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Raymond Tsang reviews Yau Ching, Wet Dreams in Paradise (天堂春夢 二十世紀香港電影史論).

Yau Ching, Wet Dreams in Paradise (天堂春夢 二十世紀香港電影史論). Taipei: Linking, 2024. ISBN: 978-957-08-7296-5. NT$600 

As recent film and media studies have shifted focus away from texts, authors, production to technologies, environments and posthuman infrastructures – drawing inspiration from archaeological and ecological approaches – one might ask why we might read Yau Ching’s recent book Wet Dreams in Paradise that re-centers genre, history and authors in Hong Kong film history. To address this question, we need to contextualize the issue. 

Following the Anti-Extradition Law Movement (2019) and the establishment of the national security law (2020) in Hong Kong, Chief Executive John Lee suggested in his 2022 Policy Address that people in Hong Kong need to “tell good stories of Hong Kong.” By this, he meant attracting more global capital and investors to Hong Kong to ensure stability and prosperity while affirming faith in the “One Country, Two Systems,” a constitutional principle that has allowed Hong Kong to maintain connections with markets in Mainland China and the Association of Southeast Asian Nations. Since then, the phrase “telling good stories of Hong Kong” (shuo hao xiang gang gushi 說好香港故事) has become prevalent in everyday discourse. 

However, telling stories – particularly stories about Hong Kong – is difficult. As cultural critic Leung Ping-Kwan suggested, “These stories do not necessarily tell us anything about Hong Kong, they just reveal something about the ones who tell the stories. The stories tell us what side someone stands on when they speak.” The question, “Why is the story of Hong Kong so difficult to tell?” was also explored by film scholar Ng Ho in the mid-1990s; Ng describes Hong Kong film as “historically retarded” (lishi chidai zheng 歷史痴呆症), often ignoring historical accuracy in favor of exalting and participating in global postmodern culture. Yau’s book serves as a reminder that to tell good stories, we must draw on the resources we have. As Yau comments in an interview, “It is about how we learn from historical resources, and consistently open paths to alternative knowledge production.” She emphasizes the importance of understanding our origins and exploring future possibilities. To tell good stories, she says, we need to move beyond the “position” people take and consider the diversity of resources available or hidden.

Yau’s book is not purely a film survey. It revolves around three main intersecting themes: Chinese leftism, gender and sexuality, and Hong Kong identity. Her methodology is primarily genre analysis, searching for ironies in various historical encounters, and correcting and rethinking stereotypes associated with certain hackneyed concepts and figures. But why genre analysis? Genre films – such as martial arts, costume dramas, crime, horror and thrillers – remain representative of Hong Kong film culture. Consider the global and mainland Chinese perception of Hong Kong films. The fact that Hong Kong filmmakers, whose expertise lies in genre filmmaking, went to the mainland for co-productions – including Andrew Lau and Tsui Hark, known for their work in gangster and action films, and who collaborated with the Chinese government and investors to remake revolutionary model plays and Communist propaganda like The Taking of Tiger Mountain (2014) and The Founding of the Army (2017) –  demonstrates that genre analysis also serves as a form of historical, socio-cultural and ideological analysis.

Unlike many Hong Kong film scholars who begin the history of Hong Kong cinema by discussing its origin or the first distributors and exhibitors, Yau does not start with a rigid late nineteenth century beginning but rather examines the metaphor of “twin sisters” between Hong Kong and Shanghai film industries in the 1930s. The metaphor refers to the characters in Chinese melodramas, the Hong Kong and Shanghai film industries, and the binary position between Chinese Communist Party and the Kuomintang of that decade. In her film analysis, the “twin sisters” share the same umbilical cord, which Yau identifies as the irony of leftism. She pays attention to the evolving meaning of the term “left” or “left-leaning” and unpacks the articulation between leftism and gender in 1930s Shanghai, noting how Hong Kong films participate in a similar ambiguity. Akin to Pang Lai Kwan’s concern in Building a New China in Cinema, Yau argues that the irony of leftism lies in its social critique of capitalism, which often involves the erasure of sex, desire and bodies (52). While left-leaning filmmakers in Shanghai sought to promote women’s independence in films, the portrayal of women – such as those in Cai Chusheng’s New Women (1934) – had to navigate the complex intersections of party-state ideology, Confucianism, American religious influence, nationalism, and progressive ideas (44). The gender issue, Yau suggests, serves as a façade for male filmmakers to express their anxieties about a dying nation. These filmmakers critiqued material desire by suppressing women as objects of desire, while simultaneously spectacularizing their bodies. In short, this form of leftism, which purported to promote women’s independence, ended up suppressing sexual desire, aligning itself more closely with Protestant asceticism and the spirit of capitalism. 

This ambiguity of leftism is also evident in Hong Kong’s leftist film industry. From the 1930s onwards, Cantonese films were often considered backward and superstitious. To improve their reputation, some progressive, left-leaning, and patriotic filmmakers founded the Union Enterprises in 1952. Their successful works included film adaptations of May Fourth classics. However, Lee Sun-fung’s Cold Nights (1955) disappointed the leftist Chinese author Ba Jin because he believed the original female character was more radical than the one in the film adaptation. Yau points out that given Hong Kong’s diverse target audience, many progressive filmmakers in Hong Kong had to incorporate feudalistic elements. Hong Kong viewers, for instance, may not have accepted women who engaged in extramarital affairs or displayed radical behaviors (172-3). The irony Yau highlights in her book serves as a reminder that binary opposition, especially those constructed during the Cold War, should be avoided. The grand narrative imposed by Cold War powers – between China and Taiwan, and the U.S. and the Soviet Union – positioned Hong Kong as a cultural battlefield. These binary oppositions often obscure the significant collaboration and shared ambiguities between leftist and rightist filmmakers and studios, thus suppressing the visibility of some filmmakers and encounters.

In historicizing her genre analysis, Yau provides a compelling exploration of pre-modern feminist movements. For example, in her analysis of Go Lee-han’s The Light of Woman (1937), she highlights the history of “comb sisters” (zi shu nû 自梳女), who were considered revolutionary in the late Qing dynasty for their decision to remain single for life. These women were targeted by the Qing government as part of the Heaven and Earth Society. Yau also offers a brief history of waitress or server (nü zhaodai 女招待) labor strikes from the 1920s to 1940s in Guangzhou, illustrating how public discourse transformed the image of waitresses from threats to male employment to victims of a decadent modern society (124-6). Yau argues that the public discourse and filmic representations of women’s independence remained feudalistic in the 1950s, as it was assumed that women lacked the ability to think independently and were easily manipulated (125). 

On the other side of this victimization and asceticism in female representation is the concept of “damaged” masculinity (zhesun yanggang 折損陽剛), which Yau believes persisted from 1950s leftist films to the 1980s comedies in Hong Kong. Male characters are often depicted as physically and emotionally traumatized, appearing weaker than their female counterparts. Even filmmakers such as Chang Cheh and Bruce Lee, whose action films are often regarded as ultra-masculine (yanggang 陽剛), had to confront this “damaged” masculinity complex. Chang Cheh shows the decimated male bodies full of blood and torture in premodern China while Bruce Lee demonstrates his naked chest and agility of body in front of a western prostitute. Bruce Lee attempted to overcome the “damaged” masculinity by adopting a model of foreign masculinity inspired by Tarzan – a white man’s privileged body embodying mobility, unbridled individualism, purity, openness, and freedom. These kungfu films and their portrayal of male bodies helped colonial subjects internalize colonial models and the American dream (328).

Yau is not entirely pessimistic about commercial cinema. She offers a revisionist perspective on Li Han-Hsiang’s Wind Moon film series (or soft pornography) in the 1970s and seeks to liberate the perception of sex and sexuality in Li’s oeuvre. She questions the separation between pornography and erotica (347) and refutes the claim that Li produced the Wind Moon film series out of desperation during his low point in the 1970s. On the contrary, Yau argues, Li presents a variety of marginalized, non-heterosexual relationships that challenge dominant perceptions of sexual desire. Li’s sluts are empowered and confident, articulating a vision of sex imagery that remains untamed and unauthorized by modern standards.

In recent decades, nostalgia for the 1980s has led many to view that era’s films as the definitive representative of Hong Kong identity. Yau offers a radical re-reading. She argues that the 1950s should be considered the golden era of Hong Kong cinema (156). This decade saw a flourishing of different productions, filmmakers, diverse themes, and opportunities within the film industry. During the 1950s, Hong Kong films, especially those with left-leaning perspectives, provided critical insights into Hong Kong society and engaged seriously with social issues. Various manifestos, film studios, companies, and distributions networks emerged during this time. Yau writes, “To destroy Hong Kong culture, the most efficient way is to eliminate the leftists in Hong Kong” (231). It follows for her that the depoliticized Hong Kong identity of the 1980s was due to the suppression of leftist culture following the 1967 riots. While the colonial government tightened control over leftist organizations and unions, radical Red Guards from the mainland imposed strict demands on Hong Kong leftist newspapers, films, and publications. Yau continues, “The left-leaning culture was marginalized and destroyed. This led to the failure of Hong Kong people to return to the motherland with their hearts (ren xin huigui 人心回歸) in the next forty to fifty years” (232). That is, for Yau, the making of local identity involved reinforcing colonial and Cold War powers, along with Euro-American ideologies (408). 

