechanism of transnational corporations, for example. As Helene Moussa has pointed out, "the interconnections of globalisation with racist and colonialist ideology are only too clear when all evidence shows that globalisation '¼ legitimise[s] and sustain[s] an international system that tolerates an unbelievable divide not only between the North and the South but also inside them'" (2000). Moreover, according to the United Nations Development Programme, the income gap between people in the world's wealthiest nations and the poorest nations has shifted from 30:1 in 1960 to 60:1 in 1990 and to 74:1 in 1997. (Moussa 2000) As capital or electronic money moves across borders faster than ever before in what some have called the casino economy (Mander and Goldsmith), change and instability are rapidly increasing for the majority of the world's population. People are justifiably anxious about their well-being in the face of growing transnational corporate power; however, "protecting" national borders through enforcement and detention of displaced people is a form of reactive, violent, and often racist, nationalism which scapegoats the vulnerable without truly addressing the root causes of instability and migration. In short, reactive nationalism is ineffective in safe-guarding people's survival. Asserting solidarity with those who are most immediately displaced and impoverished by globalization is strategically a better way to work towards our common survival. Substantive freedom requires equitable economic relations; that is, fairly shared wealth. Canadian Response Abilities The Canadian government should take responsibility for its role in creating the conditions that displace people and force them to migrate within their countries and across borders. As a major sponsor of efforts to privatize economies and undertake environmentally devastating projects such as hydro-electric dams, Canada has played a significant role in the creation of an unemployed "floating population" in China which is estimated to reach 200 million people this year. Punitive tactics will not stop the movement of people, who migrate to survive. According to Peter Kwong, "The well-publicized Chinese government's market reforms have practically eliminated all labor laws, labour benefits and protections. In the "free enterprise zones" workers live virtually on the factory floor, laboring fourteen hours a day for a mere two dollars—that is, about 20 cents an hour" (136). As Sunera Thobani has phrased it, "What makes it alright for us to buy a t-shirt on the streets of Vancouver for $3, which was made in China, then stand up all outraged as Canadian citizens when the woman who made that t-shirt tries to come here and live with us on a basis of equality?" Canada should respond to the urgent situations which cause people to move—not only on the grounds upon which Convention refugees were defined in 1949 (race, religion, nationality, social group, political opinion) which continue to be valid—but also to strengthen Canada's system to include a contemporary understanding that all people have basic economic and environmental survival rights. Some migrants have lives that fit into the narrow definition of a UN Convention refugee and some may not. Those who do not fit this definition have nonetheless urgent needs that deserve attention. The Canadian Centre for Policy Alternatives has pointed out that there are at least 18 million people working in 124 export zones in China. A living wage in China is estimated to be 87 cents per hour. Canadians benefit from these conditions of cheap labour, yet when the producers of these goods come to our shores, we hypocritically disavow any relationship with them. Responsibility in this context need not refer so much to some stern sense of duty, obligation or altruism as to a full "response"—intellectual, emotional, physical, and spiritual—that such a situation provokes in relations between those who "benefit"—materially at least—from such a system and those who do not. References Anderson, Sarah, et al. Field Guide to the Global Economy. New York: New Press, 2000. Canadian Council of Refugees. "Migrant Smuggling and Trafficking in Persons." February 20, 2000. Canadian Woman Studies: Immigrant and Refugee Women. 19.3 (Fall 1999). Chin, Ko-lin. Smuggled Chinese. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1999. Coalition for a Just Immigration and Refugee Policy. "Position Paper on Bill C31." 2000. Davis, Angela. The Angela Davis Reader. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, 1998. Global Alliance Against Traffic in Women, Foundation Against Trafficking in Women, and International Human Rights Law Group. "Human Rights Standards for the Treatment of Trafficked Persons." January 1999. Henry, Frances and Tator, Carol. Racist Discourses in Canada's English Print Media. Toronto: Canadian Foundation for Race Relations, 2000. Jameson, Fredric and Miyoshi, Masao, Eds. The Cultures of Globalization. Durham: Duke University Press, 1998. Kwong, Peter. Forbidden Workers. New York: New Press, 1997. Mander, Jerry and Goldsmith, Edward, Eds. The Case Against the Global Economy. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books, 1996. Moussa, Helene. "The Interconnections of Globalisation and Migration with Racism and Colonialism: Tracing Complicity." 2000. ---. "Violence against Refugee Women: Gender Oppression, Canadian Policy, and the International Struggle for Human Rights." Resources for Feminist Research 26 (3-4). 1998 Migrant Forum statement (from Asia Pacific People's Assembly on APEC) 'Occasional Paper Migration: an economic and social analysis.' Pizarro, Gabriela Rodriguez. "Human Rights of Migrants." United Nations Report. Seabrook, Jeremy. "The Migrant in the Mirror." New Internationalist 327 (September 2000): 34-5. Sharma, Nandita. "The Real Snakeheads: Canadian government and corporations." Kinesis. October/November (1999): 11. Spivak, Gayatri. "Diasporas Old and New: Women in the Transnational World." Class Issues. Ed. Amitava Kumar. New York: New York University Press, 1997. States of Disarray: The Social Effects of Globalization. London: United Nations Research Institute for Social Development (UN RISD), 1995. Thobani, Sunera. "The Creation of a ‘Crisis’." Kinesis October/November (1999): 12-13. Whores, Maids and Wives: Making Links. Proceedings of the North American Regional Consultative Forum on Trafficking in Women, 1997.

Photo ID 76831545© Rawpixelimages| Dreamstime.com INTRODUCTION Today, United States citizens live in a society guided by a false consciousness.[1] The presiding culture of the United States (US) has painted a picture – a distorted and surreal mythology – that continues to be admired. This picture is characterized by conservative dogma and intolerance within the political, economic, and ideological spheres of society, leaving individuals unable to ascertain truth. US citizens are provided the inability to see reality for what it is, and instead encouraged to live by a means of pseudo-reality as described by Debord.[2] As a result, many US institutions, including the prison system and the healthcare system, have become platforms of masked discriminatory and racist practices within today’s world of “colorblindness.” The right to universal health care represents yet another opportunity for US institutions to deploy covert and underlying racist and discriminatory tactics, and continues to remain largely unacknowledged by non-minority citizens of the US, contributing to significantly higher rates of untreated health concerns and concomitant higher death rates in US minority populations. ANALYSIS To understand this assertion, it is important to start by examining the ways in which the US prison system acts as a discriminatory and racist institution. Today, African Americans, Hispanics, and other minorities account for roughly 40% of the US population, yet they comprise around 60% of the US’ total incarcerated population.[3] That is, they are disproportionately represented amongst the incarcerated. To put this in perspective, according to the American Civil Liberties Union, nearly “one in every 15 African American men [become] incarcerated, as opposed to only one in every 106 white men.”[4] Looking back to the early 1970s when Black Americans were making progress in obtaining civil rights, there was a substantial increase in the number of incarcerated Black individuals, acting as a “stealth counterweight to political and economic progress.”[5] Thus, prisons were used as a means to suppress the growing success of Black individuals, furthering the disproportionate number of incarcerated minorities. The prison system is not the only institution within the US that deploys underlying discriminatory, exploitative, and racist tactics towards American minorities. For example, there have been mortgage lending procedures that have “disproportionately exposed minority borrowers to the risky subprime loans that triggered the financial collapse of 2008 and widespread foreclosures in minority communities.”[6] Also discovered have been numerous obscure tax and insurance policies that have targeted neighborhoods with substantial minority populations.[7] There are many more examples of US institutions exploiting and discriminating based upon race, yet minority groups cannot simply avoid these tactics; that is, taking out loans and paying taxes can be essential life tasks for most individuals. Thus, as society continues to be governed by a false consciousness, true reality will indefinitely remain uncertain. This becomes clear, as even today there have been minimal studies regarding the exploration of this institutionalized racism.[8] As it is clear numerous institutions have and continue to behave in discriminatory ways, it must be considered that the US’ lack of a nationwide right to health insurance represents another means of discrimination based upon race. While at this point in the essay a discussion of the history of slavery within the US may seem extraneous, the lasting effects of slavery continue to play a key role in discrimination towards minorities, contributing to diminished resources for health insurance for minorities in the US. To understand the role of slavery in decreased access to nationwide health insurance, one must come to see the foremost factor as to why individuals do not carry it. That is, “in 2022, 64.2% of uninsured nonelderly adults said they were uninsured because coverage is not affordable, making it the most common reason cited for being uninsured.”