Afterthoughts on the Patriarchal Moral-political Economy

There are two disparate, yet connected (made so quite forcefully), events that have captured the public imagination over the last couple of days. The first, of course, has been referred to as the “Saheb stalking” case in Gujarat, wherein the Modi government put a woman, a landscape architect, under illegal surveillance for months. This, allegedly, was at the behest of the girl’s father, who personally approached Modi for her “protection”.

Second, and the more shocking, is the case of Tarun Tejpal sexually assaulting a female junior colleague and fellow journalist at the Tehelka Think2013. Tejpal is the co-founder of Tehelka magazine, which is critically acclaimed for its incisive, critical investigative journalism, something it has pioneered in India – and a bulk of Tehelka’s journalism has been a hard-hitting coverage of the pervasive violence against women in India. This incident, thus, is a trial-by-fire of sorts for Tehelka: one where their ethics, their values are put on the dock. And one, going by the recent turn of events, that looks on extremely shaky grounds.

I, like the majority of sane voices, some of them echoed on Times Now’s News Hour debate last night, think the blame squarely lies on Tejpal, and Tejpal alone (something to which he admits). However, there are certain points that compound the picture. But, in Tejpal’s case, this becomes extremely problematic.

The first is Tejpal’s email to his Tehelka colleagues, primarily the managing editor, Shoma Chaudhury. In the letter, Tejpal writes that: “A bad lapse of judgement, an awful misreading of the situation have led to an unfortunate incident that rails against all we believe in and fight for.”  He further writes for a need for “atonement” but “not just in words”, a “penance that lacerates” him, and with that, he offers recuse from the editorship of Tehelka for six months. The public, naturally and rightly so, is livid. The fact that Tejpal “chooses his own punishment” is in violation of the rule of law, said the Times Now debate. Atonement, lacerations, recuses and moral guilt cannot, in way whatsoever, dilute the reprehensible nature of his actions. They are, as someone rightly put it on Twitter, sanctimonious. And needless to say, the rest of Tejpal’s letter is a glorification of his organisation. 

Now, there are many issues at stake here: the primary one being the (lack of) implementation of the Vishaka Guidelines to put a check on sexual harassment of women in workplaces. There are other pertinent points about the pervasive nature of patriarchal power and control over women in workplaces. Nivedita Menon, for instance, chronicles this pervasive “sexualisation of workplaces”:

“The workplace – from the classroom to the court to the newsroom, every single workplace in short – is utterly sexualized. It is sexualized in a masculinist and misogynistic power-laden way. The continuous invocation of the possibility of sex and of women as sexual objects is the very air of the workplace.”

This culture of violence is an inherent aspect of what I have argued is the patriarchal moral-political economy. Very briefly, the patriarchal moral-political economy denotes an insidious structure, or a network of structures, that function on patriarchal and misogynistic logic of governance. There is no one model of moral-political economy; it is a Janus-faced, hegemonic enterprise, that manufactures legitimacy for violence; and lastly, it invests its power in the repository of the masculine. By this argument, therefore, what has ensued in Tehelka conforms to the operation of a patriarchal moral-political economy.

At the same time, alongside the question of real violence perpetrated on real bodies and by real people, there is a discourse of sexual violence, and our response to it, that is equally real: if not its form, but certainly in its effects and consequences. And this discourse is something that needs to be critically examined as well. People, usually critics of Tehelka, have not spared the opportunity to drag the magazine’s (and Tejpal’s) name through the mud (“critics” is a polite term; I’d prefer the term ‘trolls’, or just idiots). Allegations about “prostitutes” in the offices of Tehelka or the insults hurled at Tejpal’s daughter, to name a few, nauseate the environment. Because let’s face it: we still are a terrible public. We want a spectacle; we want blood; we want hangings and castrations. In the aftermath of the Delhi gang rape-murder, I argued that only because the perpetrators were from a particular demographic group they were caught in record time. In this case, Tejpal represents a different monstrosity: arrogant, sanctimonious, and elite. And we want his blood. This demonization of Tejpal, thus, is a result of a petty, middle class, fettered conscience; wherein, we forget to (or choose not to) see that he, like other predatory men, is human, and must be held accountable for his crimes. For, as Nivedita Menon writes: “Men in the workplace need to know this now, and with certainty, – their sexualized behaviour is not charming or harmless, but a criminal offence.”