Yau also challenges the colonial government’s benign façade in her discussion of the Hong Kong New Wave in the late 1970s. The welfare infrastructure, free education, mass transportation, and other developments during the tenure of Hong Kong Governor MacLehose are often credited with founding a specifically Hong Kong identity in the 1970s. However, Yau argues that this affective identification with British colonial power was a strategic tool for the British government in its negotiation with Beijing. Fear and anxiety toward Communist China went hand in hand with the narrative of Hong Kong stability and prosperity under the colonial regime. Ann Hui’s critically acclaimed Vietnam trilogy – Below the Lion Rock: The Boy from Vietnam (1978); The Story of Woo Viet (1981); Boat People (1982) – Yau suggests, reinforced these fears, allowing Hong Kong viewers to affirm their future by identifying with Vietnamese refugees (425). 

For the people of Hong Kong, the transition from 1984 to 1997, from when the Basic Law was signed to the handover, was marked by many ups and downs. Some Hong Kong people found opportunities in South China, while others migrated to the UK, the US or Canada. Some discussed returning to the mainland, while others hoped to exchange Hong Kong sovereignty for the right to govern. Disillusionment reached its peak after the 1989 Tiananmen Massacre. As Yau says, dreams often turned into nightmares, and vice versa. This roller-coaster experience was not only political but deeply socio-cultural, best manifested in Hong Kong comedy and slapstick films of the time. 

Yau concludes her book by discussing Stephen Chow’s nonsensical comedy. Chow’s plots and acting highlight the dislocation of reaction or the absence of reaction. This dislocated reaction, or lack thereof, rejects conversation because the nonsensical aspect, known as mo-lei-tau (無厘頭), is a form of speechlessness and an inability to express care or love (486). Mo-lei-tau rejects the subject position in the grand narrative. For Yau, under this speechlessness, there is a silver lining of collectivity in Chow’s CJ7 (2008). While Chow’s films often feature ugly women and masculine sidekicks engaging in transvestism or cross-dressing for comedic effect, yet, in CJ7 (2008), Yau argues that the child actors, who cross-dress without the viewers knowing it, are not playing for comedic relief. Instead, the main character, who cross-dresses, comes from a working-class family. These disregarded subjects gather together, finding temporary “empowerment,” allowing them the pleasure of feeling “a bit normal now” (493). Yau questions whether this temporary alliance – the oppressed in terms of class and gender – can reveal the legacy and resources that Hong Kong cinema accumulates in the twentieth century.

Nostalgia for the past is part of the neoliberal drive in Hong Kong and around the world. Fear and anxiety persist. Local mom-and-pop shops are demolished and replaced by chain stores and real estate’s development. However, nostalgia for the past can be critical. There are different origins and resources to learn from. How far can popular culture take us? Without understanding the diversity in its own legacy, such nostalgia can only become a burden. Yau’s book helps us understand these issues with reference to Hong Kong cinema.

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Jack W. Chen, On the Event, Politics, and the University

1. Two May 4ths

On May 4, 2024, University of Virginia President Jim Ryan and his leadership team made the decision to order Virginia state police to forcibly suppress what had been a peaceful undergraduate student protest against the horrendous destruction and loss of life that Israel has continued to inflict on Gaza. State police wearing body armor deployed pepper spray and riot shields against students who attempted to shield themselves with umbrellas. Twenty-seven were arrested and issued with no-trespassing orders; this number included faculty, graduate students, and at least one bystander who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. In remarks subsequent to the police action, President Jim Ryan—a scholar of constitutional law and education—has cited concerns about public safety, outside elements, and policies regarding “time, place, and manner.”[1] In this essay I will not take a position on the arguments made by students and their protest tactics, or directly criticize the decisions of my university’s leadership. Rather, my focus is on the question of what a university is for, and more broadly, on the university as a space of unresolvable contradiction.

Ézé Amos / Getty Images

The date of May 4 is important in the history of student activism, as it was on this day in 1919  that over 3000 students from a dozen universities in Beijing marched to Tiananmen in the center of the capital. The students were gathered to protest the terms of the Treaty of Versailles, which ceded territories in Shandong that had been previously held by Germany to Japan. Students were outraged by the weak Chinese government that had negotiated these humiliating terms that effectively traded one colonial power for another, and allowed the further expansion of Japanese political and economics interests to other northeast territories. Although the protest began peacefully, as Benjamin I. Schwartz writes, “the demonstrators eventually beat a pro-Japanese official and burned a cabinet minister’s residence,” which resulted in the arrest and imprisonment of “hundreds of students.” The demonstrations consequently became more intense and widespread, and over the next month, protests sprang up “in at least 200 other localities,” shops were shuttered in Shanghai, and workers went on strike “in some 40 factories.” As Schwartz goes on to state, “A student movement was born in which women participated, broad public opinion was enlisted, and the sanction of saving China was invoked to achieve an unprecedented degree of student organization and activism.” The government eventually gave in, and over a thousand students “marched victoriously out of jail.”[2] This moment—the May Fourth Incident (wusi shijian 五四事件)—marked the beginnings of what would be called the May Fourth Movement (wusi yundong 五四運動), the cultural and political movement that has often been characterized as the birth of Chinese national consciousness, if not of Chinese modernity.

The conventional narrative of the May Fourth Movement obscures what is perhaps most significant about both the incident and the political and cultural discourses that this moment made possible. Here, I turn to Fabio Lanza, who has argued that we cannot speak of May 4, 1919 as simply a political student protest without understanding how the very idea of student was being constituted at the moment when the university was being created in distinction from the state. What Lanza argues is that the modern student, the student as political activist, was a new formation that challenged the prior figure of the scholar-official (shi 士), which had served as the basic reproductive unit of the imperial state. He writes:

…before the first instance of modern student activism on May 4, 1919, “students” did not come into being as a stable and circumscribed position to be occupied but were instead produced both because of and through the practices and the struggles of those years. Only after and as a consequence of the events of 1919 could “students” become fixed inside a (new) tradition and become connected to specific places (Beijing University, Tiananmen). To put it simply, while there had always been people who studied (sociological “students”), the political category of “students” emerged only as the result of a specific political struggle that was located precisely around the definition of “student.”[3]

Lanza goes on to invoke Alain Badiou’s work Metapolitics in which Badiou insists on the necessity of distance from the state in order to preserve the possibility of true politics.[4] To put it another way, this distancing of the state is for Badiou the rupture through which the state’s insistence on consensus is suspended and deferred, so that other ways of thinking and imagining may take place.

Another deployment of Badiou would be to invoke the concept of event (l’événement), which breaches the state of what has come before—the situation (la situation), as Badiou terms it—thereby exposing the incompleteness of the ruling state’s insistence on a unified field of being (what Badiou calls un compte-pour-un or count-for-one). The event calls into question the oneness of the mathematical set and of the sovereign state, opening up and making visible the true multiple nature of beings, as well as revealing the indeterminacy (what he calls l’indécidable or undecidability) of the event itself.[5] Or, as he has noted in an interview: “an event is something that brings to light a possibility that was invisible or even unthinkable.”[6] It is worth noting that while Badiou has famously championed the Cultural Revolution as an emblematic event of the twentieth century, the May Fourth Movement was precisely a evental moment in which the hypothesis of the student was being proposed at the same time when the university was being imagined.[7] 

Indeed, this evental rupture is precisely what Lanza seizes upon: how a distance was created between the state on the one hand, and the new potentialities of “student” and “university” on the other, and how the classificatory order imposed from the state was in suspension, allowing for the emergence of these new potentialities. Badiou’s language of event may be overly metaphysical, but he is nonetheless addressing how politics comes to be, how the possibility of a community formed through a particular way of thinking might emerge or fail, how the everydayness of how we do our business is not the way that it always must be. And here, let me note just how hard it is to imagine such a rupture, which calls to mind the theoretical commonplace, “It’s easier to imagine an end to the world than an end to capitalism,” attributed variously to Fredric Jameson and Slavoj Žižek, and quoted by Mark Fisher (and sometimes attributed to him as well).[8]

I offer here that the key difference between May 4, 1919 and May 4, 2024 was the role of the university in the protests. For the May 4, 1919 student protesters, the university—particularly Beijing University—was in a parallel state of emergent potentiality, and important leaders and professors at the university, including the university chancellor and self-identified anarchist Cai Yuanpei 蔡元培 (1868–1940), helped support and advise the students. The university could be the site of an event in 1919, but by 2024, it is a seemingly calcified situation, one that seems impossible to reimagine, despite the very brief historical timeline of the modern university structure. Therefore, to understand what was at stake on May 4, 2024 at the University of Virginia—and of course at other North American universities where student protests were met with militarized police suppression—one must ask what is and what should be the university for in 2024.

2.  “Time, Place, and Manner”

The phrase “time, place, and manner,” frequently invoked in recent North American university communications, is one is used to justify limitations on the exercise of free speech, ensuring a balance between the right to speech and the interests of public safety. Not surprisingly, this is the phrase that President Jim Ryan invoked to explain the decision to end the May 4 UVA student protest. Where does this locution come from? An early use of the phrase as it pertains to the United States First Amendment (the constitutional amendment guaranteeing freedom of speech) can be found in the 1941 case Cox v. New Hampshire, in which the U.S. Supreme Court unanimously ruled that the decision by the town of Manchester, New Hampshire to arrest sixty-eight Jehovah’s Witnesses marching in single file down a busy sidewalk without a parade license was not a violation of their First Amendment rights because of reasonable limitations on civic rights occasioned by the needs of public order. What the ruling makes clear is that the court is not interested in the content of the Jehovah Witnesses’ “parade” (that is, the ruling has nothing to do with religious liberty), but only in the conditions under which the action took place. Moreover, when Chief Justice Charles Evans Hughes delivered the ruling, he went on to make the following point:

Civil liberties, as guaranteed by the Constitution, imply the existence of an organized society maintaining public order without which liberty itself would be lost in the excesses of unrestrained abuses. The authority of a municipality to impose regulations in order to assure the safety and convenience of the people in the use of public highways has never been regarded as inconsistent with civil liberties but rather as one of the means of safeguarding the good order upon which they ultimately depend. (§11)[9] 

In other words, at the heart of time, place, and manner restrictions on speech is the claim of the public order, characterized variously as “public safety” and “good order,” but indicative of a broader and vaguer conception of the public good that is meant to govern and control expressive rights.