[9] As for the role of long-term effects of slavery, minorities, especially Black Americans, face far greater poverty than their counterparts, predominantly in places where there is a stronger connection to slavery in the past.[10] Thus, as it is commonly understood the southern half of the US to have experienced the largest impact from slavery, this would indicate the largest impact on poverty struggles as a result of slavery would be in the south. Coincidentally, as one might say, “reflecting geographic variation in income and the availability of public coverage, most uninsured people live in the South.”[11] As Black Americans have faced substantial struggles with poverty due to the lasting effects of slavery and previously exploitative southern economies, bearing in mind the primary reason for not carrying health insurance is a lack of funds, it is plain that past discrimination and racism of yesterday has set the stage for wealth and health disparities and discrimination today. That is, the “average wealth of white households in the United States [has become] 13 times as high as that of Black households.”[12] To further put this problem into context, minorities “made up 45.7% of the nonelderly US population but accounted for 62.3% of the total nonelderly uninsured population.”[13] Looking at minorities other than Black Americans, the uninsured rate for “nonelderly Hispanic (18.0%) and American Indian and Alaska Native people (19.1%) are more than 2.5 times the uninsured rates for white people (6.6%)”[14] Moreover, of the uninsured population, most of the 25.6 million nonelderly uninsured adults were from minority groups.[15] As posited, Black Americans and other minority groups’ inability to afford health insurance has been created by US citizens themselves, through past legality and support of slavery, leaving lasting effects that have made health insurance unaffordable. In return, some US citizens and their government have failed to remedy the situation, choosing instead to endorse the idea that minorities lack funds to carry health insurance by arguing they are ‘lazy,’ ‘unmotivated,’ or ‘irresponsible.’ In doing so, US citizens have further engaged in the stereotyping of minority groups as inferior through their inability to obtain health insurance. Consequently, through an unfair health insurance access system, US society has maintained a discriminatory attitude towards minority groups. Once there is a determination of a belief of inferiority, a blind eye will indefinitely turn away from discrimination within society’s governance of the false consciousness, leaving its citizens unable to ascertain reality, chiefly developing and supporting their own self interests. Thus, through the contribution and failure to remedy the poverty struggles inflicted on minority groups, including those inflicted on Black Americans largely through the past slavery in the southern US, minority groups, making up 62.3% of all uninsured nonelderly adults, have been made into the problem by society. These individuals have been labeled, ideologically transformed into ‘inferior beings’ per conservative dogma, and thus become further discriminated against with respect to their inability to obtain health insurance in the US. Considering the ethicality of the lack of a nationwide right to health insurance, one must take the stance of Mill’s Utilitarianism, which revolves around providing the greatest amount of good for the greatest number of people through consequence of action.[16] First, it is clear by failing to provide a national right to health insurance, the U.S. is leaving indigent, uninsured groups, largely consisting of minorities, to find the means to fund their own insurance. This may contribute to higher and disproportionate crime rates of minority groups out of need for survival and fulfillment of basic human needs; to institutionalized racism; to false ideologies; to stereotypes wrongly placed upon minority groups; and to untreated illness. The resulting human tragedy is seen in myriad situations: minority woman facing high maternal death rates in childbirth, uninsured minority individuals being turned away from hospitals who only take those with insurance, silent suffering and untreated illnesses including high rates of diabetes and heart disease, and more recently, higher death rates and worse outcomes for minorities as a result of the COVID-19 pandemic.[17] CONCLUSION Thus, as the result of a non-existent nationwide right to health insurance, the US is plainly failing to provide the greatest amount of good for the greatest number of people and therefore, per Mill, the failure to provide a national right to health insurance is clearly unethical. The lack of national access for all individuals to health insurance is not only an underlying form of racism and discrimination towards American minorities, but it is unethical as well. To address this, American society must alter its picture of the distorted and surreal reality that has been painted, and shatter its lens of the pseudo-reality that shapes many individuals’ view of the world. That is, there becomes the need for a higher form, or a deeper level, of collective experiential consciousness in order for a symbiotic relationship to occur – a relationship advantageous to all simultaneously – in the biological and sociological realms. Only then can the trend of institutionalized racism and discrimination be broken, and as a part of this, only then can all individuals receive access to health insurance and related healthcare that would improve their quality of life. - [1] Little, Daniel. “False Consciousness.” False Consciousness, www-personal.umd.umich.edu/~delittle/iess%20false%20consciousness%20V2.htm. [2] Debord, Guy. The Society of the Spectacle. Translated by Donald Nicholson-Smith, Zone Books, 1995. [3] Harris, Fredrick C., and Robert C. Lieberman. “Racial Inequality After Racism: How Institutions Hold Back African Americans.” Foreign Affairs, vol. 94, no. 2, 2015, pp. 9–20. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/24483477. [4] Harris, Fredrick C., and Robert C. Lieberman. “Racial Inequality After Racism: How Institutions Hold Back African Americans.” [5] Ibid. [6] Ibid. [7] Ibid. [8] Ibid. [9] Drake, Patrick, and Jennifer Tolbert. “Key Facts about the Uninsured Population.” KFF, www.kff.org/uninsured/issue-brief/key-facts-about-the-uninsured-population/. [10] O’Connell, Heather A. “The Impact of Slavery on Racial Inequality in Poverty in the Contemporary U.S. South.” Social Forces, vol. 90, no. 3, 2012, pp. 713–34. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/41682675. [11] Drake, Patrick, and Jennifer Tolbert. “Key Facts about the Uninsured Population.” [12] Harris, Fredrick C., and Robert C. Lieberman. “Racial Inequality After Racism: How Institutions Hold Back African Americans. [13] Drake, Patrick, and Jennifer Tolbert. “Key Facts about the Uninsured Population.” [14] Ibid. [15] Ibid. [16] Mill, John Stuart. Utilitarianism. London, Parker, Son, and Bourn, 1863. Pdf. Retrieved from the Library of Congress, <www.loc.gov/item/11015966/>. [17] Tai, Don Bambino Geno, et al. “Disproportionate Impact of Covid-19 on Racial and Ethnic Minority Groups in the United States: A 2021 Update.” Journal of Racial and Ethnic Health Disparities, U.S. National Library of Medicine, Dec. 2022, www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC8513546/#:~:text=Black%2C%20Latinx%2C%20and%20American%20Indian,children%20in%20a%20worrying%20trend.

The following article is in response to a research project that took the form of a road trip from Perth to Lombadina re-enacting the journey undertaken by the characters in the play Bran Nue Dae by playwright Jimmy Chi and Broome band Kuckles. This project was facilitated by the assistance of a Creative and Research Publication Grant from the Faculty of Communications and Creative Industries, Edith Cowan University, Western Australia. The project was carried out by researchers Kara Jacob and Margaret Hair. One thing is plainly clear. Aboriginal art expresses the possibility of human intimacy with landscapes. This is the key to its power: it makes available a rich tradition of human ethics and relationships with place and other species to a worldwide audience. For the settler Australian audience, caught ambiguously between old and new lands, their appreciation of this art embodies at least a striving for the kind of citizenship that republicans wanted: to belong to this place rather than to another (Marcia Langton in Watson 191). Marcia Langton is talking here about painting. My question is whether this “kind of citizenship” can also be accessed through appreciation of indigenous theatre, and specifically through the play Bran Nue Dae, by playwright Jimmy Chi and Broome band Kuckles, a play closely linked to the Western Australian landscape through its appropriation of the road trip genre. The physical journey taken by the characters metaphorically takes them also through the contact history of black and white Australians in Western Australia. Significantly, the non-indigenous characters experience the redemptive power of “human intimacy with landscapes” through travelling to the traditional country of their road trip companions. The road trip genre typically places its characters on a quest for knowledge. American poet Gary Snyder says that the two sources of human knowledge are symbols and sense-impressions (vii). Bran Nue Dae abounds with symbols, from the priest’s cassock and mitre to Roebourne prison; however, the sense impressions, which are so strong in the performance of the play, are missing from the written text, apart from ironic comments on the weather. In my efforts to understand Bran Nue Dae, I undertook the road trip from Perth to the Kimberley myself in order to discover those missing sense-impressions, as they form part of the “back story” of the play. In the play there is a void between the time the characters leave Perth and reach first Roebourne, where they are locked up, and then Roebuck Plains, not far from Broome, yet in the “real world” they would have travelled more than two thousand kilometres. What would they have seen and experienced on this journey? I took note of Krim Benterrak, Paddy Roe and Stephen Muecke’s Reading the Country, a cross-cultural and cross-textual study on Roebuck Plains, near