Having said that, I do not think that Tejpal – despite his efforts, his “blood, toil, tears and sweat” – is reducible to Tehelka and nor the magazine to him; Tehelka’s journalism is the credit of dozens of hard-working journalists – men and women – who certainly, to a degree, embody the glorification Tejpal makes of the magazine. And it’s precisely their faith, and the faith of its readers, that is at stake here – if not entirely betrayed. Perhaps, Tejpal’s glorification of Tehelka is actually a desperate plea for the law of function impartially and without biases; of the magazine upholding the principles upon which it was founded, by seeing that Tejpal faces the full force of the law – something, which the people crititcised by Tehelka, have escaped. Or perhaps, it is sheer arrogance, an indefensible and utterly shameful justification of patriarchal power in the sexualised workplace. We cannot know for sure; and must, unlike blood-thirsty trolls on social media, wait for our courts and legal machinery decide the same (of course, the legal machinery is something that itself is deeply embedded in the patriarchal moral-political economy).

There is, as I mentioned in the beginning, an uncanny similarity in the overarching narrative of the Tehelka case, and the Saheb stalking case. Both cases are models of patriarchal moral-political economies: they rest on a gross abuse of power (a patriarchal power-space, it must be remembered), and both cases are (apparently) shying away from legal intervention. Furthermore, there is the regressive assumption that for women to be “protected” (ironically, by and against patriarchal forms of violence), they must submit to patriarchal controls, and forfeit any agency they have. In the Saheb case, the woman’s agency is completely overtaken and appropriated by her father and the masculine state: the father wrote to the National Commission of Women makes no mention of the alleged “threats” his daughter needs protection from; and Arun Jaitley, in a spectacularly silly move, said that “security and protection are not snooping”.

Similarly, by trying to cover up Tejpal’s alleged sexual harassment, Shoma Chaudhury is doing more harm than good; to Tehelka, and to the larger question about women’s movement, and its critiques of patriarchy. Regrettably, Chaudhury, who once appeared on a debate in The Outsider, where she spoke for the motion that ‘India is no country for women’, and has herself written critical pieces on women’s rights, and violence against women (her coverage of the Arushi Case is most prominent), comes awfully close to what I have argued is the Janus-faced nature of moral-political economies (something we can describe as Jaitley’s comments as). The burden, unfortunately, has befallen on her. As a woman, and especially under these circumstances, I can imagine that things indeed must be very, very hard for her. But this is a chance for her to subvert and challenge the patriarchal moral-political economy – one so pervasive in her own organisation.

Yes, Tehelka and other organisations (media and otherwise) need to implement Vishakha Guidelines; and, more importantly, the criminal proceedings against Tejpal (and the Modi government) must and should proceed, but not in a logic of protectionism to the women in question. That further robs them of agency, and reasserts the perverted nature of patriarchies. They – and the Tehelka journalist more so – need to act on their own free will, free of compulsions, compromises, and coercion [Read Amba Salekar's argument on the same; however, it should also be noted that insofar are we are talking about agency and implementation of law, there are many constraints on the former by the latter: see Postscript]. 

At the same time, it is extremely imperative that the responsible parties do not go away unpunished. The legal complications in both cases, thanks to my own limitations, are lost on me [See Postscript]. But as sociologist Dipankar Gupta puts it, there is a need to differentiate between the moral and the ethical; the former, he argues, is dangerous because it is personal, ambiguous and thus, dangerous – which is how both Tejpal’s and the Modi government’s actions can be defined as. Hence, he argues for: public ethics replacing private morality; transparency and accountability in public behaviour; and trust in institutions replacing trust in people. However complex and contradictory this may seem, and in spite of my own criticisms of it, the need for such intervention is imperative.