The question, then, is what is this public order? And on whose behalf is it being invoked? There are three components that are identified in this statement: individuals and groups (call these subjects, the multiple) who are invested with civil liberties; the organized society (call this the state, the count-as-one) to which the individuals and groups belong; and the public or “good” order that is maintained by the organized society and guarantees these civil liberties. The public order would then seem to be a virtual assemblage and site in which the heterogeneous multiple are constituted as part of the homogeneous unity, or how individual subjects are governed and regulated by the state, even when the state does not directly intervene or make itself visible. Of course, it should be said that the public order is simultaneously embodied in a more concrete and visible manner through the law, the courts, and the police, and other control mechanisms of the state, but what Chief Justice Hughes emphasizes is the implicature of civil liberties, the metonymic inference of the state and the public order.

Regulation of time, place, and manner is meant to protect the interests of the public order, and by extension, the interests of the political subjects who may wish to exercise their civil liberties to disrupt and challenge the public order. Let me leave aside the question of the state for the moment and turn back to that of the university, which deploys this same rhetoric of time, space, and manner, and implicitly, the virtuality of public order. Universities tend not to make official policies about “time, place, and manner,” even as they invoke this phrase as justification. For the University of Virginia, the clearest statement is found under the FAQs section of its Department of Safety and Security. Here we find the following statement:

Under First Amendment law, the University may regulate speech in ways that do not relate to its message. For instance, universities may set parameters for crowd capacity, volume levels, or use of amplified sound. Such parameters are sometimes called “time-place-manner regulations,” because they regulate features like the time, place, or manner of speech, rather than its content.

The passage goes on to argue that “reasonable time-place-manner regulations” do not conflict with the First Amendment because such regulations “exist to ensure that speech activities are compatible with each other and with all the other activities taking place in a community,” citing the hypothetical of a city having a policy for reserving park space for expressive activities so that there are not groups engaging in competing events that might “drown each other out,” or time policies that would govern the level of noise in regard to neighboring residences or businesses. Such regulations for the university thus “exist to ensure that speaking events are compatible with regular University operations, including classroom instruction, other scheduled events and activities, research, patient care, student residential life, employee work routines, and the physical integrity of University facilities and property,” and “to protect the physical safety of all community members.” The statement closes by reserving the right to “take appropriate action” when it “identifies a serious threat of imminent physical harm,” though “it is the safety risk, not a speaker’s message, that is the basis for a decision to act.”[10]

The argument here is that the right to speech is only conditioned by the rights of other members of the university community, which may include others who wish to exercise their rights to speech, but more broadly, also those who are engaged in the everyday activities of the university, such as learning, teaching, research, patient care, and work, as well as the physical integrity of the university itself. These competing needs of the multiple are regulated by “time-place-manner regulations,” which may also justify the imposition of “appropriate action to protect” against “a serious threat of imminent physical harm.” Note here that the language of public order is what underpins the need for these regulations, and while the risks identified are reasonable ones, it is not clear what “public order” would mean for a university, which is not a state or jurisdiction within a state (such as a town or municipality). Certainly, universities are like state jurisdictions—and the statement here makes the clear analogy to the city and its park regulations—with governing structures and even police forces that are parallel to those of the state, but universities (even public ones) are clearly distinct from jurisdictional structures of the state.

Here, then, I would like to ask, what is a university for? Of course, universities are for the work of teaching and learning, and for research and knowledge production, but universities are also spaces that claim the jurisdictional force of political authorities, and thus are for the maintenance of a certain kind of institutionality. On the one hand, this is not surprising, as any organization needs rules by which conduct is regulated, but on the other, the university is not an organization in the same way that, say, a corporation is an organization—or at least, the university does not imagine itself as an organization in this way (even if, in many other ways, it is precisely such an organization).

This (imaginary) distinction is the core of the argument that William Clark has made in describing how the modern research university—inherited from the nineteenth-century Humboldtian German university, with its emphasis on measurable productivity and bureaucratic procedures—nevertheless “spared academic charisma,” which became the nonrational kernel of a rational institution. In this way, the modern research university was founded on a contradiction: on the one hand, academics had “rationalized criteria for appointment” but on the other, “had to acquire fame, be in fashion, and display ‘originality,’ a spark of genius, in writings,” which reinscribed traditional forms of personal authority as the new academic charisma.[11] And so, when we teach our undergraduate and graduate students, we are training them in the ways of academic charisma (whether we make this explicit or not), even as we have inherited the bureaucratic forms and logics of the Humboldtian university. We model inspired readings and interpretations even as we tend to struggle to teach how to perform such readings and interpretations; we teach our undergraduate and graduate students often without having been trained as teachers and expect that our students in turn will become effective teachers themselves; and we claim authority in our disciplines, and often beyond our disciplines, and we transfer this authority to our students because this is what justifies academic charisma as pedagogical practice.

This is the contradiction at the heart of the university that is perpetuated, without acknowledgment or full understanding, only becoming visible when the bureaucratic forms clash with the charismatic ideology. The university is comprised of charismatic faculty but the university as institution is itself not interested in charisma (and to be sure, the cultic individualism of charisma raises its own set of problems). This is because what the university seeks to perpetuate is its own institutionality, a logic that is as content-neutral as the rhetoric of time, place, and manner, precisely because it is a formal interest—an interest primarily in the university’s form and the continuity of this form—which is manifested through the myriad technologies of administration. On this point, Clark contextualizes the invention of the German research university with reference to the early eighteenth invention of the policing state (der Policey-Staat) by Cameralists, philosophers of public administration named after der Kammer (chamber), or royal treasury. Policing here should be distinguished from the police as representatives of the law, referring instead to administrative policing practices that are encapsulated in what Clark and Peter Becker have called the “little tools of knowledge” (reports, tables, questionnaires, dossiers, etc.) that produce institutional authority, responsibility, and objectivity.[12] The purpose of administrative policing was to ensure efficiency of labor, management of resources, and standardization of procedures within institutional structures that then sustained institutionality itself as a logic and ideal. The German research university embraced these practices in the nineteenth century, and this legacy is clearly in force today, with the contemporary university’s interest in equitable and transparent procedures that standardize personnel decisions, accountability in expenditures regardless of amount, and hierarchical reporting lines that identify and distribute decision-making powers.

3. Politics, the Police

On May 4, 2024, what we witnessed can be characterized as the making visible of the contradiction between the traditional vocation of the university as site of academic charisma and the modern forms of bureaucratic institutionality, with the modification that the student protestors had transformed the self-authorizing force of academic charisma into political commitment, in many ways echoing the twentieth-century reconstitution of the student as articulated on May 4, 1919. As with all protests, the fundamental claim, prior to the specific or occasional claim, is the right to speak, and in particular, the right to have a voice that may contravene the institution and its interest in the orderliness of public space. Here, we may return to the question of the public order, because the idealization of public order is precisely what the Policey-Staat holds as its animating fantasy, the reason that justifies its efficient machinery. What political protest then troubles is the privileging of public order above dissensus, particularly above dissensus that might result in any change to the values of the public order. Restrictions of time, place, and manner are meant to police challenges to the policing order, so that protests are effectively contained within the stable situation, forestalling the possibility of a revolutionary event.

The place of the political student, therefore, does not exist within the policing state, or at least, not until the student claims her political identity through a claim to speech. Indeed, the politicization of identity can be understood as the insistence that one has a locus, a site, from which to speak. This is how Jacques Rancière has defined politics (la politique), which he defines as “primarily conflict over the existence of a common stage and over the existence and status of those present on it.” That is to say, the stage upon which the political act takes place must be claimed “for the use of an interlocutor who can’t see it and who can’t see it for good reason because it doesn’t exist.” We might understand this as the state’s presumption of unanimous agreement, what Badiou would call the situation and which forecloses the possibility of dissent by rendering inaccessible the occasion for speech itself to those who are not recognized as having the right to speech. This is owing to the implicit, indivisible unity of the state (Badiou’s compte-pour-un or count-as-one), or as Rancière goes on to state, “Parties do not exist prior to the conflict they name and in which they are counted as parties,” indicating that a party to dispute is a partitioning that constitutes the political, a rupture or break from the continuous unity of the situation.[13]

Against this claim to speech, which is the claim to a side, to a party, is the state that represents “good order” through its policing procedures and structures. Rancière invokes the concept of police (la police) in exactly the meaning that the Cameralists understood Policey, which Rancière defines as “essentially, the law, generally implicit, that defines a party’s share or lack of it” (29). The law, but “generally implicit,” because this law is never represented as such, never stated baldly and thus rendered open to dispute. And it is worth remembering that the police is not to be confused with what he calls the “petty police,” the officers of the law who are merely particular instantiations of “a more general order that arranges that tangible reality in which bodies are distributed in community” (28). Policing—and the policing state—is thus “an order of bodies that defines the allocation of ways of doing, ways of being, and ways of saying, and sees that those bodies are assigned by name to a particular place and task; it is an order of the visible and the sayable that sees that a particular activity is visible and another is not, that this speech is understood as discourse and another as noise” (29). This is what time, place, and manner determine. And what Rancière means by politics, therefore, is “whatever breaks with the tangible configuration whereby parties and parts or lack of them are defined by a presupposition that, by definition, has no place in that configuration—that of the part of those who have no part” (29–30). There is a double-contradiction that Rancière is seeking to limn: the contradiction presented by parties who have no place in the order of things, and the contradiction of an order of things that insists on essential unity and yet classifies everything within it.