Broome. Muecke talks about “stories being contingent upon place … Aboriginal storytellers have a similar policy. If one is not prepared to take the trouble to go to the place, then its story can only be given as a short version” (72). In preparing for the trip, I collected tourist brochures and maps. The use of maps, seemingly essential on any road trip as guides to “having a look at” country (Muecke ibid.), was instantly problematic in itself, in that maps represent country as colonised space. In Saltwater People, Nonie Sharp discusses the “distinction between mapping and personal journeying”: Maps and mapping describe space in a way that depersonalises it. Mapping removes the footprints of named creatures – animal, human, ancestral – who belong to this place or that place. A map can be anywhere. ‘Itineraries’, however, are actions and movements within a named and footprinted land (Sharp 199-200). The country journeyed through in Bran Nue Dae, which privileges indigenous experience, could be designated as the potentially dangerous liminal space between the “map” and the “itinerary”. This “space between” resonates with untold stories, with invisibilities. One of the most telling discoveries on the research trip was the thoroughness with which indigenous people have been made to disappear from the “mapped” zones through various colonial policies. It was very evident that indigenous people are still relegated to the fringes of town, as in Onslow and Port Hedland, in housing situations closely resembling the old missions and reserves. Although my travelling companion and I made an effort in every place we visited to pay our respects by at least finding out the language group of the traditional owners, it became clear that a major challenge in travelling through post-colonial space is in avoiding becoming complicit in the disappearance of indigenous people. We wanted our focus to be “on the people whose bodies, territories, beliefs and values have been travelled though” (Tuhiwai Smith 78) but our experience was that finding even written guides into the “footprinted land” is not easy when few tourist pamphlets acknowledge the traditional owners of the country. Even when “local Aboriginal” words are quoted, as in the CALM brochure for Nambung National Park (i.e., the Pinnacles), the actual language or language group is not mentioned. In many interpretive brochures and facilities, traditional owners are represented as absent, as victims or as prisoners. The fate of the “original inhabitants of the Greenough Flats”, the Yabbaroo people, is alluded to in the Greenough River Nature Walk Trail Guide, under the title, “A short history of Greenough River from the Rivermouth to Westbank Road”: The Gregory brothers, exploring for pastoral land in 1848, peacefully met with a large group of Aborigines camped beside a freshwater spring in a dense Melaleuca thicket. They named the spring Bootenal, from the Nyungar word Boolungal, meaning pelican. Gregory’s glowing reports of good grazing prompted pastoralists to move their flocks to Greenough, and by 1852 William Criddle was watering cattle for the Cattle Company at the Bootenal Spring. The Aborigines soon resented this intrusion and in 1854, large numbers with many from surrounding tribes, gathered in the relative safety of the Bootenal thicket. Making forays at night, they killed cattle and sheep and attacked homesteads. The pastoralists retaliated by forming a posse at Glengarry under the command of the Resident Magistrate. On the night of the 4th/5th July they rode to Bootenal and drove the Aborigines from the thicket. No arrests were made and no official report given of casualties. Aboriginal resistance in the area was finished. The fact that the extract actually describes a massacre while purporting to be a “history of Greenough River” subverts the notion that the land can ever really be “depersonalised”. At the very heart of the difference lie different ways of being human: in Aboriginal classical tradition the person dwells within a personified landscape which is alive, named, inscribed by spiritual and human agents. It is a ‘Thou’ not an ‘It’, and I and Thou belong together (Sharp 199-200). Peter Read’s book Belonging: Australians, Place and Aboriginal Ownership contains a section titled “The Past Embedded in the Landscape” in which Read discusses whether the land holds the memory of events enacted upon it, so forming a tangible link between the dispossessed and the possessors. While discussing Judith Wright’s poem Bora Ring, Read states: “The unlaid violence of dispossession lingers at the sites of evil or old magic”, bringing to mind Wright’s notion of Australia as “a haunted country” (14). It is not surprising that the “unlaid violence of dispossession lingers” at the sites of old prisons and lock-ups, since it is built into the very architecture. The visitor pamphlet states that the 1890s design by George Temple Poole of the third Roebourne gaol, further up the great Northern Highway from Greenough and beautifully constructed from stone, “represents a way in which the state ideology of control of a remote and potentially dangerous population could be expressed in buildings”. The current Roebourne prison, still holding a majority of Aboriginal inmates, does away with any pretence of architectural elegance but expresses the same state ideology with its fence topped with razor wire. Without a guide like Bran Nue Dae’s Uncle Tadpole to keep us “off the track”, non-indigenous visitors to these old gaols, now largely museums, may be quickly led by the interpretation into the “mapped zone” – the narrative of imperialist expansion. However, we can follow Paul Carter’s injunction to “deepen grooves” and start with John Pat’s story at the Roebourne police lock-up, or the story of any indigenous inmate of the present Roebuck prison, spiralling back a century to the first Roebuck prison in settler John Withnell’s woolshed (Weightman 4). Then we gain a sense of the contact experience of the local indigenous peoples. John Withnell and his wife Emma are represented as particularly resourceful by the interpretation at the old Roebourne gaol (now Roebourne Visitors Centre and Museum). The museum has a replica of a whalebone armchair that John Withnell built for his wife with vertebrae as the seat and other bones as the back and armrests. The family also invented the canvas waterbag. The interpretation fails to mention that the same John Withnell beat an Aboriginal woman named Talarong so severely for refusing to care for sheep at Withnell’s Hillside Station that “she retreated into the bush and died of her injuries two days later”. No charges were brought against Withnell because, according to the Acting Government Resident, of the “great provocation” by Talarong in the incident (Hunt 99-100). Such omissions and silences in the official record force indigenous people into a parallel “invisible country” and leave us stranded on the highways of the “mapped zone”, bereft of our rights and responsibilities to connect either to the country or to its traditional owners. Roebourne, and its coastal port Cossack, stand on the hauntingly beautiful country of the Ngarluma and seaside Yapurarra peoples. Settlers first arrived in the 1860s and Aboriginal people began to be officially imprisoned soon after, primarily as a result of their resistance to being “blackbirded” and exploited as labour for the pearling and pastoral industries. Prisoners were chained by the neck, day and night, and forced to build roads and tramlines, ostensibly a “civilising” practice. As the history pamphlet for The Old Roebourne Gaol reads: “It was widely believed that the Roebourne Gaol was where the ‘benefit’ of white civilisation could be shown to the ‘savage’ Aboriginal” (Weightman 2). The “back story” I discovered on this research trip was one of disappearance – indigenous people being made to disappear from their countries, from non-indigenous view and from the written record. The symbols I surprisingly most engaged with and which most affected me were the gaols and prisons which the imperialists used as tools of their trade in disappearance. The sense impressions I experienced – extreme beauty, isolation, heat and sandflies – reinforced the complexity of Western Australian contact history. I began to see the central achievement of Bran Nue Dae as being the return of indigenous people to country and to story. This return, so beautifully realised in when the characters finally reach Lombadina and a state of acceptance, is critical to healing the country and to the attainment of an equitable “kind of citizenship” that denotes belonging for all. References Aboriginal Tourism Australia. Welcome to Country: Respecting Indigenous Culture for Travellers in Australia. 2004. Benterrak, Krim, Stephen Muecke, and Paddy Roe. Reading the Country. Perth: Fremantle Arts Centre Press, 1984. Carter, Paul. The Lie of the Land. London: Faber & Faber, 1996. Dalton, Peter. “Broome: A Multiracial Community. A Study of Social and Cultural Relationships in a Town in the West Kimberleys, Western Australia”. Thesis for Master of Arts in Anthropology. Perth: University of Western Australia, 1964. Hunt, Susan Jane. Spinifex and Hessian: Women’s Lives in North-Western Australia 1860–1900. Nedlands, WA: U of Western Australia P, 1986. Read, Peter. Belonging: Australians, Place and Aboriginal Ownership. UK: Cambridge UP, 2000. Reynolds, Henry. North of Capricorn: The Untold History of Australia’s North. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 2003. Reynolds, Henry. Why Weren’t We Told? Ringwood, Victoria: Penguin Books Australia, 1999. Sharp, Nonie. Saltwater People: The Waves of Memory. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 2002. Shire of Greenough. Greenough River Nature Walk Trail Guide. 2005. Tuhiwai Smith, Linda. Decolonizing Methodologies. Dunedin, New Zealand: U of Otago P, 1999. Watson, Christine. Piercing the Ground. Perth: Fremantle Arts Centre P, 2003. Weightman, Llyrus. The Old Roebourne Gaol: A History. Pilbara Classies & Printing Service. Wright, Judith. The Cry for the Dead. 1981. 277-80. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Hair, Margaret. "Invisible Country." M/C Journal 8.6 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0512/09-hair.php>. APA Style Hair, M. (Dec. 2005) "Invisible Country," M/C Journal, 8(6). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0512/09-hair.php>.