Patriarchy doesn’t make monsters out of men and women; it exists because we see it as normal, because we fail to see the ways in which it harms human beings. This failure – to stand up to, and against, patriarchy; to rubbish atonement, and demand impartial justice; to see violence for what it is – is the fatal flaw. We cannot fall back on our “inordinate capacity to forgive sinners”, “who turn a new leaf”. It is that flaw that we must perpetually struggle against. And I, for one, do hope that Shoma Chaudhury senses this as well. For, it’s not just Tehelka’s credibility, the faith of its readers, or even the question of justice for the journalist, that is at stake here; it is a larger danger of a feminist question failing itself, and its politics. 

Postscript: There’s two additional points I would like to add on. First concerns the question of agency. According to the Vishakha Guidelines, if sexual harassment does occur and:

“Where such conduct amounts to a specific offence under the Indian Penal Code or under any other law, the employer shall initiate appropriate action in accordance with law by making a complaint with the appropriate authority.”

The prerogative, therefore, was on Chaudhury to register an FIR against Tejpal, and not address the grievances of her colleague. The notion of agency – of the woman filing the complaint on her own, as many, including I, have argued – is compounded. Thus, when we do talk about the law functioning impartially, there are already, by that virtue, constraints on the operation of that agency.

Secondly, since the publication of this post, many ugly details have come out about the nature of the crime, and more shockingly so about Tehelka’s consistent failures of addressing the crime in question; more so, several journalists and editors have also resigned from their respective posts in the magazine. As of now, 25^th of November, 2013, the Tehelka journalist in question has given her resignation letter. She has also alleged that Tejpal’s family members have intimidated her. She writes that despite Tehelka “defending the rights of women… [and speaking] harshly against the culture of victim blaming, tactical emotional intimidation and character assassination of those who dare to speak out against sexual violence”, and now that she is the victim to such a crime, she is:

“…shattered to find the Editor-in-Chief of Tehelka [Tejpal], and you – in your capacity as Managing Editor – resorting to precisely these tactics of intimidation, character assassination and slander.”

It would, therefore, appear that whatever cautious arguments I have made above concerning Tehelka, thanks to this gross lack of concern and victimisation of the journalist, now stand discredited. For, as the journalist writes, it is not just Tejpal who has failed her as an employer, “but Tehelka that has failed women, employees, journalists and feminists collectively.” I am left with a bitter, nauseating aftertaste. This is the end of Tehelka as we’ve know it. I might still have great respect for their coverage of certain issues in the past, but clearly, I do not anticipate a bright future for it. And for that that, shame on you, Shoma Chaudhury; and shame on you, Tarun Tejpal. 

Acknowledgements: To Shubhra, for the discussions that never (and, hopefully, should never) end. And to Uday Chandra, for bringing about the complexities of agency in this context, and even otherwise.

On censorship, surveillance and dystopia

Cynics often take stances that are dark, pessimistic and leave little room for what sociologically could be called an ‘agency’-based approach. Censorship is one such area. Invocations of Orwell’s 1984, Huxley’s Brave New World, conspiracy theories, surveillance societies, are inevitable and unavoidable. Reality, however, to disappoint many, is far more complex and nuanced than ‘governments-out-to-get-us’. But then again, governments are getting us—artists, journalists, or activists, who express dissenting opinions, or upset the status-quo; people who question governments and regimes—both, dictatorships and democracies. The media and culture industries are stronger and more insidious than ever: not only are they manufacturing consent, they also manufacture conscience, often from a moral high-ground. Conversely, there’s also a new wave of media that destabilises these assumptions, with credible and commendable critiques. The picture, to put it in simpler words, is horribly complicated. And because we’re very used to a debate configured in binaries, his often disappoints cynics and their critics.

Last Thursday night, I had the opportunity to attend a panel discussion on 'Censorship and Society', organised by Asia Society India and OPEN magazine. The panel, moderated by Supreme Court advocate, Madhavi Goradia Divan, consisted of brilliant speakers, like Mahesh Murthy, Neville Taraporewalla and Anjum Rajabali. Thus, their expertise ranged from media laws, new and social media, scriptwriting, and cinema. The arguments, therefore, covered a diverse range of topics, many of them discussing the nuances of the right to free speech, freedom of expression, and the right to information, and, of course, the media.

However, this post is not a report of last night’s debate; although, many of the arguments from it shall be the foci of my analyses of censorship, it shall not be limited to the same. In the following segments, I will review some of the pertinent points from last night, and proffer analyses of points which the panel missed out, or did not engage with adequately.  