Although the shock of May 4, 2024 for the University of Virginia was the deployment of state police against unarmed students, this administrative decision can be seen as the logical consequence of the university’s policing logic, how the university views its domain through the perspective of the police, and how it seeks to control who has the right to engage in politics. This is not to diminish the specific intersection here with the university’s history of racialized policing, which can be seen in histories of North American campus police, which were first charged with the protection of students and property against those who did not belong, often racially marked, and became increasingly deployed against students in the 1960s and 1970s as students protested the expansion of university property into surrounding Black neighborhoods and university support for the Vietnam War.[14] Seeing like the police—to adapt the late James C. Scott’s phrase, seeing like a state—is to adopt top-down strategies of control that can only see crises of authority and challenges to the public order when there is a political act that claims the right to be recognized and to speak.[15] This, then, is why ordinances of time, place, and manner must remain vaguely defined and deployed as broad reasons for the limitation and enclosure of student politics, because these ordinances describe the unacknowledgeable ideology of life under the police state.

4. Conclusion: Hospitality and the University

By way of closing, let me invoke the concept of hospitality as a different way of framing the question of politics and the police. Derrida has invoked a hospitality that is not the hospitality of the sovereign host, by which he means a hospitality that is not “on condition that the host…the one who receives or shelters or offers asylum, remain the proprietor, the master of the house.”[16]Rather, he writes of a hospitality of “letting the visitor come, the unexpected arrival, without asking for any account, without demanding his passport,” an absolute hospitality, rather than a conditional hospitality.[17] Derrida’s absolute hospitality (as he is aware) carries with it the risk of exposing the one who claims the position of host (nation, state, master) to the infinite, unforeseeable demands of the one who occupies the position of guest (foreigner, refugee, other), without any juridical process or protection that would institutionalize the relationship between host and guest, and constitute the places of host and guest in the first place.

This question of hospitality and risk is precisely what should have been at the heart of university responses to student protest and civil disobedience. Students might not be constituted as guests exactly, but when they take positions that dissent from the unacknowledged-yet-ever-present political, legal, and economic commitments of the university, they position themselves as other to the unstated juridical hospitalities of the university and in this way take on risk of excommunication. That is, there is no place in the contemporary university for the student who challenges the situation of the university as an economic corporation with undisclosed investments (c.f., the ubiquitous quip “Harvard is a hedge fund masquerading as a university”). Therefore, when students insist on the right to place, which is the right to speech, the policing order of the university is invoked so as to limit the possibilities of any dissenting political consequences. And there could be no place for the student who rejects all institutional structures, who denies the possibility of the university as a formal order that creates the possibility of education even as it is implicated in problematic economic investments, because the student who denies the university absolutely also denies their identity as student.

All of this is complicated by the fact that the university embodies one juridical, policing structure—even as the university may not always acknowledge its constitution as a policing structure that imposes juridical power upon its students—but the state police as (increasingly militarized) security apparatus represents another sovereign structure, one that does not participate in the ideological imaginaries of the university and yet may be invoked when the regulations of time, place, and manner have been deemed violated. The university may call upon the state police, but the university cannot control the state police. The university’s policies—its internal policing logics—are not the policing logics of the state police, which claims broad discretionary powers in carrying out the force of the law, even when those decisions may violate the law that they are intended to enforce. There is a further question here of who authorizes the police to measure out how much force to apply and to determine who has violated university policies. And a question of what constitutes a student—or any person—when university regulations regarding “time, place, and manner” take priority over the rights to speech, public assembly, and physical integrity. The order of the police—the institution that can only see as the police—forecloses upon politics and enacts the flattened unity of the state as count-as-one.

If much of this essay has focused on the critique of institutionality, let me end by affirming my belief in institutional structures, which, on a formal level, provide the ground and framework through which the disssensus of politics may take place. The constitution of the university can still—even now—be a radical event, one that transforms the possibilties of relation itself, but this radical possibility is one that is always being foreclosed by the policing order of institutionality itself. What, then, would it mean for a university to be guided by the principles of an impossible hospitality, which would be an openness to the event and to politics, rather than being guided by the formal mechanisms of institutional regulation in service of its own end?  This would be a risk, as any open door is a risk, for we do not know who will enter, but it is the risk held by the other, and a commitment to engage with the other, that makes community possible in the first place.

Jack W. Chen is professor of literature at the University of Virginia 


NOTES

[1] Ryan, “A Message from Jim Ryan,” UVA Today, May 4, 2024, https://news.virginia.edu/content/message-president-ryan.

[2] Schwartz, “Themes in Intellectual History—May Fourth and After,” in An Intellectual History of Modern China, edited by Merle Goldman and Leo Ou-Fan Lee (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 98.

[3] Lanza, Behind the Gate: Inventing Students in Beijing (New York: Columbia University Press, 2010), 5.

[4] Badiou, Metapolitics, translated by Jason Barker (London: Verso, 2005).

[5] Here I summarize freely arguments made in Being and Event , translated by Oliver Feltham (London: Continuum, 2005), 173–211.

[6] Badiou with Fabien Tarby, Philosophy and the Event, translated by Louise Burchill (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2013), 9.

[7] Badiou, The Communist Hypothesis, translated by David Macey and Steve Corcoran (London: Verso, 2010), 101­–67.

[8] The actual quotation from Jameson is: “It seems to be easier for us today to imagine the thoroughgoing deterioration of the earth and of nature than the breakdowns of late capitalism; perhaps that is due to some weakness in our imaginations,” in The Seeds of Time (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994), xii.

[9] Cox et al. v. State of New Hampshire, 312 U.S. 569 (1941). Text cited from Legal Information Institute, Cornell Law School, www.law.cornell.edu/supremecourt/text/312/569.

[10] University of Virginia Department of Safety and Security (2024), Freedom of Speech FAQs, freespeech.virginia.edu/freedom-speech-faqs.

[11] Clark, Academic Charisma and the Origins of the Research University (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 3. Lanza also discusses Clark in Behind the Gates, 73–75. See also Chad Wellmon, Organizing Enlightenment: Information Overload and the Invention of the Modern Research University (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2015).

[12] Clark, Academic Charisma, 12–14, 47–58. Also see Little Tools of Knowledge: Historical Essays on Academic and Bureaucratic Practice, edited by Peter Becker and William Clark (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2001).

[13] Rancière, Disagreement: Politics and Philosophy, translated by Julie Rose (Minneapolis: Univeristy of Minnesota Press, 1999), 26–27. Subsequent quotations from Rancière’s Disagreement are parenthetical. Badiou elaborates his own conception of parts (les parties) in Being and Event, 96–97. Note also that Badiou has a sustained critique of Rancière’s Disagreement in the previously mentioned Metapolitics, 114–23.

[14] See Katheryn Russell-Brown and Vanessa Miller, “Policing the College Campus: History, Race, and Law,” UF Law Faculty Publications 1199 (2022).

[15] Scott, Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human Condition Have Failed (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999).

[16] Derrida, Hospitality, vol. 1, edited by Pascale-Anne Brault and Peggy Kamuf, translated by E. S. Burt (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2023), 4.

[17]Derrida and Elisabeth Roudinesco, “Unforeseeable Freedom,” in For What Tomorrow…, translated by Jeff Fort (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2004), 60.

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Zifeng Liu, The Black Radical Tradition as a Source for Decolonizing Japan Studies

The outpouring of Black Lives Matter activism in response to the Minneapolis police killing of George Floyd in 2020 has sparked renewed efforts to interrogate and undo the entanglements and complicity of Asian Studies with racism and anti-Blackness, particularly in the realms of research, teaching, and hiring practices. Since then, institutional initiatives have been called for to support Black scholars of Asia and research projects that further examine the white supremacist structuring of certain taken-for-granted disciplinary theories and methodologies, so as to explore the historical and contemporary engagements and intimacies between people of Asian and African descent. Written in that moment of “racial reckoning,” Wendy Matsumura’s Waiting for the Cool Moon: Anti-Imperialist Struggles in the Heart of Japan’s Empire (Duke University Press, 2024) reflects the field’s now intensified commitment to antiracism and anticolonialism. But differing from and complementing much of this growing scholarship that focuses on Black-Asian exchanges and perceptions of Blackness in Asia, Matsumura’s book draws on theoretical and methodological insights from the Black radical intellectual tradition to illuminate Japanese imperialism’s physical, psychic, and epistemic violence and the  liberatory imaginaries and practices of the subjugated. While not a book centrally about the Black experience, Waiting for the Cool Moon brings the seemingly discrete fields of Black Studies and Asian Studies together not only to explore the relationality among diverse oppressive and liberatory processes, especially Japanese imperialism’s entanglement with white supremacist and heteropatriarchal formations in the late-19th century and well into the 20th century, but also to interrogate the role of anti-Blackness in structuring how we conduct historical research and indeed how the world operates. One of Matsumura’s goals is to devise ethical, non-extractive approaches to uncovering histories of radicalism.