Fig 1: Image from a secret Rangoon fashion shoot. Photograph: Myanmar Photo Archive / Lukas Birk. Introduction NOTE: Rangoon, Burma has been known as Yangon, Myanmar, since 2006. I use Rangoon and Burma for the period prior to 2006 and Yangon and Myanmar for the period thereafter. In addition, I have removed the name of any activist currently in Myanmar due to the recent policy of executing political prisoners. On 1 February 2021, Myanmar was again plunged into political turmoil when the military illegally overthrew the country’s democratically elected government. This is the third time Myanmar, formally known as Burma, has been subject to a coup d’état; violent seizures of power took place in 1962 and in 1988-90. While those two earlier military governments met with opposition spearheaded by students and student organisations, in 2021 the military faced organised resistance through a mass Civil Disobedience Movement (CDM) initiated by government healthcare workers who refused to come to work. They were joined by private sector “strikes” and, perhaps most visible of all to western viewers, mass street demonstrations “led” by “Gen Z” activists—young people who had come of age during Myanmar’s brief decade of democracy. There is little doubt that the success of the CDM and associated protests is due to the widespread coverage and reach of social media as well as the creative communications skills of the country’s first “generation of digital natives”, who are sufficiently familiar and comfortable with social platforms to “participate and shape their identities in communication and dialogue with global digital media content” (Jordt et al. 12 ). The leveraging of global culture, including the use of English in protest signs, was notable in garnering international media coverage and so keeping Myanmar’s political plight front-of-mind with governments around the world. Yet this is not the whole story behind the effectiveness of these campaigns. As Lisa Brooten argues, contemporary networks are built on “decades of behind-the-scenes activism to build a multi-ethnic civil society” (East Asia Forum). The leading democracy activist, Min Ko Naing, aligned “veteran activists from previous generations with novice Gen Z activists”, declaring “this revolution represents a combination of Generations X, Y and Z in fighting against the military dictatorship’” (Jordt et al. 18). Similarly, the creative strategies used by 2021’s digital campaigners also build on protests by earlier generations of young, creative people. This paper looks at two creative protest across the generations. The first is “secret” fashion photography of the late 1970s collected in Lukas Birk’s Yangon Fashion 1979 – Fashion=Resistance. The second is the contemporary #100projectors campaign, a “projection project for Myanmar democracy movement against the military dictatorship” (in the interest of full disclosure, I took part in the #100projectors project). Drawing from the contemporary advertising principle of “segmentation”, the communications practice where potential consumers are divided into “subgroups … based on specific characteristics and needs” (WARC 1), as well as contemporary thinking on the “aesthetics” of “cosmopolitanism”, (Papastergiadis, Featherstone, and Christensen), I argue that contemporary creative strategies can be traced back to the creative tactics of resistance employed by earlier generations of protesters and their re-imagining of “national space and its politics” (Christensen 556) in the interstices of cosmopolitan Rangoon, Burma, and Yangon, Myanmar. #100projectors Myanmar experienced two distinct periods of military rule, the Socialist era between 1962 and 1988 under General Ne Win and the era under the State Law and Order Restoration Council – State Peace and Development Council between 1988 and 2011. These were followed by a semi-civilian era from 2011 to 2021 (Carlson 117). The coup in 2021 marks a return to extreme forms of control, censorship, and surveillance. Ne Win’s era of military rule saw a push for Burmanisation enforced through “significant cultural restrictions”, ostensibly to protect national culture and unity, but more likely to “limit opportunities for internal dissent” (Carlson 117). Cultural restrictions applied to art, literature, film, television, as well as dress. Despite these prohibitions, in the 1970s Rangoon's young people smuggled in illegal western fashion magazines, such as Cosmopolitan and Vogue, and commissioned local tailors to make up the clothes they saw there. Bell-bottoms, mini-skirts, western-style suits were worn in “secret” fashion shoots, with the models posing for portraits at Rangoon photographic studios such as the Sino-Burmese owned Har Si Yone in Chinatown. Some of the wealthier fashionistas even came for weekly shoots. Demand was so high, a second branch devoted to these photographic sessions was opened with its own stock of costumes and accessories. Copies of these head to toe fashion portraits, printed on 12 x 4 cm paper, were shared with friends and family; keeping portrait albums was a popular practice in Burma and had been since the 1920s and 30s (Birk, Burmese Photographers 113). The photos that survive this era are collected in Lukas Birk’s Yangon Fashion 1979 – Fashion=Resistance. #100projectors was launched in February 2021 by a group of young visual and video artists with the aim of resisting the coup and demanding the return of democracy. Initially a small group of projectionists or “projector fighters”, as the title suggests they plan to amplify their voices by growing their national and international network to 100. #100projectors is one of many campaigns, movements, and fundraisers devised by artists and creatives to protest the coup and advocate for revolution in Myanmar. Other notable examples, all run by Gen Z activists, include the Easter Egg, Watermelon, Flash, and Marching Shoes strikes. The Marching Shoe Strike, which featured images of flowers in shoes, representing those who had died in protests, achieved a reach of 65.2 million in country with 1.4 million interactions across digital channels (VERO, 64) and all of these campaigns were covered by the international press, including The Guardian, Reuters, The Straits Times, and VOA East Asia Pacific Session, as well as arts magazines around the world (for example Hyperallergic, published in Brooklyn). #100projectors material has been projected in Finland, Scotland, and Australia. The campaign was written about in various art magazines and their Video #7 was screened at the Bangkok Art and Culture Centre in February 2022 as part of Defiant Art: A Year of Resistance to the Myanmar Coup. At first glance, these two examples seem distant in both their aims and achievements. Fashion photos, taken in secret and shared privately, could be more accurately described as a grassroots social practice rather than a political movement. While Birk describes the act of taking these images as “a rebellion” and “an escape” in a political climate when “a pair of flowers and a pair of sunglasses might just start a revolution”, the fashionistas’ photographs seem “ephemeral” at best, or what Mina Roces describes as the subtlest form of resistance or ‘weapons of the weak’ (Scott in Roces 7). By contrast, #100projectors has all the hallmarks of a polished communications campaign. They have a logo and slogans: “We fight for light” and “The revolution must win”. There is a media plan, which includes the use of digital channels, encrypted messaging, live broadcasts, as well as in-situ projections. Finally, there is a carefully “targeted” audience of potential projectionists. It is this process of defining a target audience, based on segmentation, that is particularly astute and sophisticated. Traditionally, segmentation defined audiences based on demographics, geodemographics, and self-identification. However, in the online era segments are more likely to be based on behaviour and activities revealed in search data as well as shares, depending on preferences for privacy and permission. Put another way, as a digital subject, “you are what you choose to share” (WARC 1). The audience for #100projectors includes artists and creative people around the world who choose to share political video art. They are connected through digital platforms including Facebook as well as encrypted messaging. Yet this contemporary description of digital subjectivity, “you are what you choose to share”, also neatly describes the Yangon fashionistas and the ways in which they resist the political status quo. Photographic portraits have always been popular in Burma and so this collection does not look especially radical. Initially, the portraits seem to speak only about status, taste, and modernity. Several subjects within the collection are shown in national or ethnic dress, in keeping with the governments edict that Burma consisted of 135 ethnicities and 8 official races. In addition, there is a portrait of a soldier in full uniform. But the majority of the images are of men and women in “modern” western gear typical of the 1970s. With their wide smiles and careful poses, these men and women look like they’re performing sophisticated worldliness as well as showing off their wealth. They are cosmopolitan adepts taking part in international culture. Status is implicit in the accessories, from sunglasses to jewellery. One portrait is shot at mid-range so that it clearly features a landline phone. In 1970s Burma, this was an object out of reach for most. Landlines were both prohibitively expensive and reserved for the true elites. To make a phone call, most people had to line up at special market stalls. To be photographed with a phone, in western clothes (to be photographed at all), seems more about aspiration than anarchy. In the context of Ne Win’s Burma, however, the portraits clearly capture a form of political agency. Burma had strict edicts for dress and comportment: kissing in public was banned and Burmese citizens were obliged to wear Burmese dress, with western styles considered degenerate. Long hair, despite being what Burmese men traditionally wore prior to colonisation, was also deemed too western and consequently “outlawed” (Edwards 133). Dress was not only proscribed but hierarchised and heavily gendered; only military men had “the right to wear trousers” (Edwards 133). Public disrespect of the all-powerful, paranoid, and vindictive military (known as “sit tat” for military or army versus “Tatmadaw” for the good Myanmar army) was dangerous bordering on the suicidal. Consequently, wearing shoulder-length hair, wide bell bottoms, western-style suits, and “risqué” mini-skirts could all be considered acts of at least daring and definitely defiance. Not only are these photographs a challenge to gender constructions in a country ruled by a hyper-masculine army, but these images also question the nature of what it meant to be Burmese at a time when Burmeseness itself was rigidly codified. Recording such acts on film and then sharing the images entailed further risk. Thus, these models are, as Mina Roces puts it, “express[ing] their agency through sartorial change” (Roces 5). Fig. 2: Image from a secret Rangoon fashion shoot – illicit dress and hair. Photograph: Myanmar Photo Archive / Lukas Birk. Fig. 3: Image from a secret Rangoon fashion shoot. Photograph: Myanmar Photo Archive / Lukas Birk. Roces also notes the “challenge” of making protest visible in spaces “severely limited” under authoritarian regimes (Roces 10). Burma under the Socialist government was a particularly difficult place in which to mount any form of resistance. Consequences included imprisonment or even execution, as in the case of the student leader Tin Maung Oo. Ma Thida, a writer and human rights advocate herself jailed for her work, explains the use of creative tools such as metaphor in a famous story about a crab by the writer and journalist Hanthawaddy U Win Tin: The crab, being hard-shelled, was well protected and could not be harmed. However, the mosquito, despite being