I

In India, in the past year or more, we have seen an insidious culture of censorship and surveillance. Last year alone, several cases have highlighted this: a Jadhavpur University professor was arrested for circulating a satirical cartoon on Mamata Banerjee; Aseem Trivedi, an activist-cartoonist with India Against Corruption, was charged with sedition for “disrespecting” the national emblem and Parliament; in November, two young women from Palghar were arrested for criticising the virtual shutdown of thecity following Shiv Sena leader Bal Thackeray’s high profile funeral. At the heart of these cases was the infamous Information Technology Act (2008), and the equally infamous Section 66 A—which according to Divan, is “grossly disproportionate”. The “phenomenal diversity” of the media and the internet, she said, presents a paradox: it is both a liberating medium and an inhibiting one. According to Neville Taraporewalla, while the new hyper-media in India is “extremely volatile”, we still are “a pretty free country”. The need to adapt to these new environments, he felt, is still very important. Mahesh Murthy said that, with the IT Act and liability act, the government has potential deniability as individuals can now decide what is offensive and may issue takedown notices for the same. In most cases, the question is largely about power and political clout, rather than hurting the sentiments of people. Earlier this year, Murthy was charged with defamation along others, by IIPM head Arindam Chaudhury, for posting critical opinions against the institute. 

Anjum Rajabali, who wrote the scripts for movies like Aarakshan, Rajneeti, and the critically acclaimed The Legend of Bhagat Singh, suggested that we be more passionate about our liberties and expression. He cited the cases where films in India have been banned, or censored often under the threat of violence made by fringe groups. In many cases, like Kamal Hasan’s Vishwaroopam, films are banned even when passed by the CBFC. He said that the film community is a fairly strong and powerful group; but producers, instead of challenging these calls for bans and censorships, immediately buckle. The government defending the peoples’ liberties, he said, is a pipe dream.

Censorship, then, covers a myriad range of issues and concerns, and it’s nearly impossible to give justice to—or even list out—all of them. From the panel’s discussion, however, it seemed clear that Murthy and, to a lesser extent, Taraporewalla, were of the notion that we don’t need censorship. Murthy’s arguments included the idea that more repression would lead to the Streisand Effect. We, according to Murthy—and this included politicians, public, fringe groups, etc.—need to “develop thicker skins”; that we “need to protect ourselves from offense”, and not expect the state to do so. Murthy, in my opinion, explained instances of censorship as aberrations: how imbalanced and immature society, and the political class is, to react to criticisms (to his credit, he also said that no society is ever mature). However, this is problematic on two accounts.

Firstly, the media is deeply political; access to media, and the access to representation itself is imbalanced, warped and contingent (this was made clear by Rajabali’s response to Murthy). So, to suggest that Muslims should not take offense at drawings of the Prophet ignores the complex geopolitical configurations in which debates on Islam are embedded and embroiled in. It is, also, a hegemonic system: Muslims may not have equal access to representation without reductionist debates defining what Islam is and how violent it is (see, as an example, the Intelligence Squared debate ‘Islam is a Religion of Peace’, especially Maajid Nawaz’s interventions). One need only look at ground breaking studies on media and culture industries, like Theodore Adorno and Max Horkheimer’s Culture Industry or Noam Chomsky’s Media Control, Necessary Illusions and Manufacturing Consent (co-authored by Edward Herman), for an understanding of how imbalanced, misplaced and biased media representation can be.

Secondly, with the advent of the new media, conventional media has come under intense scrutiny. As Murthy pointed out, the new media (which, he claims is us) has outmoded the conventional media; far more Indians now rely on the web for information dissemination, and access to it; express their opinions on it, and so forth. Thus, any critique of media in the 21^st century has to be a discursive critique, not an objective one. With the sheer complexity of the media, this task has become difficult, if not entirely impossible. And formulating a critique of this shall be my concern in the proceeding paragraphs.