Waiting for the Cool Moon unfolds in four parts. The first part reveals how Japanese categories of work are steeped in conceptions of labor, value, and accumulation that emerged with the transatlantic slave trade and how they have  functioned to erase and naturalize the brutality of Japan’s imperial domination. Particularly drawing inspiration from Sylvia Wynter’s pieza framework, which considers economic oppression as only one component of the order of colonial domination, Matsumura shows that the survival of “ideal” types of small farm households (or the establishment of small farmer protectionism) and the legitimation of state and capital in the metropolitan countryside required racialized and gendered dispossession and exploitation. She thereby points out the embeddedness of Japanese conquistador humanism in settler colonial logics and practices. As she analyzes in detail, one instrument devised to extract the labor of small farm households was the Farm Household Survey, which, by invisiblizing reproductive labor within agricultural families, naturalized and fueled racial, sexual, and colonial oppression throughout  the Japanese empire.

The second part, composed of chapters 2 and 3, is in conversation with Black radical scholarship that examines the mutually constitutive relationship between race and class. While both burakumin (outcasts) and ippanmin (so-called ordinary people) suffered the effects of the state appropriation of communal lands, including the intensifying exploitation and devaluation of women’s reproductive labor within farm households, the latter survived by piggybacking on and consolidating a racialized consensus to exclude the latter from considerations of policies that could soften the burdens of such enclosures so as to further enrich themselves. Buraku communities’ response, however, went beyond demanding legal inclusion and pointed to the need for fundamental transformation that could undo both imperial racialization and economic oppression. In particular, Buraku women activists, not unlike Black leftist feminists, formulated a notion of “triple suffering” that linked heteropatriarchy, racial oppression, and capitalist dispossession that blurred the distinction between city and countryside and that envisioned solidarity and structural change as the path to collective liberation.

Chapters 4 and 5, forming the third part of the book, utilize Black feminist theories that denaturalize and destabilize the category of woman to show the indispensability of the exploitation and ungendering of colonized Korean agricultural workers and the importance of this disavowal to the emergence of new, rationalized small farms with reformed gender relations as the cornerstone of the revitalized Japanese imperial economy in the 1930s. The violence that Korean agriculturalists endured in the Japanese metropole, as Sylvia Wynter’s investigation of the pieza system in a different context suggests, did not only take the form of labor extraction and exploitation, but also occurred within the intimate domains of quotidian life, sometimes through concessions by Japanese colonialists that did not fundamentally alter the status quo. In the face of such colonial brutalities, Korean workers enacted practices of radical dependency and worldmaking. Uncovering these practices, as Black studies scholars have shown, requires the rethinking of the criteria for political struggle as part of a multi-sited struggle that sought to counter the extractive and dehumanizing mechanisms of empires at key nodes of their circuits of governance. As Matsumura shows in particular, Korean migrant women played a crucial role in creating and sustaining relations that, in turn, made radical acts of resistance and refusal possible.

In the last part of the book, Matsumura shifts attention to the enlistment of the labor and other resources of colonized Okinawans in the expansion and consolidation of Japanese imperialism in general through the 1930s, 1940s and beyond. One way colonial subjects from Okinawa became implicated in such oppressive projects was by working as phosphate miners in the Pacific Island, Banaba. While acknowledging Okinawan workers’ relative privileges compared to their indigenous and Pacific Islander counterparts on Banaba, Matsumura reveals the entrenchment of their colonized status and its consequent erasure in policy and scholarship and shows how seemingly disparate processes of settler colonial domination reinforced each other, particularly how the destruction of existing communal rituals and ceremonies became a common technology of dispossession within the Japanese empire. Like other Japanese colonial subjects, Okinawans did resist and attempted to bring forth a world otherwise. Following Dionne Brand’s The Blue Clerk, which points to the necessity and possibilities of withholding crucial information from colonial authorities and urges accepting opacity in the processes of archival data collection and historical knowledge production, Matsumura considers Okinawans engaged in a struggle over access to water, especially women activists, as secret-keepers. Matsumura can only describe the scope and context of these women’s persistent anticolonial and anticapitalist activism while she illumines as nurturers and protectors of radical relationalities crucial to the building of alternative futures.

Waiting for the Cool Moon provides a model of how to bring Black radical scholarship to productively and ethically bear on discussions on the mechanisms of Japanese imperial brutality, the major and minor rebellions waged by communities subjected to it in differing yet interconnected ways, and on the continued complicity of professional academic knowledge production with the historical and lingering imperatives of colonialism. Matsumura’s mobilization of Black studies perspectives is not only necessitated by the Japanese empire’s adaptation of white supremacist logics and practices and their longue durée as well as by its cooperation and competition with Euro-American powers. But, in addition, the fact that the modernity that Japan constructed and indeed the world within which it pursued geopolitical and economic prominence were both structured by the anti-Black and anti-Indigenous dominations Matsumura mobilizes means that bodies of scholarship that examine the entanglements of race, gender, class, sexuality, and nation, as well as the imbrication between the local and the global, between the colony and the metropole, and between the public and the private, and the imagining and making of alternative worlds by the most downtrodden can illuminate how the expansion of Japanese capitalism qua imperialism was also predicted on racial, gender, and colonial differentiation. Such dedicated scholarship can reveal how activists mounted multifront struggles, rejected assimilation in favor of revolution, and enacted radical modes of living, sometimes in fleeting moments of resistance.

In addition to helping explicate Japanese imperial violence, both in its spectacular and more quotidian forms, Black studies and in particular recent work within the Black studies field on the archive can not only contribute to understanding the crucial role of archival representation—presence and absence—in naturalizing and perpetuating colonial domination, but also such critical work can remind us how historical records are shaped by the dynamics of power struggles and cannot completely erase the lived  resilience of those who are  refused archival entry. While bearing this in mind, Matsumura critically analyzes the way her own scholarly and institutional positionality impacted her research and her ability to maintain her commitment to anti-imperialism. Inspired by Dionne Brand, Matsumura recognizes the unknowability of certain aspects of the history in order to extricate herself from playing a part in the colonial will to know and to help realize the radical potential of withholding and waiting. Indeed, the title of the book suggests the revolutionary possibilities of emergent acts of refusal and subtle incremental shifts in collective consciousness that, at an opportune time—when the moon is cool, will lead to monumental change.

In its methodological, rather than topical, indebtedness to the Black radical intellectual tradition, Waiting for the Cool Moon indicates the possibility for further dialogue between Black studies and Japan studies. What conceptual and methodological frameworks in the latter field might be useful for the former’s, for example, investigation of race and racialization in the Pacific and the relationship between anti-Blackness and anti-Indigeneity? How might explorations of imperialism and anti-imperialism in other parts of Asia benefit from Black studies insights too? How might we cultivate a mindful citational praxis that, while acknowledging the immense intellectual contributions of Black scholars, eschews disciplining, simplifying, and separating from their histories and lives their work in ways that enforce racist and sexist logics and reinforce the hegemony of U.S. academia? Waiting for the Cool Moon will surely inspire more such efforts at disciplinary cross-pollination, which will transform both Black studies and Japan studies.

Zifeng Liu is Assistant Professor of History at Hong Kong Baptist University.

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Darwin H. Tsen, Anxiety as Method: Maoist Aesthetics and Cultural Capital in the Post-Revolution, a Review of and Response to Jennifer Dorothy Lee’s Anxiety Aesthetics: Maoist Legacies in China

Anxiety Aesthetics: Maoist Legacies in China, 1978-1985. By Jennifer Dorothy Lee. Oakland: University of California Press, 2024. xiv + 193 pp. Hardcover: $85, Paperback: $34.99.

How does one forge on when – there is no official bugle but a total eclipse in the heart – the revolution is over? Against conventional historiography of post-Reform Chinese art and with painstaking detail and analytical virtuosity, Jennifer Dorothy Lee’s Anxiety Aesthetics: Maoist Legacies in China conceptualizes how artists and intellectuals both repudiated and continued the revolutionary legacies of Maoism in their works. The book paints a fresh picture of the 1978-1985 period as one of labored beginnings in relation to Maoism’s influence, an era that is commonly overshadowed by the 1978-1979 Democracy Wall movement and treated as a clean break from Mao Zedong’s legacy by other scholars. Supported by Raymond Williams’ schema of the “dominant, residual, and emergent” (Williams, 121-127), central to Lee’s study is “anxiety”, a structure of feeling that drives the artists to reinvent the wheels that bind together the personal, political, and national. Anxiety Aesthetics is therefore a text about transitions, adaptations, and even hauntings and survivals. 