a far smaller animal, could bite the eyes of the crab, leading to the crab’s eventual death. ... Readers drew the conclusion that the socialist government of Ne Win was the crab that could be destabilized if a weakness could be found. (Thida 317) If the metaphor of a crab defeated by a mosquito held political meaning, then being photographed in prohibited fashions was a more overt way of making defiance and resistant “visible”. While that visibility seems ephemeral, the fashionistas also found a way not only to be seen by the camera in their rebellious clothing, but also by a “public” or audience of those with whom they shared their images. The act of exchanging portraits, what Birk describes as “old-school Instagram”, anticipates not only the shared selfie, but also the basis of successful contemporary social campaigns, which relied in part on networks sharing posts to amplify their message (Birk, Yangon Fashion 17). What the fashionistas also demonstrate is that an act of rebellion can also be a means of testing the limits of conformity, of the need for beauty, of the human desire to look beautiful. Acts of rebellion are also acts of celebration and so, solidarity. Fig. 4: Image from a secret Rangoon fashion shoot – illicit dress length. Photograph: Myanmar Photo Archive / Lukas Birk. Fig. 5: Image from a secret Rangoon fashion shoot – illicit trousers. Photograph: Myanmar Photo Archive / Lukas Birk. As the art critic and cultural theorist Nikos Papastergiadis writes, “the cosmopolitan imagination in contemporary art could be defined as an aesthetic of openness that engenders a global sense of inter-connectedness” (207). Inter-connectedness and its possibilities and limits shape the aesthetic imaginary of both the secret fashion shoots of 1970s Rangoon and the artists and videographers of 2021. In the videos of the #100projectors project and the fashion portraits of stylish Rangoonites, interconnection comes as a form of aesthetic blending, a conversation that transcends the border. The sitter posing in illicit western clothes in a photo studio in the heart of Rangoon, then Burma’s capital and seat of power, cannot help but point out that borders are permeable, and that national identity is temporally-based, transitory, and full of slippages. In this spot, 40-odd years earlier, Burmese nationalists used dress as a means of publicly supporting the nationalist cause (Edwards, Roces). Like the portraits, the #100projector videos blend global and local perspectives on Myanmar. Combining paintings, drawings, graphics, performance art recordings, as well as photography, the work shares the ‘instagrammable’ quality of the Easter Egg, Watermelon, and Marching Shoes strikes with their bright colours and focus on people—or the conspicuous lack of people and the example of the Silent Strike. Graphics are in Burmese as well as English. Video #6 was linked to International Women’s Day. Other graphics reference American artists such as Shepherd Fairey and his Hope poster, which was adapted to feature Aung San Suu Kyi’s face during then-President Obama’s visit in 2012. The videos also include direct messages related to political entities such as Video #3, which voiced support for the Committee Representing Pyidaungsu Hlutaw (CRPH), a group of 15 elected MPs who represented the ideals of Gen Z youth (Jordt et al., viii). This would not necessarily be understood by an international viewer. Also of note is the prevalence of the colour red, associated with Aung San Suu Kyi’s NLD. Red is one of the three “political” colours formerly banned from paintings under SLORC. The other two were white, associated with the flowers Aung Sang Suu Kyi wore in her hair, and black, symbolic of negative feelings towards the regime (Carlson, 145). The Burmese master Aung Myint chose to paint exclusively in the banned colours as an ongoing act of defiance, and these videos reflect that history. The videos and portraits may propose that culturally, the world is interconnected. But implicit in this position is also the failure of “interconnectedness”. The question that arises with every viewing of a video or Instagram post or Facebook plea or groovy portrait is: what can these protesters, despite the risks they are prepared to take, realistically expect from the rest of the world in terms of help to remove the unwanted military government? Interconnected or not, political misfortune is the most effective form of national border. Perhaps the most powerful imaginative association with both the #100projectors video projections and fashionistas portraits is the promise of transformation, in particular the transformations possible in a city like Rangoon / Yangon. In his discussion of the cosmopolitan space of the city, Christensen notes that although “digital transformations touch vast swathes of political, economic and everyday life”, it is the city that retains supreme significance as a space not easily reducible to an entity beneath the national, regional, or global (556). The city is dynamic, “governed by the structural forces of politics and economy as well as moralities and solidarities of both conservative and liberal sorts”, where “othered voices and imaginaries find presence” in a mix that leads to “contestations” (556). Both the fashionistas and the video artists of the #100projectors use their creative work to contest the ‘national’ space from the interstices of the city. In the studio these transformations of the bodies of Burmese subjects into international “citizens of the world” contest Ne Win’s Burma and reimagine the idea of nation. They take place in the Chinatown, a relic of the old, colonial Rangoon, a plural city and one of the world’s largest migrant ports, where "mobility, foreignness and cross-cultural hybridity" were essential to its make-up (Aung Thin 778). In their instructions on how to project their ideas as a form of public art to gain audience, the #100projectors artists suggest projectors get “full on creative with other ways: projecting on people, outdoor cinema, gallery projection” (#100projectors). It is this idea projection as an overlay, a doubling of the everyday that evokes the possibility of transformation. The #100projector videos screen on Rangoon bridges, reconfiguring the city, albeit temporarily. Meanwhile, Rangoon is doubled onto other cities, towns, villages, communities, projected onto screens but also walls, fences, the sides of buildings in Finland, Scotland, Australia, and elsewhere. Conclusion In this article I have compared the recent #100projectors creative campaign of resistance against the 2021 coup d’état in Myanmar with the “fashionistas” of 1970 and their “secret” photo shoots. While the #100projectors is a contemporary digital campaign, some of the creative tactics employed, such as dissemination and identifying audiences, can be traced back to the practices of Rangoon’s fashionistas of the 1970s. ­­Creative resistance begins with an act of imagination. The creative strategies of resistance examined here share certain imaginative qualities of connection, a privileging of the ‘cosmopolitan’ and ‘interconnectedness’ as well as the transformativity of actual space, with the streets of Rangoon, itself a cosmopolitan city. References @100projectors Instagram account. <https://www.instagram.com/100projectors/>. @Artphy_1 Instagram account. <https://www.instagram.com/artphy_1/>. 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By the time you read this, it will be wrong. Things seemed to be moving so fast in these first days after airplanes crashed into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and the Pennsylvania earth. Each certainty is as carelessly dropped as it was once carelessly assumed. The sounds of lower Manhattan that used to serve as white noise for residents—sirens, screeches, screams—are no longer signs without a referent. Instead, they make folks stare and stop, hurry and hustle, wondering whether the noises we know so well are in fact, this time, coefficients of a new reality. At the time of writing, the events themselves are also signs without referents—there has been no direct claim of responsibility, and little proof offered by accusers since the 11th. But it has been assumed that there is a link to US foreign policy, its military and economic presence in the Arab world, and opposition to it that seeks revenge. In the intervening weeks the US media and the war planners have supplied their own narrow frameworks, making New York’s “ground zero” into the starting point for a new escalation of global violence. We want to write here about the combination of sources and sensations that came that day, and the jumble of knowledges and emotions that filled our minds. Working late the night before, Toby was awoken in the morning by one of the planes right overhead. That happens sometimes. I have long expected a crash when I’ve heard the roar of jet engines so close—but I didn’t this time. Often when that sound hits me, I get up and go for a run down by the water, just near Wall Street. Something kept me back that day. Instead, I headed for my laptop. Because I cannot rely on local media to tell me very much about the role of the US in world affairs, I was reading the British newspaper The Guardian on-line when it flashed a two-line report about the planes. I looked up at the calendar above my desk to see whether it was April 1st. Truly. Then I got off-line and turned on the TV to watch CNN. That second, the phone rang. My quasi-ex-girlfriend I’m still in love with called from the mid-West. She was due to leave that day for the Bay Area. Was I alright? We spoke for a bit. She said my cell phone was out, and indeed it was for the remainder of the day. As I hung up from her, my friend Ana rang, tearful and concerned. Her husband, Patrick, had left an hour before for work in New Jersey, and it seemed like a dangerous separation. All separations were potentially fatal that day. You wanted to know where everyone was, every minute. She told me she had been trying to contact Palestinian friends who worked and attended school near the event—their ethnic, religious, and national backgrounds made for real poignancy, as we both thought of the prejudice they would (probably) face, regardless of the eventual who/what/when/where/how of these events. We agreed to meet at Bruno’s, a bakery on La Guardia Place. For some reason I really took my time, though, before getting to Ana. I shampooed and shaved under the shower. This was a horror, and I needed to look my best, even as men and women were losing and risking their lives. I can only interpret what I did as an attempt to impose normalcy and control on the situation, on my environment. When I finally made it down there, she’d located our friends. They were safe. We stood in the street and watched the Towers. Horrified by the sight of human beings tumbling to their deaths, we turned to buy a tea/coffee—again some ludicrous normalization—but were drawn back by chilling screams from the street. Racing outside, we saw the second Tower collapse, and clutched at each other. People were streaming towards us from further downtown. We decided to be with our Palestinian friends in their apartment. When we arrived, we learnt that Mark had been four minutes away from the WTC when the first plane hit. I tried to call my daughter in London and my father in Canberra, but to no avail. I rang the mid-West, and asked my maybe-former novia to call England and Australia to report in on me. Our friend Jenine got through to relatives on the West Bank. Israeli tanks had commenced a bombardment there, right after the planes had struck New York. Family members spoke to her from under the kitchen table, where they were taking refuge from the shelling of their house. Then we gave ourselves over to television, like so many others around the world, even though these events were happening only a mile away. We wanted to hear official word, but there was just a huge absence—Bush was busy learning to read in Florida, then leading from the front in Louisiana and