II

According to the Internet World Stats,as of June 30, 2012, there are around 137 million internet users in India, which is 11.4% penetration. And it is only a specific demographic group that has access to the internet, and thus, avenues for representation. Critics of the social media often point this out, but my concern here is with the quality of user generated content. Of course, with limited resources, I can hardly construct trends. But this does not change the fact that there is a lot of hatred, anti-Muslim and anti-Dalit sentiments, misogyny out there on the web.

For instance, the recent phenomenon of ‘Internet Hindus’, and steady rise in Hindutva, is a case in point, brilliantly highlighted by Ramachandra Guha in his book Patriots and Partisans. Misogyny is another worrisome trend. Two particular cases come to mind. A report on BBC Hindi revealed how journalist and CNN-IBN news anchor, Sagarika Ghose and women’s activists, Kavita Krishnan and Meena Kandaswamy were victims of sexist and misogynistic attacks online. Ghose, who was abused on Twitter by right wing nationalists, was called a “high class prostitute”; Krishnan was speaking at a Rediff.com online discussion when someone with the handle @RAPIST posted abusive comments, and asked where he could “rape her using a condom”. Despite the harassment, the chat was not moderated and the handle was not blocked by the site administrators. An apology was later issued to Krishnan (I urge you to read Anja Kovacs' post on what Rediff could have done to support Kavita Krishnan against rape threats).

A plea for more censorship in these cases is very problematic, and often unfeasible. For one, what would constitute censorship here: the fact that members of the public are trying to censure women? Or that we, the more liberal, secular voices, want more regulation? Both these questions only deal with the symptoms: the latter is difficult because most abusers use anonymous profiles or handles, which are notoriously difficult to track. Moreover, the fact that the police and law enforcement agencies simply do not care exacerbates things. Tragically, this leads to public intellectuals and journalists, like Ghose and Krishnan, to self-censor. It is unacceptable that any self-respecting activist or writer, irrespective of their gender and political leanings, ignore such slander and threats, or “have thick skins”, as Murthy suggested.

The deeper problem here is that there is no discipline in using the new media and the internet. While we may celebrate anonymity and anarchy on the web, every time a group like Anonymous or Op India hacks a government webpage (merely a cosmetic exercise in my view), there is no deeper or meaningful engagement with the politics of the internet. Most comments on websites like CNN IBN, or NDTV, or Hindustan Times are trolls, often lampooning the “sickular” nature of writers and journalists. If, as Murthy put it, the internet is a mirror to society, then we are, largely, a very awful society, no?

III

The semantics of censorship, then, can configure our debates and discussion in limited ways. Not that this was a major flaw in the panel; it would be ridiculous to assume that. But it is also equally important that we pay attention to the theme of surveillance. Hugely popular in sociological and cultural studies literature, the theme of surveillance and policing gained prominence with the influential works of Michel Foucault, mainly his book, Discipline and Punish. The radical notion proposed by Foucault was using Jeremy Bentham’s ‘panopticon’ as a metaphor for the policing everyone engages in. Thus, peoples’ sexualities, their health, opinions, and other facets come to be policed by soft institutions, like the market, the health and medical industries. It is important to note that Foucault was wary of configuring panopticism and surveillance in rigid binaries; power, for him, is fluid, and exists in micro spaces and “capillaries”, and wherever there is power, there is also resistance to it. Thus, he recommends that we “cut off the head of the king”; that is, look at power configurations as more fluid and complex, rather than emanating from one particular source, like the government or oligarchies.

Following Foucault, surveillance, then, has a lot of ramifications for debates on censorship: one, there is both abject apathy and brutal repression on the part of the state in defining what dissent or offense is, which influences its response: thus, the women at Palghar were arrested promptly, but women who file complaints receive no action altogether. To put it in simple words: ‘society’ should be as much the subject of interrogation, as ‘censorship’ is.

In an earlier post, I had argued that the arrests of Aseem Trivedi and the Jadhavpur University professor, and the government’s crackdown on the protesters in India Gate after the brutal gang-rape and murder incident, are the result of (what I called) a ‘governance of paranoia’. That is, politicians’ and the political class’ fear of dissent is fuelled by the fact that political leadership in the country has become fragile, tenuous, and must reassert, to use philosopher Slavoj Žižek’s terms, “that the emperor is clothed”. In simpler words, the information society we are living in is more opaque than transparent; information is more readily accessible than its credentials. This makes slander a great political tool. Unfortunately, the real victims of slander—Ghose, Krishnan and the millions of other women—are conspicuously left out.