Lee structures the monograph into six chapters, with the introduction kicking it off with the philosopher Li Zehou’s observations of the second showing of the Stars art group in 1980. This introduces the historical and theoretical stakes of the project, where the anxious push-and-pull dynamic between Maoist legacies and new opportunities presented by the reform era are established. Lee then uses chapter 1, “Democracy Walls”, to establish a media-centered account to capture the larger context around the Stars – although she does not exceptionalize the Stars’ shine; she focuses on how citizens’ journals (minkan), the relationship between the bulletin walls and big-/small-character posters dazibao/xiaozibao, and photography created a post-Mao moment for art and social engagement that can be figured as a prehistory for later Chinese art developments. Chapter 2, “Memorializing Huang Rui’s Beijing”, documents how a semi-reluctant participant in the Democracy Wall Movement shifts his style as the movement subsides.  Huang moves from sketching disembodied, energetic limbs to painting abstract, geometric shapes where human subjects come up against the monumentality of Beijing’s walls, whether such walls are from palaces or alleyway hutongs. The third chapter and one of the book’s most theoretical, “Wu Guanzhong’s Abstract Expression”, shows us how Wu the painter and critic mobilizes socialist ideas on science and abstraction to perform a subterranean coup against socialist realism, establishing a value proposition for abstract art and future forms of cultural capital. I will elaborate on the importance of this later.

Chapter 4, “The Serial Images of Qu Leilei” is perhaps my favorite. Here, Lee deftly examines how the sketches and captions in Qu’s diary entries showcase a dialectical struggle between his anxious feelings towards lack of the revolution’s closure, the language choices that implicate himself and the audience as post-revolutionary “citizens”, and how his work unwittingly turned collective forms of political art into the seeds of privatizable expression. Out of the entire book, this chapter best bridges the historical context, the affective intensity of anxiety, and how it relates to the greater structure of feeling into a satisfying whole. Chapter 5, “Do Androids Dream of Me?” arguably provides us with the final “villain” of Anxiety Aesthetics’ narrative arc, the literary scholar Liu Zaifu. Not only does Liu produce a strongly individual-centered vision of writerly subjectivity through the metaphor of a computerized manufacturer, but Lee adroitly detects a chauvinist bent in Liu’s discourse. However, this gender critique never quite bubbles to the surface in the chapter. 

To sum up, the chapters in Anxiety Aesthetics are strong in relation to one another and as standalone sagas, but there seems to be a disconnect between anxiety aesthetics as a structure of feeling and the individual artists and thinkers toiling in the post-Mao interim. That is, it is not entirely clear, barring the chapter on Qu Leilei, how each particular figure interpolates themselves through the depersonalized affects and emotions of anxiety, other than already being a part of a larger milieu that is suffused with it as a socio-political mode of being. If anxiety works like a structural unconscious, then how are artists and intellectuals who claim not to be affected by it still within its reach? 

This, then, leads to my response to the book as a whole. Lee’s aim to show the radical ambiguities and innovations of Anxiety Aesthetic’s four artists in relation to formal and informal institutions during the post-Mao interregnum – as something far more complex and fraught than a “break” – is successful. On those grounds alone, this book is worth reading carefully. While I appreciate Lee’s focus on evaluating the (dis)continuities of Maoism in these artists and critics on the merits of their own period – with the present landscape of a highly commercialized Chinese marketplace of art looming as a specter – I can’t help but wonder if the stakes could be brought into sharper focus by introducing a connective framework between the 1978-85 period with the contemporary artworld and its specific logics of capital accumulation. I sense a particularly fecund opportunity in expanding and considering “anxiety” (youhuan yishi) not only as an intellectual and artistic mode under duress, but also as a process that mediates between a crisis and the accumulation of (cultural) capital; anxiety might be capable of imagining solutions to a crisis, but such solutions may not always produce the benefits it desires.

Let’s return to the moment in the text where “anxiety” gets welded to the multiple connotations of youhuan yishi. Lee cites Gloria Davies to explain how youhuan yishi functions as a mode that has its roots from Mencius of the Warring States, Fan Zhongyan of the Song era, which then finds its modern expression in the twentieth century and beyond, before joining it to anxiety through the related concept of tension, jinzhang (Lee, 13-15). Davies’ own study provided this loose genealogy of youhuan as her text mostly focused on illustrating the contemporary discursive formations of “worrying” (her choice for rendering youhuan yishi) in comparison with Anglophone critical discourse. Lee and Davies’ historicization of youhuan yishi, I believe, is meant to institute a distinction between its pre-modern versions and its twentieth century and post-Mao iterations. However, I believe there was a missed opportunity to stress the continuities of youhuan yishi between the pre-Confucian (Mencius), medieval (Fan Zhongyan), the early Republican (say, any prominent reformist or revolutionary intellectual of that time), and the post-Mao era (the four artists in Lee’s monographs from the Liberals and New Left intellectuals today): which is to say that under both the Confucian bureaucratic system and its current role in intellectual debates, youhuan yishi is a mode through which individuals and groups accrue cultural capital by positioning their intelligence, moral, and ethical views as something “in the common higher interest of improving Chinese society and culture” (Davies, 11). What does differentiate anxious and worrying intellectuals and artists in the contemporary era from their premodern counterparts, though, is that they are functioning in the age of global capital where China is but a part, hence they consciously or unconsciously pit modalities of the nation, state, and civilization against a much larger behemoth. 

One’s prescriptions may not actually hit their marks but instead become commodified in the marketplace. Pierre Bourdieu has stressed that forms of exchange that are purportedly “disinterested” in mercantile economic activity are still crucial in ensuring the two-way transubstantiation of “immaterial form[s] of cultural capital or social capital” (Bourdieu, 16). Does not the anxiety aesthetic not – with its focus on interest, concern, and voluntarism – function like a valve that regulates and converts the flows of cultural capital from Maoist deadstock into reform-era surplus? By combining anxiety with cultural capital, I believe we can further make sense of the tension between anxiety as a structure of feeling, the subjectivity of the individual artists & thinkers, as well as the gap between aesthetic praxis and its socio-economic afterlives. A crisis always capitalizes – even from those who aim to solve it. 

Back to our four cases. Generative points of entry into thinking about anxiety as a form of cultural capital emerge when we consider Anxiety Aesthetics through the lens of its narrative progression, which is to say, through a cognitive mapping of the relationships between its individual case studies. If we accept that there is, indeed, a constitutive disjuncture or tension between anxiety aesthetics as a structure of feeling and the subjectivity of the individual artists and thinkers, then it stands to reason that Huang, Wu, Qu, and Liu occupy differing and possibly conflicting positions on the uneven cultural terrain of Lee’s topography of the post-Mao transition period. Huang Rui takes up a mediator role, between the artistic forces representing independent minkan/dazibao/xiaozibao and those representing official institutions; Wu Guanzhong inhabits the promoter role, lionizing the value-to-come of an aesthetics of abstraction vis-à-vis Marxist scientific rationality; Qu Leilei is the melancholic mourner, whose diary entries simultaneously facilitated a public and private mediation of the end of Maoist artistic subjectivity, with the scales tipping towards the privatization of such sentiments into value; Liu Zaifu is the middle manager who directly converts the Maoist revolutionary into an artist-as-production-line operator, a metaphor that is ready-made in collusion with the post-reform era’s consumer subjectivity. These roles compete and complement one another, while ultimately contributing to the politico-economic unconscious of the dawn of the Open and Reform era. 

This process happens, Lee argues, through the structure of “anxiety” (youhuan yishi), which itself is tapped into the matrices of cultural capital. Each embodied role I name above bears a differing relationship to its object of anxiety in the landscape of Anxiety Aesthetics: the “end without closure” of the Maoist political and aesthetic regime. As they lament, Huang and Qu devise ways to extend the spirit of Maoist voluntarism into new endeavors that both continue and breakaway from it, even as this still cumulates into latter-day fame and prestige. But here I want to focus on Wu and Liu, because through their purported “anxiety” towards the artistic and intellectual climate, they actively antagonized and emptied out their opponents and competitors’ grip on older Maoist tenets, in a bid to restore the primacy of intellectual and artistic work in the hierarchy of labor. Liu Zaifu’s contempt and animus towards the results of Maoist aesthetic education are barely contained as he laments that “the aesthetic subjectivity of my nation’s artistic recipients has been lost, because the structure of the aesthetic mind itself has suffered grave damage, deformity, simplification and vulgarization” (Lee 139). Wu Guanzhong, as Lee demonstrated, adroitly swapped out the “likeness” (xiang) in “image” (xingxiang) in favor of “form” (xingshi), claiming that “[f]ormal beauty is one loop in the hinge of fine art making. It is the unique technique with which we serve the people” (Lee, 92). Liu’s and Wu’s operations here relied on a dual “invisibility”: their attacks had to first resonate in a cultural context where euphemisms and metonymy with respect to Maoism were visible by both friend and foe; and second, the same codes must also simultaneously had to attain a sheer of opaque, “bloodless” neutrality for its other audience members who were not as attuned to the discursive field and yet potentially would find such ideas attractive (Lee, 92). “Anxiety” is therefore wielded as a cudgel for their wars of positioning in the vacuum left by the swiftly exiting master narrative.