Nebraska. As the day wore on, we split up and regrouped, meeting folks. One guy was in the subway when smoke filled the car. Noone could breathe properly, people were screaming, and his only thought was for his dog DeNiro back in Brooklyn. From the panic of the train, he managed to call his mom on a cell to ask her to feed “DeNiro” that night, because it looked like he wouldn’t get home. A pregnant woman feared for her unborn as she fled the blasts, pushing the stroller with her baby in it as she did so. Away from these heart-rending tales from strangers, there was the fear: good grief, what horrible price would the US Government extract for this, and who would be the overt and covert agents and targets of that suffering? What blood-lust would this generate? What would be the pattern of retaliation and counter-retaliation? What would become of civil rights and cultural inclusiveness? So a jumble of emotions came forward, I assume in all of us. Anger was not there for me, just intense sorrow, shock, and fear, and the desire for intimacy. Network television appeared to offer me that, but in an ultimately unsatisfactory way. For I think I saw the end-result of reality TV that day. I have since decided to call this ‘emotionalization’—network TV’s tendency to substitute analysis of US politics and economics with a stress on feelings. Of course, powerful emotions have been engaged by this horror, and there is value in addressing that fact and letting out the pain. I certainly needed to do so. But on that day and subsequent ones, I looked to the networks, traditional sources of current-affairs knowledge, for just that—informed, multi-perspectival journalism that would allow me to make sense of my feelings, and come to a just and reasoned decision about how the US should respond. I waited in vain. No such commentary came forward. Just a lot of asinine inquiries from reporters that were identical to those they pose to basketballers after a game: Question—‘How do you feel now?’ Answer—‘God was with me today.’ For the networks were insistent on asking everyone in sight how they felt about the end of las torres gemelas. In this case, we heard the feelings of survivors, firefighters, viewers, media mavens, Republican and Democrat hacks, and vacuous Beltway state-of-the-nation pundits. But learning of the military-political economy, global inequality, and ideologies and organizations that made for our grief and loss—for that, there was no space. TV had forgotten how to do it. My principal feeling soon became one of frustration. So I headed back to where I began the day—The Guardian web site, where I was given insightful analysis of the messy factors of history, religion, economics, and politics that had created this situation. As I dealt with the tragedy of folks whose lives had been so cruelly lost, I pondered what it would take for this to stop. Or whether this was just the beginning. I knew one thing—the answers wouldn’t come from mainstream US television, no matter how full of feelings it was. And that made Toby anxious. And afraid. He still is. And so the dreams come. In one, I am suddenly furloughed from my job with an orchestra, as audience numbers tumble. I make my evening-wear way to my locker along with the other players, emptying it of bubble gum and instrument. The next night, I see a gigantic, fifty-feet high wave heading for the city beach where I’ve come to swim. Somehow I am sheltered behind a huge wall, as all the people around me die. Dripping, I turn to find myself in a media-stereotype “crack house” of the early ’90s—desperate-looking black men, endless doorways, sudden police arrival, and my earnest search for a passport that will explain away my presence. I awake in horror, to the realization that the passport was already open and stamped—racialization at work for Toby, every day and in every way, as a white man in New York City. Ana’s husband, Patrick, was at work ten miles from Manhattan when “it” happened. In the hallway, I overheard some talk about two planes crashing, but went to teach anyway in my usual morning stupor. This was just the usual chatter of disaster junkies. I didn’t hear the words, “World Trade Center” until ten thirty, at the end of the class at the college I teach at in New Jersey, across the Hudson river. A friend and colleague walked in and told me the news of the attack, to which I replied “You must be fucking joking.” He was a little offended. Students were milling haphazardly on the campus in the late summer weather, some looking panicked like me. My first thought was of some general failure of the air-traffic control system. There must be planes falling out of the sky all over the country. Then the height of the towers: how far towards our apartment in Greenwich Village would the towers fall? Neither of us worked in the financial district a mile downtown, but was Ana safe? Where on the college campus could I see what was happening? I recognized the same physical sensation I had felt the morning after Hurricane Andrew in Miami seeing at a distance the wreckage of our shattered apartment across a suburban golf course strewn with debris and flattened power lines. Now I was trapped in the suburbs again at an unbridgeable distance from my wife and friends who were witnessing the attacks first hand. Were they safe? What on earth was going on? This feeling of being cut off, my path to the familiar places of home blocked, remained for weeks my dominant experience of the disaster. In my office, phone calls to the city didn’t work. There were six voice-mail messages from my teenaged brother Alex in small-town England giving a running commentary on the attack and its aftermath that he was witnessing live on television while I dutifully taught my writing class. “Hello, Patrick, where are you? Oh my god, another plane just hit the towers. Where are you?” The web was choked: no access to newspapers online. Email worked, but no one was wasting time writing. My office window looked out over a soccer field to the still woodlands of western New Jersey: behind me to the east the disaster must be unfolding. Finally I found a website with a live stream from ABC television, which I watched flickering and stilted on the tiny screen. It had all already happened: both towers already collapsed, the Pentagon attacked, another plane shot down over Pennsylvania, unconfirmed reports said, there were other hijacked aircraft still out there unaccounted for. Manhattan was sealed off. George Washington Bridge, Lincoln and Holland tunnels, all the bridges and tunnels from New Jersey I used to mock shut down. Police actions sealed off the highways into “the city.” The city I liked to think of as the capital of the world was cut off completely from the outside, suddenly vulnerable and under siege. There was no way to get home. The phone rang abruptly and Alex, three thousand miles away, told me he had spoken to Ana earlier and she was safe. After a dozen tries, I managed to get through and spoke to her, learning that she and Toby had seen people jumping and then the second tower fall. Other friends had been even closer. Everyone was safe, we thought. I sat for another couple of hours in my office uselessly. The news was incoherent, stories contradictory, loops of the planes hitting the towers only just ready for recycling. The attacks were already being transformed into “the World Trade Center Disaster,” not yet the ahistorical singularity of the emergency “nine one one.” Stranded, I had to spend the night in New Jersey at my boss’s house, reminded again of the boundless generosity of Americans to relative strangers. In an effort to protect his young son from the as yet unfiltered images saturating cable and Internet, my friend’s TV set was turned off and we did our best to reassure. We listened surreptitiously to news bulletins on AM radio, hoping that the roads would open. Walking the dog with my friend’s wife and son we crossed a park on the ridge on which Upper Montclair sits. Ten miles away a huge column of smoke was rising from lower Manhattan, where the stunning absence of the towers was clearly visible. The summer evening was unnervingly still. We kicked a soccer ball around on the front lawn and a woman walked distracted by, shocked and pale up the tree-lined suburban street, suffering her own wordless trauma. I remembered that though most of my students were ordinary working people, Montclair is a well-off dormitory for the financial sector and high rises of Wall Street and Midtown. For the time being, this was a white-collar disaster. I slept a short night in my friend’s house, waking to hope I had dreamed it all, and took the commuter train in with shell-shocked bankers and corporate types. All men, all looking nervously across the river toward glimpses of the Manhattan skyline as the train neared Hoboken. “I can’t believe they’re making us go in,” one guy had repeated on the station platform. He had watched the attacks from his office in Midtown, “The whole thing.” Inside the train we all sat in silence. Up from the PATH train station on 9th street I came onto a carless 6th Avenue. At 14th street barricades now sealed off downtown from the rest of the world. I walked down the middle of the avenue to a newspaper stand; the Indian proprietor shrugged “No deliveries below 14th.” I had not realized that the closer to the disaster you came, the less information would be available. Except, I assumed, for the evidence of my senses. But at 8 am the Village was eerily still, few people about, nothing in the sky, including the twin towers. I walked to Houston Street, which was full of trucks and police vehicles. Tractor trailers sat carrying concrete barriers. Below Houston, each street into Soho was barricaded and manned by huddles of cops. I had walked effortlessly up into the “lockdown,” but this was the “frozen zone.” There was no going further south towards the towers. I walked the few blocks home, found my wife sleeping, and climbed into bed, still in my clothes from the day before. “Your heart is racing,” she said. I realized that I hadn’t known if I would get back, and now I never wanted to leave again; it was still only eight thirty am. Lying there, I felt the terrible wonder of a distant bystander for the first-hand witness. Ana’s face couldn’t tell me what she had seen. I felt I needed to know more, to see and understand. Even though I knew the effort was useless: I could never bridge that gap that had trapped me ten miles away, my back turned to the unfolding disaster. The television was useless: we don’t have cable, and the mast on top of the North Tower, which Ana had watched fall, had relayed all the network channels. I knew I had to go down and see the wreckage. Later I would realize how lucky I had been not to suffer from “disaster envy.” Unbelievably, in retrospect, I commuted into work the second day after the attack, dogged by the same unnerving sensation that I would not get back—to the wounded, humbled former center of the world. My students were uneasy, all talked out. I was a novelty, a New Yorker living in the Village a mile from the towers, but I was forty-eight hours late. Out of place in both places. I felt torn up, but not angry. Back in the city at night, people were eating and drinking with a vengeance, the air filled with acrid sicklysweet smoke from the burning wreckage. Eyes stang and nose ran with a bitter acrid taste. Who knows what we’re breathing in, we joked nervously. A friend’s wife had fallen out with him for refusing to wear a protective mask in the house. He shrugged a wordlessly reassuring smile. What could any of us do? I walked with Ana down to the top of West Broadway from where the towers had commanded the skyline over SoHo; downtown dense smoke blocked the view to the disaster. A crowd of onlookers pushed up against the barricades all day, some weeping, others gawping. A tall guy was filming the grieving faces with a video camera, which was somehow the worst thing of all, the first sign of the disaster tourism that was already mushrooming