The debate, thus, must focus on not if we need more or less censorship and regulation, but critically examine the dynamics of the same.  That is, we must constantly be wary of censorship/surveillance of freedom of expression, and of censorship/surveillance of our access to information. It is in the latter that we are often failing.

Education and pedagogy are areas where censorship is most operational. One reason for this, perhaps, is because the link between pedagogy and propaganda is most direct: we saw this in Nazi Germany. China is experimenting on this presently; even in India, the teaching (and writing) of history often reasserts moral values rather than a critical interrogation of the same. But who is it that decides what students should study and what they should not? More importantly, on what grounds are these decisions made? This question: of censorship in education, was the one I posed to the panel. Unfortunately, their response was less than adequate.

There are three particular instances I had in mind while framing my question: one, the Yuva Sena-led protests following which the Vice Chancellor of Mumbai University deleted Rohinton Mistry’s Such a Long Journey from the English Literature curriculum; two, Mamata Banerjee’s move to delete references to Karl Marx from the state board texts, and banning English language dailies from libraries in West Bengal; third, a more general point, that is, assault against scholars for “offending sentiments” rather than the nature or credibility of their work. The examples of the GoI denying historian Peter Heehs' visa renewal, and the Sambhaji Brigade’s ransacking of the Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute also come to mind. Of course, I concede that I only mentioned the first example, which informed the responses of the panellists.

Nevertheless, Neville Taraporewalla’s reply, where he said we need to agitate more, and, curiously, that we have failed the Anna Hazare movement, was completely beside the point. (In my opinion, the Anna Hazare movement failed itself; as did Anjum Rajabali, if I remember correctly. Do read this post I wrote during the peak of the movement). Madhavi Divan’s response was more articulate, when she said that we need to speak up against such street censorship. However, Mamata Banerjee’s ban on Marx and the newspapers was not street censorship; it was one initiated by the political executive. So was the detoxifying of syllabi by Arjun Singh in 2004. And, if you bear with me, so is the Delhi University’s ambitious plan of the four year undergraduate programme (FYUP)—and I say so because not only does this overburden students with less-than-required courses, but because the poor quality of the same would fail to instill any sense of criticality in them (see Gautham Bhan's excellent review of the FYUP on Kafila). 

IV

As with most discussions I’ve had the fortune of attending, this one, too was enlightening. Certainly, there were several perspectives I came across, many of which I wasn’t aware of, or never considered. At the same time, I was also fortunate enough to find an engaging forum to express and apply ideas I already had.

On a more personal note, censorship is something about which I have very strong sentiments: not because, as someone aspiring to be in the expressing-ideas vocation, I wish to ensure that the creeping political influence is kept in check. But, because by denying access to newer ideas, and spaces for debate and discussion, I believe that we’re inching closer to a kind of dystopia—or, as Francis Fukuyama would have it, a tale of “two dystopia”—where our opinions and ideas would either lead to persecution, or self-censorship, both of which are unacceptable to me. For, as I mentioned earlier, it’s not only the censorship of opinion/expression that we must be worried about, but also that of our access to informed, free, and credible opinions and ideas. 

Notes & Acknowledgements: For the comments made by the panelists, I have, to the best of my abilities, provided quotes, and summaries of the general gist of the discussions. And I take full responsibility of any misquotes, and am more than willing to change them, if credible corrections are pointed out. My arguments, of course, are my own, and I believe I have done enough to specify the same. 

There are several ideas, some covered by the panel and some not, that I have missed out entirely; for instance, Wikileaks, the on-going trial of Bradley Manning, or the United States government’s incessant surveillance of journalists, and even the debate on copy-right infringement and intellectual property rights (like the Delhi University photocopying case). These examples clearly can, and need to, be addressed by any discussion on censorship. 

I am thankful to Nolina Minj, Malathi Jogi, Natasha Patel and Alex Thomas for their reviews of this essay. Unfortunately, due to certain logistical constraints, I haven't been able to make the all changes they recommended. I shall do my best to do so in the next blog update.