Lee’s initial formulation of the anxiety aesthetic in the introduction, “as the site of a persistent revolutionary episteme, an order of knowing the world through both radical practices and the language of socialist materialist logic” (Lee, 11), then, could perhaps benefit from an addendum: the anxiety aesthetic is also a (de-)revolutionary episteme. All four cases (Huang, Wu, Qu, and Liu) started from a Marxist-Maoist-Humanist perspective, yet the most prominent aspect of their legacy today is the stripping away of the Marxist and the Maoist, often with only the Humanist remaining from the 1990s to the 2000s: this eventually transforms into the humanism of the Chinese liberal Right (ziyoupai), who, according to Chaohua Wang, at its most contradictory “stand firm on the need for human rights and rule of law…[while] welcom[ing] the spread of the market…protesting at its distortion and corruption by political power, but not at its social extent” (Wang, 36). Does this not also describe the abstracting power of capital itself, its ability to commodify and pacify ideas that would threaten it while creating exchange value out of its enemies? A pair of hospitable and hostile protagonists mapped onto divergent coordinates of the transitional terrain of Maoist aesthetics notwithstanding, all their endeavors are captured in a vortex where the accrual of cultural capital heralds the accumulation of capital itself in the 1980s. And yet, the market – and its butler, the marketplace of ideas – will always be a fickle lord indeed: barely a decade later, as Jason McGrath describes in his discussion of the “humanist spirit” debate starting in 1993, the trifecta of modernization, enlightenment, and market reforms supported by the Chinese intellectual elite yielded not a robust humanist subject but rather a consumerist one (McGrath, 27). And not unlike Liu Zaifu before them, the scholars involved in the humanist spirit debate mobilized the language of crisis/anxiety to reposition and survive in a shifting field of cultural production in which they were bleeding (cultural) capital. By declaring that “an entire century’s tradition of literature’s importance in the life of the nation was coming to an end” (McGrath, 29), the humanist spirit debate proponents once again invoked youhuan yishi, now as a mechanism of cultural capital accumulation that thrives in moments of crisis, transition, and newness. 

But “anxiety” (youhuan yishi) both is and isn’t unique to the Chinese context, and readers not laboring in this field will still find broad, transferable valences from Lee’s study. According to Fredric Jameson, “anxiety” can be understood as a particular iteration of capitalist modernity’s constant drive which “allows for the return of the category of a break, even though it has become internalized as little more than the infinite repetition of the process itself” (Jameson, 91). Anxiety does not seek equilibrium or moderation, but instead craves innovation and velocity in order to break out of what it perceives as a rut; although anxiety treats every crisis or problem as a new and pressing one, its tendency towards solving it has already seen “infinite repetitions”. At the risk of transhistoricizing anxiety, we must note that even if anxiety has historically contributed to moments that challenge the capitalist order – such as the 1930s Maoist slogans about tension, “Unity, tension, seriousness, and liveliness!” (Lee, 14) – in a socialist or communist idiom, it still possesses a strong affinity with the accumulation of cultural and actual capital under capitalist modernity. One digressive lesson of Anxiety Aesthetics thus could be that: anxiety (youhuan yishi) must be afforded as an affective-cultural-economic complement to the analysis of a crisis. That’s because anxiety, as a concept, is adept at three things: first, it excels in mapping individual subjects’ reactions to the larger structure of feeling of crisis; second, it shows how the solutions conceived by anxiety diverge from its intended effects; and third, anxiety can disclose the affective and intellectual gap between the individual subjects and the crisis as a whole. And a final provocation: could anxiety, with its heavily medicalized connotations in today’s Euro-American context and its more conventional translation as jiaolü (焦虑), be more fruitfully bridged with the theoretical resources of melancholy (youyü 忧郁)? For Sigmund Freud, melancholy consists of an emotional state where we know “whom [we have] lost but not what [we have lost in us]” (256); for the artists Lee explores in China’s transition period, Mao is gone, but they didn’t yet know how Maoism was leaving them. Anxiety joins melancholy as its follow-up act: it brings to the table the recognition that “we know what we have lost in us, but not what we are now anxious to create.” And their anxious creations will indeed take on a life of their own. 

I will close by looking back to the future. The anxieties of artists during the post-Mao interregnum put on display by Jennifer Dorothy Lee may provide not only a diagnostic function, but perhaps a prophetic one as well. The conclusion, with its deliberate openness, prompts the reader to mobilize the book’s insights on monumentality and the mediatic qualities of art towards the social movements of our day and age (during Lee’s writing it was Hong Kong; today, it might be Palestine). It also makes a claim on the ex post facto nature of intellectual work in relation to the arts, and the incomplete closure such labors bring, as Lee exclaims how the “foreclosure of the [Beijing] Spring…extends far beyond 1980 and stands today for the sheer impossibility of its repetition” (Lee, 149). The challenge that the concept of anxiety (youhuan yishi) and the path of post-Mao artists pose to us, would ultimately be: how can we repeat this aperture of openness differently in the future, in a prophetic way informed by the past? And all of this, against the constant encroachment of amnesia staring down the wishes for collective liberation from each and every generation. 

Works Cited

Bourdieu, Pierre. “Forms of Capital.” Richardson, J. Ed. Handbook of Theory and Research for the Sociology of Education. Westport: Greenwood. 1986. p.241-58.  

Davies, Gloria. Worrying about China: The Language of Chinese Critical Inquiry. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2009.

Freud, Sigmund. The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Vol. XIV (1914-1916). Tr. James Strachey and Anna Freud. London: The Hogarth Press. 1957.

Jameson, Fredric. A Singular Modernity: Essay on the Ontology of the Present. New York: Verso, 2002.

Lee, Jennifer Dorothy. Anxiety Aesthetics: Maoist Legacies in China, 1978-1985. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2024. 

McGrath, Jason.  Postsocialist Modernity: Chinese Cinema, Literature, and Criticism in the Market Age. Stanford: University of Stanford Press, 2008.

Wang, Chaohua Ed. One China, Many Paths. New York: Verso, 2003. 

Williams, Raymond. Marxism and Literature. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978.

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Navyug Gill, Virtues of Impatience

A wave of agrarian unrest appears to be sweeping across much of the globe. The epicenter is once again the greater Panjab region of India. In February 2024, thousands of farmers assembled with their tractors and trolleys along the state border with Haryana to attempt to march on the capital of New Delhi. They sought to compel the right-wing BJP government to implement a set of policies to make agriculture viable and sustainable, as well as address a host of longstanding grievances. In parallel ways, farmers have gathered in dozens of other countries – from Germany and Poland, to Brazil and Argentina, to Nigeria and Indonesia – to challenge the rules governing food production, restrictions on access to land and tariff regimes within new trading blocs. Whether in the villages of Shambu and Khanauri or the cities of Paris, Brussels and Madrid, scenes of tractors pushing up against police barricades have been broadcast through mainstream and social media to millions of people. Farmers the world over are engaged in a renewed struggle to ensure a future for small-scale agriculture in the face of hostility and apathy from governments and corporations. 

Despite the global reverberations, the situation in Panjab is the unique product of both immediate and protracted circumstances. In the summer of 2020, farmer and laborer unions in the region launched a mass agitation against the Indian government’s attempt to impose a set of three laws designed to deregulate and privatize the agrarian economy. This would have threatened the livelihoods of the 45% of workforce employed in the agricultural sector (Damodaran 2023) as well as imperiled the food security of the over 800 million people entitled to subsidized grains (Kishore and Chakrabarti 2015). During the year-long blockade on the outskirts of Delhi, over seven hundred protestors died over the frigid winter and scorching summer amid a COVID-19 outbreak. The government was finally forced to backtrack under unprecedented domestic and international pressure. On November 19, 2021, Prime Minister Narendra Modi gave a televised speech where he announced a repeal of the laws and the promise to create a special committee to re-examine agricultural policy. At the time, this represented arguably the most significant defeat for the agenda of neoliberal capital in the twenty-first century. 

The government promise to overhaul the system of agrarian procurement, marketing and distribution was essential to convincing farmers to lift their blockade and return to their homes. No one was under the illusion that the status quo antewas anything but a gradual descent into collective disaster. Since the 1960s, the Indian government’s introduction of new technologies and incentives to grow genetically-modified rice and wheat in Panjab – which became known as the “Green Revolution” – led to exponential harvests that quickly eliminated the risk of famine. Almost immediately, however, there were objections to the nature of this growth, especially its reliance on crops such as rice that were unsuitable to the region, the excessive use of harmful pesticides and fertilizers, and the exacerbation of class, caste and gender inequities (Gill 1988; Bardhan 1970; Ladejinsky 1970). Activists and scholars put forward various proposals for a more equitable agrarian model that did not require costly chemicals and misaligned subsidies. Yet such arguments were largely ignored or obfuscated by every Indian government for decades. Politicians in Panjab, meanwhile, abetted this negligence because it served elite interests while helping consolidate their own tenuous positions. The joint priority was to keep the state’s economy dependent on a wheat-rice cycle without diversification or industrialization in order to feed the country’s growing population.   

By the early 2000s, with yields stagnating, incomes dwindling and debts mounting, rural Panjab became the site of acute distress. The most vivid manifestation of this crisis was the phenomenon of suicide: according to one study, on average three small to marginal farmers or landless laborers killed themselves each day over a fifteen year period, totaling over 16,000 during 2000-15. The all-India figure is more harrowing: 350,000 farmer suicides in the first two decades of the twenty-first century (Singh et al. 2022; Gill and Singh 2006). The unacknowledged other side of this desperation has been the climbing rate of migration, with approximately 100,000 Panjabis applying to leave the state each year over the last decade for places like Canada, the UK, US, Italy, Dubai and Australia (Vasudeva 2023). The annual rate of undocumented migrants is thought to be upwards of twenty thousand people, with an increasing number attempting to cross the US-Mexico border on foot (Mehrotra 2024). Over 70% of all Panjabi migrants were previously engaged in agriculture, so that one in seven rural households now report having a family member settled abroad (Goyal 2024). These stark figures are almost certainly under-reported due to the stigma and secrecy around such drastic actions. Still, what they capture is the deliberate human detritus built into the peculiar development of the agrarian economy in Panjab.    

It is against this backdrop that the immediate aims of the current struggle must be understood. Panjabi farmers are refusing to allow the government to yet again fail to fulfil its own promise of agrarian reform. For them, the long pattern of deferral has become a question of life-or-death. The key demand is to establish a country-wide legal price floor (known as MSP, or minimum support price) for a range of twenty-three crops, so that neither private traders nor the government would be able to purchase below it. Currently, farmers face the abject predicament of planting crops without knowing what their price will be at harvest, which has led to the obscene spectacle of ripe produce being dumped in public squares when market rates invariably plummet. Furthermore, they insist that the formula for determining the purchase price of crops should follow the reasonable guidelines of the 2006 Swaminathan Commission, a government-sponsored expert panel that examined ways to alleviate the agrarian crisis. Finally, and perhaps most drastically, farmers are calling on India to outright withdraw from the World Trade Organization (WTO) to ensure the sovereignty of people over capital. They say its policy of forcing governments in the global south to curtail domestic subsidies and tariffs – while allowing wealthy countries and corporations to evade regulations and manipulate markets – has made life more precarious than ever. Together, these changes would provide an opportunity to halt the precipitous decline of agriculture and chart a new future for rural livelihoods. 

While enjoying significant popular support, this struggle has not been without its detractors. What is striking is the unseemly alignment of market ideologues and liberal nationalists with a section of supposedly leftwing radicals. The first two groups tend to object to the farmer’s demands on fiscal or regional grounds. On the one hand, they argue that the government simply cannot afford to purchase crops at minimum prices, and that any interference in the operations of the market will create harmful economic distortions. On the other hand, they say that this entire struggle has been instigated by elite Panjabi farmers, and that the region is merely trying to maintain its own unfair dominance in comparison with the rest of the country. Such arguments reveal a set of conventional yet persistent prejudices. Instituting a broad MSP would not result in the government purchasing the entirety of every farmer’s harvest any more than a minimum wage means turning every worker into a government employee. Moreover, whatever the expenditure on the purchase of crops, a significant proportion would either be recovered through the subsequent re-sale on the open market, or go toward supplying subsidized food for the public distribution system. Meanwhile, unproductive corporate write-offs – to the tune of $320 million in 2020-21– are never subjected to the same scrutiny (Sharma 2022). Equally baseless is the charge of Panjabi dominance and elitism. The nature of the demands are not only explicitly country-wide, designed to extend laws and infrastructure to all regions, but are specifically geared toward the 86% of farmers with less than five acres of land (Padmanabhan 2018). The fact that Panjabis are at the forefront of this struggle rather than farmers from other states is hardly a demerit. Instead, it is an outcome of decades of organizing by rural unions along with a longer history of defiance and justice drawing on Sikh principles. To castigate these people as “privileged” betrays a warped desire to nationalize destitution, so that all farmers fulfil the stereotype of being impoverished, disorganized and inarticulate. 

A more insidious criticism of this struggle has emerged from certain quarters of the middle-class left. This position adopts a stance of reluctance and passivity rather than open rejection. The argument is that despite the dramatic scenes of farmers pushing against barricades and the WTO, their movement is insufficiently radical because it neither fully challenges capitalism nor properly addresses issues of caste or gender within the movement. Indeed, since farmers are seeking to ameliorate rather than transcend certain depredations, this struggle appears reformist and therefore unworthy of active support. This sort of critique betrays a remarkable lack of understanding history as well as the dynamics of change in contemporary India. Popular mass struggles over questions of economic justice cannot be dismissed by invoking a supposedly universal yardstick to measure radicalism. Who decides the meaning of “radical” and how are its potentials to be assessed in different contexts and conditions? From that perspective, every effort by workers in textile mills, dockyards and railways for anything less than the classic overthrow of the state and immediate collectivization of production would fall short. Indeed, Vladimir Lenin contended with this very problem in a pamphlet written over a century ago. He was disputing the prevailing interpretations that either celebrated or denounced the 1861 changes that brought about an end to serfdom in Russia. “The concept reform and the concept revolution,” notes Lenin, “are undoubtedly antithetical.” But, he goes on, “this antithesis is not absolute, this borderline is not something dead, but living and mobile, which one must know how to determine in each concrete case” (Lenin 1911). In other words, simple a priori statements are as shortsighted as retroactive judgements because they refuse to take into account the new possibilities created through struggle as well as the shifting contours within which they are implicated. What Lenin said about serfdom a half a century after its conclusion is even more pertinent to an ongoing movement unfolding in our very midst.  

At the same time, it is worth remembering that farmers and field laborers are by far the largest and one of the most effectively organized groups in the country. Out of a total workforce of nearly 500 million people (Deshpande and Chawla 2023), approximately 92% are employed in a variety of informal arrangements and insecure conditions (Hammer et al. 2022), while only 4% are unionized (Harriss-White and Gooptu 2001). That is a pittance compared to the upwards of 250 million people engaged in the various labors of agriculture (Li and Agarwal 2024; Bera 2018; Agarwal 2021). Moreover, in Panjab farmer unions alongside Sikh religious organizations and social activists have been at the forefront of confronting different inequities, from land redistribution to female infanticide and government repression. To wait for a movement to resolve its internal issues and rid itself of contradictions means to forever remain on the sidelines. It is precisely from these struggles and spaces that the capacity to bring about meaningful societal changes will emerge.  

This is why the farmer’s movement is significant beyond its immediate actions and perceivable aims. It is a struggle against the central logic of nearly three centuries of capitalist expansion which insists that large private corporations should invariably triumph over small-scale producers, and that the state should facilitate this foregone displacement. Farmers from Panjab are also confronting an unspoken principle of Indian nationalism that renders distinct regions as nothing more than exploitable components of a sacred whole. The demand to control one’s fate – in terms of crops grown as much as language rights and political sovereignty – is absolutely radical for the way it interrupts the givenness of the world. This reveals how a government that refuses to address the needs of its people undercuts its own political mandate and the wider legitimacy of its rule. In that sense, farmers are neither hopelessly clinging to survival nor greedily preserving their fortunes. Instead, they are fighting against the suffocating weight of condescension and convention as much as aggression to create a different horizon for collective wellbeing. Their impatience, as well as capacity and tenacity, is actually a virtue for the rest of society to emulate. Far more than intermittently casting an electoral ballot, this struggle is an imperative of radical democratic agency. 

Navyug Gill is Associate Professor of history at Willliam Patterson University

References

Agarwal, Kabir. “Indian Agriculture’s Enduring Question: Just How Many Farmers Does the Country Have?” The Wire. March 9, 2021.

Bardhan, Pranab. “‘Green Revolution’ and Agricultural Labourers.” Economic and Political Weekly 5, no. 29/31 (July 1970): 1239-1246.

Bera, Sayantan. “Small and marginal farmers own just 47.3% of crop area, shows farm census.” Live Mint, October 1, 2018.

Damodaran, Harish. “What India’s labour force and national income data tell us about jobs shifting from agriculture.” The Indian Express, March 7, 2023.

Deshpande, Ashwini, and Akshi Chawla. “It Will Take Another 27 Years for India to Have a Bigger Labour Force Than China’s.” The Wire, July 27, 2023.

Gill, Anita, and Lakhwinder Singh. “Farmers’ Suicides and Response of Public Policy: Evidence, Diagnosis and Alternatives from Punjab.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 26 (June-July 2006): 2762-2768.

Gill, Sucha Singh Gill. “Contradictions of Punjab Model of Growth and Search for an Alternative.” Economic and Political Weekly 23, no. 42 (October 1988): 2167-2173.

Goyal, Divya. “Punjabis borrowed Rs 14,342 crores to migrate to Canada, Dubai, finds PAU study.” The Indian Express, January 14, 2024.

Hammer, Anita, Janroj Yilmaz Keles and Wendy Olsen. “Working Lives in India: Current Insights and Future Directions.” Work, Employment and Society 36, no. 6 (December 2022): 999-1168.

Harriss-White, Barbara, and Nandini Gooptu. “Mapping India’s World of Unorganized Labour.” Socialist Register 37(2001): 89-118.

Kishore, Avinash and Suman Chakrabarti. “Is more inclusive more effective? The ‘New Style’ public distribution system in India.” Food Policy 55 (August 2015): 117-130.

Ladejinsky, Wolf. “Ironies of India’s Green Revolution.” Foreign Affairs 48, no. 4 (July 1970): 758-768.

Lenin, V.I. The Jubilee. Moscow: Foreign Languages Publishing House, 1968 [1911].

Li, Shan, and Vibhuti Agarwal. “India Wanted a Manufacturing Boom: Its Workers Are Back on the Farm Instead.” The Wall Street Journal, January 5, 2024.

Mehrotra, Karishma. “Ever more undocumented Indian migrants follow ‘donkey’ route to America.” The Washington Post, March 3, 2024.

Padmanabhan, Vishnu. “The land challenge underlying India’s farm crisis.” Live Mint, October 15, 2018.

Sharma, Devinder. “Contrasting rules for farm, corporate loans.” The Tribune, April 28, 2022.

Singh, Sukhpal, Manjeet Kaur and H.S. Kingra. “Farmer Suicides in Punjab: Incidence, Causes, and Policy Suggestions.” Economic and Political Weekly 57, no. 25 (June 2022): 2167-2173.

Vasudeva, Vikas. “Punjab’s illegal immigration back in spotlight after Canada’s recent deportation threat.” The Hindu,June 16, 2023.

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