downtown. Across the street an Asian artist sat painting the street scene in streaky black and white; he had scrubbed out two white columns where the towers would have been. “That’s the first thing I’ve seen that’s made me feel any better,” Ana said. We thanked him, but he shrugged blankly, still in shock I supposed. On the Friday, the clampdown. I watched the Mayor and Police Chief hold a press conference in which they angrily told the stream of volunteers to “ground zero” that they weren’t needed. “We can handle this ourselves. We thank you. But we don’t need your help,” Commissioner Kerik said. After the free-for-all of the first couple of days, with its amazing spontaneities and common gestures of goodwill, the clampdown was going into effect. I decided to go down to Canal Street and see if it was true that no one was welcome anymore. So many paths through the city were blocked now. “Lock down, frozen zone, war zone, the site, combat zone, ground zero, state troopers, secured perimeter, national guard, humvees, family center”: a disturbing new vocabulary that seemed to stamp the logic of Giuliani’s sanitized and over-policed Manhattan onto the wounded hulk of the city. The Mayor had been magnificent in the heat of the crisis; Churchillian, many were saying—and indeed, Giuliani quickly appeared on the cover of Cigar Afficionado, complete with wing collar and the misquotation from Kipling, “Captain Courageous.” Churchill had not believed in peacetime politics either, and he never got over losing his empire. Now the regime of command and control over New York’s citizens and its economy was being stabilized and reimposed. The sealed-off, disfigured, and newly militarized spaces of the New York through which I have always loved to wander at all hours seemed to have been put beyond reach for the duration. And, in the new post-“9/11” post-history, the duration could last forever. The violence of the attacks seemed to have elicited a heavy-handed official reaction that sought to contain and constrict the best qualities of New York. I felt more anger at the clampdown than I did at the demolition of the towers. I knew this was unreasonable, but I feared the reaction, the spread of the racial harassment and racial profiling that I had already heard of from my students in New Jersey. This militarizing of the urban landscape seemed to negate the sprawling, freewheeling, boundless largesse and tolerance on which New York had complacently claimed a monopoly. For many the towers stood for that as well, not just as the monumental outposts of global finance that had been attacked. Could the American flag mean something different? For a few days, perhaps—on the helmets of firemen and construction workers. But not for long. On the Saturday, I found an unmanned barricade way east along Canal Street and rode my bike past throngs of Chinatown residents, by the Federal jail block where prisoners from the first World Trade Center bombing were still being held. I headed south and west towards Tribeca; below the barricades in the frozen zone, you could roam freely, the cops and soldiers assuming you belonged there. I felt uneasy, doubting my own motives for being there, feeling the blood drain from my head in the same numbing shock I’d felt every time I headed downtown towards the site. I looped towards Greenwich Avenue, passing an abandoned bank full of emergency supplies and boxes of protective masks. Crushed cars still smeared with pulverized concrete and encrusted with paperwork strewn by the blast sat on the street near the disabled telephone exchange. On one side of the avenue stood a horde of onlookers, on the other television crews, all looking two blocks south towards a colossal pile of twisted and smoking steel, seven stories high. We were told to stay off the street by long-suffering national guardsmen and women with southern accents, kids. Nothing happening, just the aftermath. The TV crews were interviewing worn-out, dust-covered volunteers and firemen who sat quietly leaning against the railings of a park filled with scraps of paper. Out on the West Side highway, a high-tech truck was offering free cellular phone calls. The six lanes by the river were full of construction machinery and military vehicles. Ambulances rolled slowly uptown, bodies inside? I locked my bike redundantly to a lamppost and crossed under the hostile gaze of plainclothes police to another media encampment. On the path by the river, two camera crews were complaining bitterly in the heat. “After five days of this I’ve had enough.” They weren’t talking about the trauma, bodies, or the wreckage, but censorship. “Any blue light special gets to roll right down there, but they see your press pass and it’s get outta here. I’ve had enough.” I fronted out the surly cops and ducked under the tape onto the path, walking onto a Pier on which we’d spent many lazy afternoons watching the river at sunset. Dust everywhere, police boats docked and waiting, a crane ominously dredging mud into a barge. I walked back past the camera operators onto the highway and walked up to an interview in process. Perfectly composed, a fire chief and his crew from some small town in upstate New York were politely declining to give details about what they’d seen at “ground zero.” The men’s faces were dust streaked, their eyes slightly dazed with the shock of a horror previously unimaginable to most Americans. They were here to help the best they could, now they’d done as much as anyone could. “It’s time for us to go home.” The chief was eloquent, almost rehearsed in his precision. It was like a Magnum press photo. But he was refusing to cooperate with the media’s obsessive emotionalism. I walked down the highway, joining construction workers, volunteers, police, and firemen in their hundreds at Chambers Street. No one paid me any attention; it was absurd. I joined several other watchers on the stairs by Stuyvesant High School, which was now the headquarters for the recovery crews. Just two or three blocks away, the huge jagged teeth of the towers’ beautiful tracery lurched out onto the highway above huge mounds of debris. The TV images of the shattered scene made sense as I placed them into what was left of a familiar Sunday afternoon geography of bike rides and walks by the river, picnics in the park lying on the grass and gazing up at the infinite solidity of the towers. Demolished. It was breathtaking. If “they” could do that, they could do anything. Across the street at tables military policeman were checking credentials of the milling volunteers and issuing the pink and orange tags that gave access to ground zero. Without warning, there was a sudden stampede running full pelt up from the disaster site, men and women in fatigues, burly construction workers, firemen in bunker gear. I ran a few yards then stopped. Other people milled around idly, ignoring the panic, smoking and talking in low voices. It was a mainly white, blue-collar scene. All these men wearing flags and carrying crowbars and flashlights. In their company, the intolerance and rage I associated with flags and construction sites was nowhere to be seen. They were dealing with a torn and twisted otherness that dwarfed machismo or bigotry. I talked to a moustachioed, pony-tailed construction worker who’d hitched a ride from the mid-west to “come and help out.” He was staying at the Y, he said, it was kind of rough. “Have you been down there?” he asked, pointing towards the wreckage. “You’re British, you weren’t in World War Two were you?” I replied in the negative. “It’s worse ’n that. I went down last night and you can’t imagine it. You don’t want to see it if you don’t have to.” Did I know any welcoming ladies? he asked. The Y was kind of tough. When I saw TV images of President Bush speaking to the recovery crews and steelworkers at “ground zero” a couple of days later, shouting through a bullhorn to chants of “USA, USA” I knew nothing had changed. New York’s suffering was subject to a second hijacking by the brokers of national unity. New York had never been America, and now its terrible human loss and its great humanity were redesignated in the name of the nation, of the coming war. The signs without a referent were being forcibly appropriated, locked into an impoverished patriotic framework, interpreted for “us” by a compliant media and an opportunistic regime eager to reign in civil liberties, to unloose its war machine and tighten its grip on the Muslim world. That day, drawn to the river again, I had watched F18 fighter jets flying patterns over Manhattan as Bush’s helicopters came in across the river. Otherwise empty of air traffic, “our” skies were being torn up by the military jets: it was somehow the worst sight yet, worse than the wreckage or the bands of disaster tourists on Canal Street, a sign of further violence yet to come. There was a carrier out there beyond New York harbor, there to protect us: the bruising, blustering city once open to all comers. That felt worst of all. In the intervening weeks, we have seen other, more unstable ways of interpreting the signs of September 11 and its aftermath. Many have circulated on the Internet, past the blockages and blockades placed on urban spaces and intellectual life. Karl-Heinz Stockhausen’s work was banished (at least temporarily) from the canon of avant-garde electronic music when he described the attack on las torres gemelas as akin to a work of art. If Jacques Derrida had described it as an act of deconstruction (turning technological modernity literally in on itself), or Jean Baudrillard had announced that the event was so thick with mediation it had not truly taken place, something similar would have happened to them (and still may). This is because, as Don DeLillo so eloquently put it in implicit reaction to the plaintive cry “Why do they hate us?”: “it is the power of American culture to penetrate every wall, home, life and mind”—whether via military action or cultural iconography. All these positions are correct, however grisly and annoying they may be. What GK Chesterton called the “flints and tiles” of nineteenth-century European urban existence were rent asunder like so many victims of high-altitude US bombing raids. As a First-World disaster, it became knowable as the first-ever US “ground zero” such precisely through the high premium immediately set on the lives of Manhattan residents and the rarefied discussion of how to commemorate the high-altitude towers. When, a few weeks later, an American Airlines plane crashed on take-off from Queens, that borough was left open to all comers. Manhattan was locked down, flown over by “friendly” bombers. In stark contrast to the open if desperate faces on the street of 11 September, people went about their business with heads bowed even lower than is customary. Contradictory deconstructions and valuations of Manhattan lives mean that September 11 will live in infamy and hyper-knowability. The vengeful United States government and population continue on their way. Local residents must ponder insurance claims, real-estate values, children’s terrors, and their own roles in something beyond their ken. New York had been forced beyond being the center of the financial world. It had become a military target, a place that was receiving as well as dispatching the slings and arrows of global fortune. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Deer, Patrick and Miller, Toby. "A Day That Will Live In … ?" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.1 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0203/adaythat.php>. Chicago Style Deer, Patrick and Miller, Toby, "A Day That Will Live In … ?" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 1 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0203/adaythat.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Deer, Patrick and Miller, Toby. (2002) A Day That Will Live In … ?. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(1). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0203/adaythat.php> ([your date of access]).

The South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) commenced in 1996, providing high hopes to those concerned with change and redress. By many it was seen as the first stage in the reconciliation process. Former General Secretary of the South African Council of Churches, Reverend Frank Chikane, himself a victim of attempted murder when poisoned with nerve gas, likened the role of the TRC in the disclosure and forgiveness process to the confessional, and suggested that "there can be no absolution without confession." However, Methodist bishop and long-time apartheid activist Peter Storey cautioned that "One of our problems is that we’re trying to find a legal framework for what is essentially a spiritual and psychological process." "The Promotion of National Unity and Reconciliation Act, No 34 of 1995" states that "amnesty shall be granted in respect of acts, omissions and offences associated with political objectives committed in the course of the conflicts of the past", on the basis of full disclosure. The hearings are over, the committees nearing completion, and on 29 October 1998, the Final Report of the TRC was handed to President Nelson Mandela. Now we have five neatly bound volumes, but how much has changed in the lives of those who have suffered gross human rights violations at the hands of the perpetrators? Some want retribution and will not rest until those who have tortured, abducted or murdered their loved ones or themselves have been tried and convicted. Others just want to bury their loved ones, along with "this shameful chapter of our history." Decisions on who will be granted amnesty linger since the hearings closed. Gillian Slovo, daughter of the late South African Communist Party leader, Joe Slovo, and his wife Ruth First, is one of those who is unwilling to let things rest. Her mother was killed by a letter bomb allegedly intended for Joe Slovo in 1982. She comments on the amnesty hearing of her mother’s killer, former student spy Craig Williamson: "We remembered the incredulity on the faces of the members of the committee when [Williamson] told the committee how he had looked at the intercepted envelope and seen the address, the postal mark and the logo, but not the name of the addressee." The Slovo family has now filed an application in the Cape High Court to set aside the amnesty accorded Williamson, whose testimony seemed contradictory, and not to meet the requirements of full disclosure. And what of reparations to the victims of these human rights violations? An initial payment of R30 million rand (approximately $US 3, 844, 000) was made. People who were part of the ‘urgent interim reparations’ payment received in the region of R2000 rands (approximately $US 250). In the case of those who have lost a loved one, says Duma Khumalo, a founding member of the Khulumani (Speak Out!) Support Group, and himself granted a stay of execution just 15 hours before he was to be hanged for a crime he did not commit, this has the effect of "the victims selling their dead." The government now wrangles over whether further payments will be made, urging business to engage in reparations payments, with business declining to do so on the grounds that it is the role of the state. In the meantime, the suffering of victims seems to have become something of a political football. Where does this leave us on the issue of forgiveness? There are two equally important parts to the issue of ‘sorry’: ‘I am sorry’, and ‘I hear that you are sorry, and I forgive you.’ Many South Africans feel that insult has been added to injury, because an assumption seems to have been made by some perpetrators that, having apologised, they must naturally be forgiven. This is at worst arrogant, and at best naïve. As anyone who has been through any kind of act of betrayal can attest, the healing process and forgiveness, take time. As Clarissa Pinkola Estes wrote in Women Who Run With the Wolves, forgiveness is not "a singular act to be completed in one sitting", but has "many layers, many seasons." For many the concept of ‘re’-conciliation is inappropriate, as this suggests a restoration of positive relations that existed in the past. However, for all but the youngest generation of South Africans, division and/or discrimination is all that they’ve known. To some, conciliation seems more appropriate. Others see reconciliation as a personal process and journey of coming to terms with a painful history, and reconciling only within oneself. Still others have abandoned the idea of reconciliation and aim instead for resolution. As Gavin Harrison says, "Sometimes things are also resolved when a situation is clearly comprehended, when all personal work relating to the situation is done, and you realise that, for whatever reason, full reconciliation is just not possible right now." The mainstream media has become noticeably quiet in recent months on the issue of reparations. It would seem that after extensive coverage of the hearings, and then of the tensions between government and the TRC, they too have become burnt out. What has captured their attention, however, and the attention of the public at large, is the controversial Declaration of Commitment by White South Africans, initiated by apartheid activist Carl Niehaus and others. Sociology lecturer at the University of the Witwatersrand, Eddie Webster observes ironically that "it seems as if the signatories are largely drawn (with the puzzling exception of the South African rugby team) from prominent anti-apartheid figures." Quite absent from the signatories is the "white leader who will say, ‘We had an evil system with awful consequences. Please forgive us’" for whom Bishop Tutu had wished in his Forward to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission Final Report. The absence of such a leader, says Tutu now, remains his biggest regret. (It should also be noted that a number of black South Africans chose to sign the declaration in support of the initiative.) Possibly the best we can hope for are more people like Wilhelm Verwoerd, grandson of the architect of apartheid, Hendrik Verwoerd, whose openness about his own painful personal revolution can provide us with inspiration. Verwoerd reminds us that: "As a beneficiary [of apartheid] I thus tend to take for granted my good education, my ownership of a house in town and my access to a family holiday home near the beach, my inheritance from parents, my relatively high income and low risk of unemployment. While individual effort and skill must be acknowledged, it is important to unmask a false, overconfident sense of entitlement, to help white South Africans see how much of what we have is built on unfair, systematic privileging." Perhaps he can symbolise for us that hope lies not in the ‘New South Africa’, but in the new generation of South Africans, committed to change, and not waiting for government or big business to ‘do it for us.’ There are ever-increasing television documentaries about ordinary South Africans, black and white, "who never made a proclamation or held an office, but were handed a place [in South Africa] and are quietly making a life out of it" (Dietz). Such people seem often the strangest of bedfellows, stumbling around in the dark together and finding creative solutions to apparently insurmountable problems. Not politicians or academics, just ordinary people, with the ability to say ‘I am sorry, I will try to make amends.’ Equally important is the ability to say, ‘I recognise that you are sorry, and I will give you another chance.’ This, not the 1994 first democratic election, is the real miracle of South Africa. References Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation and Khulumani Support Group. "Submission to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission: Survivors’ Perceptions of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and Suggestions for the Final Report." 1998. http://www.csvr.org.za/papers/papkhul.htm Downloaded 22 January 2001. Chikane, Frank. "The Role of Truth Commissions in the Process of Reconciliation in South Africa." Seminar presented at the Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation, 1 June 1994. Cronin, Jeremy. "Sorry Can Help, But on Its Own Its Not Enough." Mail and Guardian 12 January (2001). http://www.sn.apc.org/wmail/issues/010112/OTHER50.html Downloaded 22 January 2001. Daniels, Glenda. "Superspy’s Pardon Challenged." Mail and Guardian 15 December (2000).http://www.mg.co.za/mg/za/archive/2000dec/features/15dec-craig.html Downloaded 22 January 2001. "Declaration of Commitment by White South Africans." http://www.homeforall.org.za/ENG/declarationENG.htm Downloaded 22 January 2001. Dietz, Steven. "Lonely Planet: Preface." Dramatist’s Play Service, 1994. http://sunsite.wits.ac.za/holistic/loneplan.htm Downloaded 22 January 2001. Estes, Clarissa Pinkola. Women Who Run With the Wolves. London: Rider, 1992. Friedman, Steven. "Too Afraid To Leave the Laagers." Mail and Guardian 5 January (2001). http://www.mg.co.za/mg/za/features/friedman/010105-friedman.html Downloaded 22 January 2001. Harrisson, Gavin. In the Lap of the Buddha. Boston, MA: Shambhala, 1994. Khumalo, Duma. Personal communication. 6 February 2001. "Mad Scientists": South Africa’s Chemical and Biological Warfare Projects. http://www.geocities.com/project_coast/index.html Downloaded 22 January 2001. Miller, Andie. "A Time To Remember." Odyssey 19.4 (1995). http://www.csvr.org.za/articles/artrcod.htm Downloaded 22 January 2001. Powell, Ivor. "Where have all the apartheid bastards gone?" Mail and Guardian, 21 June (2000). http://www.mg.co.za/mg/news/2000jun2/21jun-bastards.html Downloaded 22 January 2001. Promotion of National Unity and Reconciliation Act, No. 34 of 1995. http://www.truth.org.za/legal/index.htm Downloaded 22 January 2001. Reparations Update, June 2000. http://www.reconciliation.org.za/cgi.pl?&page=http://www.reconciliation.org.za/repare/jun00.htm Downloaded 22 January 2001. Slovo, Gillian. Red Dust. London: Virago P, 2000. Storey, Peter. "Reconciliation and Civil Society." Making Ends Meet: Reconciliation and Reconstruction in South Africa (Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation conference), World Trade Centre, Johannesburg, 18 August 1994. http://www.csvr.org.za/papers/papstory.htm Downloaded 22 January 2001. Truth and Reconciliation Commission Final Report, 29 October 1998. http://www.struth.org.za/index.pl?&file=report/index.htm Downloaded 22 January 2001. Truth and Reconciliation Commission Special Hearings on Prisons: Duma Khumalo, 22 July 1997. http://www.truth.org.za/special/prison/khumalo.htm Downloaded 22 January 2001. Verwoerd, Wilhelm. My Winds of Change. New York: Raven Press, 1998. ---. "The TRC and Apartheid Beneficiaries in a New Dispensation." Lecture delivered at "Politics and Promises: Evaluating the Implementation of the TRC’s Recommendations" conference, Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation, Johannesburg, 27 October 2000. http://www.csvr.org.za/articles/artrcver.htm Downloaded 22 January 2001. Webster, Eddie. "It’s Too Late for Symbolic Gestures." Mail and Guardian, 12 January 2001. http://www.sn.apc.org/wmail/issues/010112/OTHER49.html Downloaded 22